Chapter 17 #2
I pack up the contents of the survival kit to bring with us, trying to suppress my grin. Harry Matheson still wants me as much as I want him. Which means it’ll be fun to poke at him about it.
Poke him about how much he wants to poke me. There’s a certain poetry to it.
We cut through the pines towards the river. It’s more meandering here than further upstream, the sun sparkling on the river’s surface.
Despite the circumstances, I can’t help admiring the raw, quiet beauty. The air is so clean and crisp that it’s like breathing in a mint refreshment. It’s a stark contrast to London’s unique blend of exhaust fumes, kebab shop odors, and the occasional whiff of the Thames at low tide.
I follow Harry to where a flat rock juts out over a calm pool.
He edges out to peer into the pool, then looks up at me.
“Are there fish there?” I ask because, as usual, Harry’s poker face gives nothing away.
Harry nods. “Looks like a school of perch.”
I’ll take his word for it. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered fish anywhere but on my plate in a restaurant.
My barren belly rumbles at remembering all the meals I’ve eaten without a second thought, always assuming I’d never have to worry about where my next meal was coming from.
I edge closer to Harry, and sure enough, in the pool below, half a dozen silver fish with dark vertical stripes swim lazily about.
Unfortunately, when Harry dangles the grub in the pool, the fish don’t pay it any attention.
“Come on, fishy fishy fishy,” I croon softly. “Come eat our nice, juicy grub. You know you want to.”
But the perch remain unconvinced.
“Maybe they’ve already had breakfast?” I suggest.
“I think the problem is we don’t have anything to attract them,” Harry says.
“I take offense to that. I’m very attractive,” I say.
Harry rolls his eyes. “Fishing lures often have bright colors to attract the fish.”
“Hold that thought.” I rummage in the survival kit and produce one of the energy bar wrappers we’ve kept. The inside is a flashing silver.
“We could tie some of this on to help.”
Harry nods. “That’s a good idea. It could work.”
Necessity is the mother of all fishing techniques. I almost hear my mother’s voice in my head.
“I’m full of good ideas,” I say.
“Well, I agree you’re definitely full of something,” Harry replies.
I smirk as he quickly and efficiently cuts a sliver of the wrapper and ties it onto the line.
One part of me hates that Harry seems so capable with this kind of stuff, effortlessly upstaging me. But equally, there’s something inherently…attractive about someone so capable. Especially as my stomach will hopefully benefit from his capabilities.
Watching him efficiently cast the line, his forehead creased in concentration, reminds me of the same look he gets when delivering a speech in Parliament.
Only now it’s directed at a school of unsuspecting fish.
I’m watching Harry rather than the line when it happens. He suddenly jerks the line, nearly stumbling off the rock before catching his balance.
“I believe I’ve got one,” he says.
“Don’t lose it, don’t lose it,” I urge as Harry spools in the line rapidly.
A decent-sized perch breaks the surface, shimmering foil in its mouth.
I don’t see a fish. I see protein. Protein we desperately need.
Harry leans down to grab it, but just as he’s about to put his hand on it, the perch makes one last desperate bid for freedom. With a forceful twist, the hook dislodges from the fish’s mouth and the fish disappears back into the safety of the pool with a splash.
Fuck.
Harry and I both stand there, not saying anything. Harry’s nostrils pinch. I can practically hear him mentally composing a strongly worded letter to the fish, expressing his disappointment in its lack of cooperation.
My disappointment is overwhelming, but for some reason, I care about Harry’s disappointment too.
“Oh well, there’s no use crying over a lost fish,” I say.
Harry’s forehead wrinkles. “What?”
I don’t want to share my mother’s habit of twisting idioms to produce funny results with Harry Matheson.
“Nothing,” I say.
I can practically feel the waves of disappointment radiating off Harry, mingling with my own frustration. I take a deep breath, but the scents of pine and river water only serve to remind me of how far we are from the comforts of civilization and how desperately we need to catch a fish.
“We’ll try again,” Harry says finally.
“Yeah, at least we know they’ll take our lure now.”
Harry rebaits the hook and casts again. I watch the shimmering foil lure sink beneath the surface, glinting temptingly.
But the perch, apparently well-versed in the art of playing hard to get, refuse to take the bait. They swim around the lure before darting away at the last moment. It’s like watching a group of teenagers at a school dance, all nervous energy and missed connections.
My stomach hollows.
If we can’t catch a fish, what will happen to us? If we run out of energy bars, how long will we be able to survive? We’ll eventually get weaker and weaker, to the point we won’t be able to continue walking.
These aren’t really thoughts I want to dwell on.
I shift my weight, trying to find a more comfortable position on the hard rock. I desperately need a distraction from my thoughts, and Harry is my only option.
“So what do you think our esteemed colleagues are doing back in Westminster while we’re engaged in a battle of wits with a school of fish? Do you think they’re missing us, or do you think it’s just reverted back to business as usual?” I ask.
“Knowing Rupert, he’s probably already redecorated my office and changed the locks,” Harry says.
My eyebrows fly up at that.
Rupert Grange, Harry’s deputy leader, has always struck me as the kind of guy who is incredibly ambitious but without quite enough charisma to back it up.
I’m not surprised by Harry’s assessment, only that he’s chosen to share it with me.
“I’m thinking he’s already commissioned a portrait of himself to hang in the Commons,” I say, and Harry smirks.
I’m about to ask why Harry selected Rupert as his deputy leader, to see how far this confessional side of Harry will extend, when Harry’s line suddenly goes taut.
His shoulders tense. “I think I’ve got one,” he says quietly, as if he’s afraid of jinxing our luck. He starts reeling in the line, slowly at first, then faster as the fish puts up a fight.
I hold my breath, willing the fish to stay on the line. With a splash, the perch surfaces, writhing and shimmering. Before it can wriggle free, Harry swoops it onto the rock.
“Yes!” I pump my fist in victory. Up close, it’s one of the most beautiful fish I’ve seen—hopefully soon to be the most delicious.
Harry unhooks the perch and efficiently whacks the head of the fish against a rock. It stops squirming.
The suddenness of the fish’s death disturbs me. How its life was extinguished so fast. Maybe it’s too close to my darker thoughts at the moment. How close I came to dying yesterday.
Is this part of survival? A stark reminder of the precariousness of our existence?
As Harry casts out once more, I watch his capable motions with grudging respect.
He catches two more, and I never thought my mouth would be salivating at the sight of dead fish. But then again, I never thought I’d be stranded in the wilderness with my political rival either.
The fire has died to embers when we return to it, but it’s easy to coax it back to life with some TLC.
I focus on that while Harry uses the knife of the multitool to sharpen the end of three sticks to hold the fish over the fire to cook them.
Soon, the smell of cooking fish fills the air. The fish sizzle and pop on their makeshift skewers, their skin crisping and charring like they’re auditioning for a role in a post-apocalyptic cooking show.
Harry pulls one off the fire to examine it.
“How do you like your fish? Burnt or raw?” Harry asks.
“Are those my two options?”
“Pretty much.”
“Can I complain to the chef?”
“You can try. I’m not sure if he’s open to receiving feedback though,” Harry says.
I huff out a laugh.
Harry is more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him. Maybe having sex with something other than his right hand for the first time in fifteen years has made him less uptight? Maybe my gift to the planet is providing a serviceable hand to Harry Matheson.
I decide not to ruin the moment by suggesting this aloud.
Instead, I focus on the novelty of eating something besides a dry energy bar. It might be charred on the outside, but underneath, there are parts of the fish where the pinkish-white flesh is almost perfect, the flavor exploding on my tongue.
Let’s face it, my standards are not the most exacting right now.
I can’t help giving an involuntary moan of pleasure, one that has Harry glancing up.
Our gazes meet for a second before Harry drops his.
When I follow his gaze to his fish, I suddenly realize it looks like Harry has given himself all the charred parts.
“Why are you eating all the burnt bits?” I ask.
“I actually like the taste,” Harry says.
He so does not like the taste of the burnt parts. I can see it in his micro-expression of disgust as he chews a mouthful of burnt fish.
Is this just another way for Harry to upstage me?
But really, who is there to impress?
If Harry wants to prove to the grass and trees and sky that he’s more manly than me because he’ll choke down burnt fish, then good on him, I say. Especially because he’s so careful to divide the fish between us evenly and counts the burnt parts as part of his portion.
He’s almost showing socialist tendencies, being so focused on being equal and fair. I decide not to point this out to him.
Instead, I enjoy the feeling of a full belly of fish and a warm fire.
I will cherish this moment of happiness because I don’t know how many more I will get. It’s a strange thing to find joy amid so much uncertainty.
But maybe that’s what makes it so precious.