by Sk Quinn
‘What’s that?’ I ask, as Patrick crouches to blow on the wood shavings.
‘What?’
‘That sparky thing you just used.’
‘Sparky thing?’ Patrick laughs, coming back onto his haunches as the fire begins to smoke.
‘That metal thing you just used to light the fire.’
‘It’s a spark rod,’ says Patrick.
‘No matches?’
‘Not out here. They get wet. And a spark rod lasts much longer. Takes up less space too.’
‘Oh.’
As the sticks begin to flicker and flame, Patrick goes to his backpack and pulls out butter, bacon, eggs, milk, apples and cocoa powder.
‘Interesting breakfast.’
‘Watch and learn. This is going to be the best breakfast you ever ate.’
‘Better than Vicky’s breakfasts in the great hall?’ I ask.
‘A lot better.’
‘You’re pretty confident. Or should I say arrogant …’
‘Just telling the truth. So. What do you think of the Mansfield Café so far?’
‘It’s lovely. Maybe not as lovely as a great big castle with a swimming pool and a chef and central heating. But lovely all the same.’
Patrick laughs. ‘What’s so great about a castle when you have all this?’ He opens his hand and waves it at the scenery.
‘Easy to say when you have a castle.’
‘I promise you, I could be penniless and castle-less and still prefer the woods to anywhere else in the world.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
Patrick takes out brown paper bags from his backpack and rubs them with rashers of bacon.
‘What are the bags for?’ I ask.
‘Cooking our breakfast.’
‘Doesn’t paper burn?’
‘Not if it’s covered with fat and sitting on embers.’
‘Oh.’
‘How many eggs do you want?’
‘Um. One?’
‘You should have at least two.’ Patrick drops bacon into the bags. Then he cracks eggs right on top.
Two in one bag. Four in the other.
‘You’re having four eggs?’ I ask.
‘A man needs a good breakfast.’ Patrick folds the tops of the bags over. ‘How do you like your eggs? Well done or well done?’
I laugh. ‘However they come.’
I do actually prefer my eggs well done. I never like it when they’re all slimy and wobbly.
Patrick takes his knife and whittles a long, bendy stick into a point. Then he spears the paper bags and holds the sacks over the glowing embers.
We sit for a while, listening to the eggs and bacon sizzle on the ashes.
11
I feel heat from Patrick’s body and smell smoke from the fire.
Birds sing in the trees and the sun peaks out over the mountains.
The air is still brisk, but it’s not as cold as it has been. In fact, it’s kind of warming up now the sun is out.
‘Ready for your first campfire meal?’ says Patrick, lifting the burnt bags from the embers.
I smile. ‘How do you know it’s my first campfire meal? I could have had campfire meals every day back in London for all you know.’
‘No. This is your first.’
‘And you know that because?’
‘I just do.’
We’re silent for a moment.
‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘It is the first time I’ve eaten over a campfire.’
‘And I told you. I already know.’ Patrick rips the tops off the bags and throws the torn paper into the fire.
It sparks and crackles and flames.
‘You like your bacon crispy.’
‘Um. Yes, I—’
‘It wasn’t a question.’ Patrick takes the bacon from the bags and hangs it over his stick. Then he holds it over the fire.
‘Bon appétit.’ He drops the crisped up bacon onto the paper-bag eggs and pushes one bag in my direction.
‘Smells good,’ I say, taking the bag and eyeing up the two well-cooked eggs. ‘Um. How do we eat it?’
‘Just pick up the bacon and eggs with your fingers.’
‘But—’
‘Don’t tell me you’re afraid to use your fingers.’
Patrick reaches for his bag and lifts a strip of crispy bacon. He throws the bacon into his mouth and crunches it. He throws me a sideways glance. ‘Eat.’
Gingerly, I pick up an egg in my fingers. The yolk is cooked all the way through, just how I like it.
I take a little bite. It tastes pretty good. All salty and bacony and smoky.
‘This tastes better than I thought it would,’ I admit. I glance at the four eggs in Patrick’s bag. ‘That’s some appetite you have there.’
‘I have to keep my strength up. Especially now I have you to look after.’
I feel a smile tugging. ‘You know, I’ve been looking after myself for a long time. Maybe I’m not the frail little woman you think I am.’
‘Out here you are. The foxes, the badgers, even the mice know more than you.’
Patrick watches the campfire. He seems so at home here. So part of these surroundings.
‘I take it you know the way back?’ I say, finishing up my eggs and bacon.
‘With my eyes closed.’ Patrick screws up his now empty bag and throws it on the fire.
‘Good. Because I’m going to need the bathroom soon.’
‘We’re not going back to the castle today.’
I laugh, thinking he’s joking. But then I realise he’s serious. ‘You … where exactly are you planning on taking me, if we’re not going back to the castle?’
‘Further into the woods.’
‘But we already are further into the woods. We’ve been walking for ages.’
‘Be prepared to do a little more walking. There’s somewhere important we need to go.’
‘Which is?’
‘The spot where the Calder women left you for dead.’
12
A jab of fear hits me right in the heart.
‘You want to take me right where they took me? You can’t be serious.’
‘Deadly serious.’
I feel the breakfast I’ve just eaten curdle in my stomach. ‘I feel like I’m going to throw up.’
Patrick looks at the fire. ‘You won’t.’
‘How do you know?’
‘You’re stronger than that.’
I swallow. ‘I’m not so sure.’
‘I am. You need to face this head on. As soon as possible. I don’t want this haunting you. I feel guilty enough …’
He gets up and stomps on the fire, kicking earth over the glowing embers.
‘You don’t need to feel guilty,’ I say, struggling to my feet. ‘You saved me.’
‘It shouldn’t have got to that point. I should have known.’
I put a hand on Patrick’s arm. ‘No one could have guessed the Calders would go that far. Mrs Calder has been with your family a long time.’
‘Come on.’ Patrick picks up the backpack and takes my arm. ‘Let’s go.’
I know it’s pointless to resist. The look in Patrick’s eye tells me he’s quite prepared to sling me over his shoulder if he has to. And besides, deep down I know he’s right. I need to face this. I need to get back on the horse.
We start to walk.
13
After a lot of walking I see an umbrella of trees up ahead.
There’s a snag of police tape fluttering from a branch. I guess for a few days it must have been a crime scene up here. While they worked out how Hawk died.
I grip Patrick’s hand tighter.
‘That’s the place isn’t it?’ I whisper. ‘That’s where they left me. And where Hawk Turner …’
Patrick’s fingers turn to steel around mine – strong and firm.
‘That’s the place.’
‘So,’ I say, my voice all shaky. ‘Now I’ve seen it. Okay?’
I’m sor
t of breathless. Like if I let go of Patrick’s hand I might fall to the ground.
‘Take it all in,’ say Patrick, pulling me closer. ‘Then let it go.’
‘I …’ I stare at the ground and remember my cheek being pressed against it. Shivering and cold. Thinking I was going to freeze to death.
To my embarrassment, I feel hot tears running down my cheeks.
I sniff and swallow, trying to stop more tears coming, but it’s no use. My shoulders shake and I turn to Patrick, sobbing against his chest.
The more I sob, the tighter he holds me.
I hear sad, scared noises and realise they’re coming from me.
‘I was so frightened,’ I stammer. ‘I thought … I really thought I was going to die. That Bertie would be alone. Defenceless.’
Patrick’s arms are hard and strong.
‘If they’d hurt you, I would have hunted them down. They wouldn’t have survived the night. Any of them.’
‘One didn’t survive the night.’
‘Don’t feel sorry for Turner. The man had no morals. No conscience. The world is better off without him.’
I push my face into the warmth of Patrick’s chest.
Patrick holds me for the longest time, rubbing my arms and stroking my hair.
‘Let it go,’ he whispers over and over again. ‘Let it go.’
14
When I stop crying and shivering, Patrick holds me at arm’s length.
‘Better?’ he asks, wiping tears from my cheeks.
I nod, looking away from him. ‘I hate crying in front of you.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I guess I hate crying in front of anyone. I don’t like to look weak. I suppose it’s how I’ve had to be. Looking after my sister and everything. I’ve never broken down in front of her. Even when things were really bad. I had to look strong. She didn’t know how scared I was sometimes. And with my boyfriends, I was always the strong one. I never let them know … when they hurt me.’
I look at the muddy ground.
‘Your boyfriends hurt you?’
‘Oh … no. I mean, not like that. It was … emotional hurt. I always pretended I didn’t care when I really did.’ I turn a toe back and forth. ‘I suppose I feel like people won’t love me if I’m weak.’
Patrick frowns and moves his face closer to mine. ‘I love you when you’re weak. That’s when you really let me in.’
I laugh. ‘Does it work the other way around? I’ve never seen you weak.’
‘Oh you make me weak all right,’ says Patrick, with a little smile. ‘For the first time in my life, I know what it is to be tame.’
‘You Patrick Mansfield? Tame? Never.’ I throw him a sideways glance. ‘Do you really like it when I’m weak?’
‘I love your strength too. But seeing your weaknesses … that’s when you’re mine.’
‘I remember doing a fair bit of shouting at you, actually …’
Patrick laughs. ‘You think you do such a wonderful job of hiding all your fears and weaknesses. But I see through you. Always.’
‘What do you see exactly?’
‘A beautiful soul.’
I blush, my eyes fixing back on the muddy ground. ‘That’s … really lovely,’ I murmur. ‘I … no one has ever said anything like that to me before.’
‘That’s because no one sees you like I do.’ Patrick takes my hand. ‘And no one sees me like you do. Come on. We need to find somewhere to eat.’
‘It hasn’t been that long since breakfast …’
‘We have a lot of walking to do today. This afternoon we’re going to find our camp.’
‘Camp?’ I ask, as Patrick pulls me away from the clearing and through the trees.
‘Yes. Camp. We’re going to spend the night out here.’
15
‘The night?’ I say, as I’m pulled over rocks and brambles. ‘Are you kidding me? Patrick. Patrick. Stop. Wait. PATRICK!’
But he doesn’t stop. He carries on pulling me between trees and over muddy, rocky ground.
I tug at his hand. ‘Wait,’ I shout, digging my heels in and pulling him to a stop.
‘Yes?’ Patrick’s blond hair is tucked behind his ears, but a few strands fall on his forehead.
‘Are you seriously suggesting we’re going to spend the night out here?’ I say, a little out of breath.
‘Yes.’
‘You can’t be serious,’ I say. ‘There’s a castle back there with warm sheets and hot water and central heating. And you want me to sleep in the woods?’
Patrick’s half smile grows. ‘You wanted to know more about me. So that’s what you’re seeing.’
‘But it’s winter.’
‘Spring actually.’
‘Oh come on. This is Scotland. Everyone knows that spring in Scotland is the same as winter.’
Patrick laughs. ‘The sun’s shining. You barely even need a coat in this weather. And if it gets cold I’ll keep you warm.’
I remember something Sharon said. About Patrick writing a survival blog.
‘Do you write about being out here?’ I ask.
‘Sometimes. If something interesting happens.’
‘Like what?’
‘Storms. Blizzards.’
‘God!’ I slap my forehead. ‘Remind me again why we’re in the woods?’
‘I prefer things natural. Why do you think I like you so much?’
That makes me laugh. ‘Me? The big city girl? Natural?’
‘You are though,’ says Patrick. ‘Believe me. There’s no pretence with you. No covering up. You are who you are. I’ve met plenty of women in my time—’
‘Thanks for reminding me.’
‘I hadn’t finished. There was a “but” coming. I’ve met plenty of women, but none who’d chase a little boy up a tree. Or talk back to Mrs Calder. Or sing like no one’s listening.’
‘That’s … a pretty lovely thing to say.’
‘Then why are you frowning?’
‘Um …’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s sort of embarrassing.’
‘Tell me.’
I cover my mouth, but I can’t stop a giggle escaping.
‘What?’
‘Sorry,’ I say, shaking my head and trying not to laugh. ‘It’s just you look so serious and …’
‘Will you just tell me what’s the matter,’ says Patrick, in a voice that says he’s losing his patience.
‘It’s just I need the toilet.’
I burst out laughing.
‘That’s not embarrassing,’ says Patrick. ‘Come on. I’ll show you where we go.’
‘We? You’re not coming with me.’
‘Why not? It’s better we both go in the same place. Otherwise we’ll confuse the animals.’
‘Patrick, you are not watching me!’
‘Who said anything about watching? Unless you want me to …’
‘Patrick!’
‘Okay, okay. I won’t watch. But you, Miss Harper, are going to have to learn to relax a little. There are no toilets out here. And no showers either. You wash in the stream.’
‘I hope you’re joking.’
‘I most certainly am not.’
‘There is no way I’m washing in a freezing cold stream.’
‘You’re blushing.’
‘Is it any wonder?’ I hop from one foot to the other.
‘Come on.’ He takes off his rucksack and throws it down. Then he grabs my hand and pulls me around a tree. ‘This is as good a place as any. No brambles. Nothing that will sting you.’ He kicks leaves aside to make a hard, muddy circle. ‘I won’t look. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ I mumble, looking at the ground.
I wait until Patrick disappears around the tree, then quickly drop my trousers.
I pee as quickly as possible, not quite trusting Patrick to keep his word. He seems to think all this is funny.
‘What about toilet paper?’ I call out.
‘We don’t use it ou
t here,’ Patrick calls back. ‘Where would we put it? I told you. Wash in the stream if you need to.’
‘No. It’s okay,’ I say, pulling up my cargo trousers.
Ew. Everything feels all wet.
I look down at the pool of wee at my feet. That’s embarrassing. If Patrick wees here too, he’s going to come round and see it.
16
‘Don’t go back there,’ I say, as I come out from behind the tree.
‘Why not?’
‘Because.’
‘I’m not going to go in a different place just because you’re embarrassed.’
‘I just don’t want you to see—’
‘You’re being ridiculous.’
Patrick marches around to the clearing and I hear him going against the tree.
When he comes back I’m laughing, but it’s an embarrassed laugh.
‘Thanks a lot,’ I say. ‘That’s the last of my dignity gone.’
‘It was a lovely puddle you left on the ground.’
I grimace. ‘Couldn’t you have just pretended that you didn’t see it? You don’t have to tell the absolute truth all the time. Sometimes a little pretence can be a good thing.’
‘I don’t want any pretence where we’re concerned. The more I see of you the better. The less pretence the better.’
‘All the same, I wouldn’t mind a bit of toilet privacy.’
‘Well you won’t get it. Not out here. You’re going to have to get closer to me than ever.’ Patrick raises a thick, dark eyebrow. His jaw goes all tense and sexy and he takes my hands.
‘You shouldn’t get embarrassed about natural things,’ he says, squeezing and releasing my fingers.
‘Maybe not,’ I say. ‘But most people do. I mean, don’t you ever get embarrassed?’
Patrick shakes his head. ‘Nope.’
‘Stupid question. Of course you don’t.’
‘It’s something we all do every day. What’s to be embarrassed about?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t know. I suppose … it’s not very ladylike is it?’
Patrick laughs loudly. ‘Who cares?’
‘But … I mean, it’s not very sexy, is it? Toilet stuff.’
‘Depends who you talk to.’
‘Please don’t tell me you’re one of those men who likes women to wee on them.’
