The wanted murderer L.S.

H.S.

The black Harley Davidson roared down Queen Victoria Street with the murderer driving and Louis sitting rather dangerously behind him. Louis quite enjoyed being on the bike, particularly when he wasn't driving. He enjoyed turning around and looking at the buildings get smaller and smaller in the distance, and the smoke that rose from the road where the bike had passed. He enjoyed less how each time he sank into a daydream, the man with raspberry rose curls would call his name sharply and tell him to "hold on".

The drive was long, and after being told to 'hold on' more times than he could count, Louis quickly became irritated with being on the motorbike. It didn't help that each time he'd let go of the man in front, the bike had to slow down. Louis desperately needed to get off the vehicle, and the more he thought about it, the more he could feel how irritated his body was. He needed to stretch his legs and shake his entire body; it was becoming painful not to.

"I want to get off." He said, digging his fingers in the man's sides.

"Very soon."

"No, I need to get off, now. Let me off!"

"Soon, I said."

Louis couldn't wait that long. He felt so uncomfortable that rocking back and forth on the bike became the only option he had to not go insane from being still for so long. As he did so, the bike wavered to the side, and the man grabbed his thigh.

"Sit still, Louis." He said, far harsher than anything other warnings he'd given.

"I have to get off!" Louis said, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs. "Let me off or I'll get off myself!"

The man, finally cooperative with Louis request, slowed the motorbike down and parked it at the side of the long and empty road, beneath one of the few street-lamps. The road was sheltered by two old brick factories, closed for the night. Louis practically jumped off the bike and ran up to the nearest wall. He hit it with the side of his fist, then flapped his hands and jumped up and down a few times. His whole body was buzzing with the need to get some form of stimulation, to the point where he knew that if he'd stayed any longer on the bike, he'd have had a meltdown.

The man with Raspberry Rose hair pulled down his hood and leant on the bike, folding his arms and watching Louis. Louis glared back angrily before turning around and stamping his feet on the dusty ground.

"I want to go home."

The murderer lit a cigarette and crossed his ankles.
"That's the last thing you want. You'll be on the bike even longer, then." He said, "Have a run around. Run to the bins at the end of the alleyway and back, you'll feel better."

Louis looked to where the man gestured at the bins that were full the brim with bags, scraps of metal and loose food waste.

"Gross, no. I'd rather die than go over there."

The man shrugged, "It's not as if I'm asking you to roll around in it. I'll come with you, if you're so afraid of a bit of filth that you won't go by yourself."

"Where am I? Where I'm from, it's clean. None of that gross stuff." Louis said, continuously stamping his feet on the floor and wringing his hands.

"You're from the wealthy area of London, that's why. Privileged, that's what you are."

The man tossed his cigarette on the ground and stamped on it with a black leather boot. "There's a week's worth of meals in those bins for some. I would know, I met them."

Louis, upon being attacked so largely for such a small comment, stormed off in the direction of the bins, stopped a few feet away, and looked back at the man by his bike. The man waved a hand at him to move forward.