Keep the Car Running (Zarry AU)

Chapter 19

If he broke about seventeen rules going to Zayn’s house the night they met, then Harry dreads to think how many he’s breaking now. Charlotte will kill him in his sleep when she finds out, but he’s so past caring that when he leaves his flat and tries to hail a cab, he doesn’t notice the guy about ten feet ahead of him trying to hail one as well. So when a cab pulls up between them, Harry doesn’t think, just strides towards it. They get to it at the same time and when Harry realises what’s happening, he steps back, startled.

‘Sorry, mate,’ he says, holding his hand up. ‘I didn’t see you.’

The guy obviously doesn’t believe him, the skin between his greying eyebrows pinched as he looks Harry up and down. Harry does the same because the pair of them look so out of place on the scruffy, graffiti bruised street – him in a navy blue suit and Harry in a black one – that Harry can’t help but wonder what he’s doing there. It’s not that the Falcon Road is particularly rough, it’s just that, apart from the people who live in the various estates, it tends to attract young professionals about his age who’ve got their first real job and can just afford a studio near Clapham Junction station, not guys like that, guys in their forties in nice suits. Then Harry sees his tie, the one he almost bought in Liberty last week, the navy blue one with tiny skulls on it, and smiles.

‘‘S’alright,’ the guy says, his forehead smoothing when he realises that Harry isn’t trying to nick his cab. ‘What way you going? Maybe we can share.’

‘Stamford Bridge.’

‘The Chelsea and Bayern Munich game?’

Harry nods. He wouldn’t usually be so keen to get in a cab with a stranger, but he spent so long trying to talk himself out of going that he’s missed kick off. He still isn’t sure it’s a good idea, but when he got a text from Peter – his Wednesday night at nine – to say that his train from Manchester was cancelled and he’s getting a later one, Harry took it as a sign and charged out the door. He could wait for another cab, of course, but the traffic is awful, so maybe he’s being more impatient than usual. Besides, what’s the worse that can happen? The guy’s wearing an Alexander McQueen tie.

Serial killers don’t wear Alexander McQueen ties.

‘Sorry, mate. I’m going the other way.’ The guy nods up the road. ‘Balham.’

‘No worries,’ Harry says with a smile, stepping back. ‘Have a good night, yeah?’

Luckily, he doesn’t have to wait long for another cab, although the traffic makes the crawl towards Battersea Bridge excruciating. He should have got on the tube, but he’s wearing a £2,000 Lanvin suit and doesn’t fancy sitting in chewing gum.

‘It’s almost half-time, mate,’ the driver tells him when they get stuck behind a bus. ‘Are you sure you want to bother? You’ve missed most of the game.’

Harry doesn’t look up from his phone. ‘I don’t care.’

And he doesn’t. He just wants to get in and get out and no, that doesn’t make any sense, but he isn’t going for the game or Zayn. He wants to see her.

He wants to see who he’s competing with.

By the time the cab pulls onto the Fulham Road it must be half-time because the pavement outside each pub is cluttered with people in Chelsea shirts, their breath puffing out of them like smoke in the chilly air as they laugh between mouthfuls of beer. Harry has no idea what the score is, but he guesses Chelsea aren’t losing because there’s a charge in the air, a buzz Harry can feel against his skin, even inside the cab. It makes his nerves twist suddenly as he looks up to see the stadium in the distance, sitting under a halo of white from the ring of floodlights drenching the pitch.