‘And do you think she’d feel betrayed? By us being friends? If you did meet another woman?’
‘Other than Bettina? No, of course she wouldn’t. She’d want me to be happy. She’d be telling me to be brave. To be fearless. To be free.’
‘You are brave,’ I say quickly. ‘And nobody is fearless, are they? We’re all a bit scared, all the time, of different things. Small things, big things. There’s always fear. That’s why I’m keeping the scar. Like a really terrible holiday souvenir. Am I mad?’
I’ve been told by the doctors here that the cut across my forehead will leave a mark, unless I get it treated by a plastic surgeon. As I speak, my hand goes up to trace the stitches. It doesn’t hurt any more – just itches, and looks terrible.
‘Probably. Most women would be horrified. But I understand what you mean – it’s a reminder. A reminder that you survived. That you might not have been fearless, but you’re still here. So in the future, whenever you’re going through something bad, you can look in the mirror, and tell yourself it will all be fine – you’ve survived worse. Either that, or you just have a bride of Frankenstein fetish.’
‘Hey, who doesn’t? She rocked that look, and her fella had a certain rough charm as well … and, yeah. Obviously, you do understand. It’s a shame you didn’t get one too. Your cuts are all babies compared to mine. You’ll only ever be able to look in the mirror and be reminded that you’re handsome.’
‘Handsome?’ he echoes, laughing. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Yeah, you are,’ I say, reaching out and prodding him on the shoulder. ‘You know, in a vaguely Viking kind of way. Like that guy out ofTrue Blood.’
‘Well, I’m not sure I trust your judgement,’ he responds, grinning. ‘You think Frankenstein is hot.’
‘You make a fair point,’ I reply, and we lapse back into a comfortable silence, both quietly smiling to ourselves as we watch the sun slide down into the mountains.
We will both always appreciate this kind of thing from now on, I think – being out, being in the fresh air, watching the sun rise and watching the sun set. Being trapped in an underground tomb will do that to you.
‘Harry and his family think we should speak to the press,’ I say, once darkness starts to settle. ‘I’m not so sure I want to, but it doesn’t feel entirely like it’s my decision to make.’
‘Is that why you seemed a bit jittery when you turned up today?’
‘Yup.’
The media has been all over this story, of course – and I understand why the world is interested. Twenty-eight people are dead, many of them tourists. A lot more are injured, some seriously. Around eighty people in total were damaged in some way – and that doesn’t even take into account the psychological toll. Even those who escaped relatively unharmed will have wounds that don’t show up on an X-ray.
Then there is the cost to the villagers – losing their homes, their cars, their beautiful church, the plaza. Maybe it will be rebuilt, but it will cost time and money, and won’t be easy.
I’ve seen pictures of villagers I recognise on the front pages of the newspapers in the hospital canteen, seen them interviewed on the TV screens. Not needing a translator to explain the tears and the pain and the sense of utter desolation.
One of the Australian girls seems to have found a place on the news most nights, and the parents of the two who died, Greta and Beth, have also been on TV. They were strangely dignified, holding it together while falling apart, thanking the emergency services and the hospital and the Mexican people for all their support.
Another local family appeared, holding a framed photo of their lost loved one, weeping. A middle-aged woman, presumably the wife, plus sons and daughters and grandchildren. When I saw the photo on a close-up, I realised it was Jorge, the coach driver. So jovial and funny and gone.
My mum’s been doorstepped back at home, and I know I’ve been in the papers and on screens too. The night we were rescued, I didn’t even notice that pictures were being taken – but sure enough, there I was, sitting in my foil blanket, looking shocked and covered in grime, gazing up at the sky. I have become famous for that tinfoil blanket.
I know Alex has received calls too, from Scandinavian papers. Neither of us has been interested in becoming a media sensation, and so far we’ve both avoided the direct spotlight.
Now, though, I feel it heading in my direction.
‘Right,’ he says, when I don’t elaborate. ‘Well, you do have a choice, you know. It is your decision as much as theirs. Why do they want to do it?’
‘I think “want” is too strong a word. But … I don’t know. It might be a good idea. John’s only just mentioned it, so I’m still settling into the idea. It was a rough day today … he really struggled. Maybe doing something like this might help him – something he feels more in control of? Something to make it more real? And, as his dad’s just pointed out to me, he’ll get paid – and in the real world, money does come in handy.
‘Rehab for spinal injuries can be long and expensive if you want what John keeps calling “the very best”. Which he always announces in this really authoritative voice, like an army major in a black-and-white film … as though everyone else should just make do with sub-standard care, and … no. That’s not fair of me. He’s just a father, doing what he can. I’m being a bitch.’
‘You’re being a human being,’ Alex replies, gently nudging my ankle with his giant boot. ‘And don’t argue with me, or you’ll feel the mighty boot of justice.’
I smile and shake my head. It’s all a bit of a mess, really.
‘I don’t see how I can refuse, Alex,’ I say. ‘For his sake.’
‘I understand that. It’s one of the things that makes you you, the fact that you can’t. But you’re in pain too.’
I shrug. ‘Not really. My arm doesn’t give me that much trouble now.’
