Page 12 of Swept Away

“The cleat,” he says. His voice is still quiet, but there’s an edgeto it now. “On the pontoon. And no, I didn’t. Because you were supposed to do that.”

“You think this is my fault?” I say, voice rising.

“Well, I don’t think it’s mine.”

With his jaw clenched and fear all over his face, he looks about eighteen. Which isn’t that far off, really. He is just a kid. Which means I have to be the adult here, when all I want to do is panic.

“We need to stay calm,” I say, looking back at the rope with another lurch of nausea. It’s just looped there, lying against the round punchbag-type things that hang on the side of the houseboat to stop it getting damaged if the water jostles it into the dock. Or the pontoon. Or the…whatever-it’s-called.

Zeke breathes out slowly through his nose. “You’re right. It doesn’t matter how we got here. Just how we get home.”

“Our phones,” I say, scrabbling in the back pocket of my trousers. Never have I felt so grateful to hold my mobile in my hand. It lights up, showing my screen lock image: Mae beaming and bright-eyed on the beach, trousers rolled up to her knees, arms upstretched to the sky.

There are a few WhatsApps waiting from Marissa, and one from Penny—Lexi, please, just call me. On the top right of the screen there’s an empty triangle and an exclamation mark. No signal.

If I was scared before, now I’m terrified. Horrified.

No signal? At all? Not even one of those random letters that comes up sometimes, an E, an H?

“Is your phone…”

“No signal. I can’t even call 999.” His voice is heavy with horror. “I thought you could always call 999.”

“I think phone signal goes if you’re far enough out to sea,” I say. I’m flicking through my phone settings. My battery is at thirty-six percent. “Shit. I’m going to turn mine off, save battery.”

“We might just be in a signal black spot. How far could we get in, what, ten hours?” Zeke asks, swiping his hair out of his face with both hands, one still clutching his phone. He blows out between his lips. “Maybe twenty kilometers?”

“Twenty kilometers?”

“Yeah, now you say it like that, it sounds quite far,” Zeke says, voice weak.

I have to get back before anyone finds out what’s happened to us—I can’t have Mae knowing I’m in danger. I lean against the large wheel fixed to the body of the boat. My hangover loiters at the edge of my consciousness: slick, sweaty hands, dry throat, pounding head.

“That bang we heard last night,” Zeke says, staring at me. I see myself reflected in his pupils, a tiny person, small and lost. “I bet that was us hitting something as we floated out of the marina. The seawall, maybe.”

“Can we steer this thing? Get the motor going?” I say, realizing the significance of the wheel I’m currently propped against. It looks ridiculously oversized, as if it belongs in aPirates of the Caribbeanfilm, but presumably it isn’t just ornamental. There’s a white tarpaulin here, retracted so this section of the boat is exposed to the sun and connects seamlessly to the deck, but it’s definitely some sort of steering…space. There are dials and handles and a lever that looks like it’s from the TARDIS.

“I don’t think so,” Zeke says, swallowing. “Battery’s flat. When I bought it, your friend said the houseboat needed refueling.”

I flinch at the reference to Penny. She really did sell it without telling me, then. Penny,myPenny, who always cuts herself shaving (Lex, it’s happened again! Bloodbath! Bring chocolate!) and who once described talking to me ashaving an inner monologue. Thinking of her makes me want to turn my phone back on; my phone is never off. But if the battery dies…

“Would a houseboat like this have a radio, or a sea…phone,do you think?” I say, trying to remember the few times I dropped in to check on the boat for Penny.

“Dad never had that sort of stuff. Would your friend have installed anything?”

I make a face. Penny outsourced general upkeep of the houseboat to a local agency, but I think they were just responsible for plugging holes and varnishing things, not installing radios. And there’s no way Penny would have sorted that herself. She’s really not a details person.

“I’ll go look,” Zeke says.

He ducks back inside. I let out a slow, shaky breath and try experimentally turning the wheel. Nothing happens. I’ve never had a panic attack before, but I’ve seen people have them on the telly. Maybe I could give it a go. I have the vague sense that it would make me feel better, like the thought of throwing up when you’re nauseous.

“No sea phone,” Zeke says shakily, reemerging up the steps. His pupils are so dilated his eyes look black. “Not that I can see anyway.”

The fact that he has taken my “sea phone” term and run with it is not encouraging. One of us, ideally, should know what that device is called.

“I have to get back,” Zeke says, his voice a little strange. “I have to work tomorrow. I’m booked on the three-fifteen train home.”

There is a pause as we dip gently back and forth on the ocean and contemplate how surreal concepts like trains and homes and jobs feel right now.

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