Page 50 of The Unlikely Pair

I carefully watch our friendly terrorists on the opposite bank. Even from this distance, I see one of them stiffen, his head swiveling towards the falls. My heart lurches into my throat.

Then he rushes to the edge of the bank, gesturing wildly at the pool below. My muscles coil.

Two more figures join him on the bank, staring at the pool. One lifts a gun and fires into the pool.

The noise of bullets startles me. I guess they are making sure we really are dead.

Because I’m watching so closely, I see the moment when their postures relax, weapons lowering.

Shouldering their weapons, the armed figures turn away from the pool. Their movements are slow, almost casual, as if they’ve just completed a mundane task rather than attempted murder.

One of the men whistles sharply, calling the dogs to heel. Then, they begin to trek back upstream along the riverbank.

My body relaxes and relief shoots through me when they disappear out of sight.

Beside me, Harry lets out a slow, inaudible exhale. We exchange a loaded glance, communicating wordlessly.

Our plan appears to have worked.

Now, we have nothing to do but wait.

“What do you reckon we wait for an hour, and if the coast looks clear, we try climbing out?” I ask.

Harry gives a crisp head nod. “Yes, I agree.”

“While we’re waiting, you can tell me more about your sadistic boarding school,” I suggest.

Harry freezes. When he turns to look at me, his expression is icy.

“I attended a traditional British boarding school in the late 1980s and early 90s. I think the ethos behind those establishments has been discussed extensively in the media, and there is little I can add to the discourse.”

My eyebrows shoot up. I know what he’s referring to. What we British deem our public schools, which are actually very, very private and elite, have been front and center of some of the broadsheets in the last few years.

It turns out that separating six-year-olds from their families and putting them in institutions where there is minimum privacy and a lack of adult supervision isn’t a particularly good idea. There is now a recognized psychological conditioncalled Boarding School Syndrome, characterized by depression, problems with building relationships, and long-term emotional difficulties.

“Oh my God, that was such a politician-like answer,” I say.

“Well, I am a politician,” Harry replies frostily.

“I’m a politician too, but I would have gone with a simple ‘None of your business’ or ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’” I say.

“It’s none of your business and I don’t want to talk about it,” Harry says.

I can feel my lips twitching upward before I wrestle them back.

“Fine. What do you want to talk about then?” I ask.

Harry gives me a look. “Why do we need to converse?”

“Because the alternative is sitting here thinking about our reality, which, you know, isn’t actually much fun to contemplate right now. I’d prefer to have a conversation with you, and that really is saying something.”

“Fine. Let’s discuss all the flaws in the government’s legislation for funding the NHS that my Conservative government will be overturning immediately when we are in power.”

“What part of the law do you disagree with, Harry? The part where it saves lives, or the part where it sets up fair remuneration for our healthcare workers, so we don’t lose them abroad?”

And we’re off in an intense debate about the intricacies of the NHS funding model.

We’re naked in survival blankets, having to lean close to each other to be heard over the noise of the waterfall, yet we can both still rattle off the statistics about waiting lists and budget allocations for medical research.