CHLOE

Over the next few days we make our way north east on foot. We start along the banks of the River Dart, before taking a tiny tourist ferry at a crossing point to the other side to Greenway. We spend a night on the edge of an open field near a village by the name of Stoke Gabriel, before making our way east, and then north again, pitching the tent in a wild-looking wooded valley called Clennon Gorge. The summer seems to have well and truly set in, even though it isn't even July yet, and after almost a week of washing in any body of water we can find (and at one point using our precious bottled water that we keep buying from any local shop along our route), I am begging Harry for an alternative and once again suggesting we spend just one night in a hotel, to get clean and have a good night's sleep.

The tent, air beds and sleeping bags have proved to be invaluable, but still no substitute for a pocket-sprung mattress, a duck-down duvet and proper feather pillows. I am also craving a hot meal, having lived off basic rations (plastic wrapped sandwiches, or worse, bread, butter and cold baked beans) since arriving in Dartmouth. We both agree that buying any sort of camping stove is not only risky in terms of drawing attention to ourselves with spires of smoke curling into the air giving away our location, but also impractical considering we are walking everywhere, and would have to carry not only the stove itself, but gas cannisters, cooking utensils and food. We are already struggling from the weight of all our luggage; our muscles aching every night from having heavy bags strapped all over our bodies.

"One night," I am suggesting, gingerly to Harry as we are packing up the tent in Clennon Gorge. "You know it makes sense. Warm, running water. A hot meal in the restaurant, or even a cafe. A proper breakfast the next morning. We would feel so much better."

He doesn't look up from his sleeping bag, which he is trying to stuff unceremoniously into its carry case without any success. I step over to him and take it from him.

"Here - let me do that. You have to roll it up tightly, to squeeze all the air out of the filling, or it won't fit back in."

He lets me take over, watching my hands as I pull the fabric against my body, pressing hard to remove the air and tucking the edges in as I go. By the time I get to the end it is small enough to slot into its cover, and I pull the drawstring tight before swinging it on my middle finger over to Harry. He accepts it without looking at me, and I know he is deliberately avoiding my gaze.

"So...," I press him, "what do you think? Shall we give it a go?"

"If we do," he begins, and I want to punch the air with my fist, "we need to get away from here. And I don't mean walk a couple of miles to the next village. I mean, we need to get on a bus or a train and disappear to a different part of the country."

I hadn't been expecting this. "OK...," I answer slowly. "Why?"

"Because if the police have managed to trace me to Totnes, they're gonna be looking in all the main towns around here, aren't they? So if I'm going to go somewhere public, it needs to be a million miles from where they think I am."

I mull this over for a moment. Actually, I think he's right. I understand we would be taking a risk by taking a hotel for the night, but less so if it was in a completely different area. "OK," I nod, and he makes eye contact with me for the first time in a long time.

"Yeah?" He sounds almost pleased that I have adopted his idea.

"Yes. But I don't think we should go to any big cities. The police presence will be a lot higher, and although we can blend into the crowd, there's more of a chance someone might recognise one of us. I think we should stick to the little towns and villages."

Harry shrugs - something I now recognise as pretty much his standard response to most questions, suggestions and comments. I have never met anyone so volatile in my life. He is laid back to the point of almost falling over, yet he can blow up at the smallest thing if it isn't to his liking. However, although at first I was terrified of his temper, and physically cowered when he shouted at me, I am learning his bark is a lot worse than his bite. Having started this journey fearing he would cause me some sort of physical harm, I am no longer trembling and ready to duck every time his eyes flash with hot fury. I won't deny I am still on eggshells most of the time, though. I may not flinch every time he raises his voice anymore, but inside I cringe. I cannot bear any form of confrontation, so Harry's intimidating demeanour and malicious words are literally my worst nightmare.

We decide to play it by ear, and after a slow walk into the nearest town, Paignton, we make sure there are no police lurking around the train station and collect a railway map of the southwest to plan our route.

The train that takes us a hundred or so miles north east to Frome, a small town in the heart of the West Country, is dated and slow. It has no onboard services except a tiny little toilet, and Frome station consists of a part-time-staffed glorified hut, with automatic ticket machines, a pay phone, and nowhere to buy a coffee. Of course, from our point of view this is a bonus, particularly as only a handful of people alight the train here, and nobody is interested in two dirty, dishevelled travellers shuffling along the platform keeping their heads down.

We pass a station noticeboard, and tucked into the edge of the glass is a business card for an establishment called Parnell Lodge - a Bed and Breakfast, claiming to offer "a warm bed and an even warmer welcome." I tuck the card into my jeans as I follow Harry up the Station Approach, and once we reach the main road he turns to me, a little expectantly, as seems to be his way these last couple of days.

Of course, he will never actually ask me outright for help or guidance. Instead, we tend to wander aimlessly until I make some sort of a plan, and then all of a sudden we have motivation and drive out of nowhere. I'm not sure he even realises he's doing it, but I can tell he has come to rely on me to run this whole operation: a role I never thought in a million years I would ever be able to adopt.

"I found this business card," I begin, holding the little piece of paper out to him. "We could see if they have any rooms available, if you like."

He takes it from me without a word, reading the front and then turning it over to glance at the tiny hand-drawn road map on the back, before handing it back to me. "Whatever."

With the lure of a comfy bed and running water, I am willing to forgive his abdication of responsibility yet again. The map on the back of the card shows the hotel to be a couple of minutes' walk from the train station, so I shove it into my pocket again, hoist my luggage over my shoulder with renewed vigour, and lead the way. The route is a straight one: a left turn out of the Station Approach, follow the road uphill for a couple of hundred metres and the building will be on the right. Although it is a gentle incline my calves burn as I stride forwards, leaving Harry trailing behind. I have never been a keen exerciser and I am certainly paying for it now. I never would have thought of myself as unfit until I had to walk several miles each day with what feels like a several-tonne load on my back. After five minutes of brisk walking I catch sight of a large white sign ahead with old fashioned black lettering: Parnell Lodge.

"It's here," I call out to Harry, who ignores me and makes no effort to increase his pace. I come to a halt on the pavement, breathing deeply while I wait for him to catch me up. When he finally draws level with me he is breathing hard too, and tiny beads of sweat have gathered on his forehead. He wipes them away with the back of his hand, glancing up at the building in front of us and then looking down at me.

"I'll wait here."

I open my mouth to ask if this is a good idea, to be loitering in broad daylight on a main road when he is supposedly a wanted criminal, but his face is closed up and is not inviting conversation, so I snap my mouth shut again, dump all the luggage apart from my own rucksack next to Harry, and turn towards the door.

"Wait," he calls after me. "I think places like this take a credit card when you check in, in case you run off without paying. Take some cash with you and pay up front."

"OK," I call back over my shoulder, reaching in my rucksack as I'm walking for the envelope containing my money.

"Chloe!"

I stop and turn to look at him. He is rummaging in his holdall, his body shielding the bag from view, and I slowly edge back towards him, wondering what he is doing. Just as he turns around to face me holding out a wad of notes, I catch sight of the inside of his holdall and my eyes nearly bulge out of my head. Inside the bag, stacked in neat piles, is what looks like hundreds of bundles of ten- and twenty-pound notes. He quickly flips the flap shut, pulling the zipper closed roughly. He looks up again, into my face, still holding the cash out to me, but I am frozen to the spot, in disbelief at what I have just seen.

"Is that...?"

"Is that what?" he snarls, his eyes suddenly wide with fury.

"Your bag - it's filled with money!"

I'm fairly sure that in the split second I caught sight of the contents of his bag, I saw more cash in there than I have ever possessed in my whole life.

"So?"

"Where did you get it?" I gasp, unable to tear my eyes from the now-covered contents, and he takes a step towards me keeping his hand firmly grasped around the handle of the holdall.

"Mind your own fucking business!"

"Did you steal it?" I squeal, feeling bile rising in my throat as the depth of the deceit increases with every word that is exchanged between us.

"Keep your voice down!"

This comes out as a strangled hiss, as the fingers of his other hand enclose around my upper arm and he steers me roughly away from the entrance to the hotel, out of earshot of anyone who may be in the lobby listening.

"Ow - you're hurting me," I cry, trying to pull my arm away as the tips of his fingers press into my flesh, but he doesn't relax his grip. "Harry," I beg, close to tears now, and he finally lets go, pushing me away from him so I stumble a couple of steps before regaining my balance.

"I thought you wanted a hotel room," he growls, his face like thunder. Before I can even nod in response, he adds, "Well go and fucking book one then, before I walk away and leave you here. Fucking nosy bitch!" He thrusts his cash into my hand and turns away from me, swearing viciously under his breath and kicking the dirt at his feet.

Fighting back tears at this latest about-turn in his mood, I scuttle up to the main door of the hotel and push it open, trying my hardest to swallow my curiosity.

The inside is dark and dated; the carpets are dark red with small gold circular patterns, and the walls are a dirty beige. The ceiling is low, with light fittings that look like they have been there since the nineteen eighties positioned at intervals along the corridor stretching towards the back of the building. Pictures of local scenery are hung along the walls, in old fashioned dark wood or brass frames. It reminds me very much of the flat across the hall from mine in London, where a grumpy old woman lived, surrounded by china animals and fifty-year-old junk. A small reception desk is immediately on the left, curved and made of a dark mahogany. There is a little bell to ring for attention, and as there is nobody around, I gingerly press it, and receive the tiniest ding in return. Presuming that no one, except maybe a bat with supersonic hearing, would have heard this, I bring my hand down hard on the top of the bell, provoking a thundering dong that manages somehow to make me jump. Cursing myself for being so pathetic I run a nervous hand over my hair (that now needs a good wash as it has been three days since the leisure centre) and look nervously around for a member of staff.

An elderly lady appears almost immediately, with dyed black hair that looks out of place around her wrinkled face. She is wearing sharp-angled spectacles, a bottle green mohair cardigan, burgundy polyester trousers and lots of beads around her neck and wrists that twinkle and sparkle in the light - she reminds me in a strange way of a scarab beetle.

"Goodness me, we are impatient aren't we," she remarks, bustling past me and sliding in behind the desk to sit in a little office chair.

"I'm sorry - I didn't think anyone would have heard my first ring," I apologise hastily, feeling embarrassed and stupid.

"Are you checking in or checking out?" she asks, ignoring my apology and staring at an ancient computer screen through her glasses.

"Well - hopefully checking in," I smile hesitantly. "I was wondering if you have any rooms available? I saw your business card at the train station."

The woman looks up sharply and studies me through narrowed eyes. "Haven't you got a booking?"

I can feel my smile disappearing under her gaze. The way she is scrutinising me makes me suddenly uneasy. Has she recognised me? Does she know who I am? "N-no. Is that a problem? Are you full?"

She stares at me for another moment, before straightening up and breaking into a smile. "No. No problem at all. We have one room left, it's a twin. Two single beds," she elaborates, and I beam at her. There is nothing like a guilty conscience to make you unnecessarily paranoid.

"Oh that's perfect!"

"I'll just need to take some details."

My heart starts to thud as she clicks away on her mouse, staring back at the computer screen again. Details? No one said anything about giving any details. What am I going to do? I can't give her my real name! I'm going to have to lie.

"How long will you be staying?" she is asking.

"Just one night," I answer, hearing the quaver in my voice. I daren't book us in any longer than that. Harry would have kittens.

"And can I take your name?"

"Elizabeth," comes out of my mouth before I have time to think. "Elizabeth Wilde. With an 'e'."

The woman eyes me with confusion. "Elizabeth with an 'e'?"

"No!" I laugh nervously. "Well, I mean, yes, Elizabeth with an 'e'. But I meant an 'e' on the end of 'Wilde'. Everyone always gets it wrong. Ha ha."

"Ah, I see." The woman taps away on her computer screen, and I take a discreet breath, trying to keep calm. My palms are sweating excessively. "And can I take an address?"

"Um, twenty seven, Bath Street," I reply, my mind scrambling for random words. "That's in, um, Bath."

The woman raises one eyebrow and appraises me over the top of her glasses. "Twenty seven Bath Street, Bath?"

"Yes," I laugh nervously, again. "You couldn't make it up, could you? Ha ha."

"No," she replies, almost ironically. "You couldn't."

She is silent for another few moments, before asking, "And will you be staying alone, or will you need another key?"

"Oh, um, my brother will be staying with me. In the room. In the other bed. So I'd better have another key."

She nods, makes another adjustment to the booking and then smiles at me over the counter. "I'll just need a credit card or debit card to confirm the booking."

"Oh, I lost my purse yesterday," I fib, my heart now thudding in my chest. "I was hoping I could pay you now, up front? My father had to lend me some cash to keep me going until my new card arrives. I only told the bank this morning, and you know how long these things take. It'll be next week before I receive it! Ha ha ha."

She smiles at me, calculates the bill and takes the payment from me without further question. She directs me to the room, tells me the front door is locked at 11pm every night and asks if I will need a reservation in the restaurant for dinner that evening.

"Oh - I'd better see what my brother wants to do," I answer, nervously. "I'm not sure if he has any plans for us. Can I let you know?"

"Just make sure you book in advance," she says, and gets up from behind the reception desk and disappears into the lounge area.

I decide to head up to the room and dump my bag before going to collect Harry. He was so furious at my questioning about the vast amount of money in his holdall, I am almost afraid to go and find him, in case he has either disappeared completely and left me like he threatened, or he is in the same state of fury and wants to hiss and spit at me some more.

I hurry up the narrow staircase up to the first floor, and along the corridor to room number seven which is at the front of the hotel, overlooking the road. It is small, with two beds on opposite walls and two bedside cabinets between them. They are adorned with flowery eiderdowns, which is in keeping with the rest of the room. It is fussy and delicate, with far too much pattern in such a small space, but I couldn't care less. I sink down on the bed furthest from the door, and give a small sigh of pleasure at its softness, and the way the mattress seems to mold around my body. I cannot wait to snuggle up in here tonight, and sleep soundly without fear of being discovered, or rained on, or mauled by a wild animal (I know this last one is a bit farfetched, but sleeping outside amidst the sounds of nature can be pretty terrifying when you're not used to it).

On my way back downstairs to Harry I am unsure whether to pretend like our last conversation never happened, or apologise for being nosy (even though I was just shocked at seeing thousands of pounds hidden in his bag). As I step outside into the sunshine and he looks up at me with his usual grimace I decide silence is the best tactic and give him nothing but an incline of my head, indicating for him to follow me inside. He says nothing either, and accompanies me through the main door, past the now-empty reception desk, up the dark carpeted stairs and along the hallway to the room. I open the door and lead him inside, where he looks at me in puzzlement as the door closes behind us.

"What?" I ask, my heart sinking at the look on his face.

"Are we both staying in here?" he asks.

"Yes. They only had this one room available, so I took it. Why, what's the matter?"

He shrugs. "Just weird, that's all."

"Well it wasn't exactly my choice," I mutter defensively. "It was this or start wandering around the town aimlessly looking for another hotel that might have a room each. I thought it would be best to get you inside and off the street where anyone could see you."

"I s'pose."

You're welcome, I want to mutter sarcastically at him, but I don't dare. I'm just thankful he isn't making a scene, considering he is obviously annoyed that we have to stay in the same room. Even though we have spent the last couple of nights in the same six square feet with only a thin layer of nylon separating us.

"Look, we've got a television," I point out, picking up the remote from the bedside table. "At least it's something to do tonight." Instead of sitting in silence like the past few nights.

In an attempt to appease him I press the power button and the television comes on, tuning into BBC One where the lunchtime news is now showing. The sound is low and I don't bother looking at the screen, until I catch sight of Harry's expression.

The blood has drained from his cheeks, his eyes are wide and undisguised panic is slowing spreading across his face. I feel my stomach drop in anticipation as I follow his gaze. Lit up on the screen is a photograph of Harry, his hair wild and loose around his face, his skin pale and his eyes dull and lifeless. It barely looks like him, yet it is obvious to me that it is him. The caption below the photograph reads POLICE TRACE MURDER SUSPECT TO DEVON TOWN, and as I turn the volume up I catch the very end of the news report:

"...Police this afternoon are searching the town of Totnes, Devon after CCTV showed a man matching Styles' description exiting a train at the station, having come from the direction of London. The public are urged not to approach him, but to contact 999 straight away."