by C. J. Cooke
This morning we’re joining a crowd of fifteen other climbers led by a mountain guide named Sebastian who is taking us up the Aiguilles Rouges for some mixed climbing techniques. This part of the Alps reminds me of Ben Nevis in Scotland, or the Lake District – a palette of earthy brown and velvety green, with gentle rises and pockets of snow in the nooks of distant peaks. Mountains stretch as far as the eye can see, no sign of human life anywhere. Just our little group swallowed up in the mountains.
It’s a warm sunny day without much of a breeze, but Sebastian has us all geared up as if we’re approaching the summit – helmets, crampons, ice picks, the lot. Still, I get to watch the sun rise over the mountains, a rich, yolky light breaking over the crystalline towers, bright rays the length of motorways pouring across the valley. It’s pretty awesome. Enough to make me feel more at ease around Helen.
‘Where did you meet Luke and Theo?’ she asks me amiably, once we’ve settled into our stride. ‘I mean, I know you all go to Oxford but did you know each other before?’
‘Nah. We’re all on the University rowing team,’ I tell her. ‘Ugly here got us all into climbing. Didn’t you, Luke? We did Ben Nevis last year.’
He grins. ‘Dragged you and Theo kicking and screaming up Ben Nevis, more like.’
‘We’re doing Kilimanjaro next. Then Everest,’ I tell her, and she looks impressed.
‘Wow, Everest,’ she says, glancing at Luke, who clearly hasn’t mentioned any of this to her. ‘I don’t think I’ll be going on that trip!’
Oh, are you sure? I want to say in a voice dripping with sarcasm. What a pity.
‘Come on, you lot!’ a voice shouts. The guide, Sebastian. He’s made the group stop on a massive rock ledge overlooking a sapphire lake. We take off our helmets and rucksacks and start to set up the stove, but Sebastian shouts at us again.
‘This is not the lunch stop,’ he says. ‘First, we learn how not to die. Second, we eat. OK?’
Sounds fair.
Helen stands close to the front of the group, watching Sebastian as he demonstrates how to make a top managed belay site.
‘If you need to lower into a gorge, you need to set up an anchor,’ he says, looping a figure eight of rope around a tree by the edge. ‘You clove hitch yourself into the shelf which enables protection at the edge. My belay device clips into the masterpoint. I need two lockers on the masterpoint – use a small carabiner for this to redirect the brake strand, OK?’ He holds up a carabiner and links it to the shelf. I take a peek over the edge. Quite a distance to the bottom.
‘Now, for a demonstration. Who will be my volunteer?’
A nervous laugh ripples among the crowd.
‘You,’ Sebastian says, gesturing for me to step forward.
‘What, me?’ I say, glancing around.
‘We’re going to cover what happens in the event of an arête shearing your rope, OK?’
Luke laughs and shoves me forward. One of the more outspoken blokes in the crowd – the South African fella with purple dreads – raises a hand. ‘An arête? What is this?’
‘An arête is a knife-edged ridge,’ Seb says. ‘If your rope is rubbing back and forth on this, what do you think will happen?’
‘It’ll break,’ everyone murmurs.
He holds up a worn piece of rope and demonstrates. ‘Snap!’ He turns to me and gestures at me to lower down off the side of the cliff. I’m not feeling overly confident about this right now. Still, I hook myself to the rope and try not to look too terrified as I lower down, eyeing the rope fearfully as it tightens around the tree. He lowers me down about twenty feet – which feels like a hundred feet – when suddenly I feel the rope go slack. My feet slip against the smooth rock and I scramble wildly to find something to hold on to. There’s a chink in the rock face and I dig my fingers into it, my heart thumping like there’s a box of frogs in my chest.
A few moments later, Sebastian shouts at me to climb back up. The rope tightens and I scramble back up there like Spiderman.
Everyone applauds and I try not to faint.
‘So, you see,’ Sebastian informs the group. ‘It’s important you know how to make a secure anchor when descending, but even more important is making sure your rope doesn’t run over any sharp edges. If you find yourself in a no-fall zone, the number one rule is …?’
‘Don’t fall!’ everyone shouts.
Back in Chamonix, Luke announces at the bar that he’s paid for us all to sleep in one of the dorms – we’d been camping outside but he says it’s a better idea to stay indoors. ‘Call it insurance,’ he says. ‘We don’t want somebody forgetting to stub out their cigarette because they’re too drunk to think straight. We might all end up without any gear.’ We both turn to Theo, who says, ‘What?’
‘Don’t play innocent,’ Luke says, shuffling a deck of cards. ‘You know you almost set the house on fire last weekend. Every time you get drunk you set your cigarette on the edge of the sofa or on the frigging mattress.’
‘Don’t remember,’ Theo says with a shrug.
‘Don’t remember?’ Luke laughs. ‘The corner of the sofa was on fire, mate. It was starting to climb up your trouser leg. I grabbed a glass of water that turned out to be vodka, almost chucked it over you. You can imagine how that would have gone.’
‘You going to deal or what?’ Theo says, a fag bobbing between his lips, nodding at the pack of cards in Luke’s hands. He begins to deal.
‘What are we playing?’ I ask.
‘What are we drinking?’
‘Gin.’
‘Gin rummy, then.’
‘Why not poker?’ Theo asks.
‘Fine, poker.’
‘Where’s Helen?’ I say. ‘Isn’t she joining us?’
Luke deals. ‘She’s reading. Doesn’t want to impose.’
The gin has warmed me up, broken down my hostilities. ‘Mate, I don’t mind if she wants to come.’
Luke gives me a dark stare. ‘I don’t know what drug you’re taking but it’s making lies fall out of your mouth.’
‘I’m serious. Where is she? Invite her down here.’
Luke shakes his head. ‘She won’t come. She’s got an early start with one of the trainers on the slopes.’
‘She’s training?’ Theo says.
‘Yeah. She doesn’t want to rely on me when we’re doing the tough parts. She’s independent, mate.’
I sit with that for a moment. A sense of guilt has crept in, my words about her being a leech and a millstone starting to nip at my conscience. I figured that she was Luke’s trophy girlfriend, but with every hour that I spend in her company I find all my assumptions being scratched away. She seems hard-working, independent, and pleasant to be around. Even better is that so far Luke has been on top form, joking around and insisting on paying for everything. I’m putting it all down to Helen being here.
I stare at my cards. Not a great hand. My high card’s the queen of hearts.
‘You seem really into this chick,’ I tell Luke, only realising once I’ve said it how childish it sounds.
‘Thanks, mate. She’s my girlfriend so it’s probably a good thing that I’m into her. If you know what I mean.’
‘How long you been … you know …?’
‘Seven months.’
‘A long time to keep her away from your best mate,’ I say. I think about mildly accusing him of either lying or being possessive but think better about it.
He shrugs. ‘She lives in London. And when she’s in Oxford we don’t exactly want any extra company, if you know what I mean.’
Theo and I share a look. ‘So, we probably shouldn’t bring up any of the one-night stands you’ve had in that time?’ Theo adds.
‘Not unless you want me to mention the essay I helped you write for Comparative Literature last term. The Dean might not like that so much.’
I play my queen of hearts. Luke sets down a queen of spades and an ace.
He wins.
The next day the three of us are badly hung
over. Luke and Theo say they’ll give the training a miss, but I spot Helen, all geared up in a fluorescent pink shell suit heading off to the practice slopes with the rest of the climbers.
‘Hey! Helen! Good morning!’ I say, waving like an idiot.
She turns to the sound of her name. Sees me, waves. ‘Hi, Michael. Have a good night?’
I nod and slap my forehead. ‘Paying for it now, though.’
Another smile.
I am restless all day. Even when I join another climbing group with some French dudes who are eager to practise rope skills I feel distracted, my thoughts spiralling off in all directions.
13
Helen
1st September 2017
I’m at the British High Commission, sitting in a leather chair opposite Vanessa’s desk. I’m too numb for tears. I’m paralysed with fear and blind confusion at what has just happened. The walls seem to move in and out, exhaling. I don’t trust anyone.
I watch Vanessa on the phone to her superiors asking for advice. At least, that’s what she tells me she’s doing but for all I know she’s part of this. For all I know she’s involved in the crash.
I want to go back to the hospital and find Michael and tell him what’s happened. I need to leave, call someone, beg for help. Inside I’m floundering like someone tossed into the middle of the ocean without so much as a life jacket. When Vanessa looks up I ask if I can use one of the other phones to call my friend, Camilla, back in England, but she simply nods and holds up a finger, distracted by the person she’s speaking to. My breath comes in short, quick bursts. I move in and out of my body, into the past and the future.
The shrill sound of Vanessa’s mobile knocks me back into the room. She sets the handset of the landline down and answers, then hands her phone to me quickly. It is Alfredo, the neurosurgeon, and suddenly I’m plunged seventy miles north, in the hospital with Saskia.
‘We have done extensive scanning of Saskia’s brain,’ he says. ‘We can see a number of contusions on the frontal lobe and signs of a diffuse axonal. What I cannot see just now is whether there is any bleeding or swelling in the brain.’
‘Will she be OK?’ I ask tearfully.
He gives a sigh, and my heart plummets. ‘There’s a possibility that the pressure will increase and slow blood flow to the brain. If this happens, something called cerebral hypoxia and ischaemia can occur. It means that the brain can begin to protrude through the skull, which we certainly do not want.’
I feel turned inside out by this news. My mind races with questions. Will she survive this? Will she walk again? Speak again? What are the long-term effects?
‘What can you do to help her?’ I say weakly.
Another grave sigh. ‘She will need an operation to insert an ICP bolt to monitor pressure in the brain cavity.’
There’s a long silence, and I realise he is asking for my permission to perform this operation. To put a bolt in my daughter’s head.
‘Yes,’ I hear myself say, though instantly I feel terrified, flooded with doubt. Is this the right thing? Did I just agree? Can I trust him?
He tells me that the next twenty-four hours are absolutely critical for her survival.
‘Yes, please do whatever it takes,’ I tell him, apologising as I break into sobs. I tell him I will do anything, absolutely anything for her. I will sell my body, rob a bank, plunder a city. I will give her my organs. I will give her my life.
‘You must leave this to me,’ he says, and I realise with terrifying helplessness that Saskia’s fate – her survival – is entirely out of my hands.
‘Can you take me to Michael, please?’ I ask Vanessa as she wheels me through the hospital doors. I’m so weakened with worry about Saskia that I feel sick, and although I am desperate to see Michael I have no idea how to tell him about the van driver’s accusation. How will he take it? How will he cope with news of Saskia and this accusation?
As we turn towards the corridor linking to his room I hear a man’s voice bark, ‘Helen? Helen Pengilly?’
The man is white, broad-shouldered and sandy-haired, the sleeves of a white linen shirt rolled up to his elbows, his hands in fists by his sides. He seems restless, as though he’s searching for someone.
It is Theo.
I give a sharp, high-pitched scream.
‘What’s wrong?’ Vanessa shouts. I turn all the way around in the wheelchair and pull on her clothes, yelling at her to get me out of here.
‘Oh my Lord, Helen!’
A woman’s voice. My vision blurred with tears, I make out another blurry figure racing up the corridor towards me. A slim woman, early thirties, short red hair, a black cotton dress and yellow sandals. Her face is wet and streaked black with running mascara. My heart pounds in my throat as Theo walks briskly towards me, but with each step he reveals himself as someone else entirely. It’s not Theo after all. For a moment everything turns black and I’m gasping for breath.
Moments later my younger sister, Jeannie, is on her knees in front of me, her arms reaching around and pulling me into a painful embrace. I can smell her, feel her lips on my cheeks.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she says, fumbling to take my hand in hers. ‘I just can’t believe what’s happened, Helen, I can’t! It’s so awful!’
She reaches up and pushes a strand of hair out of my eyes, then cups my face. I burst into tears and she pulls me into another embrace.
When she pulls back she seems to be looking at the man behind her with a frightened expression.
‘This is my boyfriend, Shane,’ she says quickly. ‘Shane, my sister Helen.’
‘How do you do?’
I flinch as he looks at me, half-expecting him to turn into Theo again. My heart is still doing somersaults in my chest in case I’m mistaken. But he remains Shane – handsome, mid-forties, surprisingly anodyne, at least compared to Jeannie’s usual class of boyfriend – and offers a hand, as though we’re meeting in a café or bistro instead of a ramshackle hospital halfway around the world. He shakes Vanessa’s hand and pulls a banknote out of his pocket, handing it to her, before stepping in to take over the job of pushing my wheelchair.
‘Vanessa’s from the British High Commission,’ I say.
‘Oh, apologies,’ he says as she looks down with confusion at the twenty-pound note in her hand. ‘Shane Goodwin, how do you do? You guys do a terrific job.’
I stare at Jeannie, engulfed with relief at the sight of a familiar face, by the fact that I’m no longer alone. It doesn’t matter how awkward it is, how fractured my relationship with Jeannie is – she has come all this way to be with me, and for a fleeting moment I feel like I’ve been rescued. The threat of someone walking through the hospital doors lessens as Shane chats amiably to Reuben, asking after the game he’s playing on his iPad. Shane begins to push the wheelchair towards the ward while Jeannie makes a huge fuss over me.
‘This hospital is horrific,’ she says loudly. A nurse passing by gives Jeannie a sour look. ‘Honestly, of all the places to have a car accident, Helen! It’s like a building site. Where’s Saskia, by the way? And Michael? Are they in a different ward?’
‘Saskia’s been transferred to another hospital in Belize City …’ I explain, but Jeannie doesn’t hear. She frowns as she looks over the ward, commenting on the lack of chairs for visitors and the appalling smell.
‘… we’ve just got off a twenty-two-hour flight,’ she says bitterly. ‘Business class, but still. And the drive here … Oh! I won’t bore you with the details but it was horrendous …’
From the corner of my eye I can see Reuben growing anxious. He’s like a sponge, absorbing my mood. Shane keeps trying to talk to him – in a way that tells me he has no idea about Reuben’s condition – and he’s inching closer to me and stamping his feet.
‘Do you need the bathroom?’ Shane asks him. He turns to Vanessa. ‘Do you know if there’s a bathroom anywhere for this chap?’
Reuben starts to shake his head. He doesn’t stop. I intervene, taking hi
s hand, pulling him on to my knee and whispering into his ear.
‘It’s alright, Reuben,’ I tell him, ‘you’re safe,’ but he bangs his hands hard against his ears and makes a brrr sound with his lips, like the noise of a toy car. I can already tell he’s heading for a full-scale meltdown and I’m in no position to stop him. The people on the ward are staring, Jeannie is informing Shane and anyone in a five-mile-radius that Reuben is autistic, bless him. My heart is pounding at the thought of what is happening to Saskia as we speak. I’m struggling to breathe and Reuben is now bouncing on my lap, so hard that I give a loud yelp of pain. Shane steps forward to intervene but Reuben shouts, ‘Get off! Don’t touch me!’ and Shane leaps back like he’s burnt his hands.
I tell Reuben to take off his socks and lie down on the floor, resting his feet on my lap. Shane and Jeannie look appalled. My arms feel like lead, but quickly I run my hands up and down his shins, then the soles of his feet.
‘It calms him,’ I explain weakly, and they nod but Jeannie looks as though she might throw up.
Once Reuben has been calmed and we’ve waved goodbye to Vanessa, I settle back into my bed on the ward and Jeannie cordons off the space with a curtain. She and Shane make seats out of plastic containers and sit by the bed, and I wait until Reuben is sufficiently distracted by a game on his iPad before telling them in frantic whispers what happened. The figure I saw at the beach hut. The van I saw swerving into our lane. The gut-wrenching moment of impact, unimaginably fast and horrific, that moment where I thought we wouldn’t make it, that this was it – the end. And as I describe it I recall more details, each one like a lash across bare skin, breaking me down into juddering tears. I remember screaming for help. I remember climbing out of the car and surveying the scene, taking in the sight of the crumpled car and the small figure of Saskia’s body on the ground with such horror that I blacked out. The boots by my face.
Retelling this changes the air, making it fizz. Jeannie and Shane look horrified. She takes my hand and asks about Saskia, why she isn’t here. I tell her about Belize City, that Saskia’s in surgery as we speak. I tell them about the interview at the police station. How I had expected to feel safer once I’d relayed my fears to the police, but instead I felt much, much worse, as though they viewed me with suspicion.