Page 68 of The Unlikely Pair

“Nothing,” I say.

I can practically feel the waves of disappointment radiating off Harry, mingling with my own frustration. I take a deep breath, but the scents of pine and river water only serve to remind me of how far we are from the comforts of civilization and how desperately we need to catch a fish.

“We’ll try again,” Harry says finally.

“Yeah, at least we know they’ll take our lure now.”

Harry rebaits the hook and casts again. I watch the shimmering foil lure sink beneath the surface, glinting temptingly.

But the perch, apparently well-versed in the art of playing hard to get, refuse to take the bait. They swim around the lure before darting away at the last moment. It’s like watching a group of teenagers at a school dance, all nervous energy and missed connections.

My stomach hollows.

If we can’t catch a fish, what will happen to us? If we run out of energy bars, how long will we be able to survive? We’ll eventually get weaker and weaker, to the point we won’t be able to continue walking.

These aren’t really thoughts I want to dwell on.

I shift my weight, trying to find a more comfortable position on the hard rock. I desperately need a distraction from my thoughts, and Harry is my only option.

“So what do you think our esteemed colleagues are doing back in Westminster while we’re engaged in a battle of wits with a school of fish? Do you think they’re missing us, or do you think it’s just reverted back to business as usual?” I ask.

“Knowing Rupert, he’s probably already redecorated my office and changed the locks,” Harry says.

My eyebrows fly up at that.

Rupert Grange, Harry’s deputy leader, has always struck me as the kind of guy who is incredibly ambitious but without quite enough charisma to back it up.

I’m not surprised by Harry’s assessment, only that he’s chosen to share it with me.

“I’m thinking he’s already commissioned a portrait of himself to hang in the Commons,” I say, and Harry smirks.

I’m about to ask why Harry selected Rupert as his deputy leader, to see how far this confessional side of Harry will extend, when Harry’s line suddenly goes taut.

His shoulders tense. “I think I’ve got one,” he says quietly, as if he’s afraid of jinxing our luck. He starts reeling in the line, slowly at first, then faster as the fish puts up a fight.

I hold my breath, willing the fish to stay on the line. With a splash, the perch surfaces, writhing and shimmering. Before it can wriggle free, Harry swoops it onto the rock.

“Yes!” I pump my fist in victory. Up close, it’s one of the most beautiful fish I’ve seen—hopefully soon to be the most delicious.

Harry unhooks the perch and efficiently whacks the head of the fish against a rock. It stops squirming.

The suddenness of the fish’s death disturbs me. How its life was extinguished so fast. Maybe it’s too close to my darker thoughts at the moment. How close I came to dying yesterday.

Is this part of survival? A stark reminder of the precariousness of our existence?

As Harry casts out once more, I watch his capable motions with grudging respect.

He catches two more, and I never thought my mouth would be salivating at the sight of dead fish. But then again, I never thought I’d be stranded in the wilderness with my political rival either.

The fire has died to embers when we return to it, but it’s easy to coax it back to life with some TLC.

I focus on that while Harry uses the knife of the multitool to sharpen the end of three sticks to hold the fish over the fire to cook them.

Soon, the smell of cooking fish fills the air. The fish sizzle and pop on their makeshift skewers, their skin crisping and charring like they’re auditioning for a role in a post-apocalyptic cooking show.

Harry pulls one off the fire to examine it.

“How do you like your fish? Burnt or raw?” Harry asks.