Page 31 of Swept Away

Zeke claps a hand to the wound and then lets out a rawahof pain. The blood seeps between his fingers, a vibrant, childish red. His T-shirt is already darkened and wet. I look up and meet his frightened eyes.

“We need to…” I don’t know what to say. What we need to do is ring 999. I’ve just sliced his midriff open. But there’s no 999, nophone at all. There’s just me and Zeke. “Stop the bleeding,” I manage. “Can you—can you walk? Bathroom?”

I slide the door open—it jars and catches, and I swear under my breath as I shove it back. Zeke steps through behind me, bent over himself, as though he has a stitch. I scrabble for the first aid kit and unzip it after three tries, my careful inventory forgotten—I haven’t a clue what we’ve got in here, or even what I’m looking for. As I dither over plasters and little tubes of cream, fear singing through me, Zeke grabs his towel from the rail and presses it against his stomach, then lowers himself to sit on the lid of the toilet.

“Yes,” I say, meeting his eyes fleetingly in the mirror above the sink, and then looking away. “You should…Yeah. Sit down.”

“I’m OK, Lexi,” Zeke says, voice labored.

I look down at my shaking hands and realize I’ve not put the knife down yet. I drop it in horror, and it clatters into the sink, leaving a thin streak of Zeke’s blood against the bowl.

“Honestly, I’m OK.”

“I’m so sorry,” I breathe, bracing myself against the sink. “What the fuck were we doing, drinking all that alcohol?”

I’m still drunk; my thoughts won’t seem to come into line. What do we do? What do we do?

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as it looks. It doesn’t even really hurt,” Zeke says, moving his legs gingerly. His foot brushes mine. “Should we wash it? Maybe with seawater—would that stop it getting infected? Or is that stupid?”

The wordinfectedpasses through me like it’s made of steel. You need antibiotics if a cut gets infected. We’ve only got a tiny first aid kit, plasters, one out-of-date tube of antiseptic cream.

“I don’t know,” I say, scrubbing at my face to try to sober myself up. I stare at my reflection in the mirror—I look awful. Pale and red-eyed, my hair desperately in need of a wash. “Seawater has saltin it, which is good for infection, but it’s also got bacteria in it, too, right?”

I look down at the miniature first aid kit in the sink and pull out a tube of Savlon. Its use-by date says it expired in 2020. I chew the inside of my cheek, trying to work out the relative risks. How bad can antiseptic cream go? Will it just be less effective, or does it go nasty?

“The alcohol,” Zeke says suddenly. “The gin, and the rum. Alcohol sterilizes stuff, right?”

“Yes!” I’m already heading for the cupboard, abandoning the Savlon in the sink.

The door to the drinks cupboard is still hanging open. I present the two bottles to Zeke, who stares at them, blank-faced with shock.

“The rum?” I say, when he says nothing. “I’m not sure you want a load of fragrant botanicals in there.”

He takes the rum, breaking the seal with a grimace.

“Do I just…chuck it on?” he says, lifting up the towel slightly, averting his own gaze from his stomach.

“Yeah, I think so?”

It occurs to me that it might hurt, but before I can warn him, he’s done it, and hescreamsbetween his teeth, hunching over himself. His pain is so audible I can almost feel it.

“Oh my God,” I say, pressing my hands to my face.

“It’s OK, it’s OK.” His breathing is labored. “The burn’s easing off already.”

I turn back to the sink. I can hardly bear to look at him. I did this. Me, waving a razor-sharp knife around when I’ve been drinking red wine since lunch. It’s so irresponsible it takes my breath away.

“Lexi, will you just stop for a second?”

I’m fumbling around with the Savlon again, trying to open the jammed, dried-up tube. The lid comes off and flies out of my hands, skittering off toward the base of the toilet.

“It’s OK. The alcohol just hurt, that’s all. It’s not so bad now. It’s only a cut. Look.”

“I don’t want to,” I say, but my eyes are drawn to him in the mirror as he lifts the towel away from his stomach.

I turn. His T-shirt is bloodstained from the ribs down, a solid, unpleasant shade of brown. He lifts the fabric to reveal the skin beneath, shifting his weight with a wince, and the blood runs fresh as he moves, another quick, slick gulp of dark red. The wound is stretched wide, grotesque and meaty, as broad as a smiling mouth.

“Hmm. When I imagined doing this,” Zeke says, “I sort of thought you’d be able to see less of my insides.”

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