Far, Far the Mountain Peak

by Arthur Clifford

  ‘They won’t be sent to prison will they?’ asked Morris in an anxious tone. ‘I mean, they are British, aren’t they?’

  ‘That won’t make a blind bit of difference. In fact, it could make things worse for them. They’ll be made an example of.’

  ‘Good!’ cried John vindictively. ‘We’re well rid of them!’ The mugging rankled deeply. At long last some thugs at any rate were getting their just deserts! ‘Now for heaven’s sake, can we start the expedition?’

  ‘Not just yet, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh God, why not?’

  ‘Because Brian and I will have to go to the British Embassy in Rabat – that’s the capital, by the way – to see the British Consul, who won’t be exactly overjoyed to see us, I can tell you.’

  ‘How long will that take?’

  ‘At least five days, maybe even a week.’

  ‘Five days? Oh fucking hell!’

  ‘Temper tantrums won’t get you anywhere, John. There’s nothing I can do about it.’

  ‘Aye, but warraboot the rest o’ us?’ demanded Jim. ‘Do we just have to hang round in this dump?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s the sum of it. You’ll just have to wait till Brian and I get back.’

  ‘And Joe,’ added Dobson, ‘I want nobody leaving this place. Everybody stays here – here! – till we get back! I want no more daft buggers buggering around with undesirables. Get it?’

  With that, he glared at John and then he and Steadman turned and left.

  ‘Bloody fucking Kev!’ shouted John, beating the air with his clenched fist. Hopes dashed. Dreams of glory in ruins.

  Fizz in an Overheated Coke Can

  John passed the rest of the rest of the day in a state of suppressed fury, like fizz in an overheated Coke can that threatened to explode at any moment. He was frantic to climb Toubkal. It was more than just an adventure. His very self was at stake. Vindication before Major Allen. Proving to Dolly and Mekon that, despite their doubts, he really was tough and reliable. Avenging his humiliations at the hands of Kev: he’d show him who was the real tough guy all right!

  It had all been within his grasp, only to be snatched away by Kev and his brain-dead Neanderthals! They were so thick! Couldn’t they have seen what would happen when they started buying dope? Oh no! They couldn’t see beyond the ends of their snotty, puke-spotted noses. They just had to land everybody in the shit, didn’t they? ‘Leaders’ Dobson called them! Christ, that man was such a dork! Such a meathead! Bringing a gang of hardened criminals along and so fucking thick and big-headed that he couldn’t see them for what they were. He had to stop himself weeping from sheer frustrated anguish.

  Tentative Plans

  The hot day wore on its tedious way. As evening was closing in, Jim and Rob entered the room.

  ‘John,’ said Rob, plonking his large backside on the bed, ‘we can’t just hang round in this hole. We gotta do sommat!’

  ‘There’s nowt yer can do,’ said Michael, emerging from the sweat-soaked sheets of his bed at the far end of the room.

  Ignoring him, Jim launched forth. ‘I came here ter climb mountains an’ that, not jus’ ter sit roond deein’ nowt!’

  ‘Yeah!’ added Rob. ‘I’m gonna look pretty bloody thick when Ah gets home like an’ folk asks me what Ah did. Just sat on me arse an’ did nowt else.’

  John’s gloom lifted a little bit. He wasn’t the only one who was frustrated. He had potential allies here, and, maybe just a chance… But those two beefy young Geordies alarmed him. They almost certainly thought he was an upper-class poofter, and,if they hadn’t already heard of – well, that business in the shower – in all probability they soon would hear of it. To win a little protective street cred he thought it best to go into ‘Dirty Denby’ mode: the big, bad lad of the Beaconsfield corridors.

  ‘Exactly what I feel!’ he exclaimed. ‘I mean, back home they’ll start saying we’re a bunch of benders who just lay about bumming each other.’

  ‘There’ll be naebeddy sayin’ that about me!’ growled Jim with an aggressive snarl. ‘But with the likes o’ you, mebbe folk’ll think different!’

  Ploy’s not worked! Back off quickly before things turn nasty! These blokes will need careful handling.

  ‘I wasn’t being serious.I am just that pissed off! But, I mean…’

  The appropriate words just wouldn’t come. Silence ensued.

  After a while he picked up Steadman’s Guide to Morocco and opened it at the chapter headed ‘Marrakesh and the Atlas Mountains’.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘It’s all in here. Bus to that Imlil place. Then just follow the path up Toubkal. The book says it’s easy. We could do it. No sweat.’

  More silence.

  John finally spoke up again. ‘Why don’t we ask Joe to take us up Toubkal?’

  Jim’s hostile scowl broke into a broad grin. ‘Good idea! But, Jonnie, lad, I’ll do the talking, so don’t you start.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well yer’ll just fuck things up! I mean Joe thinks you’re a bad influence on us like.’

  ‘How the fuck could I influence the likes of you?’ (Sprinkle your conversation with F words: that should squash the ‘poofter’ burr!)

  ‘You wouldn’t believe it, but Joe’s ower scared o’ yers!’

  ‘He’s not, is he? What the fuck’s he got to be scared of? I mean I’m not exactly Mohammed fucking Ali who’s going to beat him in, am I?’ (More F words in the hope of getting that elusive bit of street cred!)

  ‘It’s not that. It’s because you’re posh and can talk Frog an’ read maps an’ that. Wor Joe’s not exactly a brain box, yer knaa. Why, he’s pretty clueless him!’

  So they went to see Morris.

  ‘It’s a Question of Safety’

  They found Morris in his little cubicle at the far end of the balcony. He was sprawled on his bed, staring at the ceiling with a half-empty bottle of wine on the table beside him. He seemed to be sunk in a listless torpor.

  ‘Jesus!’ muttered Rob. ‘He’s pissed!’

  Jim spoke up. ‘Joe, there’s no point in us just hanging round in this dump.’

  Semi-comatose flicker of the eyebrows.

  ‘I mean, why don’t we all go off and climb the Toubkal? It won’t take that long, like.’

  At that, Morris seemed to return to consciousness. Uncoiling himself, he sat up and put his feet on the floor.

  ‘Absolutely out of the question.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Brian’s instructions were to stay here till he returns from Rabat.’

  ‘But that could take a whole week.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘But we’re just wastin’ time hangin’ round here doin’ nowt. I mean, it’s dead borin’.’

  Morris levered himself into a higher level of consciousness: ‘Look, young man, you don’t seem to understand the situation.’

  ‘Yes I do.’

  ‘No you don’t. It’s a question of safety. Mount Toubkal is a dangerous mountain over thirteen thousand feet high. Far higher than anything in Britain. I can’t possibly let you go. Brian has said that I am personally responsible for your safety.’

  ‘But we’re not askin’ yers ter lerruz gan by ourselves like. We want you ter take wor, like.’

  ‘Out of the question.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’d need another properly qualified adult leader with me. And Toubkal’s a difficult climb, you know. There’s cliff bands and snowfields.’

  ‘No there ain’t! John’s guidebook says there’s an easy path up it.’

  ‘That’s not what I’ve heard. Anyway, you haven’t any kit. Most of your climbing kit’s been stolen. No, we stay here. Those are Brian’s instructions.’

  ‘Well, that seems to be it, then,’ sighed Jim, reluctantly accepting defeat.

 
Morris cast a sharp, hostile lance at John. ‘I knew you’d be mixed up in this!’

  They left in silence.

  Inspiration

  ‘Well that were a reet waste o’ time!’ declared Jim as they sat disconsolately under the palm tree in the courtyard.

  Sullen silence.

  Suddenly inspiration came to John. Electrical storm in the brain? Flash of light? Spark of genius? That voice from Heaven on the Road to Damascus? Or simply common sense stating the obvious? Don’t waste your time on youth leaders, ‘qualified’ or otherwise. You’ll just get tangled up in a jungle of petty rivalries and rampaging egos. Anyway, you’re not the sort of person who gets selected for things. You’ll go nowhere with them. No, Jonnie, my lad, if you want to climb mountains and the like, you’ll just have to get on and do it yourself.

  ‘Jim,’ he said, ‘Why don’t we just go and climb Toubkal ourselves? We don’t need Joe. I mean, Toubkal’s not hard. Bob’s guidebook says there’s a path up to the top. We can get a bus to Imlil and start walking from there. Why not?’

  Pregnant pause. The notion was tasted, chewed, swallowed and digested. Metaphorical buzzes and clicks as cumbersome computers registered the data.

  Then Jim spoke up. ‘Jonnie, me bonnie lad, yerra a genius!’

  ‘Just what I were thinkin’,’ added Rob.

  Fervent Plotting, Intrigue, Conspiracies Hatched

  John wallowed in it. Bonding. One of the lads at last. Recognition. Acceptance. The thrill of anticipated adventure. Fletcher Christian against the tyrannical Captain Bligh. ‘Christian’s taking the ship. Are you with us?’ The escape committee at Stalag Luft. Whatever it was.

  Throughout that hot and steamy night and on into the sweltering day that followed, detailed plans were honed and put into action. Deception. Cunning. Keeping Morris in the dark, but at the same time keeping him sweet. Making sure that everybody was present at roll call. Showing willing when you were asked to sweep out the bedrooms or wash up the mess tins after lunch. Making sure that Morris didn’t see you when you sneaked off into the town. One by one the items were ticked off the list.

  Personnel? Tracy and Maureen were recruited. No problem there: both were eager and willing.

  Not so Michael: ‘Yer daft! Yer’ll never gerraway with it yer knaa! We’ll all get done. I mean Brian’ll blow a fit on us like.’

  Brute force sorted that one out: ‘Belt up Mike! If you don’t come along, we’ll do you over! And don’t go crawlin’ to Joe neither. Not unless you ’ave your face rearranged for yous.’

  Money? John had the £80 Steadman had given him. The others said they had nothing. Kit? Rob and Jim needed boots. Tracy needed a sleeping bag. Jim needed a rucksack. A secret foray into the souk enabled John to change his pounds in to Moroccan dirhams and buy two very inferior pairs of boots and a largish shoulder bag, all for about £20 in British money.. As part of his ‘Christian duty’ he willingly paid for all this. Keep God sweet in the hope that he’ll sort things out for you; and, maybe, even sort that out! He couldn’t find a sleeping bag anywhere and had to make do with a threadbare old rug that he got for 50 dihrams from a stall. One corner of it was stained with a noxious brown substance, which on closer examination turned out to be of a repulsively organic origin. However…!

  Stoves? Jim still had a Trangia and three bottles of meths. Food? There were twelve packets of dried soup which Kev hadn’t managed to steal. The guidebook said there were shops in Imlil where they could buy bread and fruit.

  John sussed out the bus station – all in his faltering French – and discovered that there was a bus to Imlil at six in the morning. He bought tickets and booked seats.

  ‘Mean Bastards Wins Wars’

  By evening everything was in place. A conspiratorial meeting took place in John’s bedroom. Adrenaline was pumping.

  ‘All packed up and ready?’

  ‘Right. When do we go?’

  ‘After midnight. Wait till he’s asleep – or pissed!’ (Giggle! Giggle!) ‘Then scarper – quietly, mind… ’

  ‘Ain’t this a bit hard on poor old Joe?’ said Michael. ‘I mean, he’s a decent bloke what’s doin’ his best like. He’ll wonder where we’ve gone. Brian’ll get him done.’

  ‘We’ll leave him a note,’ replied Jim. ‘I’ve got it here. Take a decco.’

  He handed a piece of paper to Rob who read it out aloud to the assembled conspirators: ‘Dear Joe, Thank you so much for letting us go and climb Toubkal. You’ve taught us well that nothing will go wrong. You’re a great youth leader. We really mean it. See you in four days’ time. Signed, Jim.’

  Rob handed it round for the others to sign.

  ‘But it’s all crap!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘It’s a lie. He ain’t given us permission!’

  ‘Who’s to know that?’ replied Jim with an evil leer. ‘It’s his word against ours. Six against one. Besides, I’ve got a little present for him.’ He brandished a bottle of brandy he’d bought in the new town with money John had given him. ‘This’ll keep him occupied, especially when I’ve added the flavouring like.’

  He pulled a small blue bottle out of his pocket. Undoing the top, he poured the contents of into the brandy.

  ‘What’s that you’re puttin’ in?’

  ‘Just milk of magnesia. Me mam gave it us as a laxative. She’s always on aboot keepin’ regular, her.’

  ‘Poor bloke!’ exclaimed Tracy. ‘He won’t half be gerrin’ the squits, him!’

  ‘Yeah!’ grinned Jim. ‘He’ll be so fuckin’ busy that he won’ have no time ter gan lookin’ foprrus. I’ll leave the bottle at the top o’ the stairs with our letter an’ another note tellin’ him that it’s a present ter show our appreciation for all he’s done, an’ that.’

  ‘Cor, yer mean bastard!’ sighed Michael.

  ‘Mean bastards wins wars,’ replied Jim. ‘Nice blokes don’t.’

  The Brotherhood of the Hunted: Escape

  Midnight came. Zero hour. Pumping adrenaline. Hushed whispering.

  ‘Is he asleep?’

  ‘Yeah! And reet pissed too by the look of it! He’s drunk half that bottle of brandy you gave him.’

  ‘Jesus! He’s gonna suffer sommat wicked him!’

  ‘Yer shouldn’t of done it, yer knaa!’

  ‘Belt up, Mike!’

  Opening the front door, they slipped quietly out into the dark and silent street.

  An Ancient Bus

  A long and anxious wait followed in the bleak, deserted bus station.

  ‘Christ, I hope he ain’t gonna send the fuzz ater us.’

  A hot, yellow dawn came. Slowly the place began to fill up with bustling crowds: veiled women carrying bundles, white-robed men, young men in jeans, dark-skinned women bare-headed and wearing slacks.

  Six o’clock came.

  ‘Where’s the bus you promised us, Jonnie lad?’

  ‘Dunno! Dunno what’s happened to it.’ Panicky thought: is there a bus? I’ve bought the tickets, but bloody hell, have I been done? What’ll the lads say if I have?

  Seven o’clock came. Still no bus.

  ‘Where’s this fucking bus got to?’

  ‘It berra come soon, else the fuzz’ll be here!’

  ‘Yeah, Joe’ll have woken up and read that note.’

  ‘Poor bloke! You shouldn’t of done it! Ain’t right!’

  At eight o’clock a battered old bus finally spluttered up to the stand. Saved! John felt the kind of relief that you feel when a painful boil is lanced.

  A souped-up rugger scrum followed as a seething mass of bodies piled into it. Somehow the bewildered and buffeted gang of fugitives managed to secure seats. More and more people piled in: men in robes and turbans, veiled women with babies, ragged street urchins, even a couple of goats. A flustered young man clambered over the crouching bodies, collecting fares.

 
John showed him the tickets he’d bought.

  ‘Non! Non! Non!’ the man said. ‘Trente dihrams!’

  John gave him a 50 dihram note and he clambered off to the front end of the bus. No change was forthcoming.

  ‘But you paid for them tickets already,’ said Michael. ‘You’ve just lerrim lift fifty dihrams off yer.’

  ‘Well, what else could I do? I mean he’d have booted us off the bus if I hadn’t.’ Michael could be so irritatingly unperceptive at times.

  Eventually, like an asthmatic old camel, the bus staggered off. They had escaped. The journey passed slowly. It was too crowded to see out of the windows which, anyway, were caked over with years of grime. After two sleepless nights they felt drowsy and soon dozed off into a semi-coma.

  Images of another escape flickered through John’s mind: a shamed and deluded little wretch boarding a train on a black autumn evening. He quickly banished them. This escape was different. This time he was a big, bold lad on the threshold of an adventure, which would show the world what really lay under his small and scrawny exterior.

  ‘What Do We Do Now?’

  Hours later the bus ground to a gasping halt. It was as if the old camel had given up its unequal struggle against the odds, and had lain down and died. Everybody piled out. Blinking blearily in the bright light, they found themselves in a large square, sun-blasted and surrounded by low, flat-roofed buildings and market stalls. It was noticeably cooler than Marrakesh, and not far away were grey mountains, wrinkled and snow-streaked, rising imperiously into a clear blue sky.

  ‘Is this that Imlil place, John? What do we do now?’

  John fished the guidebook out of his rucksack and turned to the chapter about Imlil. This place doesn’t seem to fit the description in the book: no gorge, no river, no single street.

  ‘It’s not Imlil,’ he eventually said. ‘It must be a place called Asni. The bus seems to have stopped here. But getting to Imlil shouldn’t be a problem. There seem to be plenty of buses.’

  He indicated a ragged line of vehicles, some new and flashy, others in a seemingly terminal state of dilapidation. ‘One of these must be going up to Imlil. In the meantime we’d better get some nosh. We can’t survive on a few packets of soup.’