HARRY 

The journey to the seaside seems to take forever. I'm glad Chloe has a plan because when she has a plan, she is less of a chore to be around. When she has a plan, she is focussed and determined, and she makes stuff happen. When she has a plan, she can think for herself and make more plans to improve her original plan. When she has a plan, she doesn't pester the life out of me, and this gives me time and space to think.

When she doesn't have a plan, she is skittish and timid, needy and doe-eyed, worried and miserable.

This afternoon she is on a mission: A mission to get us across the country to some town she has decided upon, and now seems fixated on. She examines her beloved road atlas constantly, and after she bit my head off in the cafe when I suggested she be a little more discreet I am hesitant to tell her to put it away. I was hungry and bad-tempered back there, and probably shouldn't have snapped quite so harshly the way I did, but in all honesty she took me by surprise by snarling right back at me, shutting my argument down and pretty much going on strike until I let her have her own way. It was such a bird's thing to do - Sofía is exactly the same about everything. I have long since learned it is far easier to let them think they're in control of the situation, just to buy myself a few minutes' peace, and an easy life.

We sit on slow, lumbering buses that have no air conditioning, only windows that open a crack to allow in exhaust fumes and puffs of summer heat. My tshirt sticks to my body, insulated by the cheap nylon seat covers that irritate the backs of my legs, and more than once I feel beads of sweat trickle down the sides of my face. I am in desperate need of a shower, but I don't want to bring it up to Chloe and disturb her concentration. Plus, it's really nice to be left alone for a few hours to my own thoughts while she gives me the silent treatment. I should piss her off more often. 

Our journey takes us along leafy streets with huge houses, the sort I could only ever dream of living in, the sort that makes me think of middle aged women dressed all in white, with expensive perfumes and hairdos, glittering with diamonds and holding delicate glasses of champagne. I imagine large, airy living rooms; bright, gleaming kitchens; roaring fires in the winter and cocktail parties in the summer. I imagine families that go skiing over Christmas, and visit the south of France in the school holidays, dads with dark hair and permanently olive skin, kids that go to private schools and do tennis and cricket and horse riding at the weekends. 

When Chloe isn't reading her atlas she is staring wistfully out of the window at the mansions flitting by, and I wonder if she is longing for the same as me: to be part of this world of comfort, safety and security. After her devastating teenage years it would stand to reason. 

It is past tea time when she finally announces, as we are getting off what feels like the fiftieth bus of the day, and with an undertone of disappointment, that this is where we will be staying tonight. It is another rural space, with fields stretching for miles into the distance and trees to hide us from the view of passing traffic. I am weary as I pitch the tent, from both the heat and hunger, and she seems to sense this as she offers to pump up the air mattresses while I sit down and eat my half of the last of the sandwiches from the shop in Guildford. The ground beneath me is warm and bone dry; there mustn't have been a drop of rain here in weeks. When the beds are ready I barely say goodnight to Chloe before crawling inside the tent and collapsing onto mine without even bothering to get inside my sleeping bag. Outside the tent I hear the rustle of the sandwich wrappers and the crackle of the bottle of water as she eats her half of our makeshift dinner. I don't even have time to feel bad for leaving her alone, because before I can formulate the thought properly I am asleep. 

***

Chloe's determination hasn't waned by the morning. She is up before me again, and I can't be bothered trying to make conversation this early in the morning. For once, though, she doesn't seem perturbed by this. She has channelled all her energy into making it to this destination, and I am happy to follow her and nod and grunt in all the right places. She has clearly planned out today's route to within an inch of its life, yet although she seems bright-eyed and bushy tailed, there is a strange aura surrounding her today; one of distinct melancholy despite her keenness to get wherever the hell we're supposed to be going. We spend another full day on and off buses, followed by another uncomfortable night in a farmer's field in the middle of nowhere. The next morning though, something feels different. Her keenness has developed into urgency and she is talking faster and breathlessly, seemingly full of nervous energy.

She hasn't so far offered any sort of explanation of this town - Broadstairs - and I haven't bothered to ask. But I watch her out of the corner of my eye as our latest bus rattles along towards our final destination, and she seems to become jumpier and more nervous the closer we get. Her fingers make their way more than once into her mouth where she chews anxiously on her nails. Her knee jiggles up and down, and she fiddles with the strap of her rucksack relentlessly. Her vague chatter, which has calmed over the last twenty four hours, ceases completely in favour of an electrically charged silence; one I am almost apprehensive of attempting to penetrate. I keep quiet, taking her lead.

Fields pass on either side, and beyond I get glimpses of the sea, becoming more and more frequent as the bus rumbles on. If it wasn't for Chloe, I would have absolutely no idea where we are. We pass a hospital, a grammar school, and houses ranging from small and unkempt to large and well maintained. We pass through several large villages before eventually turning along a narrow street with a couple of convenience stores, a pub, a pharmacy and a beautiful little church on the left that looks several hundred years old. The bus comes to a halt outside the church to let a couple of oncoming cars pass, and Chloe glances towards the entrance to the churchyard out of the corner of her eye, her gaze lingering just long enough to make me wonder the significance of the place. Before I can ask (would I have asked?) the bus moves off again, squeezing along a single track lane with stone walls and trees either side, passing several long rows of little cottages with the front doors and windows opening onto the pavement, before finally emerging at a wide junction where the road bends ahead of us. 

Without warning, Chloe gets to her feet, pressing the bell on the pole in front of us to request the bus to stop, and I look up in surprise: this is a first, on this journey. I stand up and follow her, stepping off the bus behind her into the morning sunshine, outside a general store and off-licence, and next to a little railway bridge.

Without a word she sets off along the street, up and over the railway bridge and onto a wider residential road with slightly larger houses that have either small front gardens or driveways just wide enough to squeeze one small car. Her pace is hurried, urgent and determined; her footsteps purposeful yet instinctive, as though she doesn't need the road map to show her the way to go. My own instinct tells me not to question her, or mention that I am starving and in desperate need of a decent meal and a drink; instead I follow her in silence, past nicely kept homes with flowers in tubs and foliage climbing up and around front porches, a faint suspicion rising in me as we go.

Chloe powers on a couple of paces ahead of me. She is staring at the houses as we pass them, her eyes flicking from the front gates, to the upstairs windows, to the cars in the drive and along the roadside. Her pace slows a little and I follow suit, keeping a little distance, not wanting to intrude. She comes to a stop outside a small semi-detached on our left, the right hand side of a pair, doors side by side. 

It has a bay window with venetian blinds, a white glass porch and beyond this a red front door with multi-coloured stained glass. A number 53 sits above the door, once a shining brass but now a slightly, tarnished brown. The upstairs sash windows are brilliant white, flanked with brick detailing, and in the front garden are a couple of green bushes, one of which overhangs the garden wall towards the pavement. There is a little black gate, with paint peeling off to reveal rust underneath, whose catch doesn't appear to sit properly in its home. 

I turn to Chloe; her face is a picture of emotion. Her eyes are glazed and glinting in the bright light, her brow is creased and her mouth is downturned. She is staring at the house in silence, but I'm not sure she is actually seeing it; she is lost so deeply in thought. I wait a minute, watching her face. Her eyes flicker a couple of times, and eventually she gives a deep sigh.

"Chloe?" I murmur.

"This is it," she whispers, as though she hasn't heard me. "This is my house. This is the house where I grew up." 

I had suspected, so this comes as no surprise, but I still don't know how to react. She isn't crying, but she seems sad. I can only guess the memories this place must hold for her. I'm not good with emotion - it makes me uncomfortable, so I am glad she isn't a wailing wreck. I contemplate touching her shoulder or patting her on the back or something, but then I decide this might open the flood gates so I keep my hand firmly in my pocket.

"That was my mum and dad's bedroom," she murmurs, pointing up at the two windows on the right, "and that was the spare room, where the cat slept." (She points to the single window on the left.)

"What about your room?" I ask awkwardly.

"I had the back bedroom. Overlooking the garden."

"Was it a nice garden?"

"Yeah," she chuckles softly. "Yeah, it was. There was a little crabapple tree that I used to climb when I was little. And there was a tiny path that led to the back wall, that I used to pretend was a pathway to the magical kingdom."

I give her a quizzical look, and she turns to face me properly for the first time today. "You know, kids' stuff. Fairies and the like."

I nod, but I don't really have a clue. Childhood imagination wasn't exactly encouraged in my family.

"And the wall separating us from next door was only about chest height," she continues. "There was a family next door with a couple of kids. One of the girls was the same age as me - her name was Hayley. We used to play together when we were little, before they moved away. I don't know where they are now. I don't even know if they know about what happened to my parents..."

She trails off, staring up at the house again, lost in the past. I keep quiet, not wanting to disturb her memories. 

She reaches a hand forward to the gate, pushing it open a couple of inches and letting it fall back shut again, chuckling again as the catch fails to close fully. "They still haven't fixed it," she says sadly. "It never worked properly, the whole time we were here."

"Have you... did you come back here after... you know..." It is my turn to trail off awkwardly, regretting starting this question and not wanting to upset her by being too blunt.

"I came to get my stuff," she replies, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. "I packed up my clothes and my belongings. But it's all a bit of a blur. Solicitors came and emptied the house, sold the furniture and all the stuff that I wouldn't need in the children's home."

"Didn't you want to keep any of your parents' things?" I blurt, and then instantly want to kick myself for being insensitive.

She shrugs, still staring at the soft white walls of her childhood home. "I didn't really have the option. I was only thirteen. I had nowhere to store furniture, or big effects. I kept a bit of my mum's jewellery, but she didn't really have much, and nothing of worth. All the rest of the stuff - pictures, ornaments - it was auctioned off to pay for the funeral. It was all done for me, by the state, because I wasn't old enough to do it myself."

I nod, trying to imagine going through this at thirteen years old. This girl has dealt with so much, so young, and so alone. I think back to her nervous disposition back in London, how she always used to avoid Chris' gaze whenever we came into the pub. He openly terrorised her, and I now feel a twinge of guilt. If I had known what she had been through... would I have told him to lay off her? Or would I have stood back and said nothing, because everyone has their own shit to deal with in life, and how he treated her is none of my business? Deep down I know the answer, but for now I will pretend that I would have done the right thing.

Chloe takes a couple of steps to the right, and then disappears up a side passage I haven't noticed before, between her house and the next pair of semis. It is barely two feet wide, and after a beat I follow her as she scurries all the way up the side of her house to a tall gate that obviously leads to the back garden. I watch in disbelief as she chucks her rucksack on the floor and scrambles up the wall, using holes in the mortar as footholds, and peers over the top into her old back garden.

"What are you doing?" I hiss. "Someone might see you and call the police!"

She doesn't answer, but stays on the wall, staring sadly into her past as though she cannot hear me. I wait a few more seconds, before panic starts to set in.

"Chloe," I murmur urgently. "I know this means a lot to you, but seriously, you're going to get us caught if someone sees you."

With a reluctant sigh she lets herself slide back down the wall and drop to the floor, brushing dust off her hands before picking up her bag and swinging it onto her back again. "Sorry," she sighs. "Just wanted to see if it was all the same..."

We slip silently back up the alley and emerge onto the pavement again, checking nervously around for cars or nosy neighbours that might be looking. She takes one last look at the little house, before hooking her thumbs into the straps of her rucksack and looking a me intently.

"Come on," she says, turning to her right and walking back along the street, in the direction we came from, with renewed vigour and that familiar determination. "There's one more place I need to go right now, before we find somewhere to get you some food."

---***---

Thanks for reading, I know it's been a while since the last update. Thank you for all the comments and votes on this story so far, it means a lot when people take the time to let me know their thoughts! I'm really going to try and get another update out in the next few days, just bear with me! Hope everyone is having a good summer xx