Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Toby
Harry and I trek through the forest.
My whole body feels shaky with fear and exhaustion.
We don’t hear any more helicopters. And we stumble across a stream, where we fill our water bottles and quench our thirst.
That’s the good news.
The bad news is that, as the sun goes down, it turns from cold to positively freezing. My body is relatively warm from moving, but the cold nips at my hands and face like it’s got a personal vendetta against my exposed skin.
Not having my phone makes me feel twitchy. Who knew I’d miss the constant pings of social media notifications more than indoor plumbing?
Nausea sloshes in my stomach, and it’s not just protesting that I’ve only fed it an energy bar in the last eight hours.
I don’t think I’ve ever been as scared as I was when that helicopter hovered overhead. We were like sitting ducks. If they had spotted us, we would have been very dead ducks.
I’ve never thought much about dying before, but as we push through the undergrowth, I can’t help dwelling on the concept.
This is real. This is very, very real.
The forest seems to stretch forever and my legs feel like lead.
Suddenly, my mother’s words of encouragement when I was a child, tired from a long walk, are back in my head.
“Just put one foot in front of the other, Toby, and soon you’ll be dancing over the finish line.”
I get the feeling dancing isn’t on the agenda tonight, Mum.
I’m so caught up in talking to my mother in my head that I don’t notice the bramble patch until I’m intimately entwined.
Thorns snag my trousers, and I perform an ungraceful dance, trying to untangle myself without sacrificing too much dignity. I fail miserably. After a prolonged tug-of-war, I resort to a less-than-dignified shimmy to escape.
Harry steps around the bramble with a smug smile.
Anger surges inside me. I know it’s ridiculous, but I hate that I fell apart when that helicopter was overhead while Harry held his nerve.
I hate that Harry seems completely unflustered with everything that has happened today, like we’re simply strolling through Hyde Park.
And I hate that I’m stuck out here in the wilderness with him and only him.
The cold curls around me.
I’m at the point of collapse, but I stumble through the darkening forest. I don’t want to be the first to suggest we stop. I lurch over a log, and Harry glances back at me.
“Perhaps we should stop. I think we’re going to run out of light to continue.”
Damn. Now I feel like he’s only suggested it because he’s noticed I’m flagging. I do not want to be the recipient of Harry Matheson’s pity.
“There’s a torch in the survival kit. We can use that,” I say.
Harry’s lips press into a thin line. “I don’t think using artificial light is a good idea when people are hunting us. Besides, we’re going to have to stop sometime. We can’t continue indefinitely.”
I try not to let the relief show on my face. “All right then.”
I glance around us. This is as good a place to stop as any.
The light is fading fast, the darkness transforming the forest into a scene straight out of a low-budget horror film. I half expect a guy in a hockey mask to jump out from behind a tree.
Although, at this point, I’d probably welcome the company.
“We should gather firewood before it gets too dark,” I say.
“We can’t light a fire. Too risky. It’s like waving a flag at our pursuers, telling them exactly where we are,” Harry says.
“So we freeze to death instead?”
“It won’t get that cold,” he says in a pompous, know-it-all tone.
“Are you kidding me, Harry? We’re somewhere in the Nordic wilderness in October. Cold is what it specializes in.”
“I think you’ll find the Nordic countries specialize in many other things besides the climate,” Harry says.
“Forgive me, Harry. I left my Fun Facts About Nordic Countries guidebook in my luggage. But hey, I’m really looking forward to the frostbite bringing out the blue in your eyes.”
Harry rolls his eyes, his face one of disdain, but nevertheless, the exchange has buoyed my mood.
It appears some perverse part of me likes sparring with Harry.
Maybe it’s because it’s the only normal thing I can grasp when my entire world has tipped upside down?
I might be lost in the Nordic wilderness with armed terrorists hunting me, but Harry Matheson is still an annoying prick. It’s nice to have one point of consistency in the world.
I dump the survival kit on the ground. Then, I gather the loose sticks around the clearing, stacking them into a pile.
Harry stands by the survival kit, his gaze narrowing. “What are you doing?”
“I’m gathering wood so I can light a fire.”
“If you light a fire, I’ll stamp it out,” Harry replies coolly.
We stare at each other in a standoff. Harry’s first to break our mutual glaring, glancing at the survival kit at his feet.
“What do you suggest we should do? Split the emergency supplies between us and go our own way? Say good luck and see you back at Westminster?” The animosity has drained from his voice, leaving only flatness.
At the thought of being alone out here, my heart pumps even harder than when we had an enemy helicopter hovering overhead.
“No. I don’t want to do that,” I say quickly.
Harry raises his gaze, and his blue eyes seem too bright in the dimming light.
“The only way we’re going to survive this is together.”
I swallow hard. “I know.”
Our gazes remain locked for a long moment.
Is my survival instinct stronger than my hatred of Harry? It’s going to be a difficult test.
The idea I’m reliant on Harry Matheson for my survival is abhorrent. But equally, I really, really don’t want to die.
I think of all the things that went through my brain as the plane plummeted from the sky. All the things I’ve never done. Like falling in love.
I need to survive this so I can get home and have a chance to do all those things.
I take a deep breath.
“All right, if we’re not lighting a fire, how are we not dying from hypothermia, genius?”
“We’ll manage. I saw some survival blankets in the kit. They will help us retain heat.”
“Great. Glorified tinfoil is going to be our savior.”
“We can move around if we need to keep our blood flowing.”
“Oh, a night of pacing and shivering. How delightful. And here I thought our little jaunt in the woods couldn’t get any better.”
“Our body heat should hopefully be enough to keep us warm.” Harry studiously ignores my sarcasm. “We’ll need to find something to insulate the ground we sleep on, maybe use the pine needles?”
“I guess there’s a chance we could rummage up a few pine needles from around here,” I say, taking an exaggerated look around the clearing where there is, of course, pretty much nothing besides pine needles.
Harry’s lips don’t even twitch, reinforcing my idea that Harry’s sense of humor was amputated at birth. Perhaps a sense of humor is one of the casualties of the inbreeding in the British aristocracy?
“I’m open to changing our strategy if we discover the warmth we generate is insufficient,” he says.
Fuck. I’m tempted to mock his words.
I’m open to changing our strategy if we discover the warmth we generate is insufficient. Who actually talks like that?
“You mean, we’ll light a fire if we begin to freeze to death?” I say.
“Yes, that is what I meant. Well done for having grasped it,” he says crisply.
“I probably deserve a medal for having grasped an explanation of yours, given most of the Conservative rhetoric is nonsensical,” I say.
“I, of course, have a different opinion of what is nonsense in the political discourse between us,” he says.
I have a flashback to some of the arguments Harry and I have had over the years, him always standing ramrod straight, looking down his nose at me like I’ve just suggested we solve world hunger with a global pizza party.
He’s doing it now, and despite what we’ve been through today, somehow, Harry Matheson still has that air of arrogance and untouchability.
We had to crawl on the ground earlier, and while his suit jacket and trousers definitely look worse for wear, whatever hair product he uses is obviously super strength because his hair is still immaculate.
He’s still wearing his tie, perfectly knotted.
And nothing about his superior expression has changed.
I have an overwhelming urge to grab his shoulders and start shaking him, just to see if I can ruffle some of that composure. I want reassurance that I’m not the only one feeling absolute terror and panic right now.
But Harry Matheson is more likely to start hula hooping than share his actual emotions.
So, I choose to ignore Harry as much as I can as I start scouting around the clearing, gathering handfuls of pine needles.
We set up beds for ourselves on either side of my unlit pile of firewood.
Harry takes a survival blanket from the kit and retreats to his mound of pine needles. The light is rapidly diminishing now, so Harry is reduced to an indistinct blob a few feet away.
Which is my preferred view of Harry Matheson, to be honest.
I rip the survival blanket from the packaging and wrap it around myself. It crinkles and rustles like a crisp packet in a quiet theater, announcing my every move to the world. The reflective surface makes me feel like a human-sized burrito.
“Somehow, this campfire lacks a certain ambiance,” I say.
I’m sure I hear a small snort from Harry, but it could just be the wind.
The noises in the forest seem amplified in the dark. Every snap of a twig and rustle of leaves sends my heart racing. I always thought darkness was just the absence of light, but out here, it feels more like a presence—a looming, all-encompassing entity.
I huddle in my survival blanket, and my thoughts flit back to London. I’m sure news our plane didn’t arrive in Oslo is out by now. My head hurts to imagine what headlines the tabloids will generate about our disappearance.
“What do you think is going on back at home?” I ask abruptly.
The rustling of a survival blanket floats across the unlit bonfire.