Twist Of Fate

Eleven

CHLOE

"Remember, don't switch it on until the very last minute," Harry instructs. "Keep your hand over the speaker when it first starts up, so you don't draw attention to yourself. Put it on silent immediately. We don't want it ringing on the train."

"I know," I say patiently, for what feels like the millionth time. "I'm not stupid."

Harry gives a short, derisive laugh under his breath, which I deliberately ignore. You would think after saving his skin by coming up with this idea, it would have earned me at least his respect, not to mention a little bit of courtesy. But it seems that those words are missing from Harry's vocabulary.

We are sitting in Caffe Nero, a stone's throw from Paddington Station, finalising details of our hastily-cobbled-together plan. 

"Don't even look at me when we're back in the station. Keep your distance, act like I'm invisible. Don't acknowledge me. Don't look for me  -"

"I know, Harry," I mutter, sounding braver than I am feeling. "Can we just go, please? The more we hesitate, the more I overthink and the more nervous I get." 

"Fine." He nods, and drains his cup before standing up and slinging his holdall onto his back. "So - two tickets to Totnes, yes?"

"Yes. It's in South Devon, in case anyone asks."

"Why would anyone ask? This is London. No one speaks unless they have to. No one gives a shit."

This is true, but I'm just trying to make sure that Harry knows the vague direction of his train, to avoid arousing suspicion if questioned. I stand up too, taking Harry's proffered phone.

It has been a struggle to convince him of my idea, but not in the way I had imagined. When I'd first suggested it, in a frantic, hoarse whisper in front of the departure boards by the row of ticket kiosks, he had looked horrified.

"Give you my phone?" he'd repeated, his eyes wide and his mouth curled into a snarl. "No. No fucking way. Not happening."

I had blinked, taken aback by this strange refusal. "I don't want it for me," I'd explained, searching his face in confusion. "It's just to throw the police a red herring. I'm not going to look through your messages or anything, if that's what you're worried about. I wouldn't have time, even if I wanted to - which I don't."

"I'm not getting rid of my phone."

His jaw was set, his expression that of a petulant child. His arms were folded across his chest, and the only thing missing was his bottom lip stuck out. 

"Why?" I had asked, a little impatiently, glancing left and right as commuters and tourists passed us, carrying briefcases, rucksacks, shoulder bags. "It's just a piece of metal. You said yourself, you can't switch it on anyway. It's useless to you. What's the big deal?"

He had looked down at his phone in his hand, a strange look on his face: almost nostalgic. Longing. Sad. I'd taken advantage of his silence to plough on.

"It's your best hope of getting away untraced - at least for a couple of days," I'd insisted. "It'll buy us some time to disappear in the opposite direction. You know it makes sense."

He'd eventually agreed, reluctantly, after I'd almost had to drag him to the nearest café to formulate my plan, and I notice he is wearing that same melancholy expression now, as he watches me slide his phone into the back pocket of my jeans. I don't have time to wonder about the reason for his demeanour. We are on a tight time frame now, and there is not a second to waste.

We leave the coffee shop separately - me first - and turn back onto the street, towards Paddington Station. I can feel his presence behind me, practically burning into my skin through the thin fabric of my top as I stroll as casually as I can along the pavement, carrying my rucksack awkwardly by its handle at the top in my left hand, instead of on my back. My legs are trembling beneath me, my heart is thumping and my palms are sweaty. I force myself to look only forwards, refusing to let my gaze stray sideways even one degree, for fear of catching sight of Harry's reflection behind me in a shop window and blowing this whole plan apart. Cracks in the pavement pass beneath my worn out trainers. I overtake students, office workers, all manner of religions and nationalities. I breathe in the hot, dirty exhaust fumes of infinite taxis, cars and buses that thunder past within inches of me, and yearn for the clean, pure air of Devon, which is to be our destination once this hare-brained scheme is complete. I have never done anything like this before, and it has become sort of a challenge, to prove to myself that I'm not the incompetent idiot everyone seems to think I am, but that I am capable of pulling myself together when necessary. I keep my thoughts focussed on the end goal of escape, to occupy my mind and keep me from indulging the feeling of panic that is bubbling away just below the surface. It is imperative I remain calm and keep a clear head. I cannot let fear take over.