2015 || H.S

In Oxford

Jack urgently pulled apart her room all afternoon. He should have thought of this earlier.

"Where is it?" he hissed. His hands latched onto the side of the bed and he threw it onto its back, sending a thrash to echo through the floor boards.

"Where is it?" he screamed, fisting duvets and tossing them back. If he could just find that pathetic diary of hers, see where she planned to seek asylum.

But it was hopeless. The room was torn apart from her clothes to her photo's. Nothing was left unturned and untouched.

He slapped his own face and dragged it down in annoyance. So stupid of him, of course she would have taken it with her.

He marched past the debris, kicking at the trashcan on his way out. He had to find her. There had to be some way...

"Jack! It's me, love," Cathy called, walking with the key he lent her.

He smiled. "Hi, babe."

"Hey, I came to ask if you want to go to a concert with me?"

His smile faded slightly, but unnoticably. "Whose concert?"

She shot him a glare. "It's obvious. The whole of England has been talking about it."

He just shrugged.

"One Direction!"

He chuckled. "Don't know them, Cath."

She groaned and leaned back to search her handbag. She yanked out a picture of the boys on the front page of her magazine, handing it to him. He tried to hide his irritation as he glanced over them.

There was a moment's pause.

"That one there, Cath. Who is he?"

"That's Harry," she said gleefully. "He's my favourite. No joke, if I got a chance at him-"

"Surname," Jack barked, loosing his front for a nanosecond. "Sorry, I just think I've seen him somewhere before. Are they British?"

"Common error, Niall's Irish."

"Who?"

"But Harry's British. He lives in Holmes Chapel, Cheshire."

His nostrils flared. It couldn't be that skinny little prick, Harry. There was one sure-fire way to find out.

"What is his surname, Cath?"

"Styles."