Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Toby
Things To Do Today:
Get further away from the armed terrorists
Find food and shelter
Try not to kill Harry Matheson
Waking up to Harry Matheson staring at me was surreal.
It took me a moment to remember exactly why Harry’s face was in my field of vision. For a second, I thought…well, let’s just say my mind had gone to a horror film scenario where Past Toby had shown a remarkable lack of judgment and taste.
I was almost relieved when I remembered we’d been in a plane crash and were currently being hunted by armed terrorists.
Now, watching Harry stalk away from me, his suit still looking miraculously unruffled, I try not to replay how it felt to have Harry’s arms around me.
I did a lot of thinking in the middle of the night when it was my turn to play sentry. And crazily enough, most of my thinking wasn’t about how to escape the predicament we’re currently in. Most of it instead was sifting through my life and my previous relationships.
I’d never realized how empty my life was until I’d talked with Harry last night.
I mean, I have lots of friends who will be worried about me right now, and I know Oliver will be extremely concerned.
But I have no partner or close family who would feel my absence on that guttural, instinctual level.
Who wouldn’t be able to imagine their life without me in it.
Although, maybe I should feel grateful for that, given our current survival chances.
Harry seems determined to ignore me as we pick our way through the undergrowth. He regularly consults the compass and adjusts his direction without glancing back to ensure I’m following him.
Given I’m—hopefully—the only human in the near vicinity, choosing to ignore me is a strategy that can’t last too long, but I let him indulge it for now.
Harry not speaking to me is a blessing I should be thankful for.
I’ve already had to use far more words on him than I usually do on arrogant toffs.
I content myself with observing his hair, which really does look like tiny pixies have spent the night using it as a cornfield to create a maze in.
Who knew Harry’s hair was naturally like that? That all it needs is the absence of hair product to be able to roam loose and untamed?
My gaze drifts from his hair to the rest of him.
Harry Matheson is a good-looking guy. As much as I dislike him, I can’t deny his aesthetic appeal.
He’s an inch taller than me, lean and haughty with it like his elegant posture reinforces his aristocratic background.
Harry wasn’t bred to work in the fields or coal mines like my ancestors.
He was bred to watch polo matches and sit sipping gin and tonic on the patio while his tenant farmers brought in the crops.
His breeding is in every elegant line of his body.
Asleep, Harry was somehow more tolerable.
I guess everyone is at their most vulnerable when they’re sleeping, and there was the way his body instinctively curled into mine whenever I shifted that left an unsettled feeling inside me.
Maybe it was simply the contrast between his sleeping form and the untouchable persona Harry has when he’s awake.
God. I’ve spent the last ten minutes trudging through the Nordic forest thinking about Harry Matheson. Definitely not at all what I expected I’d be doing twenty-four hours ago.
I force my brain to think about other, more pleasant things.
Like the fact my stomach is growling in protest due to having only fed it a single energy bar this morning.
It feels like it’s threatening to digest itself, along with some of my other vital organs, if I don’t sufficiently satisfy it soon.
At least we stumble across another stream to refill our water bottles, so thirst isn’t added to our list of steadily growing problems.
I keep reaching for my pocket, only to remember my phone isn’t there. It’s like phantom limb syndrome but for social media addicts.
My urge to Google How to survive in the wilderness has never been stronger.
I find myself scanning the forest as we walk because, as Harry and I just discussed, our supply of energy bars won’t last us forever.
Can you forage in these woods? I’m sure the ancient people who lived in this landscape managed to hustle up something to eat. There are plenty of streams, and they’ll have fish in them, surely. The survival kit has a fishing line, but what would we use for bait?
And we have no idea if we’re still being hunted by Kade and his friends. It’s probably not the time to sit quietly on the bank for an extended fishing session.
Besides, how would we cook the fish if we did manage to catch it? Building a fire is too risky if we’re being hunted. We could eat it raw, but I’m not sure if whatever fish are in the streams around here are your usual sashimi fare.
Mulling over our chances of fishing success at least distracts me from the way the straps of the survival kit are digging into my shoulders.
At first, it’s just a small discomfort, but it quickly turns into flames of pain encompassing my entire shoulders.
And it gives me a legitimate excuse to force Harry to stop ignoring me.
“Hey, anytime you want a turn carrying the survival kit, just let me know. I wouldn’t want you to feel like you’re shirking your duties and making me do all the work.
Although, I guess that is the mantra of the Conservative Party, isn’t it?
Make the little people do the work?” My words are deliberately inflammatory, hoping to get a response from him.
Sure enough, a momentary scowl comes across Harry’s face.
That’s something I’ve noticed in the last sixteen hours or so that I’ve spent in Harry’s company. He occasionally has a micro-reaction that looks like his real, genuine emotion before his usual cool mask descends. You’ve got to be watching very closely, though, or you’ll miss it.
“I am, of course, like all members of my party, perfectly prepared to take my portion of any shared burden,” he says.
“I think your tax policy may indicate something different,” I say happily as I take the survival kit off my back and hand it to Harry.
Harry effortlessly slings it across his back. “Our tax policy is designed to stimulate economic growth and encourage personal responsibility,” he says.
“Personal responsibility? Is that what you call it when the wealthy get tax breaks while the rest of us pay more?” I reply.
Somehow, as we start walking again, I’m the happiest I’ve been all day. It may be partly the relief of having a break from the survival kit, however temporary, or, perversely, it may be the argument with Harry that’s making me happy.
I may not know how to find food in the wilderness, but at least I can argue with Conservatives about their shoddy tax policy.
Although perhaps food-finding skills would be more useful right now.
“So, where are we heading? Are you planning to discuss that with me, or do you expect me to just fall in line and follow? I mean, I know you’re used to blind followers, but some of us actually require explanations for decisions,” I say.
“I’m still navigating east, away from the crash site. I’m also aiming uphill in the hope that we can survey the landscape and see any signs of habitation.”
“But if we’re in Finland, won’t east take us closer to Russia?” I ask. “Isn’t that what our potential kidnappers want?”
“Those men are not part of the Russian government,” Harry says definitively.
“How do you know?”
“Because the Russian government would have found us by now. They would have used every resource to track us down. The sky would be full of helicopters and military planes. They would use infrared technology to detect us.”
“It sounds like you’ve thought this through.”
“I had a lot of time to think last night,” he says.
A flash of guilt stabs through me because I can’t deny Harry did the lion’s share of the sentry duty last night. But that was his choice.
“If they are not the Russian government, who are they?”
He shrugs. “I haven’t figured that part out yet. But the absence of any UK search team means we were definitely off our intended route and weren’t tracked. I think they are probably searching the completely wrong country.”
“You did have a lot of time to think last night,” I say, my tone slightly bitter.
As Oliver’s chief of staff, I’d been his right-hand man in many national emergencies. Flooding in Cumbria. The airport workers strike. Terrorists attacking our embassy in Nigeria. I prided myself on my ability to give a cool, clear-headed assessment of the issue facing us.
But since we crashed, I’ve been scrambling to keep a coherent thought in my brain. The fact that Harry Matheson is showing me up with his unflappability in a crisis sits like a hard nut inside my stomach.
“Yes, I did do some thinking last night,” Harry replies, oblivious to my internal turmoil. “And I figure the only way we’re going to escape this situation is to find our own way out.”
On that positive note, we lapse into silence again.
The minutes slip into monotonous dreariness. The early sunshine fades as clouds take over the sky. I keep sending nervous glances to the gathering clouds because rain will definitely not enhance this experience.
Hunger continues to gnaw on my stomach, but I don’t say anything to Harry.
We reach a small stream, and Harry assesses the situation with a critical eye. “I believe the most efficient way to cross would be to jump.”
I eye the distance skeptically. “Are you sure? It looks quite wide.”
Harry doesn’t waste any time channeling his inner Olympian and leaps across it in a single bound.
But when I attempt, it becomes quickly apparent I lack Harry’s gazelle-like grace. I only manage to get one foot on the opposite bank before I start pinwheeling my arms like a demented windmill, my balance deserting me entirely.