‘Of course I will –whenwe get out of here. Whatever you want. A yurt. A mansion. A hobbit hole. You just tell me what you like, and I’ll do the rest …’
‘It doesn’t need to be big,’ I say eventually. ‘I like things that are cosy, you know? Somewhere I’d feel safe, like I had my own little nest. I’d like a garden, and windows that open out over the garden so I’d have birds to look at while I cook, and green fields and maybe the sea … just a hint would do, because even if it’s just a hint, it always gives me a sense of freedom, knowing I’m near the sea … nothing too posh, nothing too perfect, nothing where I’d feel out of place if I was wearing odd socks … though I’d be lying if I said I’d object to a Jacuzzi bath …’
I continue to talk, amazed at how many ideas I actually have for my non-existent dream house, and he asks me technical questions that engage his mind and eventually, we both settle. We settle, and are still, and I feel the warm, even breath against my forehead that tells me he is asleep.
I close my eyes, knowing I shouldn’t but unable to resist. I let my mind drift to gardens and the coastline of home, and to big blue skies and freedom. I try to ignore the dull and constant ache in my arm, the tenderness of my stomach, and allow myself to drift. Just for a second or two.
Chapter 7
A noise wakes me up, rousing me from a sleep I didn’t even notice I fell into.
I lie still, hoping it is real, that noise, not just the remnant of a disturbed dream. I glance across, see that he is somehow sleeping as well. His breath is coming in painful gusts, and his lips are moving, talking with the mute button on. I move his thick fringe of hair from a forehead that feels too warm.
I strain my ears, and am about to give up when I hear it again: muffled human voices, and the shrill background bleat of a whistle being blown. People. I use my good hand to shake him slightly, saying, ‘Wake up! Wake up! There’s someone out there!’
He shifts his position, groaning as he moves his foot, then silently listens. ‘I hear them,’ he finally says, after a few moments.
‘Thank God,’ I reply. ‘If you didn’t, I’d start to think I was going mad. Madder, anyway. What do you think’s going on out there?’
‘I don’t know,’ he answers. ‘Have you heard anything else? Any machinery or sounds of digging?’
‘No, nothing like that – but just because I haven’t heard it doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened. I think we both might have dozed off there. Isn’t that bonkers, that we can sleep?’
‘I don’t think it’s quite as restful as sleeping, is it? It’s more like going unconscious because our bodies and minds need to switch off. But … yeah. It’s been a while since we last checked anything.’
I glance at the cracked screen of the phone, and see that there is still no signal. That we have been down here for almost twenty hours.
‘We need to try and let them know we’re here,’ he says, unscrewing the plastic lid of the water bottle and passing it to me. ‘Drink this. You’ll need it for your shouting voice.’
I save him half of the tiny amount that is left, even though he didn’t ask for it, and savour the sensation of the now warm liquid in my dry mouth. By the time I’ve squished it around my gums and lips, there’s hardly any left, and what there is does nothing to quench my thirst. It’s been a long time with too little of everything.
I notice that he is speaking in a croaky whisper, and suspect I am too. I’m not sure how long either of us will be able to shout for. He is staring at the stone slab above us, and I know he is worried. That stone slab has kept us safe for all this time. Any attempt to free us could dislodge it, and if that happens, it would all be over very quickly.
He has kept the phone on, and I am grateful for the light. My corneas feel scrubbed raw by grit, and his once bright-blue eyes are now bloodshot and crusted with smeared dirt, his blonde hair matted in dust-grey clumps.
‘You look really hot right now,’ I say, laughing.
‘You too – I’ve never been trapped in an underground hole with anyone sexier. Ready?’
I nod, and we try to shout. We are both so dry, so exhausted, that we don’t make anywhere near as much noise as we’d like. We’ve tried this before, obviously – shouting just in case – and managed a lot more volume before the dehydration and dust took their toll. Still, we do the best we can, then lie and wait for a response that simply doesn’t come.
I feel the desperation and disappointment rise up inside me. I don’t know how long we can go on like this. I need to get out. I need to taste fresh air. I need to feel the sun on my face and get out of these filthy clothes. I need to drink and drink and drink, and eat pizza, and lie on a soft mattress in a big room with the windows open.
I need to find Harry, to know he is all right. I need to see Mum and Ian and tell them that I am all right. I need to see Olivia, and watch her grow up and become the amazing woman I know she will be.
I need all of these things, but I am suddenly crushed by the certainty that I will never get any of them.
‘It’s okay,’ he says, squeezing my waist to attract my attention. ‘Look at me. Don’t give up. Don’t start thinking it’s over. I have to build you that dream house, remember?’
I stare at him, trying to focus.
‘Just breathe,’ he murmurs. ‘Just breathe in, and breathe out, and don’t think beyond that …’
He holds my hand in both of his, and together we breathe.
I will not give up.
It is not over.
