‘Okay, Dr Evil, that is good news – but how do you know? I don’t see much lab equipment around here …’
He grins, and holds up the sliver of cellophane that one of the sweets was wrapped in. He grips the end between his thumb and fingertip, and I watch as it delicately twists and lifts in an unseen air current. It’s not exactly a breeze, but it’s oxygen. Delicious, nutritious oxygen. I hold my fingers to the same spot, and can just about feel it.
‘That is brilliant,’ I say, grinning. ‘I didn’t even know how worried I’d been until then.’
He nods, and screws the wrapper up in his palm. I am guessing that he also doesn’t want me to know if that precious air supply dwindles.
The two of us are crammed closely together, side by side, with about forty centimetres above us to the solid rock shelf, and maybe twice that on each side. He can stretch his arms out to the left, and reach over me to the right. I’m curled into a twisted foetal position, cradling my broken arm, leaning towards his chest.
Both of us are coated in grime and blood, and both of us are trying to hide how much pain we are in.
‘How are you?’ I ask, reaching out to tuck his hair behind his ears. He has the kind of hair that always needs tucking behind ears, but I realise as soon as I touch him that it is an intimate gesture, and I feel him tense beneath my fingertips.
I pull away and say, ‘I’m sorry.’
He smiles sadly. ‘No, I’m sorry. I’m just not used to … company, shall we say? And I’m all right, thank you. I’ve been thinking about how long we’ve been down here – looking at your phone, I’d say maybe an hour, something like that? Did you say you heard movements earlier? I’m trying to figure out what stage they might be at up there …’
‘I thought I heard something, but my ears are still a bit weird. Plus I could well have dreamed it. Are you sure you’re all right? You have so many cuts … I know you don’t want to show it because you’re worried about upsetting me, but I can tell it’s bad.’
Now we have air, I feel a lot calmer – which seems to free up some mind space for being concerned about him. I can see the shock of pain that washes over his face every time he moves. We’re both hurt, and we’re both scared, and I don’t want him to pretend not to be for my sake.
‘It will all heal,’ he responds gently. ‘I promise.’
Subject closed.
‘So,’ I ask. ‘Do you think we should try and dig our way out? Or bang and shout to attract attention?’
‘Definitely not dig,’ he replies firmly. ‘We could bang, but carefully perhaps?’
‘Well, yes. Careless banging can get you into all kinds of trouble.’
He half grins, and says, ‘Please don’t make me laugh. Comedy is the enemy of broken ribs.’
He sits up as far as he can, and slowly runs his fingers around the surfaces that surround us. He comes up with a chunk of old masonry he can just about grasp in one palm, and taps it softly against the rock above us.
It barely makes a sound, just a kind of dull thud. He pauses, waits and watches to see if it has had any effect on the stability of our refuge, and tries again, slightly harder. This time there is a small but steady trickle of loose debris from one side of the ledge, a slurry of soil and crushed brick and thick dust.
We both look on in horror, only breathing again when it stutters, slows and finally stops. He very carefully presses his fingers against the flat surface, testing for any signs that it’s about to come down, then murmurs that it seems okay.
‘All right then,’ I say, wiping my eyes. ‘Well, we’ve got a new layer of crap on our faces, but at least we’ve still got faces. Let’s look on the bright side.’
‘You were right about the careless banging.’ He offers me the water bottle. ‘Better not try that again. I don’t know how solid the layer above us is. It’s not been long, and it’ll take a while for a proper rescue response to start up. We’re a long way from civilisation.’
I take a small sip, wishing I could splash it over my face and wash some of the filth away, and say, ‘Yep. I am choosing to believe that there were survivors, and that they’ll have raised the alarm, and that someone will be looking for us. Jorge and Sofia will know who was on the coach, or someone will anyway, and they’ll be looking for us. Plus Harry …’ I tail off as I say his name, assaulted again by a strange mix of worry and guilt. ‘Harry will be fine,’ I continue firmly. ‘He’s that kind of guy. He’s too lucky to be hurt. At least I hope he is …’
‘I’m sure he will be,’ comes his response. ‘There’s no reason to expect the worst. We have to work on the basis that people will search for us, and we will be fine, and Harry will be out there waiting for you. Then you two can sort everything out – I’m guessing this kind of experience will definitely help clarify a few issues.’
‘Well, as couples therapy goes, it’s definitely original,’ I reply, trying to scrunch up my top enough to clean my face. Harder than it sounds in a confined space when one arm is a screeching beacon of pain.
‘Close your eyes,’ he says, seeing my dilemma. Seconds later I feel the gentle touch of his fingers, wrapped in the soft fabric of his own T-shirt, clearing the worst of the grit and dirt from my skin. It’s an odd sensation, and if I keep my reality sensors set on low, it’s actually enjoyable. Like having the world’s weirdest facial.
He smooths stray strands of hair away from my face, and lies down again, one hand on my waist. I’m glad of it; we both need the reassurance.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘That feels a lot better. And as for our issues, I don’t think I’ve ever felt clearer, bizarrely. I desperately want Harry to be all right – because I do love him, of course I do. We’ve been together for so long, and we know each other so well, that he’ll always be part of me.
‘I think I was using this holiday as a final chance really, a way to see what was really left between us. And you know what? This is a pretty life-changing event, right here – nothing like facing death to make you reassess life … and, well, if I get out of here—’
‘When,’ he interjects firmly.
