by Paul Finch
The guidebook had predicted the journey would take six hours, meaning they’d finish well before nightfall, but they’d now been struggling along for at least twelve.
‘Look …’ Tara tried a more placating tone. ‘If we can’t find our way down to a road, we should maybe think about pitching the tent. Just camp for the night. Hopefully this fog will have lifted by morning.’
‘Newsflash, Tara … it’s perishing bloody cold!’
‘So we wrap up.’
‘Everything’s wet, you dozy mare! We’ll die from bloody hypothermia.’
Their voices echoed and re-echoed, creating the illusion they were in a chasm rather than on some open hillside. It was more than uncanny.
‘Jane, it can’t be a good idea to just keep ploughing on. We don’t know where we’re going, and this ground seems to be sloping upward.’
‘We can hardly pitch the tent when we can’t see our hands in front of our faces,’ Jane said. ‘Anyway, what if the fog hasn’t gone by tomorrow? We’re up on the fells, remember … not in some nice park a few yards from your mum and dad’s nice little middle-class house.’
‘Alright! You don’t need to be such a bitch about it.’
‘Anyway, what good is sitting tight going to do? No one’ll come looking for us, Tara, because no one fucking knows we’re here. Didn’t it ever enter that air-filled brainbox of yours to tell someone what we were planning? And I don’t mean that bloody campsite owner. I mean someone who might actually care about us, who might actually have been listening when you were talking to them. Like our fucking parents, perhaps! I mean, Jesus, how difficult can it fucking be …?’
‘Alright, I said! Christ’s sake, Jane … I’m in as much danger as you are!’
Jane muttered some incoherent, vaguely foul-mouthed response, and they trod along in silence for a few more minutes, hearing only their own grunted exertions and the hollow thuds of their feet. Fleetingly, oddly, Tara was uncomfortable with the otherwise complete silence. It was a stupid thought, of course. There was no one else up here, but why did she get the sudden feeling their latest outburst, which would likely have been heard for miles and miles on a night like this, might have drawn the attention of someone listening? Even if it had, that ought to be something they’d want – and yet there was a brief queasy sensation in her tummy.
‘Sorry about the airhead thing,’ Jane muttered self-consciously.
‘It’s alright,’ Tara said. ‘Sorry about the bitch.’
Tara Cook and Jane Dawson were able to converse like this, one minute at each other’s throats, the next offering consolation, because they were close enough to be sisters, having grown up together in Wilmslow.
Jane was now a sales assistant at Catwalk, a clothing retailer whose branded products were strictly mid-range, while Tara had a bar job but was also studying for her PhD at Manchester Met. Money was tight for the both of them and, wanting to get away for a bit, it had been Tara’s idea that they visit Cumbria.
‘Let’s just put everything on hold for a few days,’ she’d said enthusiastically. ‘Let’s go camping in the Lakes. We both love it and it will do us a world of good.’
It was true, they did both love it. As children they’d holidayed in the Lake District many times with their respective families. But on those occasions, they’d stayed at hotels, rented cottages, or bed and breakfast accommodation. More to the point, they’d travelled up here in June, July or August – not November. Even so, Jane had thought the idea a good one.
‘Let’s do it,’ she’d said.
It hadn’t been difficult arranging it, given it was the off-season, and they’d been able to sort everything out that same evening. It was going to be great, Tara said.
It scarcely felt that way now: lost, frozen and well over a thousand feet up, and if that wasn’t bad enough, the ground was indeed sloping upward again. It had been difficult enough coping with loose, ice-slippery stones, and clumps of spiky mountain grass – so much so that they hadn’t initially noticed the shallow upward incline – but now it was steepening sharply. In addition, the fog seemed to be thickening, which was hardly helped by the clouds of soapy breath billowing from their lungs. Even walking shoulder-to-shoulder, they were only aware of each other as featureless phantoms.
‘Look Tara,’ Jane said, unconsciously lowering her voice. ‘We need to get real about this. We’re in pretty serious trouble here.’
‘I know …’
And Tara did, though perhaps only now was it really dawning on her. When you were down in the Lake District’s lower country on a bright summer’s morning, taking tea and crumpets in whitewashed villages, it seemed such a benign environment. The stories you heard about people getting lost on the fells and dying from exposure surely applied to another time and another place.
And yet suddenly, bewilderingly, that time was now and that place was here.
The oft-quoted phrase, ‘how did we get into this mess’, occurred to her with shocking force. It felt as if they’d led themselves blindfolded, for several hours, to this apparent point of no return.
‘Well if we’re not going to camp, we have to keep moving,’ Tara said, doing her best to stay upbeat. ‘That’ll help us stay warm.’
‘And will wear us down,’ Jane argued, seemingly unaware she was contradicting her own position of a few minutes earlier. ‘Reduce our ability to resist the cold. I can barely feel my hands and feet as it is.’
Tara knew what she meant. It was just before twelve o’clock now, but the temperature would continue to drop until well into the early hours.
‘Can’t feel our hands and feet, can’t see our hands and feet more like,’ she mused. ‘We’re disappearing by inches.’
‘Not funny, Tara, Jesus!’
‘Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.’
‘At least the slope’s levelling off.’
Thankfully, the gradient had flattened out again, and a second later they walked into a dry-stone wall. It came to roughly chest-height on Tara, higher still on Jane, and yet the fog was so impenetrable they blundered into it with enough force to induce pain and surprise. Tara switched her phone on. It created a minor capsule of dim aquamarine light around them, and shimmered over the smooth, neatly stacked stones. The wall led away to left and right, quickly vanishing.
Tara switched the light off again, plunging them back into darkness.
The wall wouldn’t be difficult to scale, though both of them were aching and bone-weary, but at least it was a solid fixture, and it broke the surreal monotony of this place – not that it was something to actually be reassured by. Hundreds of miles of dry-stone walls snaked across the Lake District National Park, through the lower valleys, up the teetering fell-sides, across the desolate tops of ridges and plateaux. Sure, it was a sign that civilisation wasn’t too far away – as the crow flew, or if you were on horseback. Not so much if you were a tired, and increasingly cold and disoriented foot-slogger.
‘So do we climb over it and keep going?’ Tara wondered.
‘Why?’ Jane asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why climb over it? Why not follow it?’
‘It won’t lead to a farmhouse, or anything like that.’
‘At least we’ll know we aren’t walking in fucking circles.’
‘Jane …’ Tara tried to remain patient. It served no purpose to stand here sniping at each other in the murk. ‘Look … people don’t walk around in circles, okay? Not in real life. That only happens in the movies.’
‘Oh, Jesus Christ … we’re lost in the middle of nowhere, and you’re giving me Halliwell’s fucking Film Guide.’
‘Jane, come on …’
‘I’ve got a film for you, Tara. The Shining. Remember that … when he got lost, and in the morning he was dead, covered in ice?’
‘That was up in the mountains.’
‘We’re in the fucking mountains!’
‘Not in Colorado.’
‘Look, Tara … below zero is below
zero, whether it speaks with a Yank accent or Cumbrian.’
‘Jane, panicking won’t help.’
‘I’ll tell you what … let’s get over this blessed wall. We have to do something soon, or I’m going to smack you one.’
Jane’s voice had taken on a new, shrill intensity. Tara imagined that, were she to switch her phone on again, she’d see eyes like polished marbles straining from her friend’s long, boyish face; the skin stretched like shiny parchment over those unattractive, hard-angled bones.
That was when they heard the whistling.
Or rather, Tara heard it.
‘Wait, shhh!’ she said, fumbling at Jane’s arm.
‘Don’t shush me, Tara!’
‘No, listen.’
Because she was in such a state that she’d grab at any straw, no matter how slender, Jane allowed her friend to speak. But of course, she heard nothing herself.
‘Yeah, great … the silence that signifies impending doom.’
‘No, I heard something.’
‘What?’
‘Listen!’
They fell quiet again, and now indeed there was something – a tune of some sort. At first it was very faint, as though being carried on the breeze. Except that there was no breeze. And the longer they listened, the clearer it became. Incredible though it seemed, someone relatively close by was whistling. Both of them recognised the tune, though neither could initially put a name to it, and now they were too excited to try.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Jane said. ‘Where’s it coming from?’
‘Over there, I think.’ Tara indicated the other side of the wall.
‘Hello!’ Jane shouted at the top of her voice. ‘Hello, is someone there?’
‘Jane, don’t,’ Tara said.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I don’t … nothing. It’s just silly.’ The misgivings Tara had briefly felt, about how vulnerable they were trekking through this endless gloom, had returned; suddenly, pinpointing their exact location seemed like a bad idea. But surely that was folly – a fear born of some ancient animal instinct, whereas logic advised that if there was someone out there, they should draw attention to themselves as soon as possible. ‘I just thought …’
‘Shhh!’ Now it was Jane’s turn to hit her friend’s arm. Whoever the whistler was, he was persisting with it. He sounded closer, and yes, it did seem as if he was somewhere on the other side of the wall.
‘Hello!’ Jane shouted again, attempting to scramble up the bricks, which wasn’t easy with feet numb inside frozen boots. Tara switched her phone back on, so they could identify hand and footholds. Jane reached the top of the wall first, and straddled it. ‘Excuse me, we’re lost! Can you help us?’
The whistling ceased.
‘He’s heard us,’ she said.
‘Hello!’ Tara called.
The only reply was another dim echo of their own voices.
Nevertheless, they were sufficiently re-energised to clamber down the other side of the wall. ‘Whoever it is, he probably can’t believe there’s someone else up here,’ Tara said, laughing with relief. ‘Excuse me … we’re over here! I’d like to tell you which direction, but …’ she laughed again, ‘I don’t know.’
The whistling recommenced. Now they were on the other side of the wall, it sounded as if it was coming from just ahead of them, but a way to the left.
‘What the hell is he still whistling for?’ Jane said. ‘Didn’t he hear us?’
‘Oh God,’ Tara replied. ‘Suppose he’s got earphones on, and he’s whistling along to a song.’
‘Oh shit. Okay … we’ll just have to find him.’ Jane started forward urgently, hoisting the straps at her shoulders with gloved thumbs.
‘Strangers in the Night,’ Tara panted.
‘What?’
‘That song he’s whistling … it’s Strangers in the Night. You know, the old Frank Sinatra number.’
Jane listened, and she too recognised the timeless ditty. ‘Yeah … what a choice of song for a place like this. Quite apt for us though, eh?’ She chuckled, though there wasn’t much humour in it. ‘Come on, Tara … we’ve got to find this guy.’
Tara also adjusted her pack, and hurried in pursuit. Again they were blundering through foggy blackness, their feet crunching on clumps of frozen grass. But the whistling was getting louder, clearer. Perhaps somewhere just ahead there’d be a campsite, maybe containing two or three climbers or fell-walkers. Their hi-tech canopies would be arranged around a small, neat fire. The guys themselves would be lean, rugged outdoor types, probably bearded, stoking the flames, eating peanuts, chocolate and other energy-enhancing foods, drinking hot coffee from a thermos flask; maybe it was laced with rum or whiskey to give it some bite.
But Jane and Tara found no such campsite.
They’d walked in what they were certain was the right direction for a good hundred yards, increasingly tired and irate again. And still the unlit reaches of fog extended on all sides of them. The whistling persisted somewhere ahead, but how far ahead they had no clue. And now, very abruptly, it ceased. Despite their own heavy breathing, the silence was ear-ringing.
‘Hello!’ Jane shouted again, with more than a touch of her normal petulance. ‘Newsflash … there are people lost out here!’
They waited but there was no response.
‘Come on, mate! You must have heard us by now!’
The whistling recommenced somewhere behind them. Strangers in the Night again. But now at a slower pace – deliberately slower, for effect.
‘Is this guy taking the piss, or what?’ Jane said, glancing backward.
‘It must be the acoustics,’ Tara replied. ‘This landscape’s really weird like that. I’ve heard stories about people hearing voices that have come from miles away.’
‘Great, Tara. That’s all I needed to know.’
‘But listen …’
‘Now what?’
‘It’s moving.’
The whistling continued – very clear, very precise, a slow and highly tuneful rendition of Strangers in the Night, but as Tara said, it was drifting from left to right, as though the whistler was strolling casually in that direction.
‘Another atmospheric effect?’ Jane wondered tartly. ‘Or some dickweed playing stupid games?’
‘Why would someone be playing games?’ Tara asked, though it was a question she was posing to herself as much as Jane.
‘Let’s just find the bastard.’
They pressed on, heading right. As they did, the whistling steadily reduced in volume, as though the whistler was retreating from them.
‘Hey, wait up!’ Jane bawled hoarsely. ‘You fucking idiot! We need help!’
‘Jane, that’s not the way you do it,’ Tara hissed.
‘Wait ’til I get hold of him, then you’ll really hear something.’
The whistling stopped. They slid to a halt.
‘Christ,’ Tara said. ‘It’s like he just heard us.’
‘Good, that’s the idea.’
‘Jane, I’m not sure about this …’
The whistling recommenced – closer than it had been, but now on their left.
‘What the hell?’ Jane said. ‘Why is he walking around us?’
‘Maybe he isn’t … maybe it’s like I said, the acoustics.’ But from the tone of her voice – a breathless quaver – Tara knew she wasn’t making a convincing case.
‘Okay,’ Jane said tersely but quietly, as if she too was suddenly unnerved by this curious behaviour. ‘Let’s go back to the wall.’
‘The wall?’
‘Put it between him and us … whoever he is.’
‘I don’t know the way back to the wall. I don’t know the way anywhere. We’ve got turned around at least two or three times now.’
‘This way.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s as good as any.’ Already walking, Jane scrunched the shoulder of her friend’s orange cagoule in a talon-like grip. Tara fell into step beside h
er. Fleetingly, their fatigue was forgotten. It was all about covering distance now. ‘Let’s just accept that he’s an arsehole,’ Jane said under her breath; then louder, over her shoulder: ‘You arsehole!’
‘Jane, no!’ Tara’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Look … he’s as blind as we are up here. Let’s just walk away … right away. We keep it down and he won’t even know we’ve gone.’
They strode quickly and quietly, the only sound their short, sharp breathing. They’d covered maybe a hundred yards unimpeded, their concern ebbing a little – when they head the whistling again.
No more than twenty yards to their right.
Almost on a level with them.
‘Oh shit,’ Tara whimpered.
They sped up until they were almost running, as a result of which Jane tripped, falling full length. Tara stooped and groped around for her in the murk. ‘You alright?’
‘I’m alright, for Christ’s sake! Just keep going … we have to keep moving.’
But the whistler was moving too, circling around behind them, still treating them to Strangers in the Night, though now at a raised tempo.
‘Okay, okay,’ Jane said. ‘He goes left, we go right.’
She hooked onto Tara’s cagoule again. They moved away, following a diagonal line. Both were now saturated with sweat, their lungs pumping. They again tried to move stealthily, only to find themselves on a loose, stony surface, which clattered and scraped under their soles.
‘Oh, bloody hell!’ Jane squealed.