by Karen Swan
‘Pip, I’m sorry.’
She pursed her lips, disappointment set deep in her bones. ‘Dark Star was the perfect horse to get me started. He and Shalimar . . .’ Pip looked over at her. ‘And before you say it, don’t tell me there’ll be other horses like him, because there won’t. Not at my level.’
‘So that’s why you went all or nothing for Sean Cuneen’s horse.’
Pip shrugged disconsolately. ‘He’s not Dark Star’s quality, nothing like, but he would have been a halfway decent start block from which to jump off.’ She looked away, the corners of her mouth pulling ever so slightly downwards, a single tear rolling slowly down her pale cheek. ‘I figured the bet was the only avenue open to me: an all-or-nothing punt. Because, let’s face it, I’m never going to have the money to do it the usual way.’
Willow couldn’t disagree with that. The top horses were crazy money. Connor had told her what it had cost him to buy into the syndicate and she’d almost dropped her drink down her front.
There was a rap at the door and they both looked up.
‘Oh, hey, Taigh!’ Willow said, getting up and greeting him with a hug as Pip hurriedly rubbed out the tear staining her cheek. He was wearing his uniform and looked every bit as shattered as she; he’d been up all night too. ‘Are you clocking off now?’
‘I am. We just came back in with another patient so I thought I’d look in. How’s she doing?’ he asked, stepping tentatively into the room, his eyes going straight to the monitors and checking the numbers for himself, before looking at Pip, tiny and bundled-up beneath the covers.
‘She can answer for herself and is doing just fine. What are you doing here?’ Pip asked shortly.
Taigh looked taken aback. ‘Uh . . . I just wanted to check you’re okay.’
‘Take the gossip back to the village, you mean.’
‘Pip!’ Willow said exasperatedly. ‘It was Taigh who brought you in last night.’
‘What?’ Pip’s expression changed. She looked shocked, but also something else . . . Angry? Embarrassed? Ashamed? Willow couldn’t tell.
‘I was on duty when the call came in,’ he shrugged, almost as if apologizing to her. ‘We were just finishing up a call-out in Repley so we were the nearest responders. Got to you in four minutes, which, under the circumstances . . .’
Pip looked dumbstruck, her mouth hanging open in dismay. Were the memories from last night rushing back at her, Willow wondered? It was hard enough for her to think back over them, seeing Pip’s bright hair floating below the water’s surface; she couldn’t imagine what it must be like for her sister when she closed her eyes or tried to sleep. Was the darkness something to be feared now? Would she suffer nightmares? Flashbacks? Was she going to need counselling?
He gave an uncertain smile as her silence lengthened – no thanks forthcoming; even at a time like this, he was still not welcome. ‘Anyway, I can see you’re busy, I won’t intrude any further. I just wanted to check you were . . . good. And you are. Y’are, so I’ll head off now.’
Pip made no move to stop him but Willow followed him out into the corridor. ‘Taigh,’ she said, touching his elbow. He turned around. ‘I’m sorry, she’s . . . she’s still very shaken. She’s not herself.’
But they both knew that was a lie. She was entirely herself – Pip’s ongoing hostility towards him was the one constant it seemed they could rely on. ‘Just keep an eye on her, the shock’s going to likely catch up with her soon,’ he simply said.
‘We can never thank you enough for what you did. Mam will want to see you too, to thank you in person.’
‘I just did what I’m trained for,’ he shrugged. ‘Besides, it was you as did most of the work. If you and that fella hadn’t’ a got to her when you did . . .’ He shook his head, looking almost bewildered as he too sank back into the drama of last night. ‘Funny, but it never occurred to me she might actually be mortal. She’s always so damned tough. I think I actually did believe she was titanium-plated or something.’
‘Yes, I think we all did.’ Willow gave a snort of agreement that came out more like another sob. Her emotions were scratch-and-sniff ready. ‘It was a close call.’
He held her arms, looking at her kindly. ‘But she got through it. I’ve just spoken to the nurses and they’re minded to discharge her tonight.’
‘Tonight? But isn’t that a little soon?’
‘They’ll monitor her through the day but her body temp’s back up in normal range, chest is looking clear, although she’ll need regular checking on – you’ll need to be vigilant for a cough, chest pain, sleepiness, difficulty breathing—’
‘Oh my God.’ Willow frowned, feeling panicked. ‘How can they discharge her if there’s still all that to go wrong?’
‘Don’t worry, those are just things to watch out for. If the doctors thought she was at risk of any of them happening, they wouldn’t discharge her yet. They’ll explain all this to you in further detail when they come to—’
‘No.’ Willow shook her head, alarmed. ‘It’s not fair to put that level of responsibility upon us.’
He hesitated. ‘They need the beds, Willow.’
But she simply shook her head and clasped her arms over her chest. ‘Mam’s been through enough. You know she has. We can’t ask her to look out for signs of her daughter suddenly dying too.’
Taigh stared at her. Could he see the pain on her face? ‘Yes, you’re right . . .’ His brow furrowed as he searched for a solution. ‘Okay, look, why don’t I check in on her for the next few days? Billy’s off this week – he’s got county football trials in Cork – so I’m doing the newspaper rounds m’self anyway. I can look in, make sure she’s doing all right.’
‘Oh, would you? Thank you,’ Willow gasped, throwing her arms around him. ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s only for a few days anyway. We all know your sister. She’ll not stand for being molly-coddled for long.’
Willow winced. ‘I know. She’s going to be a terrible patient. I apologize in advance.’
‘She’s going to be even more terrible when she knows it’s me as looking after her,’ he said with a roll of his eyes.
Willow couldn’t deny it. If Pip could manage to remain frosty to the man who’d brought her out of hypothermia, she wasn’t going to be tolerant of his community care visits. ‘Tell you what, if you survive it, I’ll buy you a drink to say thanks,’ she called after him as he walked down the corridor, heading for the exit.
‘A drink?’ he scoffed. ‘You’ll owe me the whole damn pub by the time she’s done.’
‘Ottie, where are you?’
She frowned at her lover’s unexpectedly snappish tone of voice, changing gear as she turned right and pulled away from the castle gates. It was dark again, her main beam sweeping over the sturdy trunks of ancient elms and oaks, and she realized she’d not seen daylight today. ‘I’ve got you on Bluetooth. I’m in the car. I’ve just dropped Mam and Pip and Willow back from the hospital.’
‘. . . The hospital? What were they doing there?’
Ottie felt a jolt of surprise to realize he didn’t yet know about the crisis she’d just lived through. It hadn’t occurred to her to call him – partly because he was uncontactable, competing in the race, but also because it hadn’t crossed her mind. Family was all she’d been able to think about, comforting her mother as she sobbed in the hospital cafe.
‘I’ll . . . I’ll tell you when I see you,’ she said instead, not wanting to go into it over the phone. If she had to recount the horror of nearly losing her sister ten days after their father, she wanted to do it with his arms around her. ‘What’s wrong? You sound stressed.’
‘You could say that. Look, I need you to get over here.’
‘What, now?’ Rockhurst, his estate, was a twenty-five-minute drive from here and after a day spent being pummelled by the weather yesterday, almost no sleep last night and hanging around the hospital all day today, she wanted nothing more than her pyjamas, a vat of tea and to watch TV in be
d. Even he couldn’t tempt her out.
‘Right away. We’ve got an unfolding situation and I need everyone back on site.’
‘Uh . . . okay.’ He was speaking to her like she was an employee, his voice distant and distracted. What was happening over there? ‘But—’
‘Come straight to the main tent.’ And he hung up.
Ottie pulled into the bus stop and stared at the Call Ended sign. What was going on? With an exhausted sigh, she turned the car round in a three-point turn and headed back into town instead, past the church and the village green, past the butcher’s and the Stores and the post office. The race bunting was still threaded up between the lamp-posts but it was past six now and that meant the Kilmally Ultramarathon was officially over for another year.
She exited the village and headed deeper into the narrow lanes, her main beam bouncing off hedgerows, glancing across an owl sitting on a low branch. By the time she crossed onto Flanagan land twenty minutes later, the first stars were already beginning to stud the night sky. She drove down the farm track away from the main house – a neo-classical stuccoed mansion Shula’s father had owned – towards the staging camp for the Ultra event. It was set up in a large field, a marquee and two bell tents set inside the gate.
She parked where she could on the hard standing – there was only so much mud her Mini could take – and got out. There were dozens of people milling around. Surprisingly many, in fact. She knew she’d have just missed the prize-giving ceremony, it was always held around now – the winners fully rested after several hours’ rest, the stragglers only just over the line – but it was unusual for so many to have stayed gathered here. Most of them needed help getting in and out of cars, or on and off chairs, their bodies were so wrecked. Staying to party or celebrate seemed unlikely.
She wove through them to the marquee; the ground was rough and uneven underfoot, but nightlights had been set up on posts so that people could move about clearly – a twisted ankle on the way back from the registration tent was not what any of these competitors needed.
She lifted the flap of the tent and ducked in, stopping in surprise at the sight of all the race marshals and stewards in their yellow high-vis vests, Bertie standing on an apple crate at the front and holding a microphone. His eyes grazed over her but he did nothing to acknowledge her summoned presence. He gave no sign that she was extraordinary or special to him, that he was pleased to see her. He gave no sign in fact that he’d even noticed her at all, but then they were both well practised at hiding an elephant in a room.
‘– all to check your records and write down on the map here, the time he passed you. When we’ve been able to establish the last stop he was recorded as passing, then we’ll know where to start looking. Please, hurry now.’
He stepped down from the box, wincing as he did, his own body clearly battered. She watched him as he made his way through the crowd towards her. He was limping slightly, his gaunt cheeks covered in a greying stubble. Several people stopped him, wanting directions or clarification or leadership, and he pointed in the direction of the far corner, where the other stewards were now huddling like a herd of sheep in the snow.
‘Hey,’ he murmured. He looked exhausted, utterly spent, and all she wanted was to throw her arms around him, to tell him about the horrors of her day and hear about his. Instead, she stood by impassively, not able even to extend a hand towards him in public.
‘What’s going on? Has something happened?’
‘We’re a man down.’
‘Sorry?’
‘We’re a racer short. He is recorded as having set off but he hasn’t finished and the marshals have checked the course three times on the quads – there’s no one still running out there.’
Ottie frowned. ‘So, he’s lost?’
‘Looks that way,’ he sighed. ‘It’s a pain in the arse but clearly we’ve got to find the guy.’
‘Right,’ she said, rubbing her hands over her face. This was the absolute last thing she needed.
He looked down at her properly then, seeing the tense set of her bones. ‘You said you were at the hospital earlier. What’s happened with you? It’s not Serena, is it?’
Her mother? Why would he think that? She frowned. ‘No, she’s fine. It was Pip.’
‘Pip?’ he echoed, as though nothing could ever be wrong with her.
‘She was at a party last night and got drunk and –’ The recklessness, the sheer stupidity of the act twisted itself around her again like a wind. ‘And she ran into a freezing cold lake. Very nearly drowned.’
‘Jesus God!’ Bertie exclaimed loudly, looking horrified. Several people turned around to stare. ‘But she’s okay?’
‘Yes, she’s going to be. Luckily there was a row boat and they managed to get her out in time. But she’s been in hospital under observation all last night and today.’
‘Jeesht, poor Serena.’ He ran his hands down his face. ‘It’s true what they say – it doesn’t rain but it pours. Christ.’
Ottie stood silently. It hadn’t somehow been the unburdening she’d expected.
He placed a hand on her arm, an avuncular gesture of sympathy should anyone be watching. ‘Well, listen, I’m sorry to have called you up here. If I’d known . . . But I just need to see your records from yesterday. Have you got them?’
‘Sure.’ She’d remembered to bring her backpack out from the car, knowing she needed to give back her pass and clipboard anyway.
She pulled it out and handed it to him. Immediately, he began scanning down the sheets, one finger sliding down the paper, top to bottom. He went through all eight pages and then double-checked again.
‘Nope. He never got as far as you.’ His frown deepened. He looked genuinely concerned.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Well, it’d be one thing if he lost his way during the night stretch, but you were in one of the first stages of the race. Even with the storm, light and visibility were still fair at that point.’ He turned and started heading towards the large course map on the board in the corner. ‘Who was manning Kinaughton Point?’ he called.
Ottie followed after him as they pushed into the crowd. Kinaughton Point was the preceding steward station eight miles before hers.
A hand went up. ‘Me!’
Bertie went and stood in front of the man, his blue eyes piercing in their intensity. ‘Did 271 pass you?’
‘Aye, at . . .’ The steward checked his notes. It was on the first page, right at the top. ‘Seven forty-seven.’
‘And the next runner after him was . . .?’
‘069 at seven fifty.’
‘06 . . .? That was me,’ Bertie exclaimed. His gaze met hers. They both remembered perfectly well him arriving at her station, his hands up her shirt. He quickly looked down again, scrutinizing her notes. ‘And I got to the next stop at eight thirty-six.’
But runner 271 hadn’t. Somewhere between the preceding station and hers, he’d disappeared. Early in the morning, early on in the race . . .
‘Could he have just given up? Walked off the course without telling anyone?’ she asked.
Bertie gave a scoffing laugh and the crowd around them broke up into a buzz of chat and speculation. ‘No. Absolutely no way,’ Bertie said. ‘He’s got way too much invested in this to just do a disappearing act. Not only is 271 one of the race leaders, he’s also the Ultra Patagonia Champion and the Ultra Atlas Champion. He doesn’t need to do this race to qualify for the Mont Blanc next month – he’s just using it as a training run.’
This was a training run? So he hadn’t been boasting then? Ottie’s eyes widened. The Ultra Mont Blanc was the Olympics of the extreme endurance world: 106 miles run up a 10,000-metre elevation. The winner of that race held the World Title. Not only that, she had spent enough hours lying in bed next to this man – obsessive, competitive, driven – to know he had offered a one-million-euro pot to anyone who could pull off the hat-trick of holding all three Ultra titles at once. Bertie figured his money was safe. I
n the seven years that the offer had been set on the table, no one had managed it yet.
He addressed the crowd directly. ‘Number 271 has not – excuse the pun – done a runner. And it isn’t viable to think he got lost on a clearly tracked course in broad daylight. So we have to conclude he’s injured,’ Bertie said solemnly. ‘Most likely badly. He must have slipped and fallen somewhere or he’d have been seen by the marshals or other runners. It’s the only thing that makes sense.’
He walked over to the map and drew two large red circles around Kinaughton Point and Devil’s Fork, where she’d been working. She could imagine him in the army, commanding his men, issuing orders. ‘From what we can gather, it appears he’s disappeared between these two stations. An eight-mile stretch. Now, for much of that, the track there is below the ridgeline and cut into the cliffs, which means the search area will be commensurately narrow – he couldn’t and wouldn’t have gone up. This is both a good and bad thing as it means he can only be below.’
A grave hush fell over the room. Everyone knew what that meant. The land was steep there; a fall could very well have meant an unstoppable slide down the slopes, over the cliffs and into the sea.
‘But let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ Bertie said authoritatively. ‘We have several advantages here to work with – a narrow search area within a known stretch, and . . .’ His voice failed as he realized that was it; the only positive to be had. ‘So let’s get out there and find him.’
Ottie looked around at the sea of worried, unfooled faces. This runner had been missing for thirty-four hours now, last sighted and recorded at 7.47 a.m. yesterday. That was thirty-four hours in which no one had noticed and no one had looked for him. The weather conditions had been harsh all day yesterday and temperatures had plummeted overnight beneath the clear skies so he had to be presumed injured and exposed? It wasn’t called the Wild Atlantic Way for nothing.
