Twist Of Fate

Fifty

CHLOE

My dreams that night are plagued with feelings of disgust. His eyes swim before me; I can still taste the beer on his tongue, feel the scratch of his stubble against my skin and his weight between my legs. I feel embarrassed and humiliated over what happened two years ago, and when I wake I push the memories of what happened afterwards to the back of my mind, not ready to relive them during my waking hours but knowing they will haunt my dreams before long. I enjoy the calm and stillness of the campsite, spending the two full days here alternating between reading and thinking. Harry is quiet too, passing much of the afternoons staring across the fields into oblivion, a faraway look in his eyes and the tatty blue blanket from his holdall beneath his legs. 

He is still quiet by the third morning as we pack up the tent and all of our belongings. Although his mood isn't as severe as in previous swings, I can tell he has something on his mind. Knowing him as I do, I understand that today is not the day for lengthy discussions about future long-term plans. I settle instead for vague small talk about our journey further north (we have decided to head up to Scotland to some more remote areas) and, of course, the weather. 

We hop on a local bus that takes us through the beautiful, rambling countryside of the Peak District and into the town of Buxton. From here we risk a fairly mainline train service into the city of Manchester, where we are able to lose ourselves amidst the crowds at Piccadilly station whilst we (that is to say, I) browse the timetable and work out our next move. After careful consideration, a hot chocolate from Costa Coffee and a brief conversation with the gentleman at the ticket kiosk, we purchase two tickets to Dumfries and board the next train, changing at Carlisle and deliberately keeping our faces pointed to the floor to avoid being detectable on CCTV.

I feel safer once we are safely in our seats and watching the green fields whizz past the window at alarming speeds. While I managed to keep myself calm in front of Harry in Manchester, my insides were in knots the whole time we were in such a public place. Not knowing where the police think we are is terrifying. For all we know, they could be waiting for us when we disembark the train at Dumfries. It feels like forever that we saw the television news report, and the police turned up at the little bed-and-breakfast in Frome. Part of me was expecting them to pounce on us in Broadstairs, as surely by now they have realised I am with Harry, and will know my connection to the place. I feel as though I have been on tenterhooks for weeks. 

I am expecting a large station with multiple platforms when we arrive in Dumfries but the little station isn't even staffed full-time, although there is a small café near the entrance. I keep my head down again as we scurry through the gate into the car park, and immediately ahead of us is a small hotel with old fashioned sash windows on the upper floors and a large stone staircase leading up to the front door. Large plant pots with hot pink trailing flowers sit either side of the steps, giving the place a cheery, welcoming feel.

"Do you think this is too public?" I mutter to Harry, even though no one is around to overhear, indicating to the hotel.

He shrugs, his eyes not meeting mine. "Nice easy getaway on the train if the police show up, I suppose."

I'm fairly certain the police would be manning the station if they realised where we were and turned up to arrest us, but I don't say this out loud and instead follow Harry up the steps to the hotel, giving the beaming receptionist our usual story of our wallets and cards being stolen from the tent and needing to pay cash upfront. We take a room on the first floor with a double bed and large bathroom, and Harry immediately lays himself flat on his back on the bed and closes his eyes. It is approaching tea time, and once I have unpacked a few toiletries from my bag into the bathroom, I sit on the edge of the bed next to him and lay my hand gently on his arm.