CHLOE

Dartmouth is one of the most beautiful places I have ever been in my whole life. The bus takes us along winding, country lanes with rolling fields stretching for miles into the distance. The roads are lined with hedgerows and tall trees filled with blossom, and more than once the bus windows are slapped gently by overhanging branches. The sky overhead is brilliant blue and cloudless, spotted only by several varieties of birds circling in the warm air. We pass many lone farmhouses, decorated with hanging baskets and window boxes containing vibrant petunias, pansies and geraniums and shrouded in the shade of gentle rustling beech or oak trees, looking out across an expanse of green. 

I am expecting a town, but Dartmouth is aesthetically more like a quaint little village, with its narrow, winding streets curling up and down hills, and colourfully rendered Victorian houses in soft pinks, baby blues, mint greens and brilliant whites. As the bus follows a one way system past a tiny little ferry terminal, alongside a harbour filled with stunning yachts and leisure boats and through crowds of tourists enjoying a warm, early summer weekend, I can see Harry staring out of the window with interest, and even - possibly - admiring the view?

We disembark on the South Embankment, opposite a large square housing a marina filled with small motor boats and lined with high buildings with intricate detail that look like they date back to the Georgian era. The second my feet hit the pavement I am hit by the smell of saltwater and seaweed, the faint hint of motor oil and the sound of seagulls crying overhead. I stop dead for a moment, breathing in with my eyes closed, as memories from my childhood come flooding back: my dad walking me along a high promenade overlooking the beach to my right with souvenir shops and cafes to my left, swinging me round by my hands until my laughter turned to squeals, begging him to stop, and enveloping me in his arms in a huge bear hug which I pretended to hate but secretly loved; my mum spending what seemed like hours walking along the sand with me, searching for shells of all different shapes and sizes to put into a pink plastic bucket with a white handle, pointing out a jellyfish that had been washed up on the shore and warning me not to touch it as it could still sting me even though it was dead...

"Chloe."

Harry's urgent murmur snaps me back to the present and I feel suddenly lightheaded and clammy as I open my eyes to see him staring at me, his brow creased and a strange look on his face.

"You look like you're about to throw up."

"No... I'm fine," I mutter faintly, and although he hesitates before walking off, he asks no further questions as we wander slowly along the embankment, past a champagne bar and restaurant advertising ice cream and lobster (hopefully not together) before the pavement widens along the edge of the River Dart. All the way along people are sitting with their legs dangling over the side, looking across to the beautiful houses on the hill on the opposite shore, no doubt imagining what it must be like to live in such a beautiful part of the world. 

I take a couple of deep breaths, feeling the fresh air calming me from within, and then pull out the guide book from the carrier bag. Studying the map helps me to focus on the here and now, rather than the painful memories of my past. I don't need to ask Harry if he intends us to stay at a regular campsite - I already know he is going to say he needs to be untraceable, and looking at the map of the area (and having seen a part of it on the bus ride here) I know there are miles of empty fields where we could pitch a tent without being seen, as long as we choose somewhere fairly remote with plenty of shelter. About a mile and half away, heading due west, looks to be a large expanse of green which I presume is open land that would be a good place to start.

"You up for a walk?" I ask Harry, who is squinting across the water with his lips pinched together.

He turns to me, his green eyes finding mine and sending a weird jolt, a bit like an electric current, through my body. I do wish it would stop doing that. "Suppose so," he says with a shrug. "How far?"

"A mile or so," I answer vaguely, unsure of how fit he is and whether he will be able to cope with a walk through the countryside in this heat with two heavy bags. 

We stop at the first convenience store we come to and buy a couple of packet sandwiches, four two-litre bottles of water, a six-pack of Kit Kats and a box of cereal bars. This of course adds to the weight we are already carrying, and what should be about half an hour's walk ends up almost two hours, as we keep having to stop in the heat to catch our breath and sip from our water bottles. I am relieved we thought to buy extra water, as by the time we reach our destination we have drunk almost a litre each, and have sweated most of it out. My hair, that was clean and bouncy this morning, is now sticking to my head in wet clumps, and every so often I feel a trickle of sweat making its way between my breasts. Harry has dark patches under his arms, around his neck and down his back; he has been carrying the tent, one of the carrier bags and his own holdall. 

The last part of the walk has been uphill, but as we come to a gap in the hedge and peer through, we have a magnificent view of a valley stretching a couple of miles in front of us. Fields disappear into the distance like a patchwork quilt; various shades of green and brown, bordered by round fluffy dark green hedgerows. Houses are dotted here and there, lit up in the afternoon sun. I can't help voicing my amazement and appreciation for the view. Harry merely grunts, panting beside me from the exertion of our expedition.

"I reckon we should pitch the tent somewhere down there," I suggest, pointing downhill at a cluster of trees that would hide us from not only the view from the road, but anyone else happening to be walking past. "The last thing we want is the owner of the land to stumble across us and call the police."

We scurry across the grass as quickly as we can, hurrying into the shade of the trees and throwing our bags down with a sigh of relief. I lie down on the earth for a moment, relishing the coolness on my hot, sweaty back. To my surprise Harry does the same, positioning himself less than a foot from me and giving a grunt of satisfaction. 

"Feels good to take the weight off my feet."

"Yeah," I murmur. I stare up at the leaves above us, the cornflower blue peeking through the foliage, still cloudless. As tempting as it is to lie here, I have a nasty feeling I won't be able to get up if I let myself rest too long, and I simply cannot face another night sleeping on hard ground with no shelter. We must put this tent up before we get too tired and achey, and before the daylight fades.

Standing up, I pull the tent out of its box and examine the instructions. Harry stands up too, and hovers a little awkwardly at my side. "You ever put one of these up before?" he asks.

"Nope, never," I answer, hoping I sound more confident than I feel. The man in the shop did say it was a beginners' tent, but all these poles and ties and fabrics suddenly look rather complicated now I am faced with the pressure of assembling this to give us somewhere to sleep for the night. If this turns out to be a failure, and we have wasted a load of money on something that is useless, I will feel very stupid indeed. 

"Let me have a look."

I hand the instructions to Harry, and while he is studying them I unroll the tent and start slotting together the poles. Harry takes them from me, sliding them through the slots like the picture shows, and within fifteen minutes the tent is standing. He affixes a couple of pegs into the ground, attaches the ropes to keep the height, and stands back to admire his handiwork. I can't resist applauding him, and he gives me a genuine, proud smile. 

"I have to say, I'm impressed," I admit. "It looked a lot more complicated in the instructions than you made it look."

"Nah, it was alright really. Just a case of doing what the picture says."

But he is still smiling as he stoops down, unzips the front flap and peers inside. 

It isn't as big as it looks on the picture, but there is more than enough room for both of us. The "bedroom" can easily take two air beds, which we inflate outside under the trees with the little foot pump I bought in the camping shop. I manoeuvre mine through the front door of the tent and am about to push it through into the bedroom to position it next to Harry's when his face appears through the front flap.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm putting the beds in the bedroom. You know - the sleeping area bit."

"Both of them?"

"Well... yeah." I'm confused. 

"What are you going to sleep on?"

I stare at him. "The airbed! What do you mean?"

He stares at me. "You're not sleeping in the same bit as me."

"What?!" I cry in utter bewilderment. "What do you mean, I'm not sleeping in the same bit as you? I slept next to you last night in Totnes. What's the problem?"

"It's weird."

"How is it weird?!"

"I dunno, but it is."

"Well where do you expect me to sleep?" I ask, fearful all of a sudden. Have I got this whole situation completely wrong? Did he buy the tent for himself and expects me to sleep on the ground outside? Surely even Harry isn't that selfish and cruel?

"In this bit," he replies, a little defensively, gesturing to the section in front of us. "The living area, or whatever you want to call it."

I daren't tell him the idea of this terrifies me. The whole time he is within reaching distance, or just within my sight, I feel protected. (Although he may be an arsehole, there is at least safety in numbers.) But being the other side of a cloth barrier, where I can't see him and I am only protected from the dark night outside by the same thin strip of fabric, is something I cannot even begin to contemplate.

"Right," I squeak, biting my lip to fight the tears that are burning at the backs of my eyes. I dump my air bed down in front of me while he crawls past me and through the flap to the bedroom where his own airbed is waiting. I busy myself with pulling the sleeping bags out of their little carry cases and chucking one through to Harry.

"We got pillows?" he calls.

"No," I answer thickly, attempting to sniff discreetly as my nose begins to run. His face appears at the partition, and he stares hard at me.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing," I answer, turning away from him. "I'm sorry I didn't get pillows. It would have been too much to carry. Can't you use a jumper or something?"

He doesn't answer, but I can feel his gaze upon me. He is silent for about ten seconds. then, "Are you crying?"

"No."

My reply comes out nasal and quivery.

"You are."

"I'm not."

Silence again. Then an uncomfortable, "OK."

This is followed by a rustle as he disappears again, and I clench my teeth to fight the wave of emotion rising in me. Why didn't I just tell him I was afraid to sleep separately? Why didn't I tell him that after all the help I have given him, and all the ideas I have come up with, I feel I deserve some say in what happens and what we do. Why am I always so weak, letting everyone else call the shots?

I take a deep breath and push my misery away, occupying myself instead with unrolling my sleeping bag and laying it out flat on my airbed. I rummage in my rucksack for my black hoodie, roll it up into a tight ball to give it some height, and sit it at the head of the bed, on top of the hood of the sleeping bag. I shuffle backwards out of the tent, fetch the walking guide out of the carrier bag again and sit cross legged in the shade, leafing lazily through the pages, looking up our location again and studying our surroundings. I estimate that we are no more than a couple of hundred metres from an offshoot of the little creek, which will hopefully serve as somewhere to wash in the morning providing the water is fairly clean. Obviously I won't be recommending we drink it, but as this area appears to be so clean and untouched, I am guessing the water won't be too polluted. We're further from the sea than I would have liked, given Harry's expressed preference, but I have chosen discretion over convenience which I'm confident will make him happy. And if he isn't happy... well, he is more than welcome to take over the navigation and planning himself.

The roads on the map all appear similar to the one we are on: barely wide enough for one car to pass, lined with either trees, hedges or old, crumbling stone walls. Hardly the sort of place the police will come looking for us. However, I can't help wondering how long our false trail of the abandoned mobile phone will keep them busy. After all, they must surely have tracked it down by now and realised Harry didn't board that train to Manchester, which means they will probably have studied the CCTV from Paddington to see how he planted it. Which also means they possibly know I am travelling with him, if they have been able to identify me. It wouldn't be hard - I'm sure anyone from the Flute could have told them that Harry and Chris left the pub at the same time as me the other night, so they are bound to want to speak to me. And it is likely they will find it suspicious that I have promptly disappeared, abandoning my flat and belongings without a backward glance, which possibly puts me high up on the wanted list next to Harry.

The thought of being wanted by the police sends a wave of nausea crashing through me, and I feel immediately panicky again, like I did the night Chris was attacked. The details of that night seem strangely hazy, like they have been covered in cotton wool. The feel of Chris' hand closing around my wrist is as clear as day, as is his scent: day-old clothes and unwashed skin. I can recall the fear rising in my stomach; the inexplicable and irrational instinct to run, to get away from him as fast as I can before he hurts me.

I take a gulp of air, feeling suddenly claustrophobic and short of breath. My hands tremble holding the walking guide, and I lay it down beside me on the grass and rest my head on my knees. Fatigue overwhelms me and I close my eyes, longing for a comfy bed but feeling a glimmer of relief at the thought of the air mattress and sleeping bag that awaits tonight, even if it will be terrifying to sleep alone. I hear movement in the tent behind me, and Harry's footsteps crunching over the earth to my side. I feel the disruption of the air next to me, and a moment later his voice by my ear.

"You alright?"

"Mmm," I murmur, without lifting my head.

"You look weird. Like, really white."

"I'm just exhausted."

"Well, it's gone six o'clock. Do you want one of these sandwiches?"

I open my eyes to see him pulling a chicken salad sandwich out of the carrier bag and holding it out to me. My stomach growls and I take it from him eagerly, ripping open the plastic and stuffing one corner of the sandwich into my mouth. I hadn't realised how hungry I was until now. He reaches into the bag again and opts for the egg mayonnaise on white, and chucks one of the Kit Kats at me along with my bottle of water. It doesn't take me long to devour the lot, and although I can feel my blood sugar levels rising, I am still beyond tired.

"I know it's ridiculously early, but I think I might try and get some sleep," I mutter. "Will you try not to wake me when you come back in the tent? There's a torch in the camping bag so you can look where you're going once it gets dark."

"Yeah," Harry grunts, although his tone is a little softer than usual. I say nothing more but crawl into the living area of the tent where my mattress is waiting, pull off my shoes, and shuffle into my sleeping bag, zipping myself up to my chin and pulling the hood around my head. Although it is still warm outside, I crave the feeling of security my bed offers, however misplaced. From the direction of the road I hear the sound of a passing car, and the muffled baaing of distant sheep. I had thought I wouldn't be able to sleep, and would be jerking awake at every rustle, every squeak of a mouse, every hoot of an owl. But I have obviously underestimated my own level of exhaustion, as I don't even hear Harry enter the tent that night, but instead sleep right through until morning.