One by One

by Ruth Ware

  Ani gives a little sigh. Then she caves like wet snow.

  “Oh… okay. I suppose you only live once. You’ll make sure I get down in one piece, won’t you, Inigo?”

  He smiles and nods.

  “Miranda?” Topher says, smiling at her with all his considerable persuasive force. When he turns it on, it is not hard to understand how he got where he did. There’s something about Topher that is very, very hard to say no to. “Miraaaanda… ?”

  “Fine,” Miranda says, rather grumpily. “If we’ve got to go up anyway, I suppose it won’t make much difference.”

  And then Topher turns to me.

  “Liz?”

  So here it is, then. Why do I always seem to end up being this person—the person everyone else’s fun hinges on, the person who’s required to make a decision. I can feel myself shrinking beneath their gaze—but I have no choice.

  “Fine,” I say, but my voice sounds strained and tense, even to me.

  “Okay!” Eva says briskly. “Right, let’s regroup at the top, and if anyone gets lost, we’ll meet at the shortcut back to the chalet—does everyone remember where the path splits off? That big pine Erin showed us, the one with the fluorescent padding.”

  There are nods and murmurs of assent.

  And then it is happening. People are unclipping their bindings and shuffling forward in stiff heavy ski boots, clutching poles and skis, shoving through the turnstile barrier. There is no queue at all. The weather is too poor for that. All the sensible French are huddled in cafés having vin chaud and raclette, and we are the only people heading up the mountain, on this lift at least. I feel my heart do that sickening skipping rhythm as the bubble looms nearer and I shuffle ahead, pushing past Ani with an assertiveness that’s out of character for me. I cannot afford to get left behind.

  The bubble glides down the last part of the track, slowing dramatically as it enters the shelter of the lift terminal, and our little group surges forward and begins to clamber in as the plexiglass doors slide back. There are four seats inside each bubble, and I watch, counting under my breath as Topher, Rik, and Miranda climb in—and then it’s my chance. The lift is almost at the barrier where the door will start to close, but I go for it, lumbering towards the doors with my boots clomping on the rubber tiles. I shove my skis roughly in the pigeonholes outside, their bindings tangling with Topher’s snowboard—the doors are closing.

  “Come on, Liz!” Miranda shouts encouragingly, and I scramble through the gap, sitting down, panting as the doors glide shut and the bubble shoots away up the mountain. Yes. I have done it. I am over the first hurdle.

  I squeeze in beside Miranda, crushing my bulky jacket into the narrow gap, and she laughs.

  “Liz, how many layers are you wearing? You look like the Michelin Man.”

  Topher gives a grin.

  “Don’t knock it, Miranda. Liz might have the last laugh when we get to the top.”

  He nods at the window, and I realize he is right. As the lift climbs, you can literally feel the weather getting colder. The condensation on the inside of the bubble begins to bead, and then freeze, spreading into beautiful frost flowers as the lift climbs, and climbs, past the midway station, where the doors slide open invitingly, but no one moves.

  Then out again, and up, past the tree line, and up, up, into the clouds. I can feel the little bubble being buffeted by the wind, feel it swaying on its wire, and I have a sudden thrill of fear at what is awaiting us at the top. Oh God, am I really going to do this? Can I really go through with it? Suddenly I am not sure if I can. My stomach is sick and clenching with nerves. I have never felt so scared in my life of what I’m about to do. But I have to go through with it. I have to.

  And then the doors are sliding back and we are stumbling out into a cold so profound that it strikes right through all my layers, even inside the relative shelter of the lift terminal.

  We clip on our skis and slide out—into a white wilderness.

  It is snowing—hard. The wind is fierce and vicious, driving the snow into our eyes and noses, making everyone fumble to pull down their goggles and pull up their scarves. Between that and the cloud that has descended to wreathe the mountain, the visibility is not the miles the brochures promised, it is meters.

  I know that there should be two runs coming off from here. To the left is the black run Topher wants to do, La Sorcière. To the right is the top part of the blue run, Blanche-Neige. They meet at the second station of the bubble lift, but Blanche-Neige takes its time, curving round the mountain in gentle loops. La Sorcière, on the other hand, follows a more direct route, zigzagging down the mountain beneath the bubble lift. Direct is an understatement. We passed over the run in the lift a few minutes ago, and it looked like a sheer sheet of ice, like the side of a hill, even seen from forty feet up in the air.

  I push off, wobbling as I clear the ice from my goggles with my mittens. Ahead is a snow-covered sign that might once have been two arrows but is now nothing but an indistinct white lump. To the left there is a kind of tennis-net thing cutting off the access. By the time I see this, I’m sliding towards it.

  “Help!” I shout. There is nothing any of the others can do, and I ricochet into the net, feeling its springiness catch me across the middle. I flail for a moment, my poles pinwheeling, and then I teeter ungracefully to the ground in a clatter of skis.

  Rik comes sliding across, laughing, and helps me up.

  “You were lucky,” he yells in my ear over the shriek of the wind, pointing to the snow-blasted piste fermée sign tacked over the net. “That’s La Sorcière. You could have been skiing your first black if they hadn’t closed the piste! Or worse.”

  He is right. Beyond the net is a steep run, dropping almost vertically away. It curves around the mountain and beyond the edge of the curve is… nothing. If I had shot off the edge at speed, there would have been nothing anyone could do. I could have been plummeting to my death in the valley a thousand feet below before anyone had a chance to stop me. The thought of that fall makes my stomach lurch with nerves over what I’m about to do.

  I am too out of breath to reply, but I let him haul me to my feet and then guide me back to the others who are standing in a little huddle at the top of the blue piste.

  “They’ve closed La Sorcière,” Rik calls across to Topher, who nods bitterly.

  “I saw. Fucking pussies.”

  “Should we wait?” I hear Miranda shout. Her voice is barely audible beneath the howling of the storm. “It’s fucking freezing!”

  “I think we have to,” Rik says. “We can’t go without Ani and Carl, they’re not very experienced.”

  “They’ve got the others to babysit them,” Topher grumbles, but Rik shakes his head.

  “What if they come up separately and try to follow? Look.” He points down the mountain where a bubble lift is emerging from the clouds, a single figure inside, or maybe two sitting close together. It’s impossible to make out at this distance. It might not even be one of our party. It is so far below that the figure looks absurdly small.

  I am shaking. My heart is pounding. I can’t go through with this. But I have to. This might be my last chance—I have to say something. Now. Now.

  “I can’t do this,” I force out. Topher looks across at me, as if surprised I’ve spoken.

  “What did you say?”

  “I can’t do this,” I say louder. I am breathing very fast, and my voice is high and squeaky with a barely contained fear. My pulse is going a mile a minute. “I can’t. I just can’t. I’m not going to ski down. I can’t, Topher.”

  “Well, how do you plan to get to the bottom,” Topher says sarcastically. “Toboggan?”

  “Hey, hey.” Rik has been trying to consult his phone, but now he looks up. “What’s going on here?”

  “I can’t do it,” I say desperately, as if, if I just keep repeating this one phrase, everything will slot into place. Maybe it still will. Maybe it will all be okay. “I can’t. I can’t ski down in t
his. I’m going to die, I know I will. You can’t make me do it.”

  “Liz, it’ll be fine.” Rik puts a hand on my arm. “I’ll take care of you, I promise. Look, you can snowplow all the way down if you want to. I’ll guide you, you can hold my sticks.”

  “I. Can’t. Do. It,” I repeat doggedly. If I keep reciting this mantra, it will be okay. They can’t make me ski with them. I know Topher. He’s not a patient man. Very soon he will get pissed off with trying to persuade me and give up.

  “Fuck,” Topher says irritably. He wipes the snow from his googles and looks at Rik. “So what, then?”

  “Liz—” Rik begins, and I feel that hard thing rise up in my throat, choking me, like it did at the meeting. The bubble with the single figure in it reaches the terminal. I think I am going to be sick. It’s now or never.

  “I can’t do it!” I scream, and suddenly, out of nowhere, I am crying. The noise astonishes me—great ugly sobs, racking me. I lift up my goggles to scrub at my eyes with my frozen gloves, and the wind is so cold I can feel the tears running down my nose, freezing as they reach the tip. I swipe away the frozen drops, feeling them crackle against my skin. “I can’t fucking do it!”

  “Okay, okay!” Rik says hastily. “Liz, don’t panic, it’ll be fine. Look, we’ll sort this out.”

  There is a schussing sound behind us and we turn to see a figure skiing down the slope towards us. It is Inigo, his green jacket unmistakable even with his goggles down and his scarf pulled up. Behind him, Tiger has shuffled out onto the bank immediately outside the lift. She is sitting on the snow, fastening her snowboard bindings.

  “I’m going back,” I say, gulping down my sobs. I point down the mountain, where the empty bubble lift Inigo came up in is returning back to the valley. “I’m going to talk to the lift attendant, make him let me back in. I’ll explain I can’t do it, that it’s all been a mistake.”

  “Liz, this is fucking ridiculous,” Topher explodes.

  “What’s the matter?” Inigo’s voice is muffled from behind his scarf, barely recognizable.

  “It’s Liz,” Topher says angrily. “She’s having some kind of existential crisis.”

  But I’m not. I’m calm now. There is another bubble lift coming up the mountain, with another figure inside it. I can do this. I know what I need to do, and no one can stop me. I begin to sidestep up the slope.

  “Liz,” Rik calls, “are you sure?”

  “Yes,” I yell back, though I’m not even certain they can hear me over the wind now. “I’m quite sure. I’ll meet you back at the chalet.”

  And as I step inside the terminal building and the bubble lift doors open, a sense of peace enfolds me. I know what I have to do, and it’s going to be okay. Everything’s going to be okay.

  ERIN

  Snoop ID: LITTLEMY

  Listening to: Offline

  Snoopers: 5

  Snoopscribers: 10

  It’s nearly half past one. They said they’d be back by one at the latest, and Danny is shouting expletives from the kitchen as the minutes tick past and his risotto clogs.

  At one forty-five he sticks his head out the door with a face like thunder, and I shake my head.

  “There’s only one thing I hate more than fucking stealth vegans and that’s wankers,” he growls, and disappears, the swing door clacking behind him.

  And then, suddenly, there’s the clatter of ski boots on tiles, and I hurry into the lobby to hear noises from the ski entrance, the unmistakable sounds of people clumping along a hard floor, clanging open the heated ski lockers that line the corridor.

  “Eva?” someone calls irritably. “Eva, where the fuck are you?”

  No answer.

  Then the insulated door to the lobby swings open and Topher comes in wearing ski gear and thick socks, looking pissed off.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he says shortly when he sees me. “Where the fuck is Eva?”

  “Eva?” A retort about his rudeness hovers on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it back. “Sorry, Topher, I have no idea.”

  He stops, halfway to the stairs.

  “You mean she’s not here?”

  “No, you’re the first back.”

  He stands there, quite still, the expression on his face wavering between irritation and concern. Then he calls over his shoulder.

  “Miranda, she’s not here.”

  “You’re kidding.” Miranda is the next out of the door. Her face is bright pink, with the painful flush that always follows extreme cold. “Huh. Well… I guess at least that means we didn’t freeze our arses off for no reason. But what do you think could have happened?”

  “Maybe the lift closed before she could get on, and she skied back down into St. Antoine to get the funicular?” Topher says, but Carl has come out now and is shaking his head.

  “She got on before me, mate. She was on that lift, I’d swear to it.”

  “And I saw her,” Ani says. They gather in the lobby, sweaty and confused, melting snow dripping from their jackets. “I told you, Carl and I were coming up in the lift and I saw her skiing down.”

  “What’s the matter?” Rik says, coming through in his turn, shaking the snow off his black salopettes. Miranda turns to him, and now her face is definitely worried.

  “Eva’s not here.”

  “She’s not here?” Rik’s expression is blank. “But—but that’s not possible. There’s nowhere else she could be.”

  They all begin talking at once, offering up different theories, many of them totally impossible based on the geography of the resort.

  “Hold up, hold up,” I say, and amazingly they all fall silent. Somehow, they want leadership, and I am the closest thing to it. “Start from the beginning. When was the last time you were all together as a group?”

  “At the bottom of the Reine ski lift,” Ani says, promptly. “We had a discussion about whether to break for lunch there, or do one last run. Topher made the point that it was uphill from the ski lift to the chalet, so we had to do a run, and we agreed to go up to the top station and do either La Sorcière or Blanche-Neige, depending on ability.”

  I bite back my reply to this. La Sorcière is a bitch of a run. I’ve been skiing all my life, and there’s no way I’d do it in this weather. Even Blanche-Neige with this visibility is no joke for inexperienced skiers. Not for the first time it strikes me that Topher is kind of a jerk.

  “But when we got up there Liz had some kind of breakdown,” Topher says bitterly.

  “Toph,” Rik says sharply, with a jerk of his head towards the ski door, and I look over Topher’s shoulder to see Liz plodding wearily across from the boot room. She is covered in snow and looks utterly exhausted, even more so than the others.

  “When we got to the top the weather was pretty extreme, and Liz decided to take the lift back down,” Miranda says smoothly, but looking at Topher’s mutinous face I can well imagine the discussion that decision must have entailed. Part of me is amazed at Liz’s strength of mind, that she didn’t let herself be bullied into trying the run. But fear can make people amazingly resilient.

  “The rest of us waited up there for the others,” Topher says. “But Eva never came.”

  “But she did,” Ani puts in. “We saw her, Carl and I. Didn’t we?” She nudges Carl, who nods.

  “Yeah, no doubt about it, mate. We saw her get on the bubble a few lifts ahead of us.”

  “A few?” Topher says. “How’s that? There was no queue at all.”

  Carl reddens.

  “Well, look, there’s no point in beating about the bush. I—well I fluffed getting on the bubble if you must know. Ani and I were supposed to be getting in after Eva, but I tripped over my bindings. Fell over, and the lift doors closed, and Eva went up with my skis still stuck in the rack. It took me a few minutes to get myself sorted again, and then Ani and I caught the next lift after that.”

  “Could she have got confused and got off at the first station?” Miranda says with a frown, but Ani shakes her head.<
br />
  “No, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. I saw her, when we were coming up in the bubble. It goes right over that black piste—the really steep one that Topher wanted to do.”

  “La Sorcière,” I put in, and Ani nods.

  “That’s the one. And I saw a skier coming down it. She stopped for a second on the ridge and kind of raised her hand, waving at me. And I realized, it was Eva.”

  “How could you tell at that distance?” Rik says, sceptically. “It could have been anyone.”

  “I recognized her red jacket. It’s, like, really distinctive. No one else here has one like it, and we were the only people on that lift.”

  I look around the circle, and she’s right. Topher is in mustard and khaki, Rik and Carl are both in black. Miranda is in a kind of purple jumpsuit. Inigo has a green jacket and black salopettes. Tiger is wearing kind of shabby surfer chic that looks like an eighties denim bomber jacket and cargo pants, but that I suspect is actually pretty expensive snowboard gear. Liz is wearing a faded navy-blue all-in-one that’s too big for her and looks as though it was borrowed from a friend. And Ani herself is wearing the bright sea-blue jacket and white salopettes that I noticed earlier. None of them could possibly be mistaken for Eva.

  “When we got off at the top my skis were waiting,” Carl says. “She must have taken them off the lift and then skied off.”

  “Didn’t you notice she wasn’t at the top?” I ask, and Rik shakes his head, looking rueful.

  “No, the visibility was really poor and well… look, if you must know there was a bit of… well, argy bargy at the top.”

  Argy bargy? What the hell does that mean? I’m about to ask when Miranda butts in.

  “You might as well say it plainly, Rik. The lift attendant came out to tell us the avalanche warning had gone up to red, and they were closing the whole mountain, but half the party ignored the warning and deliberately skied off before they could get the nets out.”