I Will Not Run

I WILL NOT RUN

ELIZABETH PRESTON

SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

New York

I WILL NOT RUN

Copyright©2015

ELIZABETH PRESTON

Cover Design by Syneca Featherstone

This book is a work of fiction.  The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Published in the United States of America by

Soul Mate Publishing

P.O. Box 24

Macedon, New York, 14502

ISBN: 978-1-61935-
883-6

www.SoulMatePublishing.com

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

To my two sons,

Jonathan and Alastair,

and most importantly,

to my husband, David.

Thank you for always believing.

Acknowledgements

To my editor, Debby Gilbert. You gave me the opportunity and I’ll always be grateful.

Prologue

I watched it happen. I had my driving glasses on so I saw it all in great detail. There is much I could tell the police, if I wanted to but I’ve never been one for involving the authorities. Don’t go thinking I’ll forget what I saw. I won’t. That accident will live inside my head forever, no matter how hard I try to push it out.

I’d parked myself in the rest area at the side of the road. It’s the perfect place to stop if you need a break from driving or if you want to take in the sights. From there, you get a view of the entire gorge, all the way down to the river.

It was no surprise then when I saw the little yellow Suzuki car hurtling along. Anyone wanting to drive from one side of Galston Gorge to the other has to follow that wiggly road and be seen by me.

She was going too fast, not slowing for the corners, taking up the full width of the road. I knew straight away where she’d come unstuck, and I nearly got it right too. I was one bend out. She came around that third corner and instead of turning, just kept going.

I’d like to say she soared through the air, free and beautiful like a butterfly, her car sparkling in the sun but that wouldn’t be true. Her demise was not so gracious. That bright-yellow car of hers sped off the road and began to fall like an iron wrecking ball. There was no soaring or uplifting or heaven-bound flight about it. She just fell.

I wish I could say that at least she fell straight and that she made no sound on the way down, that she followed a straight line until she was enveloped by the river’s watery arms. But once again, no.

This is Galston Gorge we’re talking about. There are giant rocks and blade-like edges and all those other bits of melodrama that nature is so keen on. So she didn’t drift elegantly down to nothingness. Instead, she hit a mother of a boulder and bounced and tossed and smashed up and caused one hell of a disturbance on her way out.

I tell myself that I raced for my phone and in desperation, I punched in the rescue numbers, and that I screamed at everyone to hurry and get here in case she was bleeding and still alive at the bottom. I’d like to tell you that I panicked and tore at my hair and dug my finger nails into my palms.

But what’s the point? None of it is true. I did get out of my car, though, and I did cry out, although not too loudly. Actually, I only said one word aloud.

“Good
.”

Chapter 1

Seven months later

Galston Gorge, Rural NSW, Australia

Winter

Diary Entry One: Wednesday, 9
th
July

The idea came to me while I was lying in bed this morning.
Write it all down in a diary.
I know it’s a risky move but I need to tell someone, even if I’m only spilling my secrets onto paper. So, I had my new journal open, pen poised to go, and instead of writing the first few words, I made another monumental decision. I’ve decided that, no matter what happens from here on in,
I will not run
. I owe sweet dead Buttercup that, at least.

Once those decisions were made, I felt lighter, braver, and ready to tackle anything. I’ve been wanting to look at my old photos for ages, and today I felt courageous enough to do just that. I keep a squashed cardboard box of family snaps under our bed, buried beneath a mountain of old farm sweaters. Bruno would never think of looking there.

The first photo I chose was that one of Buttercup, the snap I took when my sister was still a waif-thin fourteen-year-old. That was only five years ago. How can that be? My sister’s long yellow plaits and plump cheeks haunt my dreams. I see her in the waking hours too. All I have to do is close my eyes.

Anyway, that was as far as my reminiscing got because then I heard his car. Bruno has a great tank of a thing that growls
get out of my way
, and right then it was winding up our driveway, towards the house. Shit!

Why was he home so soon? He was hours too early. I hurried, shoving the photos inside the box and they fell out again, over my jittery, nervous hands, spewing onto the floor. I snatched at them, one by one, slamming them away, closing the lid. I took a deep breath, willed myself to be calm and then shoved the flattened shoe box under the mattress. I couldn’t let him see, couldn’t let Bruno know that I’d been looking at my old photos because that is looking back. He wouldn’t like it.

“Winter,” he yelled, screaming my name although he was barely out of his tank.

“I’m coming, honey,” I cried, running to the back door. He doesn’t like to call twice.

“Is something up?” I tried to sound happy but my wobbly voice gave me away. It is harder than you might think to mask the sound of fear.

“Nothing’s up, at least nothing you need know about.” He dumped his leather jacket on the laundry floor and then kicked his boots at the wall leaving skid marks and bits of grass splattered against my sweet vanilla walls.

Strange. I still find his ways hard to stomach, although I should be used to them after eleven years of marriage. When Bruno has a bath, he climbs out then walks away leaving his dirty water behind for me to empty. His little habits are deliberate. They keep me in my place.

Anyway, I was standing in the hallway watching a glob of mud slide down the laundry wall when he bolted up to me. He glared straight into my eyes. My husband thinks he has a gift. He thinks he can read people, nosy into their thoughts. The first couple of years here, I worked hard to keep my thoughts positive and innocent, just in case. But then I wised up and saw his gift for what it really is—an attempt to control. These days, I smile at him, eyes glistening, but my thoughts are anything but shiny and pleasant.

I got away with my husband-hating thoughts again today. I must have because he dropped his eyes, muttered like a disgruntled dog, and then stomped on past me, headed for his chair.

He mightn’t have the gift but he
does
have a temper. I flew after him, running for the bar fridge, knowing the routine. I do not need to be reminded. I pulled too hard on the little fridge door, making the beer bottles rattle. I rushed to quieten them.

“Tooheys or VB, hon?”

He snatched both from my hand.

“Was that you screamin’ earlier, squawking like a schoolgirl?”

“No, no. Not me.” I straightened the books on the dresser, the books that are already perfectly straight.

He twisted the top off one of the bottles, flung it on the floor and then took a hefty swig. The liquid glugged down his throat.

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I figured you’d be fussing over a spider or somethin’ stupid like that. You know how you do.”

“I’m over spiders,” I lied, walking towards the kitchen.

He just stood there and watched me, his reptile eyes more beady and suspicious than usual. In moments like this I busy myself because I don’t know what else to do. I pulled ingredients from the cupboard, not sure what I was about to make. Some days he reminds me of a fat python, one that has glutted itself on some random weak creature and then fallen asleep in the sun. I’m the little mouse that tootles around his home, always within easy reach. He’s tempted but not sure he has the energy. Does he want to take this further? Will I be worth the effort?
Please let him feel lazy and contented today
.

“You’re in for a treat tonight, honey,” I said, knowing he has a weakness for rich food. “I’m going to cook you one of my new dishes.”

At last he turned away from me and focussed on the screen in front of him. I looked down. I’d broken two eggs into a glass bowl and couldn’t remember doing it. He was right of course. It
was
me who screeched earlier. I thought I’d gotten away with it. I screamed because a red-back spider crawled across my fingers while I was putting my underwear away in my drawer. There are lots of spiders out here: biting house spiders, trap-doors, wolf spiders, and hundreds of furry huntsmen bigger than my hand. Spiders are everywhere.

Bruno bought our huge parcel of land years ago before we met, land that is peppered with gullies and waterways and ancient rock. The first thing he did was bring the diggers in. Instead of fleeing into the neighbouring scrub, the spiders and other creepy crawlies left their dug-up homes and set up camp in a more comfortable spot—the main house.

When Bruno first brought me to his rambling farmhouse hidden behind the sandstone hills, I saw the winding gothic driveway and the fine misty morning and thought,
How romantic, just like a nineteenth-century novel.
But I learned that there are many reasons people choose to live in remote spots like ours, practical reasons, like needing to be far from prying eyes.

I’m cooking roasted pork with crackling tonight. I thought I’d also cook dessert, a delicious one like sticky date pudding with lashings of chocolate and caramel sauce. I still enjoy the rich, sweet smells of my cooking but that’s all because these days I can’t manage more than a mouthful. I have no appetite, none. I’ve learnt many things from living with Bruno and one of them is this: jittery, jumpy people don’t eat much.

“Winter!”

“Coming.” I wiped my floury hands on my apron and rushed over. I needed to reach him before he got out of his chair. He is at his best seated, remote in hand.

“I’m off out tonight. There’s a game at Joey’s.” He searched my face to see if I looked pleased but I’m smarter than that. I’ve practiced my face in front of the mirror. I can make my mouth droop, hinting at sadness and at the same time, keep my eyes hopeful and bright. I’m going for a look that says,
Enjoy yourself, that’s what matters most to me.
Marriage is a game of careful manoeuvres, and in our game, the stakes are particularly high.

“Dinner won’t be too long.”

“I’ll be late, very late. Joey and I got business to do.”

I nod. “I’d better hurry back to the pork.” For a nasty moment I thought he was going to follow me back into the kitchen but instead he got out of his chair and headed towards our bedroom. I peeked. He stripped off his shirt and then turned this way and that, flexing and relaxing, admiring his form in the mirror.

Okay, the moment had arrived.
Be a big girl now
, I chanted under my breath even though I desperately wanted to turn away, to say nothing, to give the moment up. I couldn’t, though, because I needed to grab every chance I got. Sometimes it is important to muster courage and not think too long and hard about the consequences. I stepped away from the security of the kitchen,
false security
, out into the openness of our living room. My heart was clapping louder than a shutter in a storm but I knew from experience that he wouldn’t hear it. I tried for a casual tone, keeping my shaky give-away arms at my side.

Jumping in quickly before I could change my mind, I blurted, “Have you been cutting back, hon?” It was a shock, hearing how I sounded, steady, calm, normal. Hell, I’m surprised I even got the words out.

“What?”

“Nothing, forget it. It’s not important.”

He stopped admiring himself and turned to face me, calmly and quietly. “I’d like to know what you said.”

“Umm . . . just wondering that’s all.”

The pink blotches on his face deepened. Crap. I needed to swallow but my throat refused to work.

Somehow I summoned my nerve back up again. “Just wondering if you’ve been using less? You know, cutting back on your juice I mean?”

A long, uncomfortable silence followed. I tried to go back to peeling the potatoes but the peeler kept slipping from my hand.

“What are you implying, Winter? That I look smaller? Is that it?”

“Forget it,” I said, slicing a hunk of skin from my fingers. Blood ran over the half-peeled potato. “I guess I’m used to your size. I’ve gotten used to your strong-man body, that’s all it’ll be hon. Forget it.”

I rinsed the potatoes and watched my blood smear across the bottom of the sink. I couldn’t look his way but I heard him move about, heard the squeak of his leather boots as they crossed our new Italian rug. He left the bedroom and stomped onto the tiled floor of our en-suite. When the bathroom door clicked shut behind him, I let my breath go. The air hissed through the gaps in my teeth like banked-up water leaking out of a dam. I recognised the next sound too, the clunk that the bathroom cabinet makes when you open its little door. Of course I knew what he’d be doing in there, swallowing another of his juice capsules. I bet that’s his third one today.

When you’ve been using steroids and other shit for as long as he has, you get casual and over-use. It’s not healthy, bad for the heart and all that, but you stop thinking about the danger.

Bruno has his little sayings he likes to repeat in front of the mirror. He says them while he makes a fist, and turns this way and that. One of his sayings goes like this:
Nothing’s going to get me, ever.

Well, dear diary, we’ll just have to see about that. Here’s another truth for you my friend: It’s easy to be brave when the danger has passed.