by Cat Clarke
Steve’s face is a perfect portrait of misery. It would be funny if this weren’t so awful. Because Steve is stuck, isn’t he? He can’t side with me over his girlfriend, and he can’t look like a coward in front of her. But he clearly wants to turn back. Anyone in their right mind would want to turn back. (I ignore the tiny voice in my head – getting louder and louder – which says that anyone in their right mind would have turned back at least an hour ago.) Eventually, Steve makes his decision. “I’m coming.”
I look around me, which is pointless because I can see precisely nothing. The cloud is all around us now. Or maybe it’s mist or fog or … I don’t fucking know and I don’t care. “How much further?” I ask, and Steve looks to Ellie for an answer.
“Fifteen, twenty minutes tops,” Ellie says. “I remember Mum said the last bit is steep, but it’s just a short scramble to the summit.”
The voice in my head is screaming, THIS IS A TERRIBLE IDEA! But the wind is screaming nearly as loud, and I can’t leave Ellie up here with idiot Steve. “OK then,” I hear myself say. “Let’s go.”
Every drop of my concentration goes into finding the next safe place to put my foot. Steve’s poles aren’t looking so stupid now. I wish I had something to steady me. It might make me feel less like a baby giraffe taking its first steps on an ice rink.
I don’t look up. I don’t look ahead. All I see is my feet. The ground is soggy grass, sucking mud or slippery rock. I can’t work out which I hate more. It’s all terrible.
4.14 p.m.
Top of the world. That’s how you’re supposed to feel when you reach the summit of a mountain, right? Like you’ve achieved something. You have battled against Mother Nature and won. Well, I feel like shit.
I’m sweating and freezing cold at the same time, which doesn’t seem fair. The rain has turned to sleet – like needles of ice stabbing at my face. I keep turning my back to the wind, only for the wind to then change direction too. It feels like a giant FUCK YOU.
The summit of Ben Venachar is not much to look at. Nothing here apart from a pile of stones. I watch as Ellie takes a small stone from her pocket and places it on the top of the pile.
Steve crouches on one side of the stone pile, trying to shelter from the wind. His cheeriness has washed away with the rain. I should be glad, but strangely I’m not. His cheeriness was … cheerful, I guess.
While Ellie’s struggling with the clasps of her rucksack, I trudge over to Steve, crouch down and say, “Hey.”
He looks up at me, suspicious. “Yeah?”
I whisper, “Is this the worst date you’ve ever been on or what?”
He does this sort of snort. I think it’s a laugh, but it’s hard to tell because he looks so unhappy. “This … this isn’t how I pictured today going,” Steve says.
“Tell me about it.”
4.21 p.m.
I stare at the box in Ellie’s hands. It’s about the same size as the one Dad brought back from the pet shop the day after my grandfather’s funeral. Inside was a tiny ball of orange and white fur. A hamster. I named him Derek. Then I renamed him the next day. And the day after that. The hamster ended up being called Wizbit, for reasons I can’t even remember. Wizbit was a good hamster until Dad sat on him and he died.
Ellie’s clutching the box as hard as you’d expect someone to clutch a box containing their mother. My brain has trouble computing the fact that Janice is in that box. The woman who said she wanted me to treat her house like a home. The woman who bought a special mug for me to use whenever I came round. The woman who said she thought of me as family. Family. The woman who demanded Ellie and I “dance it out” whenever we dared to enter the kitchen when she was cooking. And the thing is, I don’t dance. Dancing is not a thing that I do. But I made an exception in Janice’s kitchen. Somehow it felt OK to dance there, with Janice and with Ellie. It felt safe.
And now Janice is ashes. Dust. How can that be true? How is that fair?
I’m still pissed off with Ellie. I’m still hurt. She shouldn’t have said those things about me, especially not in front of Steve. But my feelings can wait. I need to be here for her right now.
I clamber to my feet and go to her. “Do you want to … do you want to say something?” I ask. “About your mum?”
Ellie looks up at me, and it’s hard to tell where her tears end and the wetness from the rain begins. “I’m sorry,” she says.
I’m not even sure what she’s apologising for, but it doesn’t matter. “It’s OK,” I tell her. “It’s going to be OK.”
Ellie stands up straighter and opens up the box. She looks to me for reassurance and I nod.
She turns away from me and holds out the box. She tips it up.
The nightmare thing I’ve been worrying about ever since the wind picked up doesn’t happen. When Ellie tips up the box, a gust of wind doesn’t blow the dust and ashes back into our faces. So I don’t breathe the remains of Janice into my lungs. I don’t choke on her.
It’s as if the wind knows. Just for a moment, it’s working with us instead of against us. Janice is whisked away into the sky. She’s flying.
4.32 p.m.
“We need to get going … seriously,” says Steve.
I swear I forgot he was here. For a few blissful peaceful moments, I forgot that Steve even existed. It was just Ellie and me, saying goodbye to her mum. The way it was supposed to be. Ellie and me, together.
“Shut up, Steve.” And the funny thing is, these words don’t come out of my mouth. They come out of Ellie’s.
She might as well have punched Steve in the balls. His eyes sort of bug out of his head. It’s kind of brilliant. But then I see the anger appear on his face. “Fuck you,” Steve says.
“Fuck you!” Ellie spits, and lunges towards him.
She doesn’t push him, even though I can tell she wants to. So Steve doesn’t fall all Humpty‑Dumpty down the mountain. I find myself holding my breath as they stare at each other. And I can’t help it … the sight of the two of them in full hiking gear, hoods up and glaring at each other, makes me laugh.
Steve’s head snaps round towards me. And I laugh even more. What is wrong with me? Then Ellie starts to laugh, and I know that whatever is wrong with me must be wrong with her too.
Steve clenches his fists and shakes his head in disbelief. “Stupid … stupid bitches!” he says. “I wonder how hard you’ll be laughing when you have to find your own way home, huh?” He picks up his rucksack and a pole, then grabs the other pole that was leaning against Ellie’s rucksack. He gives us one last disgusted look and then sets off down the mountain.
4.37 p.m.
Ellie says something, but her words are whipped away by the wind. I step closer and ask what she said.
“Did that … did that really just happen?” Ellie replies. Her voice is a bit shaky.
“I think so,” I say. “Unless this is all an elaborate dream … in which case I’d like to wake up now, if that’s all right with you?”
Ellie doesn’t laugh, which is fine, because it wasn’t very funny. She’s too busy staring at the place where Steve disappeared from view. “Do you think that means I’m dumped?” Ellie asks. “I’ve never been dumped on top of a mountain before.”
“You’ve never been dumped full stop.”
“Walked right into that one, didn’t I?”
“Speaking of walking …” I say. “How about we get the fuck off this mountain and figure out how the hell we’re going to get home without the help of Steve and his wonder poles?” My tone is light, but really I am worried. If Steve drives off without us, we’re screwed. We’re miles from the nearest town, and I don’t have cash for a taxi. The last resort would be to call my mum. It would take her two and a half hours to get here, but she would come. And I would never, ever hear the end of it. Not just because I lied to her – I told her I was spending the day with my mate Jamila … That wouldn’t even be the worst of it. The real issue would be me being here with Ellie. Mum never understood what El
lie and I had. She never even bothered to try.
Ellie puts the box back in the rucksack and settles the rucksack on her back. She turns to take one last look at the pile of stones, and she almost smiles. Ellie whispers the words, so I don’t hear them so much as see them in the movement of her lips: “Bye, Mum. Happy Birthday.”
5.04 p.m.
I didn’t think the weather could get any worse. I was wrong.
I can hardly see a thing. Just flashes of red rucksack reassuring me that Ellie’s still there. The first part is the worst. We have to scramble down backwards, clinging to the rocks as the wind does its best to pull us from the mountain. My fingers are numb within seconds, but by some miracle they manage to cling on. A single thought repeats in my brain, over and over and over again until it loses all meaning: This is the scariest thing I’ve ever done. This is the scariest thing I’ve ever done. This is the scariest—
Then my right foot slips and I fall.
I start sliding down the side of the mountain.
It takes a couple of moments for me to realise what’s happening. As soon as I do, I flatten myself out like a squished spider. My hands scrabble to grab onto something … anything … a rock. A rock juts out and my right hand reaches for it, my fingers digging into a crack. Then my left hand grasps a small scrubby bush and …
I stop falling. I cling to the side of the mountain and rest my forehead on the muddy earth. Breathe. Just breathe.
I stay like that for a few seconds, then a boot brushes my fingers. “Hey!” I shout.
Ellie’s face appears above me, and she’s grinning. “Get a move on!” she says.
I realise that she didn’t even see me fall. She was too busy fighting her own battle with this bastard mountain. For some reason, that thought gives me courage. If Ellie didn’t see it happen, did it really happen? Did I even fall? I mean, I know I did, but there’s nothing to be done about it, is there? I have to keep going. So I start moving. Slower than before, more careful. But at least I’m moving.
I laugh out loud when I finally reach ground I can stand on. I’m giddy with relief. Ellie hunches over, her hands resting on her knees. I put my hand on her back. It makes me think of the time she was puking her guts out in the bathroom at a party. Ellie wanted me to leave her alone, said she didn’t want me to see her like that. It was early on in our relationship, when we still worried about stuff like that. The puking incident was a turning point of sorts for us. Things were more real between us after that. I guess that’s what happens when you see puke shooting out of someone’s nose. I hadn’t even realised that was possible.
Today, here, on the side of a mountain, I rub Ellie’s back again. “Jesus, El, you take me to all the best places.”
She looks up and laughs. Then she does something surprising. She pulls me into a fierce hug. She’s breathing hard, and I must be too. Both of us shivering. I’m uncomfortable and exhausted and cold and wet and ever so slightly terrified, but here’s the strange thing: I feel alive.
I feel everything. All of it. The good and the bad and everything in between. And I could cry with relief. Because the truth is, I haven’t felt much of anything for the past few months.
People say depression is like a black cloud following you wherever you go, but it’s not like that for me. For me, depression is a fog. A grey fog enveloping me, cutting me off from everyone and everything. The fog makes everything muffled, and when everything’s muffled, nothing seems real. It’s hard to care about things when nothing seems real. After a while, you get used to it. After a bit longer, it’s sort of comforting. A blanket of numbness.
But the blanket is gone. Today has ripped it from me and torn it to shreds, leaving me exposed. Everything is real and raw. The fear, the cold, the girl in my arms. The girl who broke my heart.
Ellie pulls back and looks at me. “Hey, come on, please don’t cry,” she says, and brushes a damp lock of hair from my eyes. “I’m so sorry. I should never have asked you to come today … not after everything. It was … selfish.”
I didn’t even realise I was crying. But now I taste the salty tears on my lips, and I laugh. I grip Ellie’s arms, and I’m filled with a sudden need to make her understand. “Are you kidding me?” I say. “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world. This is the best fun I’ve had in ages!”
She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, and in a way I have. Or maybe I’ve found it.
I look at her. I really properly look at her for the first time since we broke up. I see her. And Ellie sees me. It’s always been that way. The feeling is hard to understand, let alone describe. That feeling of being known. That someone else knows what you’re feeling at any given moment. They don’t have to ask. It makes you feel like you could fly. It makes you feel invincible.
Ellie’s gaze flickers towards my lips, and that’s the permission I need. It’s the moment I’ve dreamed about for six months. Sure, I never pictured it happening like this. In my dreams, we weren’t exhausted and soaking. We weren’t on a mountain. In my dreams, we were in her bedroom or on a deserted street or a moonlit bridge (yeah, not sure where I got that one from). In my dreams, we weren’t wearing mismatched bulky hiking gear, and my hair wasn’t plastered to my face.
Dreams don’t come true. I know that now. But sometimes real life can be better than any dream.
I close my eyes and lean towards her lips—
“Oh my God!” Ellie shouts.
5.34 p.m.
Ellie pushes me to one side and hurries away from me. At first I think she’s going to be sick. The thought of kissing me has literally made her want to puke. Nice one, Agnes, I tell myself. But when I hurry after her, I see what she’s looking at. A walking pole.
Steve’s walking pole.
We stare at it for a few seconds, then both speak at once.
“Maybe he felt bad and left it behind for you,” I say.
Ellie says, “Oh shit,” and then, when she processes what I said, “Do you think so? Yeah … yeah, that’s probably it … right?”
I want to believe my own explanation. But if Steve was going to leave the pole behind for Ellie, he wouldn’t have left it like this. He wouldn’t have left it here. On the edge of a steep drop.
Time seems to slow, and all I can hear is a kind of roaring noise in my head. But it’s not the wind. It’s my blood, rushing. It’s adrenaline. Panic.
I pick up the pole and use it to steady myself as I lean out over the edge.
My first feeling is relief, because I see nothing. But then I lean a bit further and my heart slams when I see movement, maybe five metres below. And then I hear a voice: “Help … help me … Oh shit, it hurts …” The voice is faint, weaker than it should be.
I lean out as far as I can, ignoring the dizziness that washes over me. “Steve!” I shout. “Can you hear me?” There’s no answer, so I try again: “STEVE!”
There’s a pause, and all I can hear is the wind and Ellie’s fast panicked breaths right next to me. But then, “Yes … I’m … I slipped,” Steve says.
“Can you move at all?” I ask. “Are you injured?”
“My leg … it’s … it’s fucked!” Steve replies. “There’s … it’s not … I can see … oh God, I think I can see the bone.” There’s a gagging sound from below and a soft moan from Ellie.
“OK, you need to stay calm, Steve,” I say. “Can you do that?” I don’t sound like myself. I sound calm, which is miraculous, because I’m freaking out. “Steve? I need you to stay calm!”
“You try staying calm when one of your bones is sticking out of your fucking leg!”
Oddly, this makes me feel better. Steve is pissed off. And pissed off is better than terrified.
Ellie’s already got her phone out. Good. That’s good. She’s thinking clearly. She taps out the numbers on the screen. 9. 9. 9. I’ve never called 999 before. I nearly did it the time my great aunt started choking on a fish bone, but Dad surprised us all by using the Heimlich manoeuvre. The offending fish bone flew a
cross the table and landed in Mum’s wine glass.
Ellie holds the phone to her ear, and I take a moment to breathe. It’s going to be fine. Someone will come. A helicopter, maybe? Steve will be taken to hospital, and Ellie and I will be taken somewhere warm and safe. And one day the two of us will be able to look back on this and laugh. Steve will have a great story to tell his mates. He can embellish it and make himself sound like a hero. I suppose he’s earned the right to do that.
This will be over soon.
Ellie turns to me, and I see it in her eyes before she says the words. “There’s … there’s no signal.”
I’m crouched down and scrabbling around in my rucksack before she’s finished speaking. My phone is stowed safely in the pocket next to my purse. My fingers struggle to grip the zipper – maybe from the cold or maybe it’s my nerves.
I press my thumb to the button to unlock the phone, but my thumb must be too wet or too cold, because nothing happens. I punch in the passcode. Six digits. I used to use my birthday, back before I met Ellie. Now it’s a different date: the day we first kissed. Stupid, really. It’s even more stupid that I never got round to changing it since we broke up.
I punch in the numbers, refusing to believe what the screen is telling me. But my phone is telling the truth with those two words in the top left‑hand corner of the screen.
NO SERVICE.
5.56 p.m.
“This is all my fault,” Ellie says. “It’s all my fault … What are we going to do? What are we going to do? What if … Oh God, it’s all my fault.”
Ellie has been saying these words or some variation of them for the past five minutes. I can’t hear myself think, but I can’t tell her to shut up. She needs to get this out of her system.
“What network is Steve on?” I ask.