Twist Of Fate

Nine

CHLOE 

We head north a couple of stops, and then exit the underground quickly and with our heads down, in search of somewhere inconspicuous to refuel and make plans. London is now getting busier with the first of the early morning commuters rushing to get to work and avoiding eye contact just like we are, so we blend into the background easily, exactly as Harry wanted. The early morning sunlight is already warm and heat radiates from the pavement beneath our feet, from the tall buildings towering above our heads, from the people all around us. After a couple of minutes' brisk walk I am already sweating, and I shift my rucksack uncomfortably on my back, too afraid to ask how much further we have to go for fear of ruining the ceasefire that seems to have been called. 

Harry is silent as we weave through more backstreets, avoiding main roads where I can only assume he thinks the police may be lurking. Eventually, when my throat is so dry I can barely speak, he hurries across a road towards the entrance of a dirty little café, glances over his shoulder nervously and pushes open the door. I follow close behind, almost stumbling into him as he pauses in the doorway but managing to stop myself from making contact with his back. He slides into a booth out of sight of the window, dumping his holdall down beside him, and I take the seat opposite him, noting the ripped, avocado green, vinyl seat covers, the partially exposed yellow foam underneath and the beige, peeling, formica tabletop. It reminds me of the local greasy spoon back home.

Harry runs a hand through his hair and reaches for a laminated menu that has dried smears on the surface from endless wiping with a wet cloth. I do the same, watching him out of the corner of my eye as his gaze flicks up and down the page. He is obviously a man of few words, even fewer social skills, and has no concept of courtesy or awareness of other people's feelings. He seems completely absorbed in his own world, only ever thinking of saving his own skin. I wonder whether he has any personal relationships, and how he behaves around people he cares about, and then I remember he has a girlfriend and this piques my interest further. Is he flirty and laid back with her, like he was with the girl we passed in the market? Is he soft and caring? Does he even have those words in his vocabulary?

I am so engrossed in my indepth character analysis, I don't hear the waitress approach the table to take our order until Harry speaks. "I'll have the fried breakfast and a tea," he says, without looking up from his menu. I haven't even looked at what is on offer, so I mutter, "same," and give a tentative smile, which the waitress returns halfheartedly and shoves her pad and pencil back in her pocket before shuffling away in the direction of the kitchen. I look up at Harry nervously, wondering whether to open the conversation or wait for him to speak first. I don't want to risk getting my head bitten off. Communicating with Harry is like attempting to stroke a feral animal: One sudden move and you leave yourself open to a vicious attack.

After a minute's silence I can bear it no longer. "Sooo," I begin, gingerly. "You want to get out of London?"

"Yep."

Silence.

He clearly isn't going to make this easy, and my stomach clenches with nerves as I brace myself for a mouthful of abuse for interrogating him.

"And have you thought where you might want to go?"

I am expecting a curt "no," but am surprised when he hesitates before answering me, jiggling his knee up and down and flicking the corner of the menu with the pad of his middle finger.

"Geography isn't really my strong point. I don't really know where anywhere is, outside of London. I just need to lie low for a while."

His answer immediately inspires a load more questions, but I hold my tongue, knowing better than to press him for answers. My mind races ahead, wondering if he is planning on sleeping rough, how long he wants to stay away, whether or not he thinks he will ever be able to return to his home. If he is wanted for murder, surely he can't just stroll back onto the estate after a few weeks like nothing happened? Does he plan on spending his whole life on the run? What about his family, and his girlfriend? Has he thought any of this through?