Twist Of Fate

Forty Five

CHLOE

Harry sleeps. He sleeps all through the evening and well into the night. I toss and turn in my own bed, my mind racing. My imagination is in overdrive, picturing the events Harry relayed to me. I can see him cowering in fear as his mother is subjected to her horrific ordeal. I remember the anguish on his face when I told him I had felt unable to say no to him when he touched me. He has survived so much damage, and I am afraid I have only added to his trauma. 

Around two o'clock in the morning I hear him stumble out of bed and into the bathroom, where I hear him running water and gulping it down noisily. I call out to him, asking if he is alright, but he staggers back to bed without a word. 

He sleeps solidly for over twenty four hours, waking only once more for another trip to the bathroom and a long drink. I am starting to feel panicky, not only at the state of his health after such a bare revelation but at the idea of us staying in the hotel room all day. This will surely arouse suspicion, and although I do not want to leave the area just yet, I understand that staying in the close proximity to my childhood home is highly risky, particularly if the police have managed to trace us here.

I have extended our stay for another night, paid again in cash and ordered a sandwich platter to be delivered to the room for dinner. I am just contemplating waking Harry to offer him something to eat when finally he stirs. I try not to watch him too avidly as he rolls over onto his back and stares at the ceiling for a few minutes, apparently deep in thought. 

"Would you like a sandwich?" I offer timidly, when I cannot bear the silence any longer. He sits up in bed and rubs his left eye with the heel of his hand.

"Yeah. Cheers." 

He reaches over to the tray on my bed and devours a couple of tuna salad rolls and almost a whole bottle of water. 

"I've booked us in for another night," I begin, as he pushes the bed covers back and walks across the room and into the bathroom without a word, shutting the door behind him. A couple of seconds later the shower starts running. I sit awkwardly on the bed, wondering if maybe he just didn't hear me. When the shower stops, I arrange myself into what I hope is a casual position on the bed and switch the TV on, trying not to look as though I am on pins waiting to see what mood he is in. The bathroom door opens and he emerges cleanshaven, a towel wrapped loosely around his waist and his hair wet and combed back. He rummages in his bag for a moment, before pulling out a clean button-down shirt and a pair of jeans.

I can't help myself. "What are you doing?" I ask, half afraid of the answer.

"Going out," he answers, abruptly but not unkindly. 

"Going out?" I echo, stupidly. "Where? What for?"

He sits down on the bed with his back to me and begins pulling on a pair of boxer shorts. Blushing furiously, I turn away politely just before he stands up to spare him having to ask me not to look, although I suspect he doesn't even care. 

"I need a fucking drink." 

"We've got plenty of water here - "

"I don't want water, I want beer. And maybe vodka. Or rum. Or maybe all three." 

"And then you're coming back here?" I can hear the panic in my voice. "When you've bought them you're coming back here? To get drunk?"

"I can't face another night holed up in isolation," he says, without looking at me. "I'm going to find the nearest pub and I'm going to get hammered." 

 My blood runs cold and I get to my feet, my heart beginning to pound. "Harry - you can't!"

"I can."