Read along as I write my first erotic novel. I’d love to hear your thoughts - what has intrigued you, what would you like more of, how did it make you feel. New sections posted every two weeks.
Smutty bits for paid subscribers only.
“I fucking hate this fannying around, I’m hamstrung until he gets the raw materials here.”
“Excuse me, I hate to be a bother, but do you know when there’ll be water again at Station B?”
“I saw their faces in the back of the car, trying to get out, and all I was thinking was, I’m so glad they overtook us, I’m so glad they were impatient, I’m so glad the water took them not us, I’m so glad we stopped.”
“Just who is in charge here? I haven’t seen that Camp Manager chappie in days. The children need bathing, I’m not asking for myself—”
“New arrivals! Move, move!”
“Don’t you want to touch yourself?”
I sit up in bed, suffocating, sweating. Ellen is rubbing my arm.
“It’s OK, just a dream,” she says.
But it’s not, Ellen, it’s not.
#
Kerry and I are airing ourselves in the tiny glimpse of sunshine breaking through the clouds, sipping coffee like two ladies of leisure.
“I hate black coffee,” I say.
“I hate coffee,” Kerry replies, snorting with laughter. “But when in Rome!”
We chink our keep cups companionably.
“How was your group today?” I ask.
“Weird. Like resentful more people have arrived. Like ‘it’s our camp, who do they think they are’ kind of thing. I hate humans almost as much as I hate coffee,” she laughs again.
I talk through the reasons that might be – the human instinct to form new tribes to stay alive, the comfort of being in the ‘in’ crowd, of needing there to be an ‘out’ crowd to make you feel better.
“Why can’t everyone just get along nicely?” Kerry muses.
“Well, if there was any willingness at all to do that, we wouldn’t be in this mess, would we,” I return.
“And we are in a mess, aren’t we. Not just the mud, I mean.” She looks at me, seeing if I have some inside intel I’m willing to share.
I shouldn’t share. But also I need moments like this, the coffee, the gossip.
“Well. For your ears only. I should tell you who my husband is first—”
“They’re here, we need all hands to triage, now!” Ellen runs up to us and just as quickly runs over to the next group enjoying a moment’s respite.
“Duty calls!” says Kerry as she bounces up, pulling me with her.
#
I focus on the quiet ones. If you’re shouting, if you’re in pain, there’s someone else better suited to help you.
I occasionally see Kerry, handing out quarter-filled water bottles, a smiling face amidst the tears. Joe, angry, frustrated, but keeping his team together, shouting orders, moving palettes of what we do have left for Mhairi to unpack, count, recount, calculating how they will provide for everyone, Kate at her side, grim-faced, competent. The woman from the board, I wish I knew her name, has acquired a high-vis jacket from somewhere and is in her element, giving directions, sternly ushering people into queues.
I don’t see Ellen, holed up with the medics inside the sports centre, dealing with broken limbs, infected cuts, suspected heart attacks. I don’t see who takes the dead bodies, carried over mountains and through swollen rivers, their loved ones not able to bear leaving them behind, and zips them in bags in the storeroom we call the morgue. I don’t see who takes the woman who’s had a miscarriage on the long walk here, covered in blood, apologising for the mess, and gets her cleaned up. I don’t see who holds the man who just won’t stop yelling out his wife’s name, increasingly frantic, so sure she would be here, pinning his thrashing arms to his side as he grows angry, as if we are keeping her from him. And I don’t see the Camp Manager.
Hours pass and still they come.
Hours pass and they become a blur of faces, relief, anger, fear, grief.
Hours pass and there is no rest and it’s getting dark and still they come.
And Hannah takes my arm and says, “Can you help me with someone in the prayer room, I think they might hurt themselves.” And when we get to the prayer room they are no longer there and we don’t have time to look for them because people need Hannah to be a vicar right now and they need me to keep talking, and listening, and calming, and comforting.
Hours pass and still they come, until we have nothing more to give them.
And then it starts to rain again.
#
I don’t hear the aquaplane but there’s a buzz that someone has arrived.
Someone down at the staff camp.
Someone headed up here.
Someone making their way through the rain, and the mud.
And as soon as I see him, as I look down from the prayer room window, I remember what Karl said. Mexico. Spanish speaker. Used to the terrain.
He acknowledges people on his way through the crowd, a nod, a handshake, a thumbs up, but his pace remains unbroken, intent on getting into the hospital, to find where there is greatest need.
As he reaches the steps, he throws back the hood of his waterproof, a wave of silver curling through his dark hair. He looks up, raindrops splashing on his tanned face. He squints as if focusing on me here in the window. Stupidly, I wave.
He smirks and nods, making his way inside.
#
“Halle-fucking-lujah is all I can say. We’re finally seeing some progress.”
Joe and I are at our usual table in the canteen, the only ones left, everyone else busy phoning their loved ones, getting some rest, enjoying the downtime. After four days of new arrivals the influx has finally eased, and we are all able to breathe again. The rain had held off long enough for more food and drinking water to be airdropped. And there’s a promise of the construction materials Joe needs within the week, by truck as far as they can, and then boat. It will be piecemeal, but something he can work with, easing the current situation of endless queues putting relentless pressure on the rickety plumbing of the sports centre.
All of this thanks to the unwavering determination of our new Field Coordinator, Mateo Vargas, to steer our sinking ship back to safe harbour. Karl has indeed sent us the right man for the job.
“Have you spoken to him?” I ask, not having met him myself yet, mental health not yet making it up his list of priorities.
“Aye, aye, good-humoured fella. Doesn’t suffer fools though, bit of fiery impatience in him, which I like, obviously. Especially when he had that flaky fucking Camp Manager winched back home to Daddy.” Joe laughs aloud at the memory of the poor guy dangling from the chopper, Mateo no longer able to tolerate him earnestly running around at his heels.
“Well, it’s a promising start,” I say. “Let’s hope he continues to deliver.”
“Yes indeedy,” Joe replies. “And on that note, I’m going to love you and leave you. I need to call my daughter and let her know I’m OK, I’ve had a hundred messages and not had chance to reply.”
He eases himself up from the table.
“Get yourself a good night’s sleep, Niamh, I think we can rest easy for a while now.”
#
When I get back, my tentmates are playing poker on Mhairi’s bunk.
Strip poker?
No, hush, you sound like Karl. Turns out Mhairi is a bit of a card shark, her stash of winnings piled high next to her.
“Shall I deal you in?” she asks as I enter.
“Oh, actually, if you’re all going to be up for a while, I’ll call my husband. Back in a bit!”
I head back out into the mud, wondering where would be private enough for a call. I’m exhausted, and night is starting to fall, I don’t want to be wandering around too long.
Somewhere you can get at least one boob out.