Cristelle Comby - Alone Together

I wasn’t up for getting cut up yet again; the saltwater stinging at my damaged palms was bad enough. I reached out with my right arm, trying for the suitcase’s side handle while I used the other to keep away from the rocks I was being pushed towards.

But my arm wasn’t long enough and so my fingers missed their goal. Submerging myself, I tried going at it from below. I swam into the branches, reaching up once again, forcing myself closer as I leaned into the rough bark. The branches scraped at my skin but pain, like cold, was information best discarded in these circumstances.

I pushed closer until the tips of my fingers brushed against the plastic. With the waters pushing hard against me, I couldn’t help but constantly sway to the left and right of my target. That made it all the more difficult to continue holding on to the suitcase. With my lungs burning for want of oxygen, taking the damaged case out of its wooden prison was as much a struggle as reaching it had been.

While cold was information that could be ignored, its effects couldn’t. My arms and legs quickly turned into blocks of ice as the swim back to the shore took the last of my strength. The wet pebbles looked as inviting as a comfortable bed as I heaved myself onto the shore. I would have happily laid there, taking a much-needed nap, but I knew all too well the dangers of such. It’d be just a question of what would come first: the high tide or hypothermia.

With a tired sigh, I forced myself to walk to the dry clothes I’d left behind and put them back on. It was impossible to keep the tremors out of my fingers, which is why I gave up trying to zip my fly or button up my waist. Warmth , came the involuntary thought. I need warmth . It was the only thing that was going to keep the blood running through my veins, so I hugged myself hard, breathing in and out slowly.

It took long minutes of lying down, curled up in the foetal position, for strength to return to my abused limbs. I didn’t dare sit back up until I’d stopped shivering. It took longer still for me to gather the necessary energy to pry open the suitcase. My fingers and palms both kept slipping off ridiculously often while I worked the zipper open. It was as if my body was punishing me for swimming in the first place.

A large bubble of laughter escaped my lips when the suitcase revealed its contents. Underneath a pile of warm clothes, I found a folded tent. An honest to goodness camping tent, with the mosquito net, pegs, and everything. I’d never gone camping a single day in my life, but I happily unpacked the thing. It was round-shaped, the size of an extra-large pizza. I laid it flat on the pebbled beach as I tried to figure out how to unfold it.

Turns out, that was as easy as one, two, three. I took the tent out of the bag it was folded into and it popped open on its own like a ballooned jack-in-the-box. The waterproof canvas was green on the sides, orange on top, and about 90 inches long by 40 inches wide. I marvelled as I unzipped the double-layered door on the side. Crouching, I moved to sit inside, feeling like a child who’d made a fort in the living room. There was room between the top of my head and the top of the tent in the middle and plenty of space around me to take all of my stuff in with me.

My new home even had two windows, one in the front and another in the back. And a storage compartment to boot.

I went back out with a smile, searching for the best spot to place it. I set it near the footpath that I’d created to access the cove, pushing it as close to the rock formation as I could; that way, the water wouldn’t come leaping at it come high-tide. Next, I bundled everything I’d taken from the beach and gathered it close as I placed my new home.

The bag with the medicine and lighter went inside the tent. So did all my clothes. I didn’t care that my new abode would feel cramped up. I’d happily sleep in a tight ball if it meant there was room enough to keep all of my clothes dry. On top of that, sleeping in that position would keep me warm all night. The rest of the supplies and airplane parts, I piled up next to the tent’s entrance.

Once I was done, I walked back outside to take a look. The sun was setting, leaving enough light for me to marvel at the sight before me. This was more than a shelter. This was an honest-to-God home with windows and storage. It was much cosier and more inviting than that shack Anne-Marie and I had bundled together on the beach. Yes, sir, this was high-tech engineering, built to withstand the harshest of weather. While I wasn’t familiar with the tent’s brand, it had to be good quality if someone brought on a trip to Sweden.

Take that , Anne-Marie , you Swiss Army Knife of a woman , I thought with a wry smile. Turns out I don’t need you after all .

I moved back inside, closing up the first layer door. Heaving a sigh, I looked at the ocean through the mosquito net. I didn’t care what Anne-Marie thought, I’d been right to come here. Come winter, she could freeze to death on that beach of hers. My new home would be keeping me warm and dry.

Abandoning the ocean view, I started rearranging the interior. I placed a layer of clothes on the floor to sleep on and bundled up a shirt to use as a pillow. Everything else, I packed along one side of the tent. It would help keep me warm to have the spare clothes leaning against my back during the night. In the meantime, the supplies along the length of the tent would keep my heat in while keeping the cold out.

Next on the agenda was getting food and then eating it. No fish net to use—for the obvious reason that I’d never finished making it and never had the balls to ask Anne-Marie how to make the proper knots. So I took a spear and moved to stand in the icy cold expanse of blue outside my home.

It took me all afternoon to catch one small, frail-looking saithe, but I was too hungry to be picky. I just made sure to cook it crispy in my new firepit before munching on what little flesh there was beneath the dark-grey skin. I’d catch a better one tomorrow.

Once I was done, I moved into the tent, zipped the front door and the two windows closed and I readied myself for sleep. I was a little too tall for the small habitation, but I fit in just fine if I bent my knees. Small price to pay to be sheltered from the cold night wind that had started to blow in from the water and one that I paid gladly. This wasn’t the Ritz, but it would be miles better than what I’d had to be content with since the crash.

No denying that the days were getting shorter and the nights colder. Winter was just around the corner for us, so we’d need all the heat we could have if we wanted to survive until the return of spring.

Opening my eyes to stare at the empty darkness, I considered the implications behind that last thought. We were considering spending the winter here, weren’t we, fools that we were? And then what? All of next year? And the years after that? Frowning, I wondered when it was that I had stopped considering this situation as temporary. We had lives to return to, didn’t we ? I wondered.

That thought left a trail of blazing cold in my head. It made me realise how I hadn’t thought of my position with Blackfriars Bank in quite some time. Surely they must have dispatched someone else to Stockholm in my stead? If they had any sense, they’d have hired someone new. But I knew them well enough to fear they’d gone with the simpler option of sending someone from another department. Someone like… Alan Rogerson.

I groaned. That little shit-weasel had his eye on my job for close to three years now. That’d been true ever since he’d moved from his little agency in Devon up to the London Head Office. That unctuous git was all smiles and empty promises, rarely putting in the required work. I knew he only wanted the job for the airplane tickets and fancy hotel suites that came with it. And while he’d enjoy the free amenities and empty out the mini-bars, he’d bungle mission after mission, somehow managing to charm his way out of any repercussions. It was sad to think that my legacy with the company would come down to that—a forty-something dimwit who behaved like he was still twenty.