'If I stay with you, if I'm choosing wrong
I don't care at all'
*
Gone to the office. Make yourself at home. Will be back later.
-H
My eyes scanned over the sheet of paper once more. Harry has never been one with words, it seems. Everything is short and sweet. Always spoken in metaphors or cryptic phrases. I should be used to it by now.
When I woke this morning, I forgot where I was for a moment, even why I am here. There were no memories of someone trying to murder me the night before. No recollection of wiping blood off of myself and Harry. Nothing to indicate that a very dangerous man was after me purely because of my contact with Harry. It was complete bliss, opening my eyes as my body splayed out in the comfort of the bed. The sun shone in through the gap of the curtains that I had not fully closed, hitting my face with such warmth a thin layer of sweat sat on my brow.
Then it all hit me in an instant. Images of guns, the feeling of that man's hand around my throat as he choked me, the quick getaway while police sirens called out into the London streets. All the fears I had last night resurfaced as quickly as they left, and I was left to deal with it alone, in a house that is still so quiet I dread the silence. It leaves me to dwell on the noise inside my head.
It's a grand house, but there's little life to it. I had no time to explore last night, but I suppose there is nothing better for me to do now. The room I found myself situated in was plain, but the furniture clearly expensive. In truth, it was the best night of sleep I had ever had, despite how busy my brain had been when I drifted off. Maybe it was the adrenaline wearing off and settling into a state of exhaustion that helped my slumber, but the comfort of the mattress also played a part. The frame is wooden, decorated with intricate gold designs. It's the type of bed you only really see in films or television shows that deal with royalty or aristocracy. In many ways it doesn't surprise me that Harry has chosen this, considering the God complex he seems to hold.
The bedding is cream, basic, but the pillowcases silk. The sensation when my head rested on them instantly brought me relief. Yes, everything felt expensive and luxurious, which brought little insight into the type of man Harry is. Any other display of character in this room and many others is null and void. Other than his office, that is. A room I intended to inspect in full today.
I had dragged myself down to the kitchen already, tea brewed and drank. There were pieces of fruit on the side that I nibbled at, but my appetite wasn't all there. Nothing like almost dying to turn you off your food. Then my feet worked on their own, walking me to whatever room my mind so aimlessly desired to see. I don't have a plan, necessarily. I just want to find something, anything that can reveal a secret of his.
The trousers I'm wearing pull behind me, my feet tripping on them every now and again. Harry had given me some of his own clothes for bed last night, agreeing that a pencil skirt and shirt with blood on were not the best choice for sleep. Just a t-shirt and jogging bottoms. They smelt like him; I picked up the scent the minute he gave them to me. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't inhaled it from the top as much as I could before I brought it over my head to cover my cold body. It had worn away slightly by this morning, but some musky tones still lingered in my nostrils. In many ways it felt like he was still in the house, protecting me like he promised.
I stop at one of the doors that remain closed. I had noticed it last night, so it seemed like a good place to start. Not far off from the kitchen, but still in the midst of the grandeur under this roof. Luckily, the door is not locked, clicking open when I turn the handle. The midday sun brightens the room enough to not need a light. For once, it is not running. April is notorious for its showers. As I step in I let my gaze fall outside first, finally getting a glimpse of the gardens. Hopefully I'll be able to explore before nightfall. There are flower beds placed everywhere, some with roses, others sprouting carnations. In the back are lavender bushes, bees buzzing around contently in the daylight from flower to flower. I notice a pond situated not far to the right, small, but impressive. I imagine there to be some exotic fish in there.
Eventually, I step inside the room, the cold floorboards creaking under my feet. It's cold in here, and clearly not used much. Over most of the furniture are pieces of cloth covering them, but a few cabinets and seats remain exposed gathering dust. It seems odd for someone to live in such a large house on their own, especially when rooms like this go to waste. Harry is rarely here though, always at the office.
I walk over to the first hidden piece, slowly pulling the cover off to reveal a piano. A beautiful mahogany design, small etchings carved into the roof. The keys have little marks on them, including little letters drawn on to signify what each is. On the far left of it, there looks to be a small fingerprint in black ink. However, some dust has pooled around the feet. It probably hasn't been touched in years.
My fingers graze over the keys, pressing lightly on them to hear a sweet melody. I used to play when I was younger, dad always had an affinity for it. I stopped after a couple of years, though. Too much effort for my small hands. Always getting cramp when trying to reach the right cord. Dad didn't care much, just made me move on to the next hobby until I found one I liked. It was always jewellery that I'd circle back to, watching him in his element when he worked away at night or in the shop when he allowed me to come with him. I even had those little kits for kids to make their own bracelets. He still wears one I made back then.
Grabbing the cloth, I cover the piano back up, moving on to the next item. Underneath stands a small cabinet, much like the one that holds the copy of Les Mis in Harry's office. Inside sits a small pendant. It doesn't seem expensive, though, not like the other pieces of jewellery that rest in his house. I'd price it only at £30 maximum. It is simple, but sweet. A gold plated chain with a small charm hanging on it. A lily. Like the one tattooed on Harry's arm. It's delicate and dainty, but so pretty. I want to open the door to try and hold it in my hands, but it's locked. Whatever keys are needed to open it could be anywhere. Potentially in this room, but likely hidden away in another private area of the house.
I move on, covering the case as I did the piano, continuing my inspection of the room. There's not much to find, just books and trinkets, nothing as intriguing as the first two items I found I take that as my queue to leave and explore some more.
For the most part, the rooms downstairs are bare, empty like the first I entered. I uncover a few pieces of interest, works of art that capture my attention or items that were clearly stolen through the years. Some I instantly recognise, others I do not. One room near the office has a few photographs tucked away in a drawer, but they reveal little about the man I'm trying to understand. They're all of him and the team, minus George. Harry looks much younger in them, his hair slightly longer. In one, his smile is so bright, so unbothered. It's such a difference from the hardness I've grown accustomed to from him. Every now and again he'll crack a smile or laugh, but usually at my expense. No, this is genuine.
His eyes sparkle in a way, so bright that they could blind someone. The expression on his face so pure, as Zayn wraps his arms around Harry's shoulders and Babz is hoisted onto Louis' back. A family. I inspect every detail of the scene, from the lights of the background to the setting they find themselves in. It looks to be somewhere in the city, maybe a beer garden. I always focus back on Harry, though. Pure happiness radiates from him.
It feels wrong to be looking at it now, so I place it down where I found it and exit the way I came in. The office seems like the best place to search, considering all I saw last night, so without hesitation I make my way back into the room, seeing the same glasses and bloody clothes left from the night before. The light of day reveals more to me, allowing me to pick up on a few more things that I had previously not noticed. Books, mainly. More early or original copies, but these are not stored in the same way as Victor Hugo's novel. There's some by the Brontës, Dickens, Austen, even more recent ones of the past 60 years. Perhaps he's a collector.
I make my way over to the desk, hoping there will be more inside. I hate snooping, I really do, but when Harry insists on not telling me anything I have to take matters into my own hands. Besides, he openly stated that he spent months watching me and learning all he could, it's my turn to play detective. Thankfully, the draws are not locked. Most of what I find are random notes and scribblings on finance, even vague plans on previous heists that I recall him telling me about, but something finally catches my eye. A small brown file with my name on it.
Atlas Hall.
Curiosity takes over me, just as I expected it did with Harry when he made it his mission to essentially stalk me. I sit down on the chair behind the desk, placing the file on it. For a moment I don't want to open it, scared of what I may find. It's always frightening when someone finds out your secrets, especially if you haven't told them yourself. Yet, my biggest are well hidden, never spoken of. He shouldn't know them unless I consent.
Without a second thought, my hands fumble with it and begin to scan through. At first I am met with basic documents. Birth certificate, passport, legal documents. Things that most can find on government databases. There are things in there to do with my family. Dad's care home details, mum's address. I notice a few sheets on my step-father, but push them aside, not wanting to read about the man I've tried to avoid for so long.
I read over some things about others in my life. There are court documents from Cathy's divorce, even information on Belly and Tobias. It's so thorough. Every single element of my life appears to be in this file. A thin collection of materials worth 25 years. It makes me question a lot. Whether I've really done enough up until now. I suppose I know the answer to that, I wouldn't have joined the Municipal if I hadn't already pondered the answer. It's all so black and white, so dull. Even the information on my previous relationship is scarce. In the margin of some notes about Joe and I. 'Simple. Uneventful. Safe.'
Those three words could define my life for the most part. Though I hide away the few events that have caused me distress, most of it has been lived to a routine of simplicity. Always too scared to step outside the limits of it in case I fall apart or bring shame to those around me. Funny how I'm now doing something that would bring both of those things into reality.
At the back of the file, though, are pictures. Many I recognise from my social media accounts. Family, friends, acquaintances. Smiling away in them as if I ever felt satisfied. To be honest, I haven't felt content at all. Not until recently. Not until I met Harry. He's changed many things in my life, most of all my outlook on the world. I'm not sure how much longer I can remain in his life, given the danger it's brought me, but I also don't see a way out of it.
Then my eyes fall onto pictures I've never seen. Ones taken of me on the street, at work, even in bars. All I never consented to or knew were taken. I remember each day they seem to fall on, all fairly recent, over the past year. The one that catches my attention more than the others, is one in which I'm crying. Tears on my cheeks, my hand brought up to my nose as I walk towards the store. I remember this day well. The memory unsettles me slightly, enough to collect the contents of the file and put it back where I found it.
Stupidly, I'm not mad about all this information he has stored away about me. Any sane person would be horrified. I, on the other hand, am even more intrigued. Why did he choose me, why did he intend to focus his attentions on someone so unremarkable? So 'simple' as he said in his notes? How can I get mad at him when I'm currently doing the same thing, hunting down any fact I can to reveal the smallest of details about him, all to be stored away in my mental file?
I want to know Harry, but not in the normal way one wishes to get to know someone. I want all of it. The good and the bad. The beautiful and the ugly. He's such a mystery, but in the best way. I should be scared of him, knowing so little. But I'm not; I'm fascinated. Harry has shown me a few glimpses of kindness, revealing himself to be a good man. Yet, there are moments of darkness that we've experienced, flashes of something close to evil. I wouldn't describe him as such, but I believe him to think it of himself. He seems to be so interested in hiding behind a front, that sometimes I wonder if he fears himself.
The light of the sun has dimmed slightly, indicating the dusk ready to appear. I have no idea what time it is, or when Harry will return home, but I cannot stop my investigation yet. The only time I have been upstairs is in the bedroom he placed me in for the night, so it seems fitting to finally move up there in my search for answers. My fingers dance along the polishes wood of the bannister as I climb the staircase, smiling at the sensation. Everything is so deluxe in this house; it makes you feel superior.
Walking past the bathroom, I'm reminded of the time Harry made me meet him in the National Gallery. The story he told me of the painting that disappeared, so suspects traced. He told me that day that it was placed in his bathroom now. My feet instinctively step backwards, leading me towards the room I wish to examine next, just to see the artwork in person. I fumble for the light switch in the darkness, brightly lighting up a few seconds later. Black and white tiles adorn the walls and floor. In the centre sits a large bathtub, one that seems fit for royalty. There's a shower too in the corner, along with wall length mirrors and a few basins. Right above the wall, like he said, is the Monet painting.
Storm at Belle-Ile.
It's a dark composition. Shades of deep blue and purple, with white accents to signify the waves that crash against the rocks. Intense. That is how I would describe it. I can see hints of green and blue in the water, but it's overwhelmingly murky. A chaotic scene but all created with such a light touch. The water takes up the image, waves beating against each other. There is a faint horizon seen at the top, the sky streaked with heavy rain that it's masked. It seems so realistic. Like I can see the shore in front of me on a stormy day.
Seeing it in person brings a smile to my face, remembering how naive I was back then. I suppose I still am, in many ways. It wasn't even that long ago, yet I have changed my outlook on the whole operation entirely. Certainly, I didn't expect to be hunted as a result of it. I didn't even intend to accept his proposition that day, in truth. Look at me now. Hiding away in his house, staring up at a stolen artefact. What a full circle moment.
I walk out of the room, getting one last look at the piece of art before turning the light off and continuing my trail down the hall. Past the bedroom I slept in last night and stopping outside a room I assume to be Harry's. It feels like an invasion of privacy to be entering here, but he clearly doesn't care about mine.
Not taking another second to consider it, I turn the handle, stepping into the darkness. I can make out the silhouettes of furniture, but it is only when the light is on that I finally feel like I'm in such a personal space. Finally, I have found some hints of his life. Lined up along the dresser, and the tables next to his bed, are photographs. All of them depicting two women. One older, the other younger. Harry appears in a few, his green eyes piercing through to indicate the young boy is him.
I walk over to the chest of drawers, picking up some frames and inspecting them. The people in these photos look like Harry. Both have the same soft features, the same dark hair, similar eye colours. Their jaw lines match, their noses so similar. Even the way they smile in the photographs is the same. If I'm right, these could be his family. His mother and maybe a sister. Are these the people that he told me he needed to help escape?
My eyes scan over more of the images, taking in every detail of each one, wanting to imagine the scenes in which they took place. I wonder if he had a happy childhood, or if something dreadful happened that led him to this life. One thing that has always stuck with me is the way he reacted when Louis spoke about his father the day I was informed about the plan to steal the Cullinan. There are clearly no photos of any men in this room.
I carry myself over to the photos near his bed, looking for any indication about his dad. But he never appears. On his left dresser is a photograph that seems much more recent, however. The two women are older in this one than the others. Harry is nowhere to be seen, it's just them. The younger of the two is holding what looks to be a certificate, perhaps a school one. The older one is stood next to her, hand around her waist, but looking down at her counterpart with such adoration. It's a sweet moment, but Harry is missing from it.
Before I can question it anymore, the door suddenly opens, the floorboards creaking underneath whoever entered. I already know it to be Harry, I can feel him staring. Part of me fears how he'll react, knowing I'm snooping around and in here without his permission. Though I did not ask to be brought here, I'm still a guest.
His footsteps near closer, but I don't turn around. Instead, I keep my focus on the photograph in my hand. The damage is done, there's no point acting like I haven't been caught. Harry stops as he reaches my side, standing to the left of me. His breathing is so heavy, but I can't decipher whether that's due to anger or not. Slowly, his hand comes up between us, and takes the frame out of my hand. He inspects it for a few moments, his fingers dusting over their faces. 'Mum and sister,' he whispers. There's no fury in his voice. He's calm, perhaps even sad in his tone.
He's choosing to be open, even if just touching the surface of his complex life. I have to be careful how I deal with this. 'Are you close with them?' I question, allowing my gaze to lift to his face. There's a look of sorrow on his features.
He sighs, finally placing the frame back on the side table, but his gaze lingers on the two women. 'They're not around anymore,' he responds, jaw hallowed as if he's holding in a breath.
I swallow hard, dropping my eyes to the floor. My fingers pick at the skin around my nails. 'I'm sorry.'
At this, his head finally turns in my direction, eyes landing on my own when I raise them from below. His eyebrows are furrowed slightly, but not too tightly knitted. Almost as if he's considering my words. I knew not to question his statement; whenever I do try to dig for information with him he closes in on himself and forms a shell. Harry is a lonely man.
His head moves as he scans around the room, eyes lingering on a few photos every now and then, before he steps towards the door. 'Come on,' he speaks, nodding his head towards the corridor.
I walk a few steps before stopping. 'Where are we going?' I ask, still unsure on how much I've pissed him off with my evident prying.
He raises his eyebrows, before rolling his eyes dramatically. 'I'll make you some dinner,' he states, motioning his hand for me to follow. As I walk out the room, he mumbles a few words loud enough for me to hear while the door shuts. 'Can't imagine you've eaten a lot while nosing around.'
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A/N: Sorry for the delay on this. There's been a lot of stuff going on at home, just been focused on spending time with my family during a tough time. Thank you for your patience x
This is a shorter chapter, but I hope you enjoyed it :)