Page 33 of Swept Away

At home, we would be in A&E right now. He’d probably be bandaged up already, just waiting for a doctor to be free to suture him. We wouldn’t think twice about the painkillers he’d pop on the drive to the hospital.

“Do we have a needle and thread?” Zeke asks.

“Oh my God,” I say, lifting a hand to my face.

“It’s OK. I’m sure I can do it myself,” he says, raising his head to look down at himself. “Do we have anything like that? A needle?”

“There’s actually a mini sewing kit in my bag,” I say. “One of those hotel ones.” From a stay in the New Forest for a friend’s wedding.

“OK. Well…We’ll wait awhile. Maybe it will look better in a bit,” Zeke says.

His voice sounds strained, and I look at him closely, tracing his profile on the pillow. He’s sweating and drawn. Maybe that’s the infection setting in, the bacteria already zipping through his bloodstream.

It is totally possible that Zeke will die. Blood loss, infection—without modern medicine, those things kill you.

I have been so afraid out here on this houseboat, but I don’t think—until now—I have truly understood the danger we’re in. It’s not just the sea, the possibility of running out of food…it’s everything. Anything. The tiny dangers we encounter every day aren’t tiny here. Splinters, snagged nails, a bout of food poisoning: any one of those could feasibly kill us.

I watch as Zeke swallows, and I am hit with a sudden, searing pang of emotion. It’s not love, obviously—I barely know the man. Of course it isn’t love. But it’s akin to it: fiery, low, sweet. Somewhere between desire and grief, as bitter and strong as the way I feel for Mae.

“You’ll be OK,” I say, and I reach across to grab his hand. “I’ll wait with you.”

Zeke

It hurts. Alot. I’m still just on paracetamol—every time the pain gets bad enough that I consider asking Lexi to fetch me some ibuprofen, I imagine her having a fall or something, and needing it, and I bite the question back.

The bleeding does stop, but whenever I move around it starts again. I know what I need to do. I just…don’t know if I have the balls to do it.

Neither of us is drunk now. It’s late—Disney killed my phone, so we’ve only got the corgi clock in the kitchen to tell us the time, but I reckon it’s after ten. The stars are out, running edge to edge of the skylight. I can’t sleep. I wonder about reading the ship’s logs, like I’m looking for something that’ll hurt worse than this, but I know I’m not going to do it. I shift a bit and can’t help moaning at the pain.

“Zeke,” Lexi says. “Take some fucking ibuprofen.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. Please.” Her voice rises. She turns her head tolook at me and her expression makes me cold. “I can’t bear this. It needs stitches. It shouldn’t still be bleeding like this.”

“I know.”

I’ve known it for ages, really, but I’m so fucking scared of what happens next.

“I’ll do it,” she says, but her bottom lip is shaking slightly. “You shouldn’t have to do it yourself.”

I shake my head. That lip quiver. Lexi’s always hemming herself in, putting other people first. I don’t want to be yet another person she has to look after.

“I’m not squeamish, it doesn’t bother me,” I lie. “I’ll just do it myself.”

I take the ibuprofen and wait forty-five minutes. The cut still hurts, but it’s slightly duller, kind of like an aching tooth. Lexi boils the two thinnest needles in a pan on the gas hob, and she pours the boiling water on the thread, too, in case that helps. We chose dark purple thread. Lexi vetoes red—It’s very hard to look good in red, she says. She keeps trying to make me smile, and I do appreciate it, but fuck. It’s hard to keep smiling.

I tell her to go out on the deck so she can’t hear me.God, she says, eyes pained.If you scream, I don’t think I’ll be able to bear it. And I can see she means it—she has real empathy. I feel lucky that of all the strangers I’ve gone to bed with, Lexi’s the one who ended up here.

I manage to slosh more rum on the cut, though even that’s excruciating, but I only get one stitch down before I think I’m going to throw up or pass out. I must make some sort of noise, because the moment the needle’s through my skin, Lexi comes shooting through the door.

“You’re not doing this on your own,” she says, voice shaking. “Lie back down. I’ll go wash my hands.”

Daythree

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