Chapter 19

On the way back to London, we stopped in the little Cambridgeshire town of Royston. Sarah sidled furtively into the ladies' loo in the car park, under instructions to stay there until I returned for her. First I went to the bank, and after a nerve-wracking call to my own branch, I withdrew £1,000 in cash, almost emptying my current account. Then I went shopping. The headline on the newsstand made me lurch. 'Group Bombers Named.' Trying to steady my shaking hand, I bought a copy of The Sun and saw on the front page a large clear photograph of the girl now hiding in the car park loos, a couple of hundred yards away. It showed Sarah topless, in a carefree pose at the beach. If I hadn't known its dreadful import, it would have made me sigh at her natural sexiness, the unembarrassed smile that shone straight at me.

I went to the chemist, intent on buying bleach, makeup for a blonde, hairdressing scissors, and dark glasses. I had a stroke of luck - it was a well-appointed shop, and on stands high on the top shelf were a selection of wigs. I chose the plainest blonde wig, long, with a long Julie Christie fringe. So different to Sarah's natural look, from the right distance no one would guess! Next came a clothes shop, where I bought a headscarf that Princess Anne might have worn, just in case the wig didn't work or fit, two dresses in size 12, two in size 14, and hoped one of them would fit Sarah at least approximately. 'Presents for my sisters, ' I explained to the women who served me. A few more purchases, and I returned to the car park. I alerted Sarah, and tossed the shopping bags over the partition between the cubicles. She emerged looking more respectable, but still too recognisable. She held the wig as if it was a dead animal. I almost laughed.

"Jill ... I can't ... it's against everything..."

"I'm sorry darling, but this is no time to stand up for your feminist principles. You're a fugitive. You're nearly six feet tall, you stand out like a Belisha beacon, and you're all over the papers. Let me do it. You can blame me if the Sisters see you and don't like it."

I pushed her back into cubicle, and crowded in with her. A little work on the wig, flourishes of makeup, and with sunglasses coquettishly poised, even Auntie Susan would have had to look more than twice before she recognised her daughter. Whether dyke or blonde vision, to me she looked ravishing We were still high on adrenaline and each other, manically chatting as I drove us to London. When we crossed the North Circular road at the Great Cambridge roundabout, Sarah said:

"Does Margaret know where you live?"

"I think so, she found my phone number somehow, but I really do need to go home and collect some things, if I can. I'll be careful; if anything looks suspicious I promise I won't go in. You stay in the car. No ... Margaret might know the registration number, she's seen it often enough. We'll have to ditch the car as soon as possible!"

I was thinking fast, without any sense of how this could end, just that I had to prolong it as long as I could. I parked half a mile from the flat, and left Sarah disconsolately sipping tea in a café, while I doubled to and fro through the side streets. I check the front and back of the building, but there didn't seem to be anyone watching. I slipped in through the back gate and up the fire escape, just in case. My chaotic flat no longer felt like it belonged to me. I packed a holdall with undies, jeans, several tops, and a couple of skirts. My makeup, yes, and as much cash as I had lurking in drawers and in my several handbags. Already thinking like a renegade, I knew that any more visits to the bank would be a clear signal to the police.