by mark mctighe
The whistle of the staff was the first thing that made me realise I was under attack and as luck would have it, as I raised my arms to protect my head, I brought the enamelled metal pot I’d been carrying, into the line of fire. I was still hit with some considerable force but not enough to render me unconscious. The assailant had lost his one major advantage, the element of surprise. In situations like this you can’t afford to wait for their next move. I could see there were two of them; there could have been more outside. My impulse reaction was all out aggression. We used to call it the ‘mad dog’ approach in the Met. I was off the floor driving chair legs into one man’s chest pinning him onto the stove. I punched the other man hard in the throat, his head flip backwards like a marionette, dropping the staff he’d hit me with and falling to the floor. I continued to hold one on the stove as he screamed at me like a banshee. Pulling the chair away I sank a punch deep into his solar plexus. He slumped onto the table choking, shattering the old oil lamps on the floor. I took hold of the oak staff, a seriously solid weapon, with a bulbous knotted top and metal spike fixed to the bottom. They had meant to do me some serious harm.
“Move and I’ll take your fucking head off” I said to the owner of the staff. If he’d got a clean blow Rufus could have been cleaning up brains when he returned. But, he continued to get up, a little unsteady on his feet, a knife now in his hand; probably a six inch blade, a hunter’s knife. I’d seen plenty of these in London. With all the force I could muster I swung the staff. The consequences were devastating. His arm broke, the bone visibly jutting out just behind the wrist, unexpected and terrifying. Outside the quaint chalet a scream, softened by the old wood, reverberated around the forest; the sorry sound of an injured animal.
Inside looked a mess, a blood bath. I slowly opened the door. There was no sign of anyone else. I could feel the adrenalin, the raised heart beat, thumping out a warning for others to stay away.
The rifle was aimed at my chest; the shooter only a stone’s throw away.
“Back up to the water trough” she said. She wore a fur hat; her collar was pulled up high, a disguise of sorts. It was at this point that I decided the best plan was to clear off and alert Rufus. I didn’t want him walking into this set up and I needed to get some help.
I didn’t think she would fire the gun. My guess was that the gun was there as a kind of insurance policy. In case things had gone wrong for them. Well they had certainly done that. One had serious burns, probably a broken rib or two, the other probably wouldn’t be able to talk for a fortnight and his arm was going to need reconstructive surgery. As she eased into the chalet and absorbed the reality of my handiwork I leapt over the trough and zigzagged into the forest behind. No shot was fired. It was tough going without the snow shoes and I could have done with some gloves and a hat, but eventually I got back onto the footpath that had taken us up. I checked my phone every 10 minutes or so and eventually one bar of strength appeared with a Swisscom logo.
“Rufus, where are you? Good, you’ll need to double back to the car; I’ll be there in about 40 minutes. Listen carefully, go to the Alpina and get the phone number for the local police. Tell them it’s an emergency and could they meet us at the Alpina in 45 minutes. Then come and pick me up. I’ve been attacked and there are some injured people back at the chalet, no seriously I’m fine, I’ll tell you more when I see you, I can’t hold the phone anymore, I need both hands to get down.”
Rufus was waiting for me at the bottom of the path. “They’re on their way dad, you sure you’re ok?”
“Seriously I’m fine.”
I spent the next 10 minutes filling him in on the action of the afternoon. “I just haven’t got a clue who they are, or why they did it. I can only suspect that this is what your grandmother’s letter referred to. There must be some seriously bad shit if they’re trying to scare us off with such force.”
Two local officers came to take statements. The quickest way they could check on the injured, was to direct one of the mountain guides across from the ski area.
We must have spent the best part of two hours with the police before we heard from the guide. It was empty; there was blood, and damage, but no-one to rescue.
“I’ll check with the doctor in Vissoie, and the hospitals in Sierre and Sion. If nothing shows, I’ll make investigations further afield tomorrow. If these were local men it’ll be blatantly obvious who they are. We’ll see you here in the morning, need to come and look over the place.” The police headed off and we checked into the Hotel for another night.
The next morning we awoke early and went through the same routine. I hired some snow shoes from ‘Val Sport’ and all four of us hiked back up to Chalet Rothorn. It was another crisp morning, minus 15 at best.
On the track up Rufus and I carried out a post mortem on the previous night. We had nothing to work with, no prognosis was possible, it could only be speculation.
“Would you recognise them?” Rufus questioned.
“The ‘banshee boy’ definitely, I looked straight into his eyes as I pressed him into the stove, the second man was older, in charge I think, he was distinctive, looked like he lived an outdoor life, weathered, dishevelled, mountain farmer type. The woman would be difficult. She was keeping herself well covered up. But her voice was distinctive, strong, and deeper than I’d expect, so she could be our best bet, she could be the one to give herself away.”
Rufus opened the door and poked his head in, “looks like it was a full pub brawl, broken chairs, glass. Even I might find it difficult to use this pot” he dangled the enamelled pot between his fingers.
“That saved my life; I’d like to keep it.” I said.
The police looked around and took some photographs, but there was really very little to see. The stove was still hot, and some of the logs I’d brought in had been used.
“I don’t know if this is their way of psyching us out, but someone’s been here this morning, the stove’s going” I said.
The police left after half an hour. “They’re showing willing, but I don’t think their hearts are in it” I mused. “They haven’t even established which hospital the man with the broken arm’s in. It’ll need operations and lots of plates, he’s got to be easy to find.”
Rufus and I were both a little jumpy, so decided to stick together and trekked down one final time to collect the last bits from the car.
We were a little more subdued that evening. The gear was all up, and we were cooking our first supper on the little stove. The chalet was still cool, base layers and heavy knit jumpers a prerequisite. As the candle light flickered, we played cards and ate our stew.
The door flew open and we both jumped to our feet. I launched myself across the floor and grabbed Gustav by the hand. “What the fuck are you doing here?” I said.
“What the fuck are you two doing here........? The police man you were with today, Francois, he lives in Pinsec, he’s a neighbour of mine. He told me about this bad ass English bloke who plastered a couple of locals over the walls.”
“Locals?” I said in a more serious tone.
“Well that’s what he called them. Anyway I asked your names and my heart sang. So I’m here, a sort of welcoming party, and I’ve brought a bottle of whisky. It was easier to carry than a case of beer.”
In those few seconds the night was transformed from a subdued affair to a riot. Old climbing stories were wheeled out and revisited, fights and flights. Old girlfriends discussed in rather too much detail, resulting in Rufus curled up on the floor in a fit of giggles. The bottle of Whisky didn’t last that long, it was just as well Gustav had brought a second. Nothing serious was discussed; an evening of frivolous nonsense......eventually climbing into our sleeping bags, slightly drunk, tired and happy. For the first night in a week I slept through.
When I woke up the next morning the sun was shining, the tea was brewing, and I didn’t even know what day it was. ‘God was in his heaven and all was right with the world’.
“We
’re booked in with Gustav, he’s got a Weisshorn ascent scheduled for August 28th” Rufus said gleefully, “I thought you could fly back in for it.”
“Count me in, I can’t wait to reunite the old team” I said.
The morning, and lack of booze, brought a shift in the conversation. Gustav gave us his take on the valley and its people.
“When I moved here”, he said, “It felt like I’d gone back to the 1950’s; everyone seems to be part of a huge extended family. There are uncles and aunts everywhere, second cousins and great uncles. It was so bloody confusing. My fiancée’s great grandmother is still alive for god’s sake. The problem you’ve got Leo is that these guys, who came to warn you off, or whatever, are probably related to half the people in Grimentz.”
“The thought was starting to occur to me” I replied.
“Look, you should probably enjoy yourselves here for a couple of days, a week at the most, then you should consider moving into the village, there’s plenty to rent, and it’s just not expensive here, we’re certainly no Verbier or Villars.”
It was a good plan; we used our time at Chalet Rothorn to make some scale drawings and sketch out our ideas. We talked about the forthcoming climb and just enjoyed getting our bearings. On the fourth night we had the best part of a metre of snow. Huge flakes, which would fill the palm of your hand barely having time to melt before the next and the next. When we awoke the snow lay around the chalet, a blanket of insulation; no sound and no relief.
Our intention was to continue making regular trips back to our new home, so we packed the minimum for village life and after 10 days moved into Chalet Bishorn. We’d taken it for four weeks; ‘plenty of time to get the necessary building consents’ or so I thought.
SEVEN
Chalet Bishorn was the closest thing to our home that we could rent, a kilometre at the most from the cross country skiing route. It was a bastardised version of a chalet, built in the 1970’s from several smaller chalets; comfortable and warm. I used the next few weeks to great effect; visiting the commune to discuss my plans for renovation. ‘THE COMMUNE’ it’s not as sinister as it sounds; it’s the equivalent of a local authority, a provider of local services for which it raises a local tax. The person responsible for planning was a woman called Catherine. She also seemed to be responsible for dog licences, refuse collection and the gym. She expertly guided me through the various forms and planning requests I required. I didn’t want to change the place much at all. I just needed to run a new supply from the river, through someone else’s land. I wanted to construct a small extension to the rear of the property that would house a basic kitchen, bathroom and water tank; with my choice of power limited to solar panels and wood burning.
I was fortunate that behind the old chalet was a derelict barn; or mayan. It was my intention to use the stones and recoverable timbers to reconstruct this close enough to allow a short connecting corridor. This would be perfect for the kitchen, bathroom, and tanks. By doing this I left the original chalet virtually untouched. The upstairs of the existing building was large enough for two bedrooms; just perfect.
My first sets of requests were rejected and I had to wait a week before I could arrange the next appointment.
“I don’t understand Catherine; you’re making us dig a trench twice as long for the supply”.
“It’s just the way it is, our architect is happy with everything else, but he is quite exact about where he wants you to take the water from.” She replied. “It’s good news, I think. Yes?”
“It’s got to be hand dug, but yes it’s good news. If I rework the drawings and get them in tomorrow, when do you think I’ll have the definitive answer from the commune?”
“You already have it, your original submission has been accepted bar the supply, and the architect has drawn this, which has been authorised, for the supply”. She handed me a computer generated architects drawing specifying the depth and position of the new supply pipe.
“So I can start?”
“Yes”, she smiled “but I’d wait for the ground to thaw”.
Rufus had taken full advantage of my focus on the commune. Gustav had introduced him to Pascoe, a friend and local mountain guide, perhaps only 26, who took it upon himself to skin up into the most remote areas and ski the most challenging of untracked terrains.
“He’s coming up the Weisshorn with us; he’s a wicked climber dad.” His contagious enthusiasm bubbled.
“Is he from here?” I enquired.
“No, he’s from St Jean.”
I laughed, “that is from here! It’s the closest village to Grimentz; numbskull.”
“Ah yes, but that’s not how he sees it.”
We were into April and I couldn’t wait to move back into Rothorn.
“I think we should go in the morning. I know we can stay here another couple of nights but the melt’s on and we could start prepping for the mayan.” You couldn’t keep the persuasion out of my voice.
“I’m ready for the action.” Rufus said “I’ll let Gustav know we’re on our way up, he wants to help at the weekends.”
“He probably wants to help consume a bottle of scotch and crash. He hasn’t changed a bit. I’ve not met his fiancée yet, I wonder if she’ll have any luck mellowing him out?”
We dropped the key off for Chalet Bishorn as the rental agents opened, then drove to the start of the track.
“Another month and this track’ll probably be open to vehicles” I said, “then we’ll be able to park at the bottom of the footpath.” The ascent was quick, the path, after all our visits, obvious but slippery. No smoke this time, just us.
“No melt on here dad, there’s probably still a metre of snow on the ground. It’s frozen solid”. I knew it was too early to come up and start any meaningful work, but Bishorn wasn’t home, this was.
The sun worked its magic over the next three weeks and the forest river grew in strength. As we pushed into May we felt we could really say that spring was here. Suddenly one day the supply to the water trough started to work.
“I was beginning to think the supply was fractured.” I Said. I took a spade and dug a slit trench to find the supply pipe. “Here’s the bastard, only 6 inches below the surface. It needs better insulation, and probably needs to be three times as deep.”
A thought suddenly occurred to me. “Rufus, we could just refurbish this supply, make it the mains. It would save digging a new 500m trench.”
“Now you’re talking man. Is the ground soft enough now?”
“I think we can make a start in the morning, if you start digging at this end following the pipe back up, I’ll rig up a temporary supply to the trough, and then start digging at the other end.”
The water supply was the most important thing to complete. Soon enough the ground would freeze again. We didn’t want to miss the window.
I’d been in regular enough contact with Jack during our months stay in the village, He’d waved through my request to return after the Weisshorn ascent, 7th September being the new date set for my return, and I’d continued to give him some feedback on my old cases. I’d let him know about the assault and he’d warned me, as usual, to be on my guard. He knew that I was more than capable of looking after myself, but he also knew that it could easily have been the start. That after regrouping they may come back harder and in greater numbers; the final line of his email being; ‘happy to assist.’ It was suitably vague, if someone chose to examine it later it would look like an innocent enough offer of assistance to a friend, but I knew what he meant.
The next morning I found the source of our supply in the river. A large orange plastic barrel sat in the middle of the river, the kind you’d expect to be full of chemicals. A pipe fed water from upstream into the barrel, water cascaded over the top lip, an exit pipe, half way up the barrel formed the start of our supply pipe. This system seemed to prevent the pipe from blocking with detritus, but the barrel was looking like it was due for replacement, the plastic brittle with age. Rufu
s had made a good start at the other end of the pipe, the trench 20 inches deep and a foot wide. He’d already dug out about 12 feet of trench.
“Is this deep enough?” He enquired.
“We can always take a little more out later, but it looks perfect to me”.
We worked steadily all morning, stopping occasionally for water or a snack; the imposing imperial crown of mountains watching our every move.
We worked this way all week and made excellent progress. The one structure we needed help with was the roof, so I engaged a local roofer and mate, who in a matter of a week stripped the roof, installed a new roof structure, carried up the shingles, and nailed them on...... It was now the weekend and true to his word Gustav appeared, ready for work.
“I thought it was about time you met Dominique, so I’ve asked her to come up. She’s desperate to meet you and wants to help, so I’ve said she could prep a meal” he said.
“Jesus, I hope she knows how rudimentary the facilities are here.”
“Don’t worry, It’ll probably consist of dried meats, cheese and some rostii, good hearty mountain food, oh and there’ll be loads of it” Gustav said, pushing his stomach out.
We set Gustav to work levelling the ground for the extension, whilst I marked out for the foundations. I felt things were really beginning to take shape and with a clear June and July ahead I could see us finishing before the snow.
Mid afternoon saw the arrival of Dominique. It was an opportunity to finish the work early, a reward for the labour of the previous week, and crack a few beers. Gustav had found himself an absolute cracker; slim and athletic; a broad beautiful face with the perfect skin of a 22 year old. I know there was a huge age difference but it seemed to work for them. She had the maturity of a thirty year old, and he had the immaturity of a thirty year old. I think Rufus fell in love. Not only was she pretty and intelligent, but she climbed mountains as well, it was the dream ticket.