She had speed-dialled Larry’s number with a sudden pang of anxiety that he wouldn’t speak to her. She’d been pretty brutal to him earlier when he refused to run away with her – she’d called him quite a few mean names. But he answered immediately. ‘Al! Are you OK?’

‘Hi Larry, I can’t talk long, don’t want them tracing my phone . . . soz for what I said earlier, babes, I didn’t mean it. I don’t really think you’re a spineless plank or a twat, honest, I was just upset. I need your help, right—’

Larry interrupted her. ‘Where are you?’

Alice laughed hollowly. ‘You think I’m telling you that?’

‘No, serious, you need to tell me right now, ’cos I’m coming with you. I’ve already left. Got all my stuff, straight up, sleeping bag and everything. Been trying to find you for the last three hours.’

A wide smile spread across Alice’s dirty tear-stained face. ‘Babes! That’s awesome. What made you change your mind?’

‘You’re my bird, babes! I can’t leave you to handle all this on your own. If I’m honest, you’re right, I was being a total fucking wimp. Anyway I reckon the cops will be back, poking around with their questions and shit. Best we just take off, I reckon.’

Fresh tears sprang to her eyes, gratitude and anxiety mingled. ‘But now we’re running away they’re definitely going to think we had something to do with it!’

‘I know, right. But we totally didn’t. Listen, you should get off of your phone. Where are you now?’

‘Walking down the A316, near Whitton. I was ringing to ask if you could help me break into a flat on the Kennedy. There’s tons of empty ones, on the far side of the estate, away from Jerome’s gaff.’

‘Perfect. I’ll meet you at the Wayfarer pub in Whitton, round the back, in, like, twenty minutes? I’m not far from there either. Then we can figure out what we need to get into one of those flats.’

‘Awesome,’ Alice said, feeling much happier. ‘Whistle when you get there so I know it’s you.’

Ten minutes after that she had dumped her bag on a picnic bench in the dark garden of the Wayfarer, the shadowy shapes of plastic playground equipment looming above her as she looked nervously around, rolling her shoulders to ease the stiffness from the heavy backpack. Climbing over the fixed seating part of the bench, she had a pang of guilt about her dad and how he might be feeling right then. But then she dismissed it – he knew that she was capable of looking after herself, unlike poor little Frankie. He’d understand. She would send him an email from an internet cafe as soon as she could.