Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Toby
My idea is simple.
We need to look like we’ve drowned in the waterfall. And for that, we need realistic-looking Toby and Harry dummies.
We’re sacrificing clothing at a time when clothing is a scarce resource, but I can’t see any other option.
I’m glad to have an idea. I hate feeling indebted to Harry, but that’s exactly what I am right now. I would have never made it out of that river alive if it weren’t for him. I don’t want to dwell on how close I just came to dying.
I also want to distract myself from whatever the hell just happened between us.
It’s the most intimate thing I’ve ever done, huddling naked next to someone for a reason other than sex.
But when you’re trying to stop yourself from dying of hypothermia, you don’t stop to think about anything but the logistics.
Stripping off my wet clothes and huddling close to Harry’s naked body was a practical solution to the problem.
I would have huddled close to a king python if it meant getting warmer.
It was only when we’d both warmed that things started to get weird.
I’m fairly certain I saw a flare of heat in his eyes when he looked at my lips.
But what is even more disturbing is the corresponding twitch I felt in my groin.
Was it just my dick’s Pavlovian response to someone looking at me like that? Because, normally, when someone regards me with that expression, I’m about to get lucky.
Although there is a chance I’m delusional and hallucinating. That extreme fear and cold mean my brain is playing tricks on me.
The idea Harry Matheson wants me is one I need time to process, ideally when I’m not still naked under a survival blanket with him.
“We need to keep our warmest clothes, so I’m thinking we sacrifice our shirts,” Harry says because even though it’s my idea, he’s still trying to take charge.
He’s right though. Our shirts are the most obvious piece of clothing we can live without. They provide the least amount of warmth compared to Harry’s suit jacket and coat and my blazer and jacket.
“What about trousers? We can’t sacrifice those.”
“It will have to be our underwear. We can survive without underwear.”
Even though I’m currently sitting next to Harry minus underwear, the thought of permanently losing my underwear makes me squirm. I don’t want to show this to Harry though. If he can be matter-of-fact and practical, so can I.
“Looks like commando is going to be our mojo going forward,” I say.
Harry shuffles forward to reach the survival kit.
I feel the loss of his warmth from inside the blanket immediately.
And I try not to let my eyes linger on the smooth lines of his back or notice the way his body tapers to his waist. But it’s impossible when his body is right there in front of me.
His smooth, pale skin reminds me of a classical sculpture made of marble.
The Wanker Conservative Leader doesn’t have quite the same ring to it as The Thinker though.
Harry seems to become aware of his exposed skin and a frown takes over his face.
He tugs on the survival blanket from the ground beneath me.
“We’re probably warm enough for our own blankets now,” he says.
I obligingly move so Harry can whip the blanket from under me and wrap it around himself.
“Separate blankets, huh? I guess this means our torrid affair is over before it even began.” I heave a dramatic sigh.
Harry stiffens. “We need to concentrate on making these dummies.”
“I don’t know, Harry. It’s going to be hard to make a dummy to fully encapsulate all your winning personality traits,” I say.
I swear I see his lips curve slightly upward before they morph into a scowl.
“I don’t see any issue with making one for you. In fact, I find the term dummy an accurate representation of a Labour politician,” Harry replies.
My spirits lift at his words. We might be hiding together behind a waterfall rather than facing each other across the Commons Chamber, but exchanging insults with Harry is still my metaphorical comfort zone.
I look around the nook we’re hiding in.
“These ferns should be good for stuffing the shirts. They’re more attractive than what usually stuffs your shirt, anyway,” I say happily.
And so we get to work.
When I’d picked out my favorite pin-striped blue Oxford shirt yesterday morning, I had no idea it would end its life plunging over a waterfall somewhere in the wilds of a Nordic forest. Harry’s white dress shirt is about to suffer the same fate.
We rifle through the survival kit for other supplies. I find a plastic poncho and decide it can be sacrificed. Harry grabs the kit’s empty mesh bag and turns it inside out.
“We can stuff this with foliage to create the shape of the torso,” he suggests.
I gather armfuls of ferns and Harry uses duct tape to tightly bind the ends of the mesh bag. We pack the vegetation inside the poncho and the mesh bag until they are filled to our approximate body sizes.
When we’ve finished, we step back to survey our leafy doppelg?ngers. They look rather pathetic, just bundles of ferns roughly shaped like humans. But from a distance, they might pass for bodies tumbling over the waterfall. At least long enough to fool our pursuers.
“How are we going to do this?” I ask.
“We need to push them up as high as possible to make it look like we’ve just tumbled over,” Harry says.
I grab the dummy dressed in Harry’s shirt.
“Throwing you over a waterfall has always been a secret fantasy of mine,” I say.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to prevent you from indulging your fantasies,” Harry says coolly.
I can’t help giving him a wink. “I didn’t realize you were open to indulging my fantasies.”
All right, I’m trying to screw with him, make him uncomfortable.
But Harry’s gaze flies to mine, his pupils dilating, and the air is suddenly filled with more than the misting spray and the thundering noise of the waterfall. There’s something charged, almost electric.
Harry’s jaw clenches, and I see the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.
“Shall we just get on with it?” He pushes past me, his shoulder brushing against mine as he reaches for the dummy dressed in my shirt.
The survival blanket slips, and the sight of him, bare-chested and glistening with moisture from the waterfall’s spray, is enough to make my mouth go dry.
Holy, holy fuck. What the hell is happening here?
There is definitely something between us, something that feels almost tangible.
I gulp. I focus on adjusting the ferns in Harry’s dummy rather than whatever the hell else is happening between us right now.
“Do you think they’re going to fall for it?” My voice comes out weird, almost shaky, as I stand next to Harry.
“There’s only one way to find out,” Harry says coolly. “Are you ready?”
“Yep.”
“One. Two. Three.”
We both heft the dummies out through the screen of water.
I carefully watch our friendly terrorists on the opposite bank. Even from this distance, I see one of them stiffen, his head swiveling towards the falls. My heart lurches into my throat.
Then he rushes to the edge of the bank, gesturing wildly at the pool below. My muscles coil.
Two more figures join him on the bank, staring at the pool. One lifts a gun and fires into the pool.
The noise of bullets startles me. I guess they are making sure we really are dead.
Because I’m watching so closely, I see the moment when their postures relax, weapons lowering.
Shouldering their weapons, the armed figures turn away from the pool. Their movements are slow, almost casual, as if they’ve just completed a mundane task rather than attempted murder.
One of the men whistles sharply, calling the dogs to heel. Then, they begin to trek back upstream along the riverbank.
My body relaxes and relief shoots through me when they disappear out of sight.
Beside me, Harry lets out a slow, inaudible exhale. We exchange a loaded glance, communicating wordlessly.
Our plan appears to have worked.
Now, we have nothing to do but wait.
“What do you reckon we wait for an hour, and if the coast looks clear, we try climbing out?” I ask.
Harry gives a crisp head nod. “Yes, I agree.”
“While we’re waiting, you can tell me more about your sadistic boarding school,” I suggest.
Harry freezes. When he turns to look at me, his expression is icy.
“I attended a traditional British boarding school in the late 1980s and early 90s. I think the ethos behind those establishments has been discussed extensively in the media, and there is little I can add to the discourse.”
My eyebrows shoot up. I know what he’s referring to. What we British deem our public schools, which are actually very, very private and elite, have been front and center of some of the broadsheets in the last few years.
It turns out that separating six-year-olds from their families and putting them in institutions where there is minimum privacy and a lack of adult supervision isn’t a particularly good idea.
There is now a recognized psychological condition called Boarding School Syndrome, characterized by depression, problems with building relationships, and long-term emotional difficulties.
“Oh my God, that was such a politician-like answer,” I say.
“Well, I am a politician,” Harry replies frostily.
“I’m a politician too, but I would have gone with a simple ‘None of your business’ or ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’” I say.
“It’s none of your business and I don’t want to talk about it,” Harry says.
I can feel my lips twitching upward before I wrestle them back.
“Fine. What do you want to talk about then?” I ask.
Harry gives me a look. “Why do we need to converse?”
“Because the alternative is sitting here thinking about our reality, which, you know, isn’t actually much fun to contemplate right now. I’d prefer to have a conversation with you, and that really is saying something.”
“Fine. Let’s discuss all the flaws in the government’s legislation for funding the NHS that my Conservative government will be overturning immediately when we are in power.”