The Rhythm Section--A Stephanie Patrick Thriller

by Mark Burnell

  Monica Patrick—or Monica Schneider, as she had been then—had been one of the most respected young climbers of her generation in Switzerland. Both her parents had been famous climbers and by the time Monica met Andrew Patrick she had been to the top of Everest (at the second attempt), K2, and many of Europe’s most famous mountains. Love, however, led to marriage and then family, which brought her serious climbing career to a halt, although she and Stephanie’s father had always enjoyed a cliff face, or a sheer slice of rock. Stephanie remembered that her mother had regarded the Eiger as her only true defeat. Twice she had tried to climb it, twice she had failed. And on both occasions, she’d been lucky to walk away with her life.

  ‘I’ll go first,’ Stephanie said.

  Boyd shook his head. ‘No. You go second.’

  She smiled on the inside as Boyd scrambled up a channel carved by a stream. By taking the lead, he was denying her the opportunity to leave him behind. During the first climb they had made, Boyd had gone second, presumably as back-up, if it were needed. It had quickly become clear that it wasn’t. Stephanie seemed to see the fissures and crevices quicker than Boyd. She found she could read a rock face, a route presenting itself to her as surely as if it were painted on to the surface.

  The climb ahead was not a matter for ropes and crampons. It was not vertical, although there were several short vertical sections. Generally, it was a combination of rock, of heather ledges, and of occasional, unlikely trees which seemed to sprout out of the steeper, stonier areas. They were ugly and stunted but, given their location, the fact that they existed at all made them impressive.

  She looked up and saw the three ledges which she had already identified as natural breaks. Boyd was heading for the first. She followed. There was no proper climbing before the first ledge and she reached it a moment after Boyd had, noting that he seemed slightly shorter of breath than she was. Between the first and second ledges, there was a tricky screen of rock that was only thirty feet in height but which was almost completely smooth. The second ledge was fifty feet to their left.

  Boyd said, ‘You can go first to the next ledge and I’ll take the lead to the last.’

  Stephanie saw no direct route and so moved cautiously across the rock face, staying low on it, where there were more holding opportunities. Moving off the ledge left her with a forty-foot drop on to grass-covered stone. Her hands and feet moved quickly and surely, fingers finding cracks to slip into, nodules of rock to clutch. She tested every grip before committing to it. At the far side of the face, there were deeper grooves, providing an uneven ladder to the second ledge, which she reached quickly. She turned round to watch Boyd following her path. It took him longer. He looked less agile. She wondered whether that was really the case or whether it was more a question of confidence.

  Boyd didn’t pause when he joined her. Or speak. Instead, he immediately embarked upon the next stage, a longer section with two short vertical climbs of thirty to forty feet each, about sixty feet apart. Stephanie looked up. From the third ledge to the top was only twenty feet and it wasn’t a climb, just a steep, rocky slope. From afar, she had seen stags and hinds clambering over it, totally sure-footed. When Boyd reached the third ledge, Stephanie started, using the same route. Having completed the first climb, she followed the cut in the face, which dragged her high to the left and through a baby waterfall. The water was icy. She raised her face into the stream and drank, before tackling the second climb that rose to the third ledge.

  Now Stephanie knew what it was that had pumped through her mother’s veins as an integral part of her blood. Although Monica Patrick had graduated to the prestige peaks of the world, the elemental thrill was to be found here. What was important was not the height you achieved, or the magnitude of the fall below you, but the way you adhered to and moved over the surfaces. The feeling of supple limbs in motion, of balance and power in partnership, of physical economy. The sense of a challenge accepted and successfully completed.

  These were the thoughts running through her mind when the rocks hit her.

  Above her, and unseen by her, Boyd had become impatient and had decided to complete the ascent before she joined him on the third ledge. He moved off the flat ground and slipped, dislodging several rocks before scrambling to safety.

  The dirt hit her first. She looked up, saw what was following and tried to flatten herself against the rock face. To no avail. The largest stone clipped her right shoulder, wrenching her right hand from the fissure. Her body swayed, her right foot slipped. She tried to scramble for a new hold. A stone glanced off the left side of her face.

  And then she was free.

  For half a second, she was in the air. Then all four limbs were scrambling for purchase before gravity’s acceleration proved terminal. She was lucky. Her right hand fastened on to a tiny, jagged outcrop. It wasn’t enough to stop the fall, but it slowed her and she jammed her left hand into a V-shaped crack before the right hand was torn free, leaving the skin of her palm on the stone. The rest of her body swung like a pendulum. She felt popping in her fingers.

  Her right boot found a small inlet and stopped the swing, allowing her to take some of the weight off her arm. There was blood seeping into her left eye, blurring her vision. She ran the fingers of her right hand over as much rock as she could, until she found a stony peg to cling to. Then she located a ridge for her left boot.

  She was temporarily secure.

  ‘Stephanie?’

  She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek to the cold, hard rock. The adrenaline was pumping furiously, making her shake.

  ‘Stephanie?’

  She couldn’t recall Boyd using her first name before.

  He was lying on his belly on the ledge, leaning over the lip, looking down at her.

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  Her eyes opened. Out of the right, she saw what was below her. Rock, trees, more rock. And a gap of two hundred feet.

  ‘You’ve got to get back down to the second ledge.’

  He was right. Despite her damaged left hand, retreat was possible. Even the smooth sheet of rock between the first and second ledges was bridgeable. She tried to release her left hand but it was stuck. She needed to be higher to pull it out. There were pins-and-needles spreading through the fingers.

  Slowly, Stephanie found new footholds for herself and nudged her body upwards.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Boyd shouted at her. ‘You’ve got to go down. Down!’

  She yanked her left hand free of the V-shaped crack and the pain made her cry out. She saw that the forefinger and the middle finger were broken.

  ‘For God’s sake, go back to the second ledge!’

  Her left shoulder was sore but didn’t appear to have lost any mobility.

  Inch by inch and hour by hour—for that is how it seemed to her—she continued to climb upwards, closer to Boyd, who continued to scream retreat at her. After ten excruciating minutes, she found herself within six feet of the ledge.

  Boyd’s expression revealed a truth; he was astounded she hadn’t fallen.

  He was reaching down to her, saying, ‘Not far now. Reach up. Take my hand.’

  Between staccato breaths, Stephanie muttered, ‘I don’t need your hand.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, don’t be an idiot. Give me your hand!’

  ‘I made it this far without you. I’ll make it the rest of the way, too.’

  Boyd’s temper had been under strain, pressured by the twin forces of shock and guilt. Now, it snapped. ‘Believe me, sweetie, you’ll get plenty of opportunities to get yourself killed, so at least have the good grace to make it count. Not like falling off a rock in the middle of nowhere when it doesn’t mean a fucking thing!’

  Stephanie ignored his hand, which was now just four feet from her. ‘I’m not quitting.’

  ‘Fine. Now give me your hand.’

  ‘I said I’m not quitting.’

  ‘I heard you the first time.’

  She turned her face upwards, so tha
t he could see the cut above her left eye and the blood that was flowing from it. And so that he could feel what was burning behind both eyes. ‘Ever.’

  It took a moment. Then Boyd averted his gaze and replied, quietly, ‘I know.’ Stephanie recognized an act of submission when she saw it. He said, ‘Now please give me your hand.’

  13

  The clouds parted, revealing rough fields over hilly land, a few woods, occasional farm buildings and a web of small winding roads. Gusts of wind rocked the helicopter as it made an almost vertical descent towards a field of coarse grass with a dilapidated barn in one corner. By the barn, on the narrow track that bordered one side of the field, there was a parked car.

  The day had started routinely with a short run before breakfast. Afterwards, Boyd had driven Stephanie to Durness, where they had run along the beach and through the dunes. It had been a beautiful morning, cold and bright, a sparkling sun turning the Atlantic into liquid jewels. Stephanie had enjoyed the cold sand between her toes and the salt on her lips. She had enjoyed the young Golden Retriever that had run wildly at her side for half the length of the beach. She had enjoyed seeing Boyd struggle to keep up with her.

  When they returned to the loch, there was a helicopter on the grass by the water’s edge. Boyd did not seem surprised to see it. He left Stephanie in the Land-Rover and went across to talk to the pilot. When he returned, he said, ‘You’ve got ten minutes to have a shower and get dressed.’

  Stephanie had never been in a helicopter before. As the machine soared into the sky and wheeled away to the south, she found the climb exhilarating. She kept her face pressed to the window, absorbing all that passed below until they ran into thick cloud over the Grampian Mountains. They rose to a higher altitude to clear the worst of the weather and only encountered it again during their descent. When Stephanie asked where they were going, the pilot said he’d been instructed not to tell her.

  Now, the helicopter was on the ground. The pilot turned round and waved Stephanie out. She was immediately assaulted by the power of air beating down on her. The downforce had flattened the grass beneath her feet. She slammed the door shut and scuttled forward, half-crouched. The whine intensified and, before she had cleared the blade circumference, the helicopter was airborne again. She watched it surge up towards the clouds.

  When she turned round, she saw Alexander standing by the gate next to the barn, patting his white hair back into place. He was wearing grey flannel trousers, a navy cashmere polo-neck and a charcoal overcoat. There was no verbal greeting. Instead, Stephanie followed him out of the field and into the black Rover that was waiting for them. They both sat in the back.

  Alexander said to the driver, ‘Are we going to make it?’

  ‘Should do. We’re a bit behind schedule. But not too much.’

  It only took Stephanie two minutes to realize where she was. That was when they turned on to the A6088, south of Hawick. She caught Alexander looking at her black eye and then at her hair. More than ten weeks of dark roots beneath the bleached blonde had made it look particularly striking. She wore it drawn back into a pony-tail.

  ‘How are your fingers?’ he asked.

  They were still bound together, having been re-set in Lairg. The doctor had also stitched the cut above her left eyebrow and had disinfected and dressed her skinned right palm.

  ‘I won’t be doing any tapestry for a while, but apart from that, they’re fine.’

  ‘Iain says you’re making satisfactory progress.’

  She allowed herself a small mocking smile. ‘He says that, does he?’

  ‘He says your fitness levels have come on well.’

  ‘I can imagine. He certainly tried his best to break me. On your instruction, I have no doubt. I still can’t decide whether he underestimated me or overestimated himself.’

  ‘You’ve genuinely surprised him.’

  ‘And genuinely disappointed you?’

  For a moment, it looked as though Alexander might deny it. But then his expression changed from insincere protest to resignation. ‘It’s not the first time and I’m sure it won’t be the last.’

  They took the turning to Saughtree, passing through Deadwater and Kielder before driving down the west bank of Kielder Water. The closer they got and the more familiar the surroundings became, the more uneasy Stephanie felt.

  They came round a bend and the driver braked. Ahead, there was another car—a mud-splattered Cherokee Jeep—parked on the left-hand side of the road. The Rover pulled in behind it, close to a sign informing them that Jedburgh was thirty-three miles to the north.

  To the left, rough grass fell away from the road. There were horses grazing on it. On the right, the land rose sharply. There were sheep to the edge of the softwood plantation. Half a mile ahead, there was a turning to the left which went past Falstone Cemetery and led into Falstone itself, the village where Stephanie had been born and raised. All of this was visible from the vantage point by the road.

  There were three men in the Jeep, one of whom got out as Alexander and Stephanie approached. Alexander said, ‘Are we too late?’

  ‘No, sir. You’re bang on time.’

  Spits of rain fell as tiny darts. Above, every shade of grey was reflected by the clouds that rumbled eastwards. The wind made Stephanie’s eyes water but through her streaky vision she noticed, for the first time, black cars parked along the wall of the cemetery. One or two people were emerging, shuffling through the gates into the small patch of gravel that passed for a car park. From this distance, and in this light, the figures, being predominantly dressed in black, were mostly lost against the dark background.

  Alexander peered through a pair of binoculars that the driver of the Cherokee had handed him. He passed them to Stephanie who raised them to her eyes with a sense of dread. Pale faces, hair tousled by wind, dark clothing. More people were leaving the cemetery, but none that Stephanie recognized. Until she saw Jane, her sister-in-law, who was only three years older than she was. On her hip, she was carrying James, Stephanie’s nephew, while guiding Polly, Stephanie’s niece, towards one of the black cars. Her hand was on the girl’s shoulder. Stephanie saw a flash of white handkerchief dabbing an eye.

  She searched the mourners for her brother but could not find him.

  ‘Oh God, no … Christopher!’

  As she scanned the gathering, other faces began to stand out. Karl and Claudia Schneider, her mother’s parents. Karl’s white hair was brilliant against his Alpine tan, knocking twenty years off his eighty. Stephanie remembered the hot chocolate Karl made for her when, as a young child, she had stayed with them in Switzerland. They drank it at breakfast out of bright blue glazed clay bowls. Karl always added cinnamon to it. Stephanie could smell the aroma across fifteen years. Claudia, who was now seventy-five, was hiding behind a pair of dark glasses and a black scarf. Isabelle Fouchard, Stephanie’s aunt, had made the journey from Paris. Her copper hair shone against the drabness. Stephanie’s father’s parents were there too; at seventy-seven, Richard Patrick was still standing ram rod straight at six foot six, with Angela beside him, now walking with the aid of a stick.

  Stephanie lowered the binoculars and turned to Alexander. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My brother. Christopher.’

  ‘Nothing. He’s there somewhere.’ Alexander was trying to light a Rothmans in the wind, both hands cupped around the tip as he fired his lighter repeatedly. Out of the corner of his mouth, he said, ‘This isn’t his funeral. It’s yours.’

  She felt sick.

  ‘What?’

  Finally successful, Alexander puffed on his cigarette and nodded. ‘It had to be done.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You know why.’

  She raised the binoculars to her eyes again and eventually caught sight of Christopher. She kept her sense of relief private.

  ‘How did you do it?’

  ‘A car crash. A nasty car crash. Head-on. One of the cars—a stolen car, as it
happens—caught fire. The driver and the passenger were burned beyond recognition.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘To someone.’

  Alexander seemed disappointed. ‘The stolen car was being driven by a fifteen-year-old joy-rider. There was no one else with him. You were added later, as it were.’

  ‘Do my family know?’

  ‘The circumstances? That you were with a fifteen-year-old car thief who was drunk when he veered across the road into an oncoming vehicle? Yes, they know.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To be consistent. It was considered better to have you die as you’d been living. Identification was made through your dental records. The funeral took place earlier, at St Peter’s, your local parish church over there in Falstone. And the cemetery’s where you’re now buried.’

  Stephanie was momentarily speechless.

  Alexander said, ‘This is what you chose. Remember?’

  ‘I never chose this for Christopher.’

  ‘Indirectly, you did.’

  ‘And is this what you brought me here for? To show me this?’

  ‘No. You’re here for something else. But I thought you might want a last chance to see your family. Even if it’s only from afar.’ Stephanie could not tell whether Alexander was being genuine or merely cruel. He looked sincere enough. Then he rubbed salt into her wounds, as casually as he could, when he said, ‘By the way, your sister-in-law is pregnant again.’

  Her reply was pure reflex. ‘How do you know?’

  It was a question that Alexander was not going to answer and, on reflection, one that Stephanie didn’t want answered. She peered through the binoculars again.

  ‘When’s it due?’

  ‘In six months.’

  Christopher was crying. Stephanie could see him wiping his eyes. Jane was looking after the bewildered children. It broke Stephanie’s heart.