CHLOE

Our journey takes us south west from Frome to Warminster, and after the initial adrenaline rush from this morning has worn off and we seem to have escaped from under the police's noses once more, I can feel us both starting to relax just a tiny bit. Obviously we are still on high alert for any sign they may have picked up our trail, and I see Harry's eyes darting back and forth out of the bus windows, examining each passing car with fearful anxiety, but as the distance between us and Parnell Lodge increases, so does our sense of relief. From Warminster we continue in the southwesterly direction sticking to local buses that are mostly empty and trundle along main roads with fields either side, along the edge of Cranborne Chase, an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty. The views are sensational, and we pass through tiny villages with quaint cottages, picturesque churches and inviting coffee shops. 

We make a couple of bus changes along the way, and I convince Harry to change his tshirt and swap rucksacks with me behind a tiny little post office, to cause confusion if we are being tracked on CCTV. From what I can see, none of the buses so far have had cameras on, but of course they could be concealed. I take the opportunity to grab a road atlas from a local petrol station, to give us some idea of where we are and where we need to go, and at the last minute I pick up a random novel, a puzzle book and a biro to keep myself occupied when we pitch the tent tonight.

After passing through Salisbury and out again the other side to a tiny village called Whiteparish, I decide we have done enough travelling in plain sight and it is time to get back underneath the radar again. We huddle in the corner of a cosy pub, The Nags Head, and order a couple of sandwiches for lunch before planning out our next move. I show Harry where we are on the map, and point out a large patch of green approximately two miles south from here. Having spent the entire morning on a hot, sweaty bus the idea of a long, hot, sweaty walk is less than appealing, but the desire to disappear into the wilderness overrules any misgivings Harry has about physical exertion. From a tiny convenience store we purchase several bottles of water, some more cereal bars, and a couple more pre-packed sandwiches, and begin our trek in the unforgiving heat to what I am sure is the edge of the New Forest National Park. As with all the places we have previously pitched the tent I know that camping is only allowed in designated areas, so wherever we decide to bed down for the night must be well hidden from passing traffic, both foot and vehicle. Our walk takes us along a country lane with beautiful cottages either side, dressed with old fashioned chunky white window frames, detailing around the heavy front doors, and adorned with stunning pot plants and window boxes ablaze with colour. Having lived in London for so long, and having been part of such a dirty, grey community, I can't help but be awestruck by the natural beauty that can be found in so many places. Taking in the fresh air, the greenery and the countryside smells makes it hard to be miserable, and I feel my heart swelling and the fog that has engulfed me for so long slowly lifting to reveal the joy that is right here in front of me. Harry, of course, can find negativity and misery in even the most beautiful of places. 

"How much further?" he grumbles, about two minutes after we have set off.

"Probably about an hour," I answer without looking at him, refusing to give him any encouragement to moan. He says nothing but I can tell he has the usual murderous look on his face. "But take a look around you. Enjoy the views along the way. Broaden your horizons. Embrace the beauty!"

I chance a look at him. He is staring at me as though I have suggested he drinks a glass of dirty sewer water.

"You never know," I continue, feeling brave and daring all of a sudden, "you might even like it!"

"You're chipper, considering your earlier wobble," he snaps.

"What wobble?" I frown.

"Back at the hotel. Your face went all weird when the police showed up. You looked like you were going to fall over."

"Yeah, well, I was scared," I mutter defensively.

"You? Scared? Never."

I look up at him sharply, and although his tone is sarcastic and severe, I swear I catch the slightest twitch of his lips, which immediately makes me giddy and lightheaded. He hasn't been relaxed and playful since he splashed me in the jacuzzi back in Totnes; I had almost forgotten that that Harry existed. 

Almost, but not quite.

On impulse I reach out and snap a long twig off a tree on my way past, and use the end with a couple of leaves on it to waft in his face, tickling his cheek and causing him to swat it away with a (slightly) tolerant, "geroff."

"Careful, I think you nearly smiled just then," I tease, and he looks at me in disbelief, as though it is incomprehensible that I could have the audacity to take the mickey out of him in this way.

"Careful, I think you were almost brave," he retorts, and there is a definite smile lurking beneath his heavy brow.

"You shouldn't try to conceal it," I add, my confidence growing with every second. "Your smile, I mean. Being happy isn't showing weakness. No one is going to think any less of you just because you drop the hard man act for five minutes."

"I don't have a hard man act."

"Yes you do," I argue. "Walking around with a permanent scowl on your face. Finding the downside to everything and throwing it in everyone's face all the time -"

"By everyone you mean you," he interrupts.

"Well OK, me," I acquiesce. "But really - it must be exhausting being so miserable twenty four seven. Don't you get fed up?"

He continues to stare at me in wonder, as though he has never contemplated any demeanour other than grim.

I stare back, refusing to let his persistent gaze push me into filling the silence. I want him to answer me; I want to know why he is like the way he is. I haven't forgotten how I opened up to him last night, told him things about myself that I have probably never told anyone else before, unless you count police officers and social workers. Surely it is his turn to reveal part of himself to me?

"I've never really thought about it," he grunts, a little huffily. 

"You're so angry all the time," I press, taking advantage of this rare lapse of attack. "I mean, it's not normal."

"Seriously?" He rounds on me, his nostrils flaring, and I realise a little too late that I have now pushed him too far. "You're lecturing me on what's normal?!"

"Not lecturing," I insist, holding his gaze and trying to force sincerity into mine. "Just pointing out that you come across quite... aggressive, a lot of the time."

I can hear my voice starting to waver as my own assertion begins to fade. 

"I'm only aggressive," he spits furiously, "when people fucking piss me off!"

"But - but that's my point," I explain, forcing myself to continue. "You say people piss you off, but actually that's not their fault. That's just you being intolerant to others. I know I do your head in most of the time -"

"All of the time."

"Fine, all of the time. But that's because you don't like me making conversation, or pushing you into making decisions, or pushing you out of your comfort zone. I'm not saying I'm perfect or anything, but when it comes to blending in amongst the rest of the population I think I can do that a hell of a lot better than you can. I can do a far better impersonation of normal than you."

He says nothing to this, but stares straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the horizon. I wonder if anything I am saying is sinking in. We walk on in silence, and just when I am beginning to think he has abandoned the conversation in favour of ignoring me, he pipes up, "Why are you so scared of everything?"

The question takes me by surprise. I look up at him, and his face has softened in favour of an expression of - concern? 

"I'm not," I protest.

"Yeah, you are. You never stand up for yourself. You let everyone walk all over you."

"By everyone you mean you," I quip, quoting his own words from earlier, and he gives a brief smirk, inclining his head to the side and looking away momentarily before turning back to me.

"Well, yeah, OK. Me, I suppose. But you never answer back. You never tell me to shut up and fuck off. You just take it. Except yesterday, when you practically bit my head off over nothing."

I look at him questioningly, and he supplies, "When I asked you if you were a virgin."

I instantly blush and look down at my feet, not wanting to get into this again.

"I was only being curious," he explains. "I wasn't taking the piss or anything. I've said far worse to you than that, but you went fucking mental and slammed off into the bathroom for an hour. What the fuck was that all about?" 

"It was a personal question," I answer, feeling hot and uncomfortable. "It's none of your business."

I am sure he is going to push the issue; to force me to continue this conversation, but he doesn't. Instead he nods thoughtfully, and stares down at the road at our feet.

"So anyway, back to you," I hasten to add. "Come on. What's your deal? Why so hostile?"

He shrugs. "What's the point in faking interest in someone when you don't give a shit about them? Small talk is just pointless. It doesn't mean anything. It's a waste of energy."

I try to ignore his admission that he doesn't give a shit about me. It is nothing I don't already know, deep down, or am used to believing about the way most people feel.

"OK, so setting aside the subject of small talk for a minute," I say. "You're very intolerant of others."

"No, I'm intolerant of you."

"Just me? Seriously?"

"Well who else have you seen me be intolerant with?" he demands, and I think hard, trying to recall witnessing any other interactions between Harry and anyone else.

"Well... you snapped at Katie once, in the pub," I offer weakly.

"Once," he repeats, giving me a triumphant look.

"And... and you're obviously intolerant of Chris, considering you kicked the life out of him because he pissed you off."

"That was different."

"Was it?" I challenge, forgetting to be afraid. "Was it really different? Or is that just your default mode - angry and violent if you don't like something that is happening?"

"Seriously, Chloe, you haven't got a clue what you're talking about."

His tone has changed. It is lower, smoother; dangerous.

"So enlighten me. What did Chris do that was so bad that you attacked him with such rage and hatred? The same rage and hatred, I might add, that I see in you on almost a daily basis."

"It's complicated."

I roll my eyes, getting into my stride now. "It isn't a Facebook relationship. You were gunning for him the moment you walked into the pub. Did you come in with the intention of hurting him? And -" I hesitate, my stomach churning as the question rises in me, to be voiced for the first time since that night, "- and why did you pull him off me, after you had threatened only moments before to 'shut me up for good' if I mentioned your little liaison with Katie?"

My heart is pounding sickeningly, but I daren't take my eyes off him. Will he answer me? Had he forgotten that part of the evening; was it overshadowed by the attack, and our flit?

He stares at the ground for a couple of moments, chewing his lip, before lifting his head to look at me. "It's only taken you nine days to ask me that."

"What?" I am momentarily thrown. I was half expecting him to turn on me, to hiss in my face that it is none of my business and I shouldn't ask questions. His calmness is unnerving.

"I wondered how long it would take you, considering all you fucking do is pester me with questions day and night."

"So, are you going to answer me?"

He shrugs. "Probably better if I don't. That way you can't drop me in the shit when the police catch up with you. The less you know, the better."

"That is such a cop-out answer!" I whine. "You expect me to tell you all about myself, you ask me personal questions and expect an answer -"

"Which you didn't give," he points out.

"And yet you won't explain to me why you defended me to that piece of scum when seconds earlier, and consistently thereafter, you've acted as though you'd be happy never to lay eyes on me again!"

"Consistently thereafter," he mocks, pulling a face at the floor. "You sound like a paragraph from a fucking legal document."

"Sorry for having half a brain," I snap.

"Apology accepted."

I grit my teeth and increase my pace so I am walking a few steps ahead of him, inwardly seething at his ability to remain calm when I am so angry, which is so far removed from his (and my) usual disposition. It's rather disconcerting. Unable to stop myself, I turn round to see if he is even bothered that I am cross with him, or that I am walking several feet ahead, and to my irritation he is smirking up at the sky as though he finds the whole situation hilarious.

"You know something," I seethe, turning on the spot and glaring at him with my hands on my hips.

"No, but I have a feeling you're going to tell me."

"I have bent over backwards to help you out," I hiss. "I have been the brains behind most of this operation since day one. I engineered our escape out of London! I suggested buying the camping stuff to keep you out of sight and keep us comfortable! I tipped you off about the police arriving this morning! I bought the road map, worked out the best route out of danger to avoid being seen, and all you do is speak to me like I am something you just scraped off your shoe! Well, I am sick of it! Either start treating me like a human being, or fuck off on your own and see how far you get. Because you've acted this whole time like I'm the one tagging along with you, but actually you're the one relying on me to plan every move and make sure our journeys go undiscovered. Without me, the police would have you in custody before the day is out. But if you think you can do better on your own, be my fucking guest!"

I glare at him, daring him to yell back at me and half hoping he will, because I have just reached the end of my tether and a good argument is exactly what I need right now. I haven't spoken like that to anyone in a long time - if at all. But it feels good, and a little - no, a large - part of me wants to do it again. But to my surprise, instead of grabbing me, or pushing his face into mine in an attempt to intimidate me, or even showing a flicker of annoyance at what I have just said, he throws me an infuriating smirk.

"Well well. She's finally grown a backbone."

"Fuck off, Harry," I snap. "Just fuck off."

I turn on my heel and stride off, feeling hot tears of anger and frustration pricking the backs of my eyes. I just can't win with him. When he shouts at me and I cower, I feel like shit. When he laughs at me, I feel like shit. When I put up with his mental and emotional abuse, I feel like shit. And yet, when I shout back at him for being such a horrible and spiteful person, I am somehow still the one feeling like shit. How does that even work? How does he always manage to manipulate the situation so that he is the one in control of my emotions?

But I already know the answer. It is because I let him. I let him get to me, thus giving him the power to control my feelings. And until I learn how to take control back from him, it is never going to change and he is going to keep doing it. He is a bully, and I am his victim. I have just stood up to him, but it didn't work - he still managed to turn it back around on me. I don't know how to get out of this cycle, apart from getting away from him altogether. And even though I have just threatened to do exactly that, I am terrified he will call my bluff and storm off in the opposite direction, leaving me all alone in the world. 

My footsteps slap furiously on the surface of the road as I stomp away. After about twenty feet I have to give up my march because it is simply too hot to over-exert myself. I quieten my pace, but continue forwards away from him, straining my ears for any sound to indicate that he is still following me and hasn't abandoned me. After half a minute I can't resist the temptation to glance behind me to check he is still there. I don't know if it is to my surprise or not, to see the glum figure shuffling along about ten paces in my wake, his head bent and his shoulders hunched. He looks up as I turn around and gives me a grimace.

"Yes, I'm still here," he says wearily.

I turn back around again, walking on towards shelter and camouflage, my insides turning a weird jig that he has obviously decided that being with me is, for the time being, marginally better than being without me. 

---***---

Happy Easter! 🐰🐣 I hope your day has been as sunny and chocolate-filled as mine has ⚘

So... what's Harry's deal? Does he have a reason for being such a misery all the time, or is it just in his nature? Why did he attack Chris, but defend Chloe? And why didn't he turn around and walk away when Chloe finally snapped and told him where to go, when he's been threatening to do exactly that since day one? Let me know your thoughts, I love hearing what you think about the story and the characters! And if you're new to this story, hello and thanks for reading :)