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.

The ticket hall is still heaving with people when I re-enter through the same door as before, feeling conspicuous and self-aware. Voices blare over the tannoy, announcing trains in robotic, nasal tones, clouding my focus. People bump into me from all sides as though I am invisible to them, and somehow inferior. I concentrate on keeping my back straight and my footsteps casual and even, resisting the urge to scurry through the crowds as I normally would with my head down and shoulders hunched. I glance up at the departure boards and see our train - direct to Totnes - due to depart in seventeen minutes from Platform Ten. I have no time to waste. I scan the destinations above it, looking for one the furthest in the opposite direction but leaving a few minutes earlier, and there it is: Manchester Piccadilly, departing in ten minutes. This is going to be tight.

I turn around, stride to the nearest empty ticket kiosk, and smile hesitantly at the bored operator behind the glass. "A single ticket to Manchester Piccadilly please."

Can she tell I am on the run with a wanted criminal? Does she know that only hours earlier I was standing over a man lying on a patch of gravel with his face caved in and covered in blood? Is the word 'guilty' not written across my forehead in big red letters?

"Forty-two fifty."

I slide two twenty pound notes and a fiver under the screen, bracing myself for a hand on my shoulder or handcuffs round my wrists, and she slides my printed ticket and two fifty back. "Platform Four."

I need to stop imagining these melodramatic scenarios.

"Thank you," I mutter breathlessly, stuffing my ticket and change into my pocket and turning around to look for the signs to Platform Four before my imagination can conjure any further horrors. Luckily, it is this end of the station, and as I take a step towards it I hear a familiar voice to my left say smoothly, "Two singles to Totnes."

I force myself not to react, and keep my eyes firmly fixed on the huge number four a hundred feet ahead, and ignore the shape of Harry's back in my peripheral vision. I breathe deeply as I cross the ticket hall quickly, past various shops selling fast food, coffees, newspapers and stationery, and show my ticket to the guard at the barrier who lets me pass without even looking up from his conversation with his colleague. I stride the full length of the platform alongside the waiting train, glancing up at the digital clock which reads twelve fifty seven. I have six minutes before it leaves. 

I step onto the very furthest carriage in Economy Class, near the front of the train and just behind the First Class section. I immediately turn back on myself and begin making my way back down through the train between the aisles of seats; apologising to everyone I brush against, waiting nervously as people in front of me stow bags, laptops and other miscellaneous items in the overhead luggage racks. The walkway is narrow and the air conditioning is not strong enough to control the heat rising through the floor of the stationary train. I pull my hair into a low bun at the back of my head as I slip quietly from carriage to carriage, and force myself to retrieve my tattered black Topshop hoodie from my bag, shoving my arms into it, pulling up the zip and yanking the hood up to cover my hair. I remind myself that this is a temporary measure, just until I have fulfilled my part of the plan, and take several deep breaths in an attempt to release my own internal heat. The train gives a loud hiss, causing me to squeak in surprise as I reach the very end carriage nearest the ticket barrier where I came through, and take an empty seat right next to the door. Another glance out of the window at the clock tells me I need to get a move on.

With trembling fingers I pull Harry's phone out of my jeans pocket and turn it over slowly in my hands. I allow my mind to wander briefly back to my conversation with him earlier, when he had first refused to go along with this idea. He had been so adamantly against it, yet I can't imagine what he could possibly have on this phone that he needs so badly. Phone numbers? Surely any contact with friends or family would be traceable and therefore not an option. Messages? He could have asked me to retrieve anything essential before I plant the phone. His defiant reaction still makes no sense. 

I am just about to press the power button to switch the phone on when another idea strikes me out of the blue: I could put Harry's SIM card in my phone instead, and give him his phone back! I hesitate, blood and adrenaline buzzing through my veins as my mind desperately tries to race ahead and foresee any potential problems, and predict Harry's reaction to this improvisation. Would he thank me for returning his own phone to him? Or would it earn me a look of fury, a sneer of disdain, a mouthful of abuse? I don't have time to wonder - I need to make a decision, and fast.

I fumble in the front zip compartment of my rucksack for my iPhone, which I switched off in the wake of Harry's wrath an hour before. There is nothing on here I need: I have no photos stored that I particularly want to keep, or any numbers of anyone in my life that would even notice I am missing. I fire it up, go to the Settings, find the factory reset option, and without even a blink of hesitation I give the command. With so little data to erase the operation is complete in under a minute, and using the end of a paperclip from inside a Virgin Trains brochure that was tucked into the back of the seat in front of me, I wrench the SIM card slots open in my phone and Harry's phone and switch the SIMs (I almost let out a cry of relief when I see they are the same size). I drop Harry's into my bag, still switched off and now containing my SIM card, and turn my attention now to my own phone.

A drop of sweat trickles between my breasts as I jab clumsily at the power button, jiggling my foot manically while I wait for it to start up. It seems to take forever, and the seconds on the clock above Platform Four flick over impossibly quickly towards 1.03pm. I wipe more sweat from my top lip as I notice a guard walking down the platform, undoubtedly towards the driver's carriage, apparently checking each of the carriages in turn. This train is ready to leave, and if I don't hurry I will be stuck on it all the way to Manchester, completely alone, and our plan will be ruined. My phone containing Harry's SIM card pops to life, displaying a prompt to select either Vodafone Pay Monthly or Vodafone Pay As You Go. My heart comes to a stop. Harry hasn't given me this information, as I wouldn't have needed to know if I had stuck to our original plan, and I haven't a clue if he has a contract or not.

A shout echoes down the platform from the guard, confirming the train is ready to depart. I am out of time.

I blindly hit the Pay As You Go option, hoping for the best, and the blank home screen is displayed immediately, with a half full battery and the Vodafone network at the top. Immediately the phone begins to ping with messages coming through from numbers unknown to me, making a hell of a racket. I can barely manage to switch the sound off and disable the wifi due to my hands shaking so violently, and finally at the last second I remember to pull the sleeve of my hoodie over my fingers and rub the phone vigorously to remove any traces of my fingerprints. The train doors next to me beep repeatedly, before sliding closed. This sound is echoed the length of train, sealing the passengers inside. I stand up, ready to slide the phone into the pocket of the seat in front of me, but I am trembling so hard I lose my grip and it slips through the fabric of my hoodie sleeves and lands neatly in the open side pocket of a random navy Adidas holdall that has been dumped in the luggage rack by the door.

I hesitate for a second, and then the guard's whistle sounds and my feet take charge, carrying me to the door of the train and abandoning my phone, while my hand bangs roughly on the release button. The door slides open with a furious hiss, and I jump out onto the platform with my head down and swing my rucksack onto my back. I daren't look back to see if anyone is yelling at me for disembarking the train at the very last second, but just as I am walking back through the ticket barrier, past the bored guard who fails even to look at me, I hear the whistle blast again behind me and the whirr of the train pulling out of the station. 

A sudden head rush almost knocks me off my feet as elation floods through me. I've done it! I've completed my part of the plan! My vision is swimming in front of my eyes and I hold my breath for a few seconds, trying not to trip over as I now turn left and make my way through Paddington Station yet again, this time to Platform Ten, searching the blur of the crowds for a sign of Harry. I speed up as I see the large number ten coming into view, my eyes darting left and right. Just as a twinge of panic flares through my gut, I catch sight of his brooding form leaning casually against the wall between a self service ticket machine and an instant photo booth. My first instinct is to change direction and walk over to him, but at the last second I remember I am not supposed to acknowledge him. My feet perform a jerky side-step while my brain reprograms and I slow my pace, waiting for him to slide casually in front of me in the queue for the barrier, as planned. Out of the corner of my eye I see him push off the wall, with an air of enviable nonchalance, and pick up the holdall resting at his feet. He takes a couple of large steps in my direction, cutting in front of me as we reach the ticket barrier, and stopping to wait for the person in front of us to shove their ticket into the automated slot. His hand slides discreetly behind his back, his fingers nudging the front of my hoodie, and I take the ticket from his hand without looking down. He passes through the barrier first, striding towards the train without a backward glance, as though this silent exchange has not just taken place. It takes me a second to force my own ticket into the opening, as my hands are trembling clumsily again, and when the bars in front of me part to let me through I stroll as casually as I can past the carriage door that Harry has just entered, choosing to alight the train a few doors further down. Once inside, I glance at the seat number on my ticket and turn right, making my way once again down the narrow aisle of the train. When I find my seat Harry is already there, staring moodily out of the window, and he doesn't even look up when I sit down next to him. I busy myself with stowing my bag on the floor between my feet, removing my black hoodie, and pulling the elastic band out of my hair to let it swing freely around my shoulders again. I barely notice the train doors closing with a wheeze, or the piercing screech of the guard's whistle; I am waiting for the jolt of motion to signify the start of our journey out of London to safety, away from the imminent threat of the police looming over us, away from the memory of Chris's blood spilling onto the gravel in the summer twilight.

As the train crawls out of the station, past the end of the platform and across what looks like hundreds of different railway tracks on its way to the south west, Harry turns to me with a raised eyebrow and a blank look.

"Well?"

"I did it." 

My voice sounds foreign to my ears - not its usual breathless tremor, but clearer and confident after pulling off so smoothly what is possibly the greatest achievement of my life. He surveys me for a moment, his lips pursed, as though waiting for me to confess to a slip up, before eventually giving me a single, curt nod. 

"Girl done good." 

My stomach flips over as his lips twitch into a faint smirk, before he breaks eye contact and closes his eyes, turning away from me and leaning back on the head rest behind him. I watch him for a moment, but it is clear he has nothing more to offer for now. I lean back in my own seat before I remember I haven't told him I switched phones at the last minute, and it is my phone, not Harry's, that is now making its way to Manchester in the pocket of a stranger's holdall, with Harry's SIM card and active GPS advertising its location to anyone who might be checking.

I open my mouth to deliver the news, and then close it again immediately. I have just proved I can be trusted, and for the very first time I appear to have earned a few words of approval from Harry. The last thing I want to do is rock the boat, and I can't deny that a little part of me is still intrigued by the fuss he made about surrendering his phone, and wonders what could possibly be on it that could be so valuable to him. If I give it back to him now I risk not only a row, but also never cracking the mystery of the relinquished device. My triumph this afternoon has given me a boost I hadn't even realised I needed, and I decide there and then that not only will I keep the secret of the swapped phones for now, but I will have a nosey at the coveted little gadget in my bag the first opportunity I get.