by Chris Ryan
Max stood up and looked at the slope. The rain was still lashing, and visibility was getting worse.
He put his hands to his mouth. ‘Jordan! Can you hear me?’
The others started shouting Jordan’s name again, but there was no reply, just the relentless blast of the wind and the rain. They fell silent and peered into the mist. There was no way of knowing how far Jordan had fallen. Fifty metres? A hundred? Was he alive?
There was only one way to find out.
Max realised the others were all looking at him. ‘Where did he fall?’
Suze pointed. Max nodded. ‘I need the rope,’ he said. ‘All of it.’
‘Max,’ Mickey called weakly, ‘don’t go over the edge. Get to the bottom of the mountain. Call for help then.’
But Max shook his head. ‘That could take hours. If Jordan is still alive, he needs help now.’
‘What do you care?’ Suze asked. ‘He was so mean to you.’
‘I’m not saying we’re going to be best friends,’ Max replied. ‘Where’s that rope?’
They had five loops. Max gathered them up and tied them end to end using secure reef knots. He found a protruding rock near where Jordan had fallen and looped the midpoint of his rope around it. He shouted Jordan’s name again. There was no response. With his back to the slope and clutching the double length of rope, he passed it between his legs and round one hip. He then passed it up across his front and over his left shoulder, then round his neck and along his right arm. This was the Dülfersitz abseil position. He’d read about it in books and online. There was just one problem: he’d never done it before.
‘First time for everything,’ he said under his breath.
‘What?’ Suze shouted at him.
‘Nothing.’ He threw the leading end of the rope down the slope with his right hand, and held the anchored end with his left. He let the rope take the weight of his body, then carefully stepped backwards down the slope.
It was steeper than the opposite side. Or maybe it just seemed that way. Max felt as if he’d left his stomach on the top of the ridge. He gradually let out a little of the rope in his right hand and descended a couple of metres. The rain beat hard against his face and the rope dug painfully into his body. Already the top of the ridge was obscured by mist. And there was no way back up. The only way now was down.
Max tried to shut out the fear, and continued his descent.
A minute passed. There was another crack of thunder. A flash of lightning, uncomfortably close. He called for Jordan. Nothing.
Two minutes.
Three.
He had no way of judging how far he’d descended because he couldn’t see more than a few metres in any direction. All he could do was focus on his rhythm: small steps backwards, gently easing out the rope that burned through his wet hands.
At some point he would run out of rope. What then? He had been abseiling for five minutes when his right heel hit a small rocky outcrop. He looked over his shoulder. It was about a metre wide and bulged a little way out from the slope. Max stopped for a moment. This was a precarious spot, especially in this wind. Should he continue descending? Or should he stop here and reset his ropes?
He made the decision to stop. Breathlessly, he unwound the rope from his body. When it was loose, he tugged the right-hand strand. The left strand slid upward. Max kept pulling until finally the entire rope slithered down the mountainside into a heap at his feet.
The rope was sodden. It took a minute for Max to unravel it. Once more he found the midpoint. He hooked the centre loop over the outcrop and rewrapped it round himself in the Dülfersitz formation. He jumped backwards, praying that the rope would take his weight again.
It did. Max continued his descent.
The mist started to clear so gradually that he didn’t notice it at first. But after a couple of minutes, his visibility increased to ten metres, then twenty. The rain was still heavy, but at least he could see around him. He looked over his shoulder, left and right, his eyes narrowed as he scanned the area beneath him.
It was a shock to see how close he was to Jordan. He lay directly beneath Max, on his back on a fairly level part of the slope. He wasn’t moving. Max felt momentarily sick.
He kept going. A minute later he was alongside Jordan and unravelling the rope from around his body. The tarn he’d seen from the top of the ridge was about twenty-five metres away, hazy through the elements. He quickly knelt down beside Jordan. Jordan’s face was bruised and bloodied. His eyes were closed.
‘Be alive,’ Max whispered. ‘Be alive!’ He felt Jordan’s wrist for a pulse. It was weak, but it was there. He put his wet hand up close to Jordan’s mouth and nose. He could feel breath. There appeared to be no head wounds or bleeding. Jordan was unconscious, but miraculously alive.
He was also still wearing his rucksack. Max gently rolled him on to one side into the recovery position. It gave him access to the rucksack. He felt inside for the solid brick of the sat phone, praying it wouldn’t be damaged. It seemed okay. He powered it on and dialled 999.
‘Emergency services.’
Max’s voice was raw and hoarse as he shouted, ‘Mountain rescue! My name’s Max Johnson. I’m on Helvellyn. Striding Edge. It’s an emergency! I need mountain rescue! Now!’
The waiting was the worst bit.
Max felt his body temperature dropping. Now that he was standing still, the pounding rain was sucking the heat out of him. He busied himself by attending to Jordan. His pulse was still weak. Max checked it every thirty seconds, ready to perform CPR if it stopped. In the meantime, he tried to keep his patient warm. He rubbed Jordan’s hands and fitted his own hat over his head. Then he removed his waterproof jacket and laid it over Jordan. That meant Max would grow colder faster. But Jordan’s need was greater.
Max looked around. How would mountain rescue find them? Max had only managed to give them the sketchiest idea of their position.
He heard it before he saw it. A distant, regular beat of rotary blades. The wind and rain made it difficult to tell which direction it was coming from. But then he saw a kind of shadow in the clouds, descending from the north. He stood up quickly and started to wave his hands above his head. Movement, he knew, was what the helicopter pilot needed to spot him. He shouted as loudly as he could – ‘Over here!’ – even though he knew he wouldn’t be heard.
There was nowhere nearby for the bright orange chopper to land. It hovered about twenty metres above them, buffeted by the high winds. The side door opened and a figure appeared. He wore an orange hard hat and a harness. Attached to a rope, he lowered himself down next to them. ‘Is he alive?’ he shouted.
‘Yes!’
‘Good. Help me!’ He unclipped himself from the rope and removed a fabric stretcher from his pack. It had straps and several ropes attached to either side. The ends of the ropes were attached to two carabiners, one on each side. ‘Get this under him!’ he bellowed.
Max helped the rescue guy manoeuvre the stretcher underneath Jordan. Once it was in position, he rolled Jordan on to his back again. The rescue guy strapped Jordan in, then clipped the carabiners to the dangling ropes. He made a thumbs-up sign. Instantly, Jordan was in the air. He swung precariously as he was winched up, but a few seconds later he was safely inside the helicopter.
The rescue guy looked up the slope. ‘You abseiled down that?’
Max nodded.
‘You’re crazy. You could have killed yourself.’ He gave Max an uncertain look. ‘Where did you learn to do it?’
‘A book,’ Max said.
The rescue guy shook his head incredulously. But by now the rope had descended again, lashing violently in the wind. The rescue guy grabbed it and clipped it to his harness, then to Max’s. ‘Hold tight,’ he shouted. Max gripped the rescue guy’s shoulders and they rose into the air. Seconds later they were being manhandled into the helicopter.
Inside, it was chaotic. A doctor was already treating Jordan. There were three other men in hard hats and harne
sses. Max was bundled roughly to the back of the aircraft. He felt their altitude increase. The deafening sound of the engines rose as the chopper moved up towards the top of the ridge. Max knew his work was done. It was down to the professionals now. He felt the chopper bump as it touched down, then watched as Mickey, Suze, Angus and the others were helped or lifted into the chopper. They were all shivering, all pale. And they all looked at Max with an unfamiliar mixture of exhaustion and respect.
Max closed his eyes and breathed deeply. They were still closed when he felt the chopper take to the air again. He was shivering badly, reliving the abseil. The rescue guy was right. He could have killed himself. But he was aware that something else had taken over – a calm steeliness. He knew that if he found himself in that situation again, he’d do exactly the same thing. Not bad for an orphan boy.
It only took a couple of minutes to get back down to safety. Max opened his eyes just as the chopper’s landing gear touched the ground. The side door was immediately flung open and he saw the flashing blue neon lights of emergency vehicles. People were barking instructions. Paramedics in high-vis jackets helped everybody who could walk out of the chopper. Mickey and Jordan were carried on stretchers. Max was the last to leave. As he stepped out of the chopper, a paramedic directed him forward, away from the chopper’s tail rotors. The main rotors were still spinning and the downdraught was strong. They had landed in an empty car park, cordoned off by police cars. Three ambulances were waiting, and the other climbers were being carried or ushered towards them. Not knowing what else to do, Max followed them.
He had only walked a few steps, his head bowed and shoulders hunched against the downdraught, when he felt a strong hand on his arm.
He heard a voice. Male. Deep, calm and somehow strong enough to be heard above the noise without being raised.
‘Not you,’ said the voice.
3
Valley House
‘What do you mean?’ Max said.
‘You don’t understand two simple words? Perhaps you aren’t as smart as they say.’
If the man thought a put-down like that was going to have any effect, he was wrong. Max was used to fighting his corner at school and in the care home.
‘No one says I’m smart. What’s going on? Who are you?’
Max had never before seen the man who was holding him firmly by the arm. He was only a little taller than Max, but his shoulders were broad. He gave the impression of being immensely strong. It occurred to Max that it would take several men to move him, so there was certainly no point in him struggling. The man wore black jeans, a black polo-neck top and a black waterproof coat. He had a black beard, quite bushy, flecked here and there with grey. His wet wavy black hair blew in the downdraught from the helicopter. His eyebrows were heavy and his tanned forehead lined. If Max had to guess his age, he’d say fifty, but his was the kind of face that could be ten years older or younger. His eyes were dark and penetrating. He had a stare that made Max feel uncomfortable.
‘You’re coming with me,’ he said.
‘No way,’ Max said. He realised he was slightly scared of this man. ‘I’m going with my friends.’
‘Friends? From what I heard, you don’t have any.’
His words hurt. Max stopped struggling.
‘Anyway, let me make this easy for you.’ With his free hand the man opened his storm coat to reveal a handgun holstered to his body. ‘You’re coming with me,’ he repeated.
The mountain-rescue guy approached them. He had removed his hard hat and his ginger hair was bedraggled – the rain was still heavy. ‘What’s going on?’ he said.
The man in black flashed an ID card. It seemed to satisfy the mountain-rescue guy, who quickly moved away to attend to the others.
The man in black steered Max away from the helicopter. He looked over his shoulder. The others had congregated around one of the ambulances. Paramedics were handing them blankets, but all their attention was on Max. They stared as the man in black ushered him towards the police vehicles at the entrance to the car park. Two police officers stood there, watching Max sternly. Max didn’t understand. Was he in some kind of trouble? But as he and the man in black approached, the policemen stepped aside, allowing them out of the car park. They crossed the road and stood on the edge of a soggy-looking field. The man took a mobile phone from his pocket with his free hand and made a call. ‘I’ve got him,’ he said. ‘RV in one minute.’
‘Where are we going?’ Max demanded. ‘I need some dry clothes.’ He was soaked through.
‘Be patient. You sound like a baby.’
‘You’re a real charmer, you know that?’ Max was tired, cold, wet and scared. And he didn’t like this guy’s attitude. Who did he think he was?
A dark grey shape was descending from the cloud above the field. It was another helicopter but, unlike the mountain-rescue chopper, it had two rotor blades. Max instantly recognised it as a Chinook. He’d lost count of the number of YouTube videos he’d watched of this twin-engine, heavy-lift helicopter transporting military personnel in and out of battle zones in Afghanistan and Iraq. It was the fastest military helicopter, but it looked totally out of place here, in the middle of a sodden field in the Lake District.
‘That’s our lift,’ the man said. He looked down at Max’s arm. ‘I’m going to let you go,’ he said. ‘You realise that if you try to run, I’ll have you on the ground in about five seconds?’
Max jutted out his chin. But when the man let go, he didn’t try to escape.
‘Wise move,’ the man said. ‘Now come with me.’
They approached the Chinook from behind. The tailgate had lowered. The man jogged towards it. Max followed. As they ran into the helicopter, the stench of fuel hit Max’s nose. The interior glowed with artificial yellow light. The tailgate clamped shut behind them.
‘Sit there.’ The man pointed to a bench that ran along the right-hand side of the aircraft. Max dumped his rucksack at his feet and did as he was told. It was very uncomfortable, sitting in his wet clothes.
‘Strap yourself in.’
Max looked down at the straps. ‘How?’
‘What do I look like – cabin crew? Work it out, brainbox.’
It only took a moment to clip himself in. The man sat on a bench directly opposite him. Max felt the Chinook leave the ground. He’d never been in a helicopter before today. Now that momentary sensation of weightlessness was familiar. ‘Where are we going?’ he shouted over the noise.
But the man had leaned his head against the side of the chopper and closed his eyes. With his serious, lined, craggy face and his dark clothes, he looked like part of the furniture. As if he was more comfortable in the belly of this mechanical beast than anywhere else.
Max realised he was more scared now than he had been on the mountain. Where was he going? Who was he with? The police officers and paramedics hadn’t stopped this guy from taking him. But he’d seen a movie once in which the bad guys had been dressed up as police. Was this guy dressed up too?
The man opened his eyes and stared at Max. A slight frown crossed his forehead. It was the expression of a man who thought he recognised someone. ‘You abseiled down?’ he shouted.
Max nodded.
‘What type of abseil?’
‘Dülfersitz.’
The man gave a dismissive sneer. ‘South African abseil would have been better on a slope that steep.’ He closed his eyes again.
‘Right,’ Max muttered. ‘Sorry about that.’
There was no way of knowing in which direction they were flying. He even found it difficult to keep track of the time. Had they been in the air for half an hour? An hour? Longer? His clothes had dried out a little, although his walking boots were still soggy. He was also ravenous. He fished inside his backpack for one of his foil ration packs. The lettering on the side said ‘Sausage and Beans’ but he’d tried every variety on his CCF field trip and they all tasted the same: awful. He tore it open and squeezed the cold, sludgy food into his mou
th. He didn’t care that it was disgusting. It was fuel and he needed it.
A wave of tiredness overcame him. His muscles ached, and so did his brain. His eyes felt heavy. He slept.
It was the man in black who woke him, by shaking his shoulder. Max started violently. For a second he couldn’t work out where he was. But then he saw the tailgate of the Chinook lowering. A pale grey light flooded in, hurting Max’s eyes after the relative darkness of the Chinook. He could just make out the silhouette of a figure standing at the base of the tailgate.
‘Get a move on,’ said the man in black. ‘We haven’t got all day.’
Max unclipped himself and stood up groggily. He followed the man down the tailgate and emerged in yet another wet field. It was many degrees colder, almost freezing. Rain was still falling, but here it was a thick grey sleet that temporarily settled on the ground before melting. Looking around, Max saw that they were surrounded by mountains. Around him there was a collection of single-storey buildings. They had curved roofs made of corrugated iron. Max recognised them as World War II Nissen huts. There were seven in a row. Beyond them stood a large, bleak-looking house of grey stone.
The figure Max had seen at the bottom of the tailgate was a young man. He had sandy hair and an open, honest, ruddy face with smile lines on his cheeks. His nose was wonky – it looked like it had once been broken – but somehow that only made him look friendlier. He was wearing military camouflage gear.
‘This him, Hector?’ he asked the man in black.
Hector, if that was his name, scowled at the young man, nodded, and strode off towards the Nissen huts. The young man inclined his head. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I didn’t think he’d be in such a good mood.’
‘Are you kidding?’ Max said.
The young man shook his head. ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘I think he likes you. You’re lucky. He doesn’t like everybody.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Woody.’
‘Right.’ Max shook his hand. ‘I’m … Hang on, can you just tell me what’s going on? What am I doing here?’ He exhaled heavily. ‘It’s been kind of a long day.’