HARRY 

I can't pretend it wasn't a shock to see my face on the news like that. I've never felt so sick in my entire life. These last couple of days I have obviously become complacent. Of course I hadn't forgotten the reason for being in this situation, but I have to admit the whole thing was starting to feel a little hazy, and remote. I suppose I have been lulled into a false sense of security by my success so far, and now I understand that it hasn't been success at all - it has been ignorance. If I had been keeping my eye on the news I would have probably known the progress of the police investigation the whole way along. I have been unbelievably stupid. And now I am stuck in some musty hotel room with a girl I have known all of five minutes, my liberty depending on the strength of her nerve.

Chloe. What a strange revelation that was, that she is scared of me. I'm not sure how that makes me feel. Shocked, I suppose. But at the same time can I really claim to be surprised by this? Haven't I been hard on her at times, shouted at her when I know deep down it makes her nervous, because she is already jumpier than a box of frogs? I've never met anyone like her before; so innocent and sheltered. I don't get what her deal is. Even when I am yelling at her she just takes it, and that makes me want to yell at her more, to provoke some sort of reaction from her, to see some fire and passion in her soul. But it's like there's nothing. And I don't understand why.

In the aftermath of our disagreement she is lying on her bed on her side, facing away from me towards the window. I glance over at her; she probably doesn't want to look at me, given the awkward atmosphere, but part of me wants to strike up a conversation and get back to what we were talking about earlier so she can explain why she is like a terrified little mouse all the time. But at the same time, I don't want her to start fucking bawling, so maybe it's best if I just leave things alone. I don't deal well with women crying. I never know what to say, and inevitably I get blamed for the tears in the first place. I can't win.

The silence stretches before us. My discomfort mounts by the second.

I clear my throat. "Can you pass the remote?"

At first she doesn't react; she doesn't even flinch. 

"Chloe? Are you asleep?" 

There is a short pause. "No, I'm not asleep." She rolls over, holding the remote out to me, and I take it from her and point it at the television to get a TV guide up on the screen.

"You're welcome," she mutters.

I frown and look over at her. Is she being sarcastic? "What?" I mutter back.

"You. You're not big on manners are you? Or courtesy."

"Aren't I?"

She doesn't respond to this, but sits up and reaches for one of the carrier bags that is looking a little worse for wear now, after being lugged around the wilderness for several days. She rummages inside for a moment, and then pulls out a couple of slices of bread and a plastic tub of Heinz beans.

"You want some?" 

I pull a face at her offering. Dry bread with cold beans is fucking disgusting, but on the other hand I'm starving and there is nothing else on offer unless we venture out of the hotel room. And until we know more about what the police are doing, I'm confident neither of us wants to do that.

"Yeah, OK."

She opens the lid of the beans and pours some delicately onto the piece of bread she is holding, folds it in half with the beans inside, and holds it out to me carefully to avoid it falling apart. I accept it from her and take a large bite, chewing thoughtfully and trying to imagine a big juicy steak instead. I mull over her comments just now about courtesy. Should I have said thank you?

"Thanks," I mutter, feeling awkward and self-conscious.

She looks at me briefly, a look of suspicion passing over her face before she must decide I am genuine, and gives me a rare smile. "No problem." 

When she smiles, her eyes sparkle and her skin creases at the corners. Her teeth are pearly white and she has a tiny dimple in her cheek.

"You should smile more often." I try out this sort-of compliment, but I still think I sound corny and insincere. I'm much more at home either flirting with hot women or grunting as few words as possible.

"Wha..?" She stares at me, her eyes wide in alarm and her face frozen. 

"It suits you. The smile," I clarify.

I'm not adding anything more to this - I already feel stupid and uncomfortable, and I wish I hadn't fucking said anything now, the way she is looking at me. Her cheeks and neck have gone all red and she looks away, another smile breaking on her face as she stares down at the duvet.

"Thanks," she says, faintly, and I take another bite of the cold baked beans sandwich.

"Why don't you?" I ask suddenly, as though my mouth has a mind of its own and is not connected to my brain, and she looks up again, her eyes wild and almost giddy as I add, "Smile, I mean." 

I haven't a clue where I am going with this or why I have even started this stupid conversation. I should have stuck to sitting in silence.

"I don't know," she says in a small voice. "Nothing much to smile about, I suppose."

I make a noise of acknowledgement, but now the cogs are turning in my brain again and I can feel the next question rising, unstoppable, as though I have no way of containing it. 

"Why not?"

She studies me for a moment, and I hold her gaze, looking into her eyes. They are pale blue, like the sky, and large. She is pretty, in a plain sort of way. She doesn't look like she wears any make up, as far as I can tell, so she's sort of clean looking. Unless she's doing that thing girls do where they put on loads of make up to make it look as though they're not wearing any. But considering I've been with her pretty much every second since we left London, and have never seen her put anything of that sort near her face, I assume her natural look is - well, natural. She's nothing like the sort of girl I usually hang around with. Although, Sofia hasn't worn make up in months either. Not since -

"Well... I suppose you could say life isn't exactly a bed of roses for me," Chloe answers, interrupting my thoughts. "But the same can be said for everyone I suppose. We all have our worries, our hardships, our crosses to bear."

"And what's yours? What's your cross to bear?" 

Why do I even care? Why am I letting her think I'm interested in her pathetic little existence? 

"What, you want my life story or something?" 

I hesitate, torn between my curiosity and my stubbornness. I don't want her to think I give a damn - about anyone - but at the same time I do want to know, and I have a feeling she is on the verge of telling me. And we literally have nothing else to do until the next news update, whenever that will be.

I shrug nonchalantly. "Sure, why not? If you want to tell me, that is."

It is her turn to hesitate; looking at me with apprehension, her eyes full of mistrust. I'm about to frown at her and ask her what her fucking problem is, but before I can form the words she replies with a question: 

"What do you want to know?"

I relax my face.

"Well...," I glance at the old fashioned clock on the wall. It is approaching two p.m. "We've got hours until the teatime news. Tell me everything."

"There's not much to tell."

"Have you always lived in London? Do you live with your family?"

"I don't have a family."

"You must have a family."

"I told you. I don't have a family," she says bluntly and a little impatiently. "My parents died when I was thirteen. Car crash. I had no other relatives - both my parents were only-children, and my grandparents were all dead too. I was moved into a children's home. It was only supposed to be temporary, until they found foster care for me. But the system was slow and there was a shortage of carers in my area. They transferred me to London, but by the time I was approaching my sixteenth birthday it seemed sort of pointless trying too hard to find me a family when there were other, younger kids with a greater need. I was low priority. I moved into my own flat when I turned sixteen."

I am staring at her, openmouthed. Of all the things I could have been expecting, this was not among them. She doesn't look the type to have a tormented past or an unbalanced childhood, yet at the same time this explains a lot. It explains her lack of self-confidence and her tendency to fade into the background. It doesn't explain her sensitivity though. I would have thought that growing up in that sort of environment would give you some balls. But she's not exactly streetwise. She's the exact opposite. 

"Fuck. Chloe - I had no idea."

"Course you didn't. You didn't ask. And it's not the sort of thing you go around broadcasting, is it? 'Hi, my name's Chloe, nice to meet you. I'm an orphan and spent my teenage years in a home.'"

"So you live on the estate?" I ask, thinking back to the night I kicked the shit out of Chris, and Chloe scuttled off into the shadows.

"Yes. I had help at first from the council towards my rent. But once I started working more hours at the Flute, they cut my subsidies. I've lived in the same flat for just over three years."

"Why do you bother working?" I wonder. "If you could get more from sitting at home, why bother going out to work?"

She frowns at me, her nose wrinkled as though she finds what I have said distasteful. "The world doesn't owe me a living. Benefits should be claimed by people who need them, not by people who just want them. I'm healthy, and capable of holding down a job, so why should I expect other people to go to work to pay for me to sit on my backside all day?"

I shrug. "If the money is there to be claimed, why not claim it?"

"Because it would be the wrong thing to do," she says simply, and I feel a little uneasy, as though she is judging me for thinking this way. "I'm not a scrounger," she adds.

"You saying I am?" I demand, and she visibly shrinks before me.

"No, I - that's not what I meant. I don't know anything about your financial affairs. It's none of my business."

I am about to reply forcefully with, "too fucking right it's not!" But I catch my tongue at the last second and shut my mouth. A million questions are whirling in my head right now. Out loud I ask, "Didn't your parents leave you anything in their will?" 

"They didn't have anything of value," she answers. "Our house was rented. They didn't have any assets, like expensive cars or nice jewellery. They both had jobs, but they didn't earn enough to have much in savings. By the time the funeral had been paid for there was nothing left. They didn't have any life insurance. I suppose they never thought they would need it. You don't assume you'll be killed in your thirties and leave your child an orphan."

I study her face as she speaks. She doesn't show much emotion - her tone is flat and cold. I suppose she must be over the initial shock of it, six years on. Hardened to it.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"I'm an only child." 

"No friends? Boyfriend?"

"Not really any friends. I moved to London after my parents died, and I just sort of kept myself to myself. You get bullied, when everyone at school realises you live in a children's home. And when I got my flat on the estate... well, let's just say the people there aren't exactly welcoming."

"Aren't they?"

"It's dog eat dog," she says, flatly. "Most of them just want to smoke weed, drink cider and shag each other all day. That's not my sort of thing."

I smirk at her bluntness, and her accuracy. "You a virgin?"

Her head snaps up and her face turns white. "No," she snaps, and of all the questions I have been asking her this one seems to have hit a nerve.

"OK, chill. I was only asking."

"Well don't. Don't you have any sort of social skills? You don't just ask personal questions like that like you're discussing the weather!" A strange flush is now creeping up her neck.

"Like I said, chill. It's no big deal."

"Maybe not to you."

For fuck's sake, this is why I should have just kept my mouth shut.

"It's just sex, Chloe," I sigh, and I can hear the boredom in my tone. "If you've had it, good for you. If you haven't, I really don't give a shit. I'm just making conversation."

"Well I have had it," she hisses, her voice catching. "And I don't want to continue this conversation." She emphasises this last word, and before I can answer her she stands up, grabs her little rucksack and walks across the room. For a second I think she is about to walk out and leave me for good - my stomach drops sharply - but instead she storms into the bathroom and slams the door shut behind her.

Well well well. 

It looks like I've finally found her buttons. And what a strange reaction when they are pressed.