Chapter 9: It's Not Fair

(I know it took a while, and I'm so sorry you had to wait, but it's a nice long one! I hope you enjoy!)

Carrie has always wanted to be a singer. Most siblings might be jealous of their brother when his music career takes off, but for Carrie, side from being immensely proud, it showed her that it was possible, not to give up on her dreams because if he could do it, why on earth shouldn't she be able to do the same. With a weary sigh, she peers at her reflection in grimy mirror, strange shadows cast by the flickering incandescent light above her. The red lipstick and heavy eyeliner are hardly her style, but the bar wouldn't hire her unless she'd accepted their terms on appearance and song choice, and they had been very specific. In a past dream of a normal life, she'd never have worn something so short and clingy and sequined in a pink fit, but now, as she steps back to look at the offensively red garment, she has to agree that she does rather look the part of a cheap cabaret singer.

And she is cheap, as was the makeup that she begins to wipe off her face with wads of hand towel, the red and black streaking across her face. They didn't have the money for anything at the moment- the dress was found tossed out with the rubbish of a local amateur theatre group, the jewels and makeup were the least expensive she could find at the supermarket. When she has finally taken the junk off, her face is bright red, but in the early morning hours, who was going to care about that?

Dawn is gentle; few people are left out from the night before and it's still too early for the bustle and rush of city workers. The walk back straddles the line between calming and terrifying- Carrie has heard what happens to young women alone in London. But by this point, there is no place she can feel truly safe. At least here, on the pavement, she can't be so easily cornered, she can still run- sort of. She presses on the heavy wooden door in the right spot to release the lock and pushes it open, kicking off her heels as soon as she gets inside. Not even bothering with her dress, she stumbles in the dim to the hallway and into the bedroom, collapsing into her bundle of collected sheets and blankets, exhausted from the long night.

After a few moments, her breathing evens out and her limbs adjust themselves into a more comfortable contortion in her make-shift bed. Her heavy eyes are just about to give way when she hears Phil shifting in his blankets.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself, was it a good night?" He sounds tired, his voice even more hoarse than hers.

"Could be worse. They let me sing Whitney… which was a nice change." The following words are smothered and intelligible, but then she turns her head slightly towards Phil, "Did you have a lovely sleep?" She can sense herself slipping into sleep as he replies, and though her mind forms the beginning of a response, by the time he's finished the sentence, she's fast asleep.

Waiting for a few moments before realizing Carrie was not going to respond, Phil sits upright, smiling at Carrie's snuggled form- she's never lost her warmth through all of this, not for one second. Rubbing at his eyes, he yawns widely- it's been seven hours and he knows he should be using this time to catch up on sleep, he should be up in three hours to head to the library, but somehow it's impossible for him to find any rest until he knows that Carrie is back and safe.

Lying back down, he closes his eyes and, just like every for the past few weeks night, he listens to the creaking of the wall to his left and tries not to think of Dan until the embrace of sleep steals him away.

Phil leaves the library at 4pm, amongst the flocks of schoolchildren leaving the school two buildings down, heading home or to a nearby food outlet in packs of gaggling teenagers. He slips in behind a group of four girls; close enough to not appear isolated without encroaching on their intense debate on which of them was most eligible to marry Tom Hiddleston. Smiling with premature wisdom at the gentle ease of their ignorance, Phil waits until they pass Rathbone Place before peeling off into the alleyway and sliding into the cover of the building shadows, the cloaking darkness protecting him until he reaches their front door.

The splintering wooden doors are plastered in band posters and graffiti, made thick with months of neglect so the only part where the decrepit wood can actually be seen is around the door handle and keyhole.

Pretending to fiddle with pressing a key into the lock (it was actually just a nail he'd found in a corner the first night they'd stayed here), Phil presses his shoulder against the middle panel of the door, hard, and it swings open.

He finds Carrie in the kitchen, hands wrapped tightly around a mug of tea. It was better than he'd expected, being homeless. They'd found this place abandoned with a relatively low proportion of rodent residents- most importantly it was the last place that they'd usually be found.

With a sigh, Phil poured himself a cup of tea from the kettle still warm over the stovetop. The library had, once again, been fruitless. He couldn't find anything, not on Dan, nor on any of the information they'd pulled out of that damned file. They were at a dead end, and both he and Carrie knew it. Neither of them exchanged a word but the resigned silence has spread, weed-like, through their little house.
After a few moments, Carrie shoots him what was probably intended as a comforting smile, before pushing her chair back and depositing her mug into the sink.

"Wait." It occurs to Phil that most normal people would have said 'hello' by this stage, but their situation is anything but normal. "Carrie, we can't just keep doing this. I'm not finding anything and it's been two weeks. We've not heard from anyone, none of them, not even D-" He hates the way his voice cracks, every time, and inhales deeply, shakily; "Not even Dan. So, why aren't we doing anything?"

Carrie moves back to her seat, resting her chin in her hand, her glance gently quizzical. Perhaps the saddest thing for Phil is her hair- limply hanging either side of her face. It's wrong. Her voice, however, has somehow stayed as bubbly as ever.

"What can we do? They found us in Paddington, we didn't even get to my parents before-"

"Yes, yes I know, it's a good thing we were bloody lucky that time!" The memory of jumping from the train was still terrifying to both of them, as was the idea that they'd been somehow followed to the train station. It was the first time Phil had seen Carrie cry through this whole, crazy ordeal. "But this is going to drive us mad. How long can we evade them? I say, let's play the cards this time. It'll give us an edge surely, they won't us to be the ones coming and hunting them down."

At this, Carrie's eyebrow darts skyward. "Hunting?" Phil nods, sitting up straighter in his chair.

"As far as I can see it, there are three things we can be certain of so far. Number one," He holds a single, pale finger into the dank air, "Someone is after us, and they've got the resources to track us down and take us almost without a trace- that's number two," He adds a second finger. Then he pauses, almost regretting his promise earlier, before spilling out," And a third- Dan kept something secret from us. I think that's what started this all. I can't understand why, or how, but the only clue we really have is that box we found, and they've taken it."

"Precisely! So it's not a very useful clue Phil, I don't know.. It sounds like we're up against more than we can take, and we should really just go to the-

"For the last time Carrie, we're not going to the police." He cut across her a second time, his impatience misdirected by fatigue. "Sorry, I just... We discussed this already; if this was realistically something the police could help us with, why have there been no news reports of our disappearance? How come we can't contact any family, how come they're not out here, trying to find us? That tell me that either they're working with the police, who are looking for us, but given the guns those guys on the train had, I doubt it's that one. More likely is, whatever we've stumbled upon, is too messy for the police to handle. They're keeping it hushed but they're not helping us?" Carrie snorts, and answers Phil's enquiring look with, "You watch way too much TV, my friend."

"You have a better theory?" She shakes her mane, and then frowns.

"But what does that mean? If this is beyond the police, how on earth would we be able to do anything?"

Phil's grin stretches across his face, "We have the element of surprise."

Carrie's heart is pounding as she walks down the too-familiar road, hands in pockets, mimicking nonchalance as best she can. They've done their very best to make her recognizable, blonde curls blowing in the wind, even the very same outfit that she was wearing that long night weeks ago when they returned to find their friends gone and their world torn into madness. She smiles at the old lady who passes, trying to act casual. They'd decided that as long as she didn't do anything drastic, no one else would either. Not in such a public location. They hoped.

When she arrives at their apartment block, she presses the buzzer for their door and stands, tapping her foot, as if waiting for a reply. To any passing stranger, this is as common a scene as buying milk, but she knows too well that the apartment is empty. They'd decided that it seemed likely that there would be some form of greeting party waiting there, in case they'd decided to return. They're betting on it.

Pulling an irritated expression, Carrie fumbles in her bag for a few moments, pulling out some paper and a pen, and she scribbles a note, just two lines, before stuffing into the mailbox.

Where are you guys, you're not answering any of my calls!

I'm hanging at Starbucks till 2, meet me there if you get this before then.

xx Carrie

She can't resist glancing up at the security camera before she leaves, ambling as casually as she can back down the street, apparently having failed to contact her two good friends. Eventually she turns off into the park, where there are spare clothes and a wig stashed in some bushes. It's a reasonable detour to make en route to the nearest Starbucks, and as Phil watches the door open and three men in suits dart out of his building, he can only hope that Carrie wasn't lying when she said that her tree climbing skills were to die for.

He forces himself to count to twenty before slipping out from his hiding place and onto the street, darting across the road to enter the car park behind the tall apartments. From there, he climbs atop the bins, yanking open the laundry window, which has been left unlocked for as long as Phil can remember. There is a moment of terror when he gives the frame a swift tug and it doesn't budge, but a few moments and strained pulling efforts later and it gives. He clambers awkwardly through the small space, wincing as he scrapes his forearm on the metal edge of the unused lock. From here, he accesses the back staircase, heart thudding to the rhythm of every silent step, half expecting to be found at any moment. This was hardly a well developed plan, but it appeared to working so far.

After passing by his own floor without interruption, Phil ascends one more floor, opens the hallway door and half sprints down to the hall, stopping two doors away from the elevator. He knocks on the door, politely first, but when no one responds for a few minutes, his fist rather pounds at the wood. It swings open to reveal a rather disgruntled and shirtless twenty-something year old man.

"Look, you've chosen a rather bad time to interrupt me but I'm here now, is there something I can help you with?" If he is surprised that Phil darts past him, closing the door behind him, it doesn't show.

"Hi, I'm Dan," He silently curses his inability to come up with a false name on the spot, "-and I live in the flat below yours, only I've left my keys at my girlfriends house- ex-girlfriend now, nasty business that, with my best friend too- I have a spare and the window's not locked only I can't get in to pick it up, and you know how the landlord gets about replacing the locks," His rambling only picks up it's pace with every phrase, as intended," –so if it isn't too much to ask of you, can I borrow your balcony?"

Phil sends a small thank you to any god who is listening, as he scales off the side of his neighbours balcony, for the kindness of strangers and the convenience of poorly planned buildings. Pushing open the glass door, he steps on the carpet, the tension of his own home overwhelming him, almost forcing him back outside. He can't hear anyone, but is unable to trust his judgement seeing as the blood pounding in his ears could well be concealing small noises nearby. As he makes his way to the bathroom, he slowly lets himself relax. There appears to be no one around- either they've gone off after Carrie or there was never anyone actually inside, just elsewhere in the building, positioned to wait for them to return.

Phil locks the door behind him, despite the paradoxical situation he was locking himself into. The bathroom, unlike the main room, had no balcony.

It had only occurred to him a few nights ago, a memory surfacing after so many years, presenting itself neatly for use in their plot. It had been early in the morning and Phil, just arriving home, had entered the bathroom to use it, only to find Dan there. Of course, he'd backed out and waited for Dan to leave, but his alcohol hazed mind had failed to acknowledge most of the abnormalities of the scene. Firstly, there was Dan, fully clothed, just standing there like a deer in the headlights. Then, there was the tile.

Trying his hardest to remember which one it was, Phil presses against the edges of several tiles in the bathroom just to the left of the mirror until, to his delight and surprise, one gives way beneath his fingertips, and swings upwards. Behind the false front, a small inlet had been carved out of the wall, holding a mobile phone and a wad of cash.

For just a moment, Phil stops to wonder how Dan had managed this- had he carved out the hole, needing a place to stash these objects? Or just noticed a convenient lose tile and worked from there. Shaking himself, he pockets the phone, first checking that it is switched off, and then the wad of cash. He peers into the gap to see what else was there and involuntarily gasps as he realises what the black form is, lying deep in the tiles- a gun.

Somehow, its presence is all he needs to snap out of his investigative mode, and turn back to his primary goal- getting out unnoticed. He is almost too scared to use their front door, but there appears to be no other option. Pushing the door open a crack, and spying a clear path, he quickly darts to the end of the hall and back into the staircase. Peering back through the small window on the door, Phil watches in horror as he sees men with guns storming in the door, moments after he is safely away. He only watches for a second, before bolting down the stairs at full speed, out the window and down an alleyway, barely breathing for fear of being caught. Somehow getting out is far easier than breaking in, and soon he finds himself lost in London once more and finally stops running, resting his palms over his knees, doubled over and breathless.

Checking his watch, he realises he only has another twenty minutes before he is supposed to meet Carrie back at their house, to show her the spoils of their venture. With a few swipes of his hand through his too-long hair, Phil is off again, winding through shops and strangers, until he is safe inside again- two minutes early.

Sitting down at the table, he pulls the phone from his pocket, curious as to what it might contain. Not wanting to turn it on quite yet, he turns the device over in his hands, more questions than answers budding in his mind. It's a Motorola flip-phone, and pathetically out of date. There's no camera, a bulky battery compartment and Phil is fairly certain that the screen would turn on to be black and white. It's in fairly bad nick, scratched and a small crack across the top corner of the screen, but other than that, it currently provides no other information. Next, he tugs the notes from his pocket and starts counting. A few minutes later and Phil has several stacks before him. He is stunned, he's never held so much money in his own hands before- that's five hundred pounds before him, all in neat ten pound notes. He hates himself for thinking this way, but Phil's foremost thought is why didn't Dan take it with him when he left?

He gathers the money and shoves it back into his pocket, not wanting to risk leaving it in an unlocked house, checking his watch again. Carrie's ten minutes late.

Phil decides not to let it bother him, not yet. He gives her thirty minutes before he allows himself to go searching for her. When the minute hand strikes twelve, he instantly regrets not going after her the instant he was clear of the apartment.

Despite his exhaustion, he gets to the park efficiently and, after checking for any signs of suspiciously loitering individuals, darts over to the group of trees where she planned to hide from their enemies.

Carrie's not there, nor is there any sign of her ever being there- that is until Phil checks the bushes nearby and pulls out her beanie.

She must have been pulling it over her distinctive curls when they got her, he reasons, and it fell off in the struggle. For a moment he considers questioning the families by the play set, but thinks better of it and heads off again, not bothering to play his game of shadows and sly secrecy this time.

He's all alone, walking down the street, with absolutely nothing to his name but five hundred pounds and a mobile phone. He's all alone.

Spotting a café that has a outdoor seating area, he makes his way over, ordering two caramel macchiato, and takes their coffees to a seat outside. Dan was usually the one who insisted on carrying the mugs, ever the gentleman (but also due to Phil's unbeatable record for dropping boiling hot beverages onto unsuspecting victims), but this time Phil managed for the both of them.

He sat there, sipping his coffee, watching the heat roll off Dan's in steamy waves, the cars and buses rushing past on the busy street in front of him. It's an indulgence, a moment of tranquil before the storm. They'd never been to this café, but Phil thinks Dan might have liked it. They serve chocolate waffles all day, according to the menu, so Phil had pretty good reason to think that he'd have liked it too, back when he and Dan did things like coffee and waffles and dates.

Eventually, he puts down the mug again and brings out the phone, pressing down on the power button until the screen flashes and comes to life. Already he has noticed three men enter the cafe and sit alone at seperate tables, watching his every move. They think they have him cornered, but he wants them to understand- this is his choice now, he's tired of running.

Phil can only find three contacts and he chooses the one most recently called, "G", and, with his jaw clenched and his free hand moving up to hang off the back of his neck, he clicks dial.

That, my friends, is well over 3000 words. Which is no excuse for taking so long to update, I know! But now that I have a new updating program (check my profile) hopefully I will be less awful at not leaving you with cliffhangers!

Well. *giggles*

I hope enjoyed this newest instalment! My biggest appreciation and virtual hugs to NeverlandNat, RikkuPollendina, DevTheManiac, LaVaLiCiOuS and vogonsoup for their lovely reviews! This one's for you, I hope you liked it! :D

Until next time

xxx panfs