Page 37 of Fix Them Up
Camp chair
Camp table
Lantern
Fairy lights
Ididmove out of the house. Technically. The day after Liam’s visit, I walked to the little hardware store on the high street. The owner, Ravi, was a sweet, shy man dressed in a leather apron with Heath Hardware embossed on the front. He helped me pick out what I needed – a tent, a sleeping bag, a headlamp, and a lantern. All things suggested when I’d googled ‘camping essentials’. For once, I thanked my neurodivergence for allowing me to think outside the box. This was genius. Not only had I resolved the issue, but I’d already planned exactly where to pitch my tent so Liam and the crew wouldn’t see my set-up from the house when they arrived tomorrow.
Ravi helped me with my haul to my Uber, the grey sky above us. I wasn’t risking walking down the high street and someone recognising me. I’d give it an hour before Liam or Lydia found out. Everyone knew everyone here.
‘I hope that’s everything you need. If you think of anything else, just let us know. If there is anything we don’t stock, I can order it for you,’ Ravi said warmly.
‘Thank you so much, Ravi. I’m sure I’ll be back.’
Almost a week here, I was still shocked to find everyone so welcoming.
Did I love it or hate it?
As I assembled my tent half an hour later, a little guilt crept in about my ‘technical manoeuvring’ around my agreement with Liam. But I knew it was better this way. I would be comfortable with my own company, even if that comfort were the cold, hard ground.
I rubbed my shoulders as the chilly evening set in, glancing up at the sun that was setting behind a thick blanket of dark grey clouds. I climbed into my tent and shuffled into the sleeping bag, pulling a Kindle out of my bag and did a little wiggle of excitement. This was cosy, a perfect backdrop for the fantasy series with fairies that Willa had recommended. I felt truly immersed into the story as the characters camped across ancient woods. I got to a spicy scene set in a tent, which was very… enlightening when the rain began.
It’s fine, I repeated to myself. I’d expected some rain at about seven p.m.
The pitter-patter of the rain was nice anyway – nature’s ASMR.
Twenty minutes in, the gentle pitter-patter morphed into an onslaught, and I couldn’t concentrate on the words on the screen. The rain pelted the tent, and the sound became deafening. I put my hands over my ears.
The wind picked up.
A gale whipped my tent from side to side.
‘Fuck,’ I shouted when the water began to seep into the tent, which I had to admit was on the cheaper side.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ I muttered as I tried to find where the water was coming in. I blocked it with some of the blankets and towels, which worked well.
I sighed and settled back into my sleeping bag. No excited wiggle this time, but it was fine. Everything had a thin layer of mist, but I wasn’t a quitter.
I frowned when I heard what sounded like a branch breaking.
A wet panel of tent hit my face.
It wasn’t a branch that snapped.
It was one of the tent poles.
‘For fuck’s sake!’ I shouted as more water began to trickle in. I shoved my boots back on and climbed out, tried to wrestle the tent pole back into shape. I cursed my dad for not teaching me how to camp properly on all those trips to Cornwall or the Cotswolds.
Rain pelted against my face, and my hair and clothes were soaked. Deep down, I knew that even if I managed to get the tent back up, I would never be able to get dry and warm again.
It was hopeless.
I gave a useless, frustrated cry.
Then, the garden lit up, light cutting through the heavy sheets of rain briefly before it was extinguished.
Through the rain and darkness, a figure approached the garden through the side gate, and my heart started to pound quickly. Great, now I was going to be murdered in my own garden.
