by Karen Swan
He looked back at her. ‘Mitch was my family. I’m not going to betray his memory on top of everything else I’ve done.’
Lucy straightened up. ‘Everything else?’ she sneered and a silence expanded between them.
‘It’s my fault he’s dead.’ He heard the strain in his own voice. Couldn’t she see he was near breaking point?
Evidently not. ‘Do you know what? I’ve had enough of this self-pitying fucking depression,’ she sneered. ‘It’s been months! When are you going to get over yourself, Tuck? You didn’t do anything wrong.’
‘I should never have called him.’
Lucy planted her hands on her hips. ‘It was his decision to go out looking for them. His.’
‘I know! But I am not blameless – I told him, knowing he’d go out looking for them, because I knew it was what I would do. Meg hates me, Lucy! She can’t even look at me. As far as she’s concerned, I’m as responsible for killing him as if I’d buried him myself!’
‘So? Why do you care what she thinks?’
‘Because I know she’s right. I can’t live with myself.’ His voice cracked, tears springing to his eyes as suddenly as if they’d been poked. He turned away.
‘So this is your answer, is it? You’re going to try to buy her forgiveness?’
‘No! It’s because I don’t want to do it any more! OK?’ Tuck yelled, losing control as suddenly as if a wire in him had been snapped, everything suddenly becoming jerky and loose. Spasmodic. ‘I’m done! I want out. I don’t want to spend every fucking day being confronted with me and Mitch on a film together, his face on a poster. There’s not a single thing about that company that doesn’t remind me of him and the way we used to be. And I miss him, Lucy! I miss him so bad, some days I don’t even want to get out of bed, I don’t want to speak—’
He ran out of breath, staring back at her, pleading with her to understand. Didn’t she get that it was why he couldn’t even go to the screening tonight? Why he’d choose oblivion in a bottle over dancing with ghosts? But as he saw the contempt spread on her face, construing his fraternal love as weakness, he knew he’d been right never to admit to all those evenings and overnights spent on the mattress in the studio, drinking himself into a stupor as he watched film after film of them both – young, free, alive. It was actually easier to let her pretend he’d been with other women, though in fact he’d cheated only twice since Mitch had died.
Could he say ‘only’, like that was a good thing? An achievement? But then compared to how he’d been before, it was. He’d never wanted to hurt her, he’d just settled down too young. He knew that now and he’d known it then – he’d tried telling her too, but she’d refused to let him go and then Mitch had died, then she’d told him about the baby . . . And now they were trapped, inexorably linked to one another even as they were spiralling towards certain doom, like a fighter plane that had been shot out of the sky and was blazing in the blue before plunging to a fiery death.
He sagged, slumping against the wall as though he’d been physically depleted, the room spinning. ‘Lucy, we can’t—’
His very tone was enough. She knew what he was going to say next. But as the paperweight came hurtling through the air, he also knew she wouldn’t let him say it.
Chapter Thirty-four
The screening room was packed, heads bobbing all the way down the rows, the ambient noise level of chatter ridiculously loud.
Jonas came back with the popcorn, the two seats beside Meg still empty.
‘Have you tried calling them?’ he asked, handing Meg her portion and sitting down on her far side.
‘No. There’s no reception in here.’ She looked down the row again and Jonas could see she was conflicted about whether or not she actually wanted Lucy and Tuck to show. The longer the silence grew between the two girls, the louder it became.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked, watching as she fidgeted. Her mood had been changeable all day. In some moments, he glimpsed what had burned between them last night – saw the longing in her eyes, sensed her instinct to reach out and take his hand – but in the next, the shutters would come down and he knew it was because he was leaving; they were running out of time before they’d had a chance to begin, the hours slipping away from them with no clear resolution in sight. Because it wasn’t enough to want each other. They belonged to different worlds and this time tomorrow, he would be gone from here – in another country, another city, another time zone.
And now, as if that wasn’t enough, they were both about to come face to face with Mitch, this almost-mythical man who still dominated all their lives, even his. Ten minutes from now, he was going to be moving in front of them on that giant screen – all but alive – and Jonas wasn’t convinced she would get through it.
Jonas stared at her profile in the dim light, seeing how her mouth was pulled down at the edges. It was six o’clock already and after this final round of films – the Short Film, Mountain category – there would be a brief hiatus, the awards, bed and then he’d be gone . . .
‘There they are!’
They both looked up, startled, to see two older women making their way across to them, all the other visitors having to angle their knees awkwardly to let them pass.
Jonas recognized Dolores, of course, but he didn’t know the glamorous ash-blonde woman behind her in a pale turquoise twinset, ropes of pearls swinging at her chest. They made an incongruous couple, with Dolores in her almost brutally mannish clothes.
‘How are you, chick, had a fun day?’ Dolores asked, winking at Jonas as she sank into the chair beside Meg and kissed her on the temple.
‘You know, you could have just told me to have the day off rather than pretending to fire me,’ Meg said, still cross.
‘Oh, I wasn’t pretending.’
‘What?’
‘No, my love. If you will not fly the nest, then I shall have to push you.’
‘But . . . but you can’t do that, Dolores!’
‘I already did.’
Meg stared at her, all her anger dissipating and a forlorn look creeping onto her face. ‘But what am I going to do?’
‘Precisely,’ Dolores smiled, patting her hand. ‘Now you’ll have the time, and impetus, to figure it out. No more hiding behind my skirts.’
Meg pouted. ‘You’ve never worn a skirt.’
‘Thank God!’ Dolores said with a laugh.
‘You must be Jonas,’ the blonde woman said, reaching over the others to shake his hand. ‘I’m Barbara, Lucy’s mother.’
‘Oh, Barbara, yes, I’ve heard a lot about you. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.’
Barbara smiled, seeming delighted that she had been the topic of conversation, jogging Dolores with her elbow as she took her seat. ‘Have you enjoyed your stay with us?’
‘Very much.’ Too much.
Barbara tutted. ‘Everybody says that. All my guests.’ She held her hands up. ‘It’s a very special place to live.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And are you going up into space again soon?’ she asked, as though it was like catching a bus.
‘There are no immediate plans to return, no.’
‘It must get terribly lonely up there,’ she suggested, eyes narrowed and shaking her head slightly.
‘Well, I guess I got lucky with my pen pal here,’ he replied lightly, as though that was all Meg was.
‘Isn’t she a peach? We love our Meg.’
Jonas glanced across at her. ‘Yes.’
Meg wouldn’t look at him. ‘Where’s Tuck and Lucy?’ she asked.
‘Not coming,’ Dolores replied. ‘Lucy’s with the baby and Tuck’s . . . well, we don’t know where he is, do we?’ she asked Barbara.
Barbara shook her head. ‘Although I think we can all make an educated guess,’ she said, lips pursed together disapprovingly.
Meg bit her lip. ‘He did say he might not come.’
‘Well, it’s very brave of you to be here,’ Dolores said quietly, patting her hand a
gain.
‘Thank heavens you’ve known better than to find solace in the bottom of a bottle,’ Barbara said admiringly.
‘Are you OK?’ Dolores asked, concern shining in her eyes.
Meg nodded but didn’t reply. Jonas didn’t think she looked OK. She was pale and her body language had become more and more closed.
The lights flickered on the screen suddenly, the festival logo flashing up, and everyone fell into an expectant hush as the film official made a short speech about the Best Short Mountain Film category and the high calibre of entries this year.
One after the other, they rolled. Stories about people free-climbing rock towers in the American national parks, a paraglider soaring off mountaintops and skipping with the chute in the air, guys in wingsuits scooting past cliff faces with death-defying audacity, another daredevil mountain-biking up a mountain – from beach to sky-touching ridge – with skills that would scarcely be possible on two legs, much less two wheels.
Some of the films were only a few minutes long, others almost twenty minutes in length but for every one, Jonas felt transfixed, awed. They showed he wasn’t the only one doing remarkable things; every single one of these filmmakers was making sure they lived before they died.
He glanced over at Meg as the screen went black and the next film was readied to play. She was as still as if she’d been cast from marble and he wondered, if he were to touch her hand, whether she would feel as cold.
Snow Dog ran across the screen in bold titles.
‘Oh, God,’ he heard her murmur as Tuck’s name came up next, and Jonas held his own breath as he prepared to come face to face with what – or rather, who – she had lost.
The opening scene was a dawn shot of the sun slowly peeping from behind a jagged ridge. There was no doubt, from the steep terrain, that this was remote back-country and snow blanketed the ground in deadly deep drifts, not a footstep or blown twig marring its pristine white perfection. The camera cut to a tiny hut, two red enamel cups on a chunky wooden counter, steam rising from the open neck of a thermos flask. And then a large black dog – Badger – was seen from behind, jumping excitedly into the snow, which was as soft as foam as it sank up to his belly; he had to move in a front-back rocking motion to get through the powder, his tail leaving snake-trails on the surface behind him. And then he turned, his muzzle white from a quick exploratory burrow in the snow, those ginger eyebrows so distinctive . . .
Jonas tensed as a snowboarder – his face obscured by reflective goggles and an oversized orange jacket which had the hood up and was zipped to his nose – was shown beginning to climb a treacherous peak. His snowboard was strapped to the backpack he was wearing, Badger leaping around him in excited circles, the boarder’s hand reaching out every so often to pat the dog affectionately on the head. Who was it, Jonas wondered impatiently: Mitch or Tuck?
As if in answer Meg, beside him, sank lower in the chair, her hand over her mouth.
Jonas felt his own anxiety build as the film cut to the boarder throwing the board down, strapping in his feet and without even a pause, tipping himself over a sheer vertical drop, snow flying in huge arcs as he cut left, then right, his hand trailing in the snow alongside as the mountain reared up to him, standing as upright as any man. And all the while, Badger rocking and leaping, never far behind, a dark shadow on the all-white surface as the streak of orange charged ahead without hesitation. Sometimes the camera was uphill of the two of them, sometimes down, and both Mitch and Badger got equal airplay – but Tuck was never seen.
Jonas watched, conflicted, as he saw just how brilliant Mitch had been, able to glimpse the marrow of the man through his sport – bold, fearless, arrogant, reckless, courageous . . . He’d been tall and powerful, just as much an athlete as the businessman Tuck had told him about.
Jonas strained to glimpse his face, to see the eyes which had once reflected Meg’s love. But he was hidden behind photochromatic lenses that tinted like a rainbow, remaining an enigma, as out of reach to him as to Meg.
Time-lapse technique showed the sun tracking the sky, a sky Jonas was personally acquainted with, cutting from the exhilaration of the downhill sweep to the pain of the uphill climb.
The music that played in the background was evocative and free, stirring feelings in Jonas that he was already struggling to contain. He didn’t just want to live a life with these pitches – the grit of endeavour, the bliss of achievement – for he had already been there and done that: all those years of training for six months in space. Yes, it had been everything he’d been drilled and educated to expect, but he needed more now. He needed to share these experiences. This life.
And for a moment, he had thought, sensed, Meg was the one—
Suddenly, the sky was amber, the snow growing grey, and the camera cut to Mitch, pulling off the goggles at last. The day was done and so was he. He was laughing, his dark hair floppy and wild, his skin windburned with ridiculous goggle marks round the eyes. The sun glinted onto his handsome face, as though the sunbeams were seeking out him alone and he closed his eyes, face tilted up, arms outstretched as he fell back in the snow. A plume exploded upwards, Badger scurrying onto his stomach, head down and body curled, trying to bury into him for cuddles, his tail wagging every bit as hard as it had when they’d set out. The final shot lingered on them both inert in the snow, bodies spent but spirits soaring. A man and his dog and a mountain. A lesson in how to live, how to love.
The image faded to white, as though the snow was claiming them.
In memory of Mitchell Sullivan, 1989–2017.
The words, in bold, brutal black, drew a collective gasp of horror and disbelief from the crowd, as though they were asking, ‘How could someone that alive, be dead?’
But that wasn’t what had made Jonas startle. He stared at the screen for several long moments, trying to process it, look for other possibilities . . . But there were none that made sense, only a terrible truth.
He turned his head and saw what he expected to see – Meg as low in the chair as she could get, tears skimming down her cheeks as she struggled for breath.
His hand reached for hers and he pressed it hard to his lips. He would never tell her. Because he clearly saw now what she’d lost. Because he clearly saw now she was lost to him. Because he knew he couldn’t beat a ghost.
‘She needs some air,’ Dolores was saying, her voice sounding far away, as though she was speaking through a wall or from underwater.
‘Move, please. I said move . . .’ Barbara was saying imperiously, jostling people out of their way as arms around Meg held her up, guided her through the crowds. Faces were a blur, conversation indistinct . . .
The cold air outside was like a slap, shocking her, bringing her back to herself. It was snowing heavily again, the evening air a dancing whirling white, and Barbara was wrapping Meg’s coat around her shoulders, popping closed the fasteners even though her arms were hugging her torso, the empty sleeves hanging limp by her sides.
‘How are you feeling?’ Jonas asked her and she blinked at him, feeling sorrier than ever as she saw the sadness – recognition – in his eyes. The film had been more than a homage, more than a tribute; it had been a love letter, a celebration of everything that had defined Mitch, a man who had lost his life helping others. Ronnie had been wrong. He had been perfect.
‘I need to see Tuck.’
‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ Barbara asked, pulling the hood of Meg’s coat over her head now and beginning to rub Meg’s shoulders warm, as though she was a toddler in the playground. ‘Your feelings are very raw. Perhaps—’
‘I want to thank him.’
‘Oh.’ Barbara looked surprised. ‘Well, that’s different.’ She looked at Dolores. ‘Do you want to drive? I shouldn’t have had that sherry in the foyer.’
‘I did warn you,’ Dolores muttered, holding out her hands for the keys.
Meg was helped into the car, the street lights refracted into a million stars by the snowflakes spreading and m
elting on the glass. Jonas, beside her, was silent but she couldn’t offer any words of consolation. They both knew their strange, tentative fledgling relationship had reached its end.
But it wasn’t Jonas she could think about right now, or even Mitch. It was Tuck. And it wasn’t just ‘Thank you’ she wanted to say to him, but ‘Sorry’.
Chapter Thirty-five
‘We don’t have long, remember,’ Barbara said, striding ahead through the hotel’s crowded lobby. The Homestead was the unofficial HQ of the festival, with many of the luminaries of the adventure-film world staying there for the duration, and those who weren’t already at the hall for the screenings were milling here over drinks instead, and preparing to leave for the awards show shortly.
Meg drifted after her, with Jonas and Dolores flanking her as though she needed protection, watching detachedly as Barbara nodded greetings to those guests she knew by name or had booked in personally. Meg would have preferred if they’d parked out the back – she couldn’t wait another minute to make this long-overdue apology; she felt sick as she remembered the things she’d said, how harsh and unforgiving she’d been – but Barbara had forgotten her glasses and wanted them for the awards show, so it had just been altogether easier to park on the street and walk through.
‘How are you feeling now?’ Dolores asked, peering round as they walked to get a better look at her face.
‘Fine.’
‘Mmhmm,’ Dolores nodded, before casting a sceptical look at Jonas and mouthing, ‘Pale.’
‘Just wait here. I’m certain I had them last in the office,’ Barbara said, scooting around the reception desk and disappearing into the back room.
‘Do you want to sit down?’ Dolores enquired.
‘I said I’m fine.’
‘You don’t look fine, chicken.’
Barbara came back out only a moment later, the glasses swinging on a chain at her bosom. ‘Right! At last!’ she huffed, rolling her eyes. ‘I knew I’d had them doing the linen invoices earlier but that daft girl Linda put a whole heap of papers on top of them. Honestly, I don’t know why I haven’t fired her already. She’s more trouble than she’s worth. Come along then. Let’s go and congratulate my son-in-law for once. It’s not often he’s in the good books.’