HARRY

The sun is hot on my back as I make my way from the high street to the hair salon, a carrier bag swinging from my left hand containing a couple of new pairs of jeans, two t-shirts, a hoodie that was half price in the sale and a pristine pair of navy Nikes. I am not used to my neck being exposed, thanks to my previously long hair covering it for the past year or so, and my whole head feels strangely bare and light. Each time I catch my reflection in a shop window I am reminded of the drastic change I have just undertaken, and once or twice I have to look again at myself, as I keep forgetting that this new image is actually me. I have to admit, though, I can't help liking it. The barber has left the top a little long and messy but the back and sides slightly shorter, and it reminds me of a longer James Dean kind of look. Coupled with the new sunglasses I have just bought, I'm pretty pleased with the style overhaul. 

I pause at a pedestrian crossing, waiting for the lights to change, and catch sight of a coffee shop opposite that will likely have a toilet I can use to change into my new clothes. I dart across the road, push the door open and slip past the queue of customers and straight into the Gents' at the back. Here I quickly strip off my dirty, faded, slouchy blue Levis and pull on one of the pairs of black jeans I have just bought. My left foot gets halfway in before it meets with resistance and I tug at it impatiently, wondering what is going on. The calves are impossibly tight, and by the time I have manoeuvred my other leg in too, and pulled them up my thighs to fasten the fly, I am starting to suspect I have mistakenly picked up a pair several sizes too small.

"Fuck!" I hiss, furiously. 

I twist myself around to examine the label in the back of the waistband, yet it claims to be a 32 inch waist which, last time I checked, is my size. I study myself in the mirror: I don't think I've put that much weight on, yet why else would these fucking jeans be stuck to my legs like fucking condoms? I twist round again, looking at my arse this time (which thankfully seems to fit fine and doesn't look too ridiculous) and catch sight of the cardboard label attached to the back pocket. One word stands out: Skinny.

For fuck's sake. These must be what people mean when they talk about skinny jeans. How could I have been so fucking stupid? I pull open the carrier bag impatiently to check the other pair, and to my fury they are exactly the same. I throw the bag on the floor in disgust and glare at my reflection in the mirror. I look like some fucking pretty boy who spends hundreds of pounds a month on beauty products and sips stupidly expensive cocktails with his little finger stuck out. This is the exact opposite of my style, and I feel like the biggest dickhead on the planet. 

I am just about to kick the wall in annoyance when I suddenly remember that the whole point of this expedition was to get a disguise, not to buy the sort of thing I would normally wear. I stand up straight and scrutinise my reflection again, trying to see myself through the eyes of a policeman searching for me. I wouldn't look twice at this numpty, with his drainpipe jeans and his coiffed hair. So I suppose this ridiculous get-up serves its purpose.

Grudgingly I retrieve one of the new t-shirts out of the carrier and pull it on roughly, before stuffing my old tshirt, jeans and boots back in. I shove my feet into my new trainers, sling my holdall onto my back and exit the toilet, pausing at the counter to purchase a takeaway cappuccino to drink on the way.

By the time I find myself in view of the hairdresser's where I left Chloe it is almost eleven fifteen. I saunter up the street, my eyes darting left and right looking out for any police that may be lurking, feeling a little self-conscious in my new attire. There is no sign of Chloe, so I peer through the steamy window of the salon, half hoping she has decided that tagging along with me is a bad idea and has abandoned me. There doesn't seem to be anyone inside, so I walk a little further along the street, dodging a little old couple and a woman with a pink pushchair, until I reach the end of the block. 

I'm trying to remember what the fuck she was wearing this morning when I catch sight of a slim girl with blonde, wavy hair looking straight at me from across a side road. I begin to smile - she is definitely checking me out - and she crosses the street towards me with purpose. I am just thinking she's a solid nine out of ten, when she opens her mouth and says uncertainly, "Harry?" 

I take a step back in surprise. "Fuck - Chloe?!"

"Where have you been?" she wails. "I've been looking for you for ages! I thought you'd gone without me!"

At first I can't answer her - I'm too busy staring at this girl in front of me that cannot possibly be the same little mouse I left here barely two hours ago. Although her expression is the same as always - one of barely disguised terror - she looks completely different and is almost unrecognisable. Her long mousy hair has been chopped to her shoulders and is now several different shades of blonde, from caramel to champagne, and frames her face in soft waves. The transformation is unbelievable.

"I stopped to get changed," I answer eventually. "Will you just chill for like five seconds? I'm here now aren't I? Fucking calm down."

Her mouth snaps shut and her eyes search my face, before flicking up to my new hair cut and then up and down my body, no doubt taking in my outfit. 

"I like what you're wearing," she says, after a moment, and immediately her cheeks flush pink and she looks down at her feet.

"Yeah? Well I feel fucking ridiculous," I snap.

"Why did you buy it then?" she asks, looking up at me again and I glare down at her, not wanting to admit I fucked up royally and had no intentions of looking like this in a million years.

"You said we should go in disguise," I hiss. "What the fuck do you think this is?" I gesture to the jeans that are practically glued to my legs. Fuck knows how I'm ever going to get these off. "What, were you expecting a cloak and trilby?"

"Well you've got the sunglasses," she says carefully, and I swear to fucking God there is a smirk lurking at the corners of her mouth. Is she taking the piss out of me? Chloe the fucking mouse has grown a pair of balls all of a sudden? I am unnerved by this side to her I have not seen before.

"Are you ready to go or what?" I mutter, casting a glance up and down the street to make sure the coast is clear.

She nods, looking up at me and squinting in the sunlight. "Have you decided where we're going?"

I hesitate, running over the plan I have vaguely formulated in my mind during my shopping expedition. "I want to go north, and then head out into the countryside while I work out what to do. I need to stay away from CCTV, so I know I said I'm not going anywhere that stinks of cow shit, but I think it might be my only option if I want to buy myself a few days' thinking time."

Chloe says nothing, and I get the feeling she is holding her tongue rather than speaking her mind.

"What?" I ask impatiently. "You don't like that idea?" 

"No, I..." She clears her throat. "I'm happy to go along with whatever you want."

"Good," I reply, forcefully. "Let's go then."

"Where?" she asks, as I begin to walk along the street in the direction of the tube station.

"For fuck's sake!" I spit, lifting my hands in the air and letting them smack back down at my sides. "Are you deliberately trying to wind me up or something? We've just had this conversation!"

"I mean," she adds, her voice wavering, "which station? Paddington, Kings Cross, Euston..? It depends where you want to go."

I am breathing heavily, furious with her for complicating everything and asking so many questions when this should just be straightforward. All I want to do is get out of London, yet here I am nearly twelve hours after I left home, on some dingy main road a stone's throw from where I started, with a fucking limpet who doesn't know when to keep quiet. I glare at her, hating her with every fibre of my being, and struggling to contain my rage at having to endure her endless questioning, all because the silly little bitch can't be trusted to keep her mouth shut if she ran into a policeman. I am stuck with her for the foreseeable future, and she is already driving me slowly round the bend after less than half a day; most of which has been spent asleep.

"Can't I just decide when I get there?" I hiss through clenched teeth, striding off to put some distance between us in case I give in to the urge to put my hands around her throat and squeeze hard.

"OK," she mutters from behind me, unmistakably tearfully. "Sorry."

I ignore her all the way to the tube, and when the train arrives I take a seat in an almost empty carriage, as far away from everyone as possible. Chloe hesitates before sitting down next to me, and I relish her apprehension as I glower at the empty seats opposite. She asks no more questions as I stand up at Elephant and Castle, but follows me off the train and onto the platform as I change to the Bakerloo line, northbound. 

She follows me like a shadow once we arrive at Paddington, and I keep my head down as I pass through the ticket barriers into the main foyer where the departures boards are lit up like Christmas trees with hundreds of destinations. I scan them avidly, searching for a direct train to Liverpool or Manchester, or even Birmingham - anywhere that is north from here, that can be my starting point for disappearing off the radar for a while. But to my horror the only trains to anywhere that sounds vaguely familiar all require at least one change (mostly at Euston) which highly increases my risk of either being spotted by the Transport Police or being caught on CCTV.

"Fuck!" I rage quietly, and Chloe, who has spent the entire journey since I shouted at her with her gaze trained on the floor, looks up in surprise. I can tell she wants to ask what's the matter, but she's too fucking scared. This pleases me in a savage sort of way, but also irritates the fuck out of me. I realise that the longer I stand here staring into space gormlessly, the more I risk capture.

My eyes flick up and down the destinations that are direct routes, but I don't know where any of them are. They could be fucking Timbuktu for all I know. I run my hand through my hair as I feel a flutter of panic in my stomach. My heart is racing and my palms are sweaty, and I know I need to make a decision fast, but I haven't a clue what to do. Reluctantly I turn to Chloe.

"Where's north?" I mutter.

She jumps and stares at me, as though she isn't sure whether I am addressing her. "What?"

"Where's north from here? Out of all of these places?" 

"Wha... ummm..." Her eyes skim the departure boards. "Well... quite a few."

"Direct trains," I add. "No changes."

She pauses, scanning the lists as various announcements sound over the tannoy in muffled, robotic tones. "Umm... well, Reading is west of here... Oxford is sort of north I suppose -"

"Fine, I'll go to Oxford," I interrupt. 

"It's - it's not very far north," she explains, timidly. "And it's probably only an hour away from here."

"Fuck!" I hiss again.

"Where did you want to go?" she asks with trepidation, leaning back from me as though she is worried I may hit her for asking. 

"I dunno, somewhere like Manchester or Liverpool. A city, in the north. Just as somewhere to work from."

"Then we should have gone to Euston," she whispers. "Unless you want to hang around here for an hour for a direct train..."

It is taking everything I have not to punch something, or someone, and draw attention to myself. Why didn't she fucking tell me that I would need to go to Euston, if she knew that? I ball my hands into fists and take a couple of deep breaths, my teeth clenched tightly.

"We can go, now," she adds hastily. "Euston is only a couple of stops from here. About ten minutes away, I would guess."

"No," I answer shortly. "I'm taking too long. I need to get away."

Before Chloe can answer me, a ringing sound can be heard from the side pocket of her rucksack, and to my disbelief she pulls out a battered old iPhone and answers it before I can stop her.

"Hello?"

I turn and walk away from her, heading blindly towards the exit, needing to get as far away from this imbecile as possible. I can't believe I have let her follow me for this long. I would rather take the risk of her blabbing to the police about the last twelve hours we have spent together than have her around me any longer. The stupid bitch is a fucking liability.

"Harry!" she calls as I turn onto the busy street outside the station, sidestepping tourists, professionals and general wanderers. "Harry!"

"For fuck's sake!" I growl, turning in fury and grabbing her by the arm, before dragging her unceremoniously along the pavement and up a side street lined with ornate Victorian buildings towering several stories above us. 

"Let me go!" she squeals tearfully, and I release her roughly, watching her stumble and almost lose her footing. She gazes up at me fearfully, and I feel a twinge of regret for a second, before it is replaced by impatience at her stupidity and constant fear of the world.

"This is where I leave you," I spit, my brow creased so hard into a frown it is almost painful. 

"What? No!"

"Yes!" I snarl. "I can't carry you any longer! You're a danger to us both! From now on, you're on your own."

"No - Harry, please!" she begs, running up to me and clutching at my arms. "I don't understand - what did I do?"

I laugh derisively. She is so fucking clueless. I have never met anyone as brain-dead as this girl.

"Your phone?" I mock. "Ever thought that maybe calls are traceable, and could give away your location at any time? Why the fuck is it even switched on anyway? Who was calling you? What did they want?"

"It was Ian. From the Flute," she gasps, nearing hysteria as she clings to me. "I was due at work at eleven o'clock. He was ringing to find out where I was."

"What the fuck did you tell him?!" I thunder.

"I - I just told him I quit, and wouldn't be coming back," she sobs, tears rolling down her face. "I didn't say anything about you! I'm sorry, I didn't think. I've never tried to disappear before. I don't know how this works!"

"Precisely why you're not spending another second with me," I growl. "This whole time you've been a fucking walking beacon to the police! If they'd realised you were with me, they could've caught us at any time!"

"But then - they obviously don't know I'm with you," she hiccoughs, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and leaving a smudge of black across her cheek. "So that means they're looking for you on your own. You'll be less conspicuous if you stay with me."

I shake my head. "Not a chance. You can't be trusted. They could work it out at any moment, if they haven't already been tracking you through your location services and are waiting in the ticket hall ready to pounce."

"I'll switch them off, I'll switch them off," she cries, but I push her roughly away.

"No. I'm out of here." 

"Harry!" she wails desperately.

I turn to walk away, and from behind me I hear a sob and in the reflection of the window of the Bureau de Change next to me I see her sink to the ground, her head in her arms and her back shaking.

I take a couple of steps away from her, but something doesn't sit right, and I slow my pace and look over my shoulder. She isn't even putting up a fight. Her face is hidden, and instead of staring after me and expecting her tears to win me over, she isn't even watching me leave. It's like she has given up completely. A flash of discomfort jolts through me and I come to a halt, staring at her uncomfortably and wondering why my feet won't move and take me away from her, back into Paddington station and on the next train out of this shithole of a city.

I don't understand why she is so desperate to stay with me. What the fuck is her problem? I don't even know her. Until twelve hours ago, she was the creepy little barmaid who flinched every time someone looked at her the wrong way. I don't know what has changed in such a short space of time to make her so dependent on me, but the pang of discomfort fizzles through me again, and I chew my lip in confusion. I don't know what this feeling is, but it is completely unfamiliar to me. 

Fuck this - I can't be held responsible for every mentally unstable female who sheds a tear over my departure. I need to stick to my plan and get the fuck away, go into hiding and figure out a plan. I don't have time for emotional breakdowns. I turn on my heel and stride away from her, back down the side street and onto the main road, before turning into the station entrance and making a beeline for the departure boards again. I will just get on whatever train is leaving next and work it out from there. I have wasted enough time fucking around.

I pause in the ticket hall, looking on the board for the next train to depart. There is one in five minutes to Leamington Spa leaving from Platform 7. Looking around, I can see a long queue at the kiosk, and I have no clue where Platform 7 is. My guess is it will take longer than five minutes to get my ticket, find the platform and get on the train before it leaves. I turn back to the board again. The one after that is for Heathrow Terminal 5. Well that's no fucking use - I don't want to go to the airport. Wait, what's this - Liverpool Lime Street, leaving in sixteen minutes! But fuck, five fucking changes. I rub my hand over my face, feeling a hot sweat prickling on my back. This isn't as easy as it looks. I am starting to get stressed.

My eyes flick across to the other departure boards, but all the names are now jumping out at me and I haven't a clue what to do. I glance nervously at the barriers, manned by several guards, and gulp. I suddenly feel out of my depth, without a clue what to do next. 

"Harry!"

A soft voice sounds to my left, and I jump in shock to see Chloe at my side, her eyes wide as she gazes up at me with tearstains on her cheeks. I feel another jolt this time - something like relief, but it can't be because why the fuck would I be relieved to see this fucking hysterical wreck?

Except she isn't a hysterical wreck anymore, and the look in her eyes resembles steely determination.

"Harry," she says again, clearly and breathily. "I've just had a brilliant idea!"