CHLOE 

We head north a couple of stops, and then exit the underground quickly and with our heads down, in search of somewhere inconspicuous to refuel and make plans. London is now getting busier with the first of the early morning commuters rushing to get to work and avoiding eye contact just like we are, so we blend into the background easily, exactly as Harry wanted. The early morning sunlight is already warm and heat radiates from the pavement beneath our feet, from the tall buildings towering above our heads, from the people all around us. After a couple of minutes' brisk walk I am already sweating, and I shift my rucksack uncomfortably on my back, too afraid to ask how much further we have to go for fear of ruining the ceasefire that seems to have been called. 

Harry is silent as we weave through more backstreets, avoiding main roads where I can only assume he thinks the police may be lurking. Eventually, when my throat is so dry I can barely speak, he hurries across a road towards the entrance of a dirty little café, glances over his shoulder nervously and pushes open the door. I follow close behind, almost stumbling into him as he pauses in the doorway but managing to stop myself from making contact with his back. He slides into a booth out of sight of the window, dumping his holdall down beside him, and I take the seat opposite him, noting the ripped, avocado green, vinyl seat covers, the partially exposed yellow foam underneath and the beige, peeling, formica tabletop. It reminds me of the local greasy spoon back home.

Harry runs a hand through his hair and reaches for a laminated menu that has dried smears on the surface from endless wiping with a wet cloth. I do the same, watching him out of the corner of my eye as his gaze flicks up and down the page. He is obviously a man of few words, even fewer social skills, and has no concept of courtesy or awareness of other people's feelings. He seems completely absorbed in his own world, only ever thinking of saving his own skin. I wonder whether he has any personal relationships, and how he behaves around people he cares about, and then I remember he has a girlfriend and this piques my interest further. Is he flirty and laid back with her, like he was with the girl we passed in the market? Is he soft and caring? Does he even have those words in his vocabulary?

I am so engrossed in my indepth character analysis, I don't hear the waitress approach the table to take our order until Harry speaks. "I'll have the fried breakfast and a tea," he says, without looking up from his menu. I haven't even looked at what is on offer, so I mutter, "same," and give a tentative smile, which the waitress returns halfheartedly and shoves her pad and pencil back in her pocket before shuffling away in the direction of the kitchen. I look up at Harry nervously, wondering whether to open the conversation or wait for him to speak first. I don't want to risk getting my head bitten off. Communicating with Harry is like attempting to stroke a feral animal: One sudden move and you leave yourself open to a vicious attack.

After a minute's silence I can bear it no longer. "Sooo," I begin, gingerly. "You want to get out of London?"

"Yep."

Silence.

He clearly isn't going to make this easy, and my stomach clenches with nerves as I brace myself for a mouthful of abuse for interrogating him.

"And have you thought where you might want to go?"

I am expecting a curt "no," but am surprised when he hesitates before answering me, jiggling his knee up and down and flicking the corner of the menu with the pad of his middle finger.

"Geography isn't really my strong point. I don't really know where anywhere is, outside of London. I just need to lie low for a while."

His answer immediately inspires a load more questions, but I hold my tongue, knowing better than to press him for answers. My mind races ahead, wondering if he is planning on sleeping rough, how long he wants to stay away, whether or not he thinks he will ever be able to return to his home. If he is wanted for murder, surely he can't just stroll back onto the estate after a few weeks like nothing happened? Does he plan on spending his whole life on the run? What about his family, and his girlfriend? Has he thought any of this through?

As my thoughts gain momentum they turn to Chris and the scene I witnessed yesterday. I still don't know why Harry attacked Chris so violently. Had he planned to kill him? He had come into the pub looking for him, and had bitten Katie's head off when she questioned him. And on the subject of Katie, why had he been fooling around with her when he has a girlfriend? And what did Chris mean when he joked about Harry and Colette?

The thoughts of Chris bring with them the memory of the smell of his blood on the gravel in the summer evening air, and I take a deep breath, trying to pull myself out of my own mind and back to the present. Harry gives me a strange look, his mouth twisting into a sneer as I sit back in my seat, fighting the wave of nausea in the pit of my stomach.

"What the fuck are you doing?" 

"Nothing," I answer hastily, desperate to keep things calm. "You want to lie low. OK. So, do you want a city or the countryside?"

He glares at me. "I'm not going anywhere that stinks of cow shit." 

I look at him helplessly, completely confused. "I never suggested that. I'm just trying to establish whether you want urban or rural. I'm trying to help." 

He glowers down at the tabletop, seemingly mulling this over. "I don't want to be found," he says eventually, which doesn't really give me much to go on. It is like getting blood out of a stone, and reaffirms my suspicion that he really hasn't thought this through. 

"Right," I mutter, wondering how to extract more information from him without provoking his temper. 

I am surprised when he speaks up again, almost reluctantly, as if he doesn't want to be sharing his plans with me but has no option.

"It all depends on how far afield the police are looking," he offers, in his distinct, throaty mumble. "I'm more likely to be traced to a big city. I don't know if they're looking at CCTV footage of the main transport links out of London, but it's possible. I could drive, but a stolen car would flag up pretty quickly to any passing patrol car."

"A stolen car?" I repeat, my eyes widening. "You would steal a car?!"

He stares at me for a moment, with a mixture of annoyance, confusion and amusement. "I'm wanted for murder, but you think stealing a car is immoral?"

I feel heat in my cheeks again, as the truth in his words sinks in. "I'm not exactly familiar with the wrong side of the law," I mutter, and out of the corner of my eye I see him smirk.

"You don't say."

"OK, so if we're limited to public transport, but you're worried about CCTV, then can't we go in disguise?"

He bangs his hand on the table, making me jump, and once again I look up to see the familiar wrath in his eyes. His moods swing so violently from one extreme to the other, they're almost making me feel seasick.

"This isn't a fucking spy film!" he hisses. "Is this all some sort of game to you or something? This is my fucking life on the line here. We're talking about my freedom."

"I know, I -"

"I'm getting pretty fucking sick of your stupid suggestions," he continues, leaning in close to me as I fight the lump in my throat and blink back tears. "So if you can't come up with anything intelligent to say, then shut the fuck up."

I stand up abruptly, refusing to show weakness by crying in front of this hateful, bitter man, and walk blindly towards the back of the café where there is a sign for a toilet. Once I am safely inside the cubicle with the door firmly locked, I sit on the closed lid, put my head in my hands and sob silently for a minute. 

I am miserable, frightened and full of hatred for myself. I want to be one of those people who has the courage to stand up to a bully. I want to be able to tell Harry to fuck off and stop speaking to me like this; to tip my full breakfast plate over his head, storm out of the café and never set eyes on him again as long as I live. But each time I play out one of these scenarios in my head, I keep coming back to the same conclusion: as vile and disgusting as Harry is, the alternative is far worse. I am not streetwise, and I wouldn't have the first idea where to go or what to do if he abandoned me now. I am terrified of being alone, and therefore any company, no matter how abhorrent, is better than no company. And this sad admission that I am weak and pathetic - because despite how badly he treats me, I need him - further destroys my confidence and continues the neverending circle of self-loathing. What's worse, is that he knows I don't have the courage to confront him, and he exploits my insecurity to allow him to behave more and more badly. I don't know whom I hate more: him or myself.

Except I do know. 

I take several deep breaths, before standing up and letting myself out of the cubicle and splashing cold water from the tiny hand basin onto my face to try to reduce the puffiness around my eyes. I stare at my reflection in the mirror; at my plain face, my mousy hair, my dull skin; and allow myself to imagine just for a second what it must be like to love myself, and to walk out of this bathroom with confidence and assertiveness.

And then I pull open the door and scuttle back to the table where Harry is tucking into a cooked breakfast, probably oblivious to my absence. I slide silently back into my seat, pick up my cutlery and begin to eat.

I hadn't realised quite how hungry I was, and as the first bite of food hits my stomach it growls appreciatively and I pick up my pace, devouring the entire plate in about four minutes while Harry looks up in surprise. Once I am finished I sit back in the booth, crossing and uncrossing my legs self-consciously as I take a sip of my tea, working myself up to explain my suggestion earlier without causing another row. I wait until Harry has shoved a forkful of bacon and black pudding into his mouth and take a deep breath.

"I wasn't joking around just now when I suggested a disguise to get us out of London," I begin in a rush. "I was being serious. If we want to escape unnoticed, we need to be unrecognisable. I don't know if the police know we're travelling together, but I don't see how they would. We barely know each other, and there isn't anything to link us to each other, apart from the fact that I worked in the pub in which you drank a handful of times. So they'll be looking for a man travelling alone, with long dark hair, a bit scruffy, carrying some sort of rucksack or holdall, right? So the first thing we need to do is cut your hair, maybe dye it - "

"I am not dying my hair," he interjects, but his tone isn't the usual gruff, argumentative hiss. It is softer and clearer; firm, but encouraging.

"OK, so just cut it then. I can dye mine or something. Chuck those dirty boots away and get yourself some new trainers and a pair of clean jeans."

"I haven't got time to be doing this," he mutters. "I need to be away in the next hour."

"But you risk us getting caught if we go as we are," I argue. 

"How are you going to dye your hair?" he asks, frowning at me. "You'll need a sink or something, won't you?"

I hesitate, thinking frantically for a solution before his mood changes again and he dismisses this whole idea. "I could get it coloured at a hairdresser's salon," I suggest, "and you could get your hair cut at the same time."

"Because that won't be at all suspicious," he retorts sarcastically.

"We'll go to different salons then," I answer quickly. "It'll only take a couple of hours, and while I'm getting mine done you could go and buy yourself some new clothes."

"I'm supposed to be staying undercover!" he snaps. "I can hardly go wandering around the West End browsing in posh boutiques!"

In spite of the situation, I can't help giggling. "Geography really isn't your strong point, is it? The West End is where all the theatres are. If you're trying to make a point about high end fashion, you should have said Kings Road, or Regent Street." 

My words catch in my throat as I catch his murderous look, and I physically tense, ready for the torrent of abuse that will undoubtedly fall from his lips, but instead of spitting his usual expletives at me he presses his mouth into a hard line and pauses for a moment, as though reining himself in.

"Either way," he says, through mildly clenched teeth, "I am supposed to be hiding out, not parading around in full view."

I nod meekly, thankful for his restraint, albeit a little unnerved by it. "OK," I concede. "So find a cheap local shop. We passed loads on the way from the tube station just now. You can't tell me the police will be staking out every building inside the M25 on the offchance of finding you comparing skinny leg with bootcut."

He looks at me with complete bemusement, as though I am speaking a foreign language, before shaking his head and shoving a chunk of fried tomato into his mouth. I am momentarily lightheaded, as I suspect I may have just successfully put forward my argument and won.

I feel a sudden rush of recklessness, and it is on the tip of my tongue to sing merrily, "you give me problems, I give you solutions," but I catch myself just in time and settle instead for beaming at an old man shuffling up to the counter to pay his bill. He eyes me with suspicion and I quickly avert my gaze and duck my head down. I sense Harry staring at the top of my head but I refuse to look up until he has looked away, not wishing to be on the receiving end of one of his jibes.

He sets his knife and fork down on his plate with a clatter and I risk a glance up in his direction. He is chewing his last mouthful thoughtfully, watching me with his head cocked to the side. He swallows, wipes his mouth on a paper napkin, drains his mug of tea and then clasps his hands together on the table in front of him, leaning in towards me. My eyes are drawn to the cross tattoo on the back of his left hand, just below his forefinger. He doesn't strike me as the religious type.

"Alright," he says, slowly, and I look up into his eyes again. "Disguise it is."

"Really?" I am sceptical at the ease with which he has agreed to my suggestion.

He shrugs. "It makes sense. Then I can get the fuck out of here and stop looking over my shoulder every five seconds."

He stands up suddenly, and chucks a twenty pound note out of his wallet onto the table. I get to my feet hurriedly, fumbling in my rucksack for my purse to pay my way, but he beckons me with an inclination of his head. "I've paid. Let's go."

I stare at him in confusion, thrown by his words. He can't stand me, yet he's just bought me breakfast? "But -" I begin, but he turns away and heads towards the door, and I realise he isn't going to wait for me if I dither. I scramble to get my bag onto my back and hurry after him, falling into step beside him as he makes his way back across the street. "Thanks," I mutter, feeling strangely self-conscious, but he ignores me in favour of the window of a hairdresser on the corner of the main road and a side street.

The door is painted in a pale pink that was probably once pretty, but is now flaking and scruffy. The window is partially steamed up, concealing a curling and faded price list that is taped to the inside of the window, and there are a couple of hanging baskets in the doorway that are limp and wilted thanks to the early summer heat. Harry pauses outside and casts a glance at me.

"Well?" 

"I - I can ask if they've got any appointments," I stammer. "What  about you?" 

"There's a barber a couple of doors down," he supplies. "Come and find me if this place can't fit you in. Otherwise I'll meet you back here at... what - eleven?"

"Um, OK," I reply nervously, and before I can say another word he saunters off up the street without looking back. I stare after him for a few seconds, before taking a deep breath and pushing open the door of the salon and stepping inside.

The middle-aged woman in charge is able to see me straight away, and when I ask for a simple and quick colour, she pulls out a few hair magazines and begins pointing out colours and styles. My hair is naturally mousy and plain, the colour of dirty dishwater, and my initial instinct had been to go for a dark brown or black. But the stylist - her badge says Pauline - shakes her head firmly. Apparently dark colours will wash out my fair complexion, and I would be better off with a few blonde highlights to lift it. I don't have the courage to argue with her, and fifteen minutes later I am gowned up, with bleach and foils in my hair, nursing a hot cup of tea while Pauline tells me about her daughter who is a single parent and has just had her second baby to a Latvian immigrant who took all her dole money and left her high and dry at eight months pregnant. 

I nod along, making all the right noises, and nervously watch the clock as it creeps its way towards ten o'clock. It has crossed my mind that Harry might be using this as an opportunity to ditch me, and I wouldn't be at all surprised if eleven o'clock came and went without hide nor hair of him. I try to relax while Pauline washes my colour off and massages my scalp with her inch-long bright red nails, but by the time I am back in the chair with my wet hair clinging to my head, I have convinced myself that he won't come back for me and I'll be all alone in some dodgy part of London with blonde highlights and eighty quid lighter. 

"Am I taking anything off the length?" Pauline is asking, holding up her sharp scissors and snipping them in the air by my right ear.

"Oh, um, yes. Can you take off about six inches?" I ask. My hair has always hung down my back, limp and wispy. But a style to my shoulders might help to thicken it up a bit, and give it a bit of body. Not to mention it would give me a whole new look, which can only assist our attempt at a disguise.

I watch in the mirror as chunks of my hair fall to the floor, and as Pauline begins to dry it in beachy waves I feel a flutter of excitement. I have never had anyone cut and style my hair like this before. If I hadn't been so on edge, I might have actually enjoyed the whole experience.

When she finally whisks my cape off and flicks the stray hairs off my top with a soft brush, I can only stare at myself openmouthed. Delicate blonde highlights have lifted the boring, mousy brown, and the gentle waves around my face soften the harsh angles of my features. I look like other girls my age, for the first time ever. I look.... pretty.

"Do you like it?" Pauline asks.

"Like it?" I echo. "I - I love it. It's... it's just amazing. Thank you so much."

She beams, and hands me my jacket from the coat stand by the till. "Welcome, lovey. Glad it's made you happy."

I pay her with the cash from the envelope containing my forgotten rent money, and then nervously make my way to the door to look for Harry. I catch sight of my reflection in one of the mirrors, and do a double take. I look like a terrified little mouse, hunched forward and twitchy, with a furrowed brow. Is this how everyone sees me? It doesn't look right, with my beautiful new hairstyle. I straighten my spine, pulling my shoulders back and lifting my chin. This instantly tightens the skin on my neck and makes my face look slimmer, and instead of letting my hair fall across my face, hiding me from the world, I run my hand through it to flip it back, allowing the waves to bounce merrily. With one last grateful smile at Pauline, I open the door of the salon and step out onto the street at exactly two minutes past eleven.

Harry is nowhere to be seen.