Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
Harry
It’s utter chaos.
The helicopter blades beat wildly overhead, throwing pine needles, dirt, and snow into the air, stinging our faces. The deafening whir of the engines fills the air, drowning out all other sounds. Toby and I step back, shielding our faces from the onslaught of debris, squinting against the wind.
As the rotors slow, the side door of the helicopter slides open, and four men and women dressed in the uniform of the Royal Navy jump out and come rushing over to us, their guns at the ready.
One of them, a tall woman with stern features, shouts at us over the helicopter’s roar.
“Mr. Webley, Mr. Matheson?”
As if there is some uncertainty regarding our identities.
I nod in reply.
“I’m Lieutenant Commander Kathy Taylor. We need to move quickly. Are either of you injured?”
I blink at the Navy personnel huddled around us, taken aback by their appearance. They look so…clean. Neatly pressed uniforms, immaculately groomed. Even though the accent emanating from the commander’s mouth is as British as marmite, it sounds foreign to my ears.
“No, we’re not injured,” Toby speaks up.
“Where are the hostiles?”
“About five miles in that direction, over that ridge.”
She gives a grim nod, then speaks into her wristpiece before returning her attention to us.
“Let’s go. Move to the helicopter now.”
And so Toby and I cover our heads and sprint towards the helicopter’s gaping doors.
Inside, it’s cramped but warm, the heat from the engines a welcome change from the biting cold outside. I slump onto a bench seat, and a survival blanket is placed around my shoulders.
The helicopter blades begin to speed up, and suddenly, we’re airborne.
I barely have time to register that fact before a medic is assessing me, checking my pulse and temperature.
I instinctively flinch away from him.
It seems wrong to have someone other than Toby touching me. To have soft, impersonal hands rather than Toby’s roughened and calloused from wood chopping.
I raise my eyes to Toby on the opposite side of the helicopter. He’s also receiving a medical check.
He meets my gaze, and suddenly, I find myself unable to look anywhere but into his hazel eyes.
Toby and I just sit there, staring at each other. I know Toby so well, but, in this moment, I can’t read what’s going on inside that head of his. I imagine it’s like mine, a maelstrom of conflicting thoughts.
But one cold, hard fact slices through the rest of my thoughts like steel.
I was so focused on extricating us from that life-or-death situation that I didn’t stop to think through the ramifications of being rescued.
It is the end of Toby and me.
The day becomes a blur. The helicopter lands at Helsinki airport, and we’re immediately hurried into the waiting RAF Voyager and flown to Birmingham to the Royal Centre for Defense Medicine, where I’m bustled straight into a barrage of medical tests.
It’s only when a doctor is examining inside my ears that I suddenly realize Toby is missing.
“Where’s Toby?” I ask the doctor.
“Due to medical confidentiality, Mr. Webley is being assessed in a separate space,” she replies.
Medical confidentiality? It seems preposterous that anything about Toby should be kept confidential from me. I spent forty-two days living with him, learning everything possible to know.
But I hold my tongue. I’m sure I’ll get to see Toby soon.
After the doctor finishes examining me, I’m ushered through to have a shower.
The hot water beating down on my skin feels like an unbelievable luxury.
It seems unimaginable that I’ve never fully realized what an amazing experience a shower is.
I want to find Toby, because I know he’ll share my appreciation.
But when I finally emerge from the medical unit, it is not Toby waiting for me.
“Harry. Oh my God, Harry.” Prunella throws herself in my arms.
I hold her, bewildered. Prunella feels wrong in my arms. Too small, too soft.
But then the familiar citrus scent of her shampoo fills my nostrils, and I swallow the lump in my throat as I tighten my arms around her.
“Pru.”
When she draws back, I see the tears on her face. “I thought I’d lost you.”
I’m nonplussed about how to reply to that.
“I endeavored to do everything I could to return to you,” I say.
There’s suddenly a noise at the door, and it’s Toby, dressed like me in a sickly green hospital gown. It looks like he’s also had a shower because his hair is damp.
I feel an unfathomable rush of happiness at the sight of Toby.
He leans against the doorway, regarding me with the trace of a smirk. “So, did they find anything wrong with you? Besides the obvious thing of your political beliefs,” he asks.
I try to keep my voice steady. “Just the usual rapid weight loss and malnutrition.”
“I guess we did forget to eat our greens.” His smirk grows. “Which is ridiculous, given all the fields of broccoli and beans we spent our time frolicking in.”
I can’t stop the smile spreading across my face in return.
“What about you? Were you given the all-clear?” I ask.
“Yes, just nutritional deficiencies and a few infected scratches.”
“I guess we were a bit remiss with our use of Dettol,” I say.
“Yeah, I believe we were preoccupied with other aspects of our adventure. You know, like the not-dying part.”
Prunella’s staring at us, and I suddenly remember social conventions.
“Oh, sorry, I’ve neglected my manners. This is my wife, Prunella. Prunella, this is Toby Webley.”
Toby moves forward. “It is lovely to meet you, Prunella.” He gives a roguish, charming grin as he shakes her hand. “After surviving forty-two days with this one, I have infinite respect for the fact you’ve been married to him for fifteen years.”
He’s trying for lighthearted nonchalance, but something is slightly off in his voice.
Prunella releases his hand, her gaze flicking between us.
“It is lovely to meet you too, Toby,” Prunella says eventually. She tilts her head to one side, giving him an appraising look.
But before she can open her mouth to say anything more, a man appears at the door.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, there are some officials waiting to speak with you.”
My gut cramps. Of course, the debrief.
It starts out exactly as I expect. I’m in a sterile room with a woman and a man from MI6, who introduce themselves as Harpreet and Dave.
They start by asking me the details of the day of the ill-fated flight. What had happened that morning? How did I come to be running late? Who had scheduled the flight for me?
But then I’m thrown a question I never anticipated.
“Did Toby Webley seem completely surprised by the actions of your kidnappers?”
It takes a few seconds for my brain to process the implication
“Toby? You think there’s a possibility Toby was in collusion with the terrorists?”
“We need to examine every possible scenario.”
“Well, I can tell you that particular scenario is complete rubbish.” My voice shakes with anger. “Toby Webley is one of the most patriotic men in the United Kingdom. The idea he would ever do anything to undermine our country is preposterous.”
“Mr. Matheson, I’m sure we don’t need to tell you that national security was obviously breached in this case, the fact you got onto a plane with a pilot intent on hijacking you.
Our job is to investigate every single avenue of inquiry, even if you find it offensive.
Rest assured, I’m sure MI6 officers are asking Mr. Webley the same questions about you.
Do you think he will be so ardent in his defense of you? ” He raises an eyebrow.
Would Toby insist on my innocence the same way I’m insisting on his?
For a second, I imagine Toby in the room next door. I’m fairly sure he’d meet such a ridiculous suggestion with his trademark sarcasm.
Oh, so that’s why Harry was running around with an AR-17 and having secret rendezvous with men in balaclavas. Thanks for clueing me in.
Toby’s voice in my head causes a tight feeling inside my chest. But I manage to keep my voice steady as I answer. “I think you’ll find we are both completely innocent. We were simply trying to get to a climate change conference in Oslo.”
“And so talk me through the events of earlier today. How did you come to be in possession of the satellite phone to call your wife?”
I talk through yesterday’s events from the moment I realized something was wrong until I called Prunella.
Harpreet raises an eyebrow. “You mean to tell me that you and Mr. Webley, with no combat experience or weapons, decided to take on three armed terrorists?”
“Well, yes. We really had no other option.”
The two MI6 officers exchange a glance, and I see a glimpse of grudging respect on their faces.
If Toby was here, he’d be joking, telling them they shouldn’t underestimate their politicians.
And again, I can hear his voice in my head, scripting exactly what he’d say in this situation. Is that normal?
“The men we captured have been taken to a secure holding facility. But they are not answering our questions. We still have no idea about the motives behind the attempted kidnapping.”
“Do you have any idea why they might have targeted you specifically?” Harpreet asks, leaning forward in her chair. “Were there any recent threats or unusual interactions leading up to the incident?”
I shake my head. “None that I can recall.”
My voice is weary from talking. And I desperately want to see Toby.
I want to talk to him about the debrief. I want to see his reaction. I want to hear about his. I want to know every thought that’s gone through his head, what he’s said.
I didn’t even kiss him one last time.
The thought swirls in my head.
It’s still there as I finish and the MI6 agents thank me for my cooperation and tell me they will be in touch if they need anything else.
My yearning for Toby becomes more urgent by the moment. I’ve only been apart from Toby for a few hours, but it’s the most time I’ve spent away from him in forty-two days.
I need to see him.
But it is not Toby waiting for me outside the room.
Instead, Prunella is there with my parents.
My mother is teary and gushy, which is so unlike her that I don’t know how to handle it.
“You had us all so worried,” my mother says, her voice trembling as she cups my face. “I’ve been praying every day for your safe return. I’m so grateful to have you back.”
I pat her back awkwardly. “It’s all right, Mum. I’m here now. I’m safe.”
My father gives me a stiff-armed hug. “It is good to see you,” he says.
“You too.”
“I’ve been talking to Amanda. The latest polling had us neck and neck with Labour, but she thinks your return will be the game changer if it’s managed right.
The search for you has been dominating the headlines, and the media is going absolutely ballistic over the fact you’ve been found alive, as you can imagine.
“They’ll fly a team of media strategists and the party leadership up tonight.
You can meet with them as soon as you’ve been given the medical and psychological all-clear.
Rupert has been getting a bit too comfortable in the position of leader, so I think it’s imperative you take back control as soon as possible. ”
My mind spins.
Politics.
That’s right, my job.
In a few months’ time, I could be elected prime minister.
“You’ll have to get yourself cleaned up before you see anyone,” my father says. “I’ll arrange for them to get you supplies.”
Half an hour later, I’m ushered into a sterile bathroom.
When I study myself in the mirror, I almost recoil from the stranger staring back. My beard is a feral, rugged mass of untamed hair, as is the hair on my head, which is sticking out in all directions.
I start by trimming my beard with scissors, cutting away the longer, unruly bits.
Once my beard is trimmed to a more manageable length, I lather with shaving cream.
With a deep breath, I pick up the razor. I start with my right cheek, dragging the razor slowly through the foam. The scrape of the blade against my skin is a strange sensation after all this time.
And Harry Matheson slowly emerges in the mirror.
I rinse the razor after each stroke, watching the shaving cream and bits of hair swirl down the drain. With each pass of the blade, more of my face is revealed.
I work carefully around my mouth, navigating the contours of my lips and chin. The mustache is the last to go.
I rinse my face with cool water, washing away the last traces of foam. I pat my skin dry with a towel and look into the mirror again.
Harry Matheson is back. The leader of the Conservative Party. Faithful, dutiful son and husband.
I run a hand over my smooth chin, feeling the vulnerability of new skin.
My hair is still wild and unconstrained.
I’m inundated with the memory of Toby running his fingers through my hair, teasing me as he tugged on the ends, his hazel eyes full of laughter.
I have to squeeze my eyes shut to force out the image.
“Do you need anything else, Mr. Matheson?” one of the officers calls from outside the bathroom door.
I open my eyes and stare in the mirror again.
“Would you mind awfully tracking me down some hair product?”