by C. J. Cooke
I dump my bags at the youth hostel and set about scavenging for grub.
I head into the pub and lo, Luke and Theo are standing right in front of me with a couple of beers. I can tell who’s who by the choice of outfit. Luke’s dressed like the eighties vomited all over him. Neon pink leggings, white leg-warmers, a Bon Jovi T-shirt and blue goggles over a black bandana. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s wearing a leopard-print thong. Theo’s dressed like he’s recruiting for the SAS: khaki everything, even the boots. A girl is with them. She must be Luke’s girlfriend, Helen.
When Theo catches sight of me he leaves the table and walks quickly towards me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and effectively spinning me the whole way around.
‘Hey,’ he says, nudging us to a table on the other side of the pub.
‘Theo, can you get off me,’ I say, breaking free. I glance over at Luke who is deliberately avoiding eye contact. ‘What’s all this about?’
He sighs, puts his hands on his hips. ‘Look, I know you had a problem with Luke’s girlfriend coming on this trip. I just want you to … stay calm, you know?’
‘I am calm. I’m as calm as a cucumber patch.’
He tilts his chin. ‘You being sarcastic?’
He hates it when I rip the piss out of him. ‘What are you, his bodyguard?’
I catch Luke glancing over to check out my reaction. Theo takes out a pack of cigarettes.
‘Smoke?’
I shake my head.
‘Go on, have one.’
I relent with a sigh. He lights it for me, sits down and invites me to join him. I won’t, so he stands.
I met Luke and Theo two years ago, when we starting a degree in Medieval Literature at Oxford University. They’re twins, both six foot two, blonde rugby-playing public schoolboys who scored straight As in their exams. Both on a full-ride scholarship. Not that they need it; their folks made a fortune in the tech boom in France. They’re identical twins but you can tell them apart. Theo wears glasses, has recently grown a Musketeer moustache, and his personal style is somewhere between misunderstood genius and Kurt Cobain, but even if you closed your eyes you’d pick them out by their voices. They’ve lived all over the world but spent most of their lives at boarding school in Cambridge, though Luke’s accent is still more Oz than Brit with the occasional French twist. Theo’s is perfected Norf Landan.
It’s their personalities that really set them apart. Luke’s an arrogant git but can be good fun when the mood takes him. Theo’s Luke’s shadow, a classic introvert. He prefers to sit in a corner with a beer and a book but he goes to the pub with us out of duty to Luke. He can be weird. He sees a psychiatrist every week. Luke says Theo’s Theo-ness is down to their time at boarding school in Melbourne. A soft-natured three-year-old crying for his mum makes easy prey for bullies and cruel teachers and I reckon he’s never shaken that complex.
And now it seems we’re bringing one of Luke’s groupies along. This Helen. It was only meant to be the three of us. I’ve never even met her. She lives in London and Luke only sees her at weekends. I’ve nothing against girlfriends, or girls for that matter. I’m sure girls can climb just as well as blokes. But she’s never climbed before, and I know exactly what’s happened: she’s one of these possessive types that can’t let Luke out of her sight. He tends to date girls who’re messed up and needy, the ones who only came to Oxford because their folks pressurised them, wanting to make good on years of private school fees, but who are starting to go slightly crazy from the pressure. His last girlfriend got him into cocaine. I’m no angel but I draw the line at the hard stuff. That, and I don’t have any money.
Anyway, the point is that this trip is no stroll in the park. It takes training, strength, stamina and experience – with a good dollop of common sense – to climb Mont Blanc, and if I’m honest even I feel a wee bit intimidated. People have died doing this climb. I’ve spent the last three months training to make sure I’m up to it. What if she has an accident, or freaks out? What if she decides halfway up that she wants to go home? It’ll wreck the trip. A once-in-a-lifetime trip that’s costing an absolute fortune. Luke and Theo’s folks are loaded, so they don’t care how much it costs. But for some of us this means living on beans and toast for the next six months.
I thought Luke was kidding when he first mentioned about a girl tagging along. When it seemed he was actually serious, I tried to get him to see sense. Gently, then with more muscle. Meaning that I plied him with vodka.
‘This new girlfriend,’ I said, once he’d knocked back the fifth glass. ‘The one who’s apparently coming with us to the Alps. Won’t she feel a little like a third wheel?’
‘Fourth wheel,’ Theo corrected.
‘Don’t get what you mean,’ Luke said, lighting a cigar and swearing when the match burnt his fingers.
‘Not exactly a girl’s thing, is it? A twelve-day peregrination up a mountain.’
Luke sniffed at this. Peregrination was his word. He’s such a snob when it comes to language. Why say ‘trek’ when you can say ‘peregrination’?
Luke took a drag on the cigar and blew a thick O of smoke in my direction. ‘Helen’s up for it,’ he said. ‘She’s into that kind of thing.’
‘There aren’t any showers in the Alps. Twelve days without washing, mate. Girls can be a bit funny about that kind of thing. You sure she’s up for that?’
Luke leaned into me until his nose almost touched mine.
‘Michael, my love, she’ll be fine with that.’
‘Can she actually climb?’ I said.
A grim look. ‘Can you?’
‘This isn’t a walk in the park, Luke. It’s the highest mountain in Europe.’
‘It’s the highest mountain in Europe,’ he parroted in a high-pitched voice. ‘She’s fitter than you are, mate. She’s a ballet dancer. Fit as butcher’s dogs, those girls.’
‘I’m sure Helen’ll love being compared to a dog,’ Theo said.
‘Dancing’s hardly climbing, Luke.’
‘What I mean is, she’s athletic …’
‘I’m not risking my neck with an amateur.’
He frowned. ‘So you’re saying you won’t go if she does?’
I took a long drink of my beer, enjoying watching him sweat, his eyes turning nervously to Theo. The thing is, we work very well together as a trio, particularly as Luke finds his twin boring and strange. He spends most of his time trying to palm Theo off on to someone else, occasionally paying other guys to take Theo out for a beer, but Theo prefers to be in Luke’s shadow. And I’ve a knack for getting on both Theo’s and Luke’s level, so I’ve assumed the role of go-between, a stepping stone for their disparate personalities. I’m able to bring out the best in Theo, thus making his constant presence (‘like a frickin’ tumour,’ Luke likes to say) bearable and occasionally pleasant.
‘Come on, Mikey,’ Luke said, backpedalling. ‘This is our epic adventure. It won’t be the same if you don’t come.’
I shrugged, gave him a look of sorry-but-that’s-how-it-is.
He leaned back in his chair, glanced at Theo. ‘We could ask Oliver if he’ll take Michael’s place.’
Theo nodded.
‘Oliver?’ I said. ‘Who’s Oliver?’
‘He’s in Theo’s Old Norse class. Said he’d like to come. He could take your place, Mike. You could maybe even sell your plane ticket to him …’
‘What?’ I said panicking. ‘No! I mean …’
Luke grinned. He knew he had me. He knew better than I did how much I wanted this climb.
‘We’d prefer you to go instead of Oliver, mate,’ Luke said, wrapping an arm around my neck and putting his cigar to my lips. ‘But if you’re a widdle bit afwaid of a girl …’
I shoved him off. ‘Alright,’ I said. ‘I’ll go. But on one condition. We stick to the walking trails. No climbing. No abseiling.’
‘Piss off,’ Luke said. ‘You’re suggesting we don’t actually climb the mountain? What would be the point in g
oing?’
Luke raises his head as I make my way towards the table. He gives me a big cheesy grin and actually stands up to give me a big ‘come here, you’ bear hug which we both know is an attempt to butter me up. I was sure she wouldn’t come. Luke is all-or-nothing, always acting on impulse, so it was likely that his spur-of-the-moment decision to bring her along would be dropped as fast as it was raised.
‘This is Helen,’ Luke says. I grin at the girl beside him, who blushes and says hello. She’s tall, about five foot nine, blonde hair worn in a plait, skinny but not anorexic. A bit shy, and preppier than I expected, with a slender face and high cheekbones, a look of a librarian about her. ‘I’m Michael,’ I say, offering a hand as she seems the sort of girl who does handshakes. A surprisingly firm grip. ‘Nice to meet you,’ she says, and I try to force out the same response but can’t. She’s pretty, though, in a way I didn’t expect. She seems … normal.
‘Nice to meet you, too.’
The words stick in my throat. After all, I finished with Nina a month ago on the basis that I’d be heading off to the Alps for a fortnight and wanted to be free to do as I pleased. Nina might have mentioned that she wanted to see other people the night before but that isn’t the point. I made sacrifices, dammit.
‘I hope you don’t mind me gate-crashing your trip,’ Helen says, sliding her eyes to Luke who shakes his head as if to say, of course not. Git.
‘Yeah, not at all,’ I say, lying through my teeth. ‘The more the merrier, right?’
Later, we head outside for a practice climb up one of the crags ten minutes from the village. It’s the size of a skyscraper but still looks puny compared to the mountains. Seems we’re not alone in this idea, either – about a dozen other climbers are scaling the crag with us. An older couple from New York City, a bunch of tie-dyed, weed-smoking hippies from Portugal, and some plaid-wearing members of a Welsh photography club.
Helen looks visibly nervous about climbing this size of peak and I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from calling it out to Luke. If she can’t manage this, how’s she going to manage Mont Blanc? He spots it though, and subtly suggests we take the walking trail that winds around the side of the crag, avoiding the rocks. Theo finds a ledge about six hundred feet above the valley and we all take a breather, sitting on the big slab with our legs dangling. Luke produces a box of cigars from a pocket in his trousers and passes them round.
‘Mate,’ I say, my mood rising considerably. ‘You’re the best.’
‘There’s more,’ he says, unzipping another pocket.
‘What you got in there?’ Helen says, wiping her face. ‘A parachute so we can all just float back down instead of climbing?’
‘Even better, my love, even better,’ Luke says, pulling out a flask. ‘I’ve got … whisky.’
Helen doesn’t look thrilled but Theo and I are all over it, and in a handful of minutes Luke’s tapping the bottom for the last dregs. I lie back, my legs dangling over the edge, nothing but air between me and death six hundred feet below. The moon is a Cheshire cat’s smile in an inky, cloudless sky.
‘There she is,’ Luke says, leaning towards Helen and pointing at the whitest peak. ‘Mont Blanc. The imaginatively-monikered “white mountain”. Highest mountain in the world.’
‘Western Europe,’ Theo corrects.
‘Highest mountain in Western Europe,’ Luke says sourly.
We sit for a moment in the still warm air, looking over the silhouetted peaks towering above us and the lights of Chamonix below, the hostels and alpine huts glimmering and small as a gingerbread village. To the right I can make out movement, or what looks like a stream of ants hustling along a narrow trail. I take out my binoculars and there they are: hordes of climbers already setting off on the trail.
‘Feels like we’re going on a pilgrimage,’ I observe, stupidly.
‘You bring your rosary with you, then?’ Theo says.
I pass the binoculars to Luke and he glowers at the people heading off. ‘This isn’t a pilgrimage, it’s a traffic jam.’ He looks over the lights in Chamonix and I read his mind: we didn’t think there would be so many hostels. ‘Thought we’d be doing this alone,’ he says. ‘Just the four of us.’
‘Like the four horsemen of the apocalypse?’ Theo says.
‘You’re so competitive,’ Helen tells Luke, rubbing his arm.
‘You say that like it’s a bad thing,’ Luke says, kissing her hand.
‘It’s not like there’s someone at the top handing out awards for whoever arrives first,’ Helen laughs.
Theo shrugs. ‘You never know.’
‘The summit is its own reward,’ Luke says.
‘So you won’t be bothered if I get there first?’ Helen says, and I see Luke’s face fall.
‘Not at all.’ He breaks into a beaming grin, then slaps me and Theo on our backs before tilting his head to the sky.
‘I love you guys,’ he says, then adding: ‘and girl.’
‘Luke, babe, don’t take this the wrong way,’ Theo says. ‘But … I’m not snogging you. Don’t care what you give me. I draw a line at tongues. Pecking is fine, but snogging – no. I’m your brother and it’s wrong.’
Helen laughs out loud while Luke and I lie on our backs sending loops of smoke drifting into the night air. I don’t say it, and this is a rare feeling for me, but right now there is simply nowhere else I’d rather be.
6
Helen
30th August 2017
‘Mum!’
Reuben is running down the hospital corridor towards me, his arms spread wide. He presses his face to my chest and I give a loud cry of relief. There’s a nasty bruise above his right eyebrow, some cuts and dried blood on his forehead, his T-shirt smeared in blood, but otherwise he seems fine. I start to sob – relief or fear, I can’t tell – and he starts to cry, too.
‘Can we go home now, Mum?’ he says, trying to climb on to my knee. ‘I want to go home, OK? Let’s go home.’
‘OK,’ I whisper weakly, wiping tears off my face. ‘We can go home. I promise.’
I tell him as gently as I can not to sit on my lap and hold his hand tightly. The nurse says something that I make out as an urge to keep going, so I tell Reuben to stand and we’re off again, the nurse pushing my wheelchair briskly along the corridor as Reuben staggers alongside me with both hands holding one of mine.
When we turn into a side room I see a figure lying on the bed. Strips of white tape run across his nose, chin, forehead and cheeks, holding a series of tubes and valves leading from his mouth to a monitor by his side.
Slowly I’m skewered by the realisation that this bloodied, unconscious figure is Michael. It’s a realisation that seems to stop time. Trembling, I move closer. A bloodied ear, a small patch of his beard, two blood-encrusted nostrils and a pattern of dried blood on his shin.
‘Why’s Dad not waking up?’ Reuben says behind me. ‘Wake him up, Mum! Wake him!’ His cries wrench at my heart. I try to console him but I grow more and more upset by his distress.
A doctor comes into the room and introduces himself as Dr Atilio. ‘This is your husband?’ he asks me.
I’m gasping for air and my heart is racing. I’m in the grip of a major panic attack.
‘He was awake when the soldiers brought you here,’ I hear the doctor say, though he sounds distant, far away, as though I’m underwater. ‘He is falling in and out of consciousness.’
It’s only when I see Reuben from the corner of my eye and remember that he’s in the room that I somehow find the strength to stop and hold myself together. I hear myself tell Reuben it’s alright, everything is OK, but nothing could be further from the truth. I’m chanting the words over and over to help regulate my heart rate. The nurse moves me close enough to take Michael’s hand. It is limp and covered in dried blood.
I can’t believe this is happening. I can barely breathe. My thoughts whirr and strain to find answers, solutions. I remember with a hard punch to my chest the sight of Saskia on th
e ground in front of the car.
‘Where is my daughter?’ I shout frantically. ‘Her name … Her name is Saskia. Saskia Pengilly. She’s seven years old, she … she has blonde hair, she was wearing a stripy T-shirt …’
‘We will take you to her,’ the doctor says, and they wheel me abruptly out of Michael’s room towards another ward further along the hallway.
The sight of Saskia on the bed is like a fist slammed into my face. She’s hooked up to machines, there are blood stains on her pink cotton dress, her small, limp hands are bruised and painfully gashed. It is unbearable.
I start to shake, a strangled scream escaping from my open mouth. Even when Reuben starts slapping his head I can’t stop. A nurse appears at my side, pulls the waistband of my shorts down below my hip and sticks a needle in my backside.
Blackness.
‘The lady, she come here for see you.’
A nurse is leaning over me and adjusting a tube in my arm. The room is swaying. Another woman comes into focus. Slim, young. Bobbed black hair, red lipstick. Wide smile. A suit.
‘I’m Vanessa Shoman,’ she says, stretching out a hand. ‘I’m from the British High Commission. The doctor told me that your family had a car accident.’
The knowledge of why I’m here hits me like a wrecking ball. An invisible force sweeping me off my feet and landing me somewhere else in time, outside my own body. Horrifying fragments of the crash flash painfully across my eyes. I wrap my arms around my legs and howl in the space between my knees. I remember crawling on all fours to reach Saskia. She was lying on the ground, about ten feet ahead of the mangled hire car. I remember it was raining and there was glass everywhere. Saskia wouldn’t move. I was screaming for her to wake up.
