Chapter Eight - Getting to know you
Chantelle frowned in confusion, her eyebrows almost knitting together. “Clover?”
“Yes, I would prefer it if you called me Clover?”
“Why?” she questioned.
“I like the purity and beauty of nature, I particularly love flowers.” Chantelle smiled warmly, as if I’d just recited a beautiful poem.
“What’s your favourite flower?”
I smiled, nodding my head a little. “Mine too. You should go and pack, we need to leave soon.” She got up immediately and went to pack a bag. Sitting back on the sofa I wondered if I was really doing the right thing and if this was a good idea. The police were looking for me, with Chantelle I had a better chance, no one was looking for a couple. Mother would think this was a good idea, but not with Chantelle.
“I’m ready,” she said quietly, as she walked back into the room after ten minutes packing.
Standing up, I took her bag off of her. “I’ll carry that.” I gestured to the front door and Chantelle took one last look of her flat before walking out.
With both bags on my back the injuries I’d received during the crash worsened. The pain intensified and was almost as bad as when they’d just occurred. But I still wouldn’t ley Chantelle carry her own bag. I had been raised better than that.
“Clover, let me carry one,” she pleaded again. She did call me Colin a few times but now she seems to have gotten used to Clover. “You’re in pain.”
“I’m fine, Chantelle.”
She sighed. “Well if it gets any worse then let me carry my bag.” I smiled, nodding my head slightly. Chantelle seemed happy I had agreed with her, although there was no way I would let that happen.
I gestured with my hand for her to turn to our left, down a small street that would lead us out of the town and towards a more sheltered road. There were multiple buildings along that road which were hopefully abandoned. Not one police car past us as we walked down the deserted high street. There couldn’t have been more than a handful of people out walking around and none of them even looked up at us.
“Tell me more about yourself, Clover,” Chantelle asked, brushing her hair behind her ears.
“What would you like to know?”
“Everything.” She shrugged. “Tell me about your childhood.” My childhood. I hadn’t even discussed that with the girls. “What were you like as a kid?” Gritting my teeth, I tried to ignore her use of the word kid.
“I was a carefree child, always playing outside on my bike or on the swing set. My parents and I would play hide and seek on a Friday night after my father got home from work. On Saturday mornings I would watch cartoons in front of the television and eat cereal with my dad, and in the afternoon he would take me to the park to play football. What about yours?” I hadn’t lied to her; I just didn’t tell her my past beyond the age of five.
“My childhood was great…to begin with. I don’t remember much about my mum, I only have a few memories, like her voice when sang me to sleep at night and how her curly hair would tickle my face when she hugged me. I don’t ever remember her shouting or getting angry. We were all so happy when she was alive.”