Running on Empty Read Free Page B

beaten about the head by a cackling crazy woman.
    ‘Are you…ok?’
    Now that he was nearer, he could see that he was safe from assault. This old woman could hardly stand, let alone go wielding her stick about his person. She was definitely old, very old, thought Tom absently, well into her eighty’s he guessed. She was dressed from head to toe in black, like one of those widows he’d seen in countless Sicilian mafia movies. The only departure from her sombre state of dress, Tom noticed, was a delicate gold chain from which hung a single pearl around her thin, narrow neck. Her grey hair was tied back, but small wisps had escaped their confines and were matted to her damp forehead. The knuckles of both her hands were white, clinging with a vice-like hold on both the handrail and the stick. And, she was in pain, quite a bit of pain he reckoned as he studied her features.
    ‘Are you ok?’ he repeated.
    ‘Yes thank you’ she answered, without much conviction. Her voice was low, guttural, heavily accented.
    German, thought Tom. He’d seen too many movies not to know.
    She let out a long, frail sigh, and looked up at him.
    ‘Perhaps you could assist me back to my apartment door?’ she asked. ‘I’m sorry to be such a nuisance, I’m sure a young man such as yourself has better things to be doing with his time’.
    ‘Don’t be silly, happy to help. We are neighbours, after all’ Tom answered, without much conviction.
    The problem was, he didn’t know how to help. His hands shifted a number of times, unsure of where to actually take hold of her. He finally settled on gently taking hold of her handrail side arm, seeing as how the other had the walking stick. Together they shuffled slowly towards her apartment door. She appeared to be limping quite heavily.
    ‘Would you be so kind as to take my key out?’ she asked. ‘It’s in my left coat pocket’.
    Tom removed the key and opened the apartment door. A number of things struck him immediately as they entered the room. The first was the musty, stale air. He remembered reading somewhere that the older a person gets, the more their sense of smell deserts them, to the point where they could be sleeping soundly in their bed, while a dead, decomposing rat could be wedged neatly under their mattress undetected. He shuddered slightly. Then there was the cold. Christ it was cold in there. Tom could see his breath in front of him as they walked. Maybe she can’t afford the heating bills , he thought absently. But the most striking thing about the apartment was the décor. It felt to Tom like he was stepping onto a film set. Every available space was taken up with furniture, mainly dark wood or floral print, to the point where there was no floor space as such, just narrow channels in which to walk. Dozens of wooden framed photographs, all black and white, covered almost every available area of the walls.
    He helped her over to a floral print armchair, which she slowly, gingerly, eased herself into.
    ‘Thank you’ she said, ‘It was very kind of you to help’.
    ‘Don’t be silly’ he answered. ‘How are you feeling, would you like me to call you a doctor?’
    ‘No, no, I’m fine. I don’t need a doctor. I’m not ill. It’s just the years catching up with me, I’m afraid’.
    ‘But you seemed to be limping badly. Are you sure?’
    ‘Oh that? That’s just an old injury from my childhood. It acts up every so often, and this cold weather makes it worse unfortunately. But it will pass, it always does’.
    ‘Oh, ok, if you’re sure. How about a coffee? Would you like me to make one for you?’
    She paused before answering.
    ‘Well, not a coffee, I don’t drink coffee. But if it’s not too much trouble, a cup of tea would be nice. That’s if you don’t mind. I feel like I’ve delayed you more than enough already’.
    Tom made his way to the kitchen, searching the presses until he found what he was looking for. He called back to the sitting room.
    ‘Mind if I