She was very tired. And her legs were miserably cold.
But now she had a lifeline.
All she had to do was keep following the tracks, and hope that they had not drifted over too much since this morning.
She wished there were some canes.
Chapter 24
Although they had been looking out for it, Neep and Richard almost skied past Bergbu, the shelter-hut that Vesterheim hotel maintained for guests making day-trips into the higher hills. In the fog and the fading daylight the little wooden building would have been difficult enough to spot, even if it hadn’t been surrounded by spruce trees.
Their initial plan had been to push on to Vesterheim and raise the alarm. But Vesterheim was ten kilometres beyond Bergbu, and Neep had soon realised that it would be too much for him, after yet another long, hard day. His pace was slow, especially when their route took them downhill, and after falling several times on a steep slope he had urged Richard to go on alone.
“No way,” Richard had said. “We can’t split up again. And it wouldn’t help Cally. Even if I called the mountain rescue tonight, they wouldn’t start searching until the morning. So let’s rest at Bergbu for a few hours. But we need to leave there early enough to reach the hotel before dawn.”
After that they skied in silence, and Neep had nothing to clear his mind of the guilt he felt about once again causing delay. He tried to ease it with the thought that Cally might just smell the smoke from the fire they would light at Bergbu, or see the candle they would leave in the window. And he tried to ease it by remembering how hard they had searched for her.
By the time he had slithered down to the spot where the fallen man lay in a twisted heap, Richard was already there, drenched in sweat after his race back up the hill. There was no need to examine the gunman to see if he was still alive. His neck was so badly broken that the spinal cord seemed to have severed completely.
Now that Neep could see the man’s face, he was surprised at how old he was – in his forties, maybe. From the way he had been skiing, Neep had imagined a younger man.
Richard was looking up the cliff. “Where is she?” he said. “Where’s Cally?”
“She was just ahead of him. I thought she had fallen with him. She must still be up there.”
“Tell me exactly what happened.”
“The two of them were above me and at the other side of the slope. I couldn’t see much, because of the cloud, but I could see that he was catching her. They went up into a gully and then the cloud came over. There was a shout and then, when the cloud cleared again, there was no sign of either of them. So I came down here to look for her.”
Richard’s voice was sharp. “And why did you let her go in the first place?”
“I didn’t let her go. She went. I was sorting my boots and when I looked up she was already on her way over the slope.”
“And why did you swap rucksacks?”
“What?”
“You’ve got her rucksack, so I expect she’s got yours.”
Neep felt as if he was being interrogated. He said, “When she saw you coming she picked up my rucksack, because it was right beside her. We were going to swap back when we got down to you. It was only then that she saw the gunman, and started to ski away from me, up to the gully.”
Richard said, “Wait here - don’t move until I come back.”
Then he set off up the slope and vanished into the mist.
Neep steeled himself and searched the dead man, hoping to find some indication of who he was and why he had been chasing them. In a jacket pocket there was a yellow Motorola handset, like an oversize mobile phone but with a stubby black aerial. Neep managed to switch it on, but the display said, in English, “Enter password to open radio lock.” He put it back. All the other pockets were empty.
Half an hour elapsed before Richard emerged once more from the fog.
“There’s no sign of her in the gully. And I’m sure she’s not stuck in the rocks either.”
“So she must be near us?”
“Yes, I think she is, thank God. But she’s probably injured.” He looked into the fog. “And almost certainly terrified out of her wits.”
So they shouted her name again and again, and Richard fired the rifle until there were no bullets left. They listened for her reply, and when no reply came they made a series of methodical searches of the area, each one wider than the one before. They kept at it for hours, until eventually they realised that they were in danger of being overtaken by darkness, and reluctantly they started downhill toward Bergbu.
As soon as they got inside the little hut, Neep lit candles, then made up a fire in the stove and lit it. Then he started to look for food. He knew he was trying to take his mind off of what was happening to Cally, out on the snow.
All the energy that had driven Richard so feverishly throughout the search seemed to vanish as soon as they decided to abandon it, as if that decision signified a total and shameful capitulation. Instead of helping Neep, he stood by the window, motionless.
Near the fire there was a low cupboard and when Neep opened it he saw a packet of biscuits and a bottle with red liquid in it. He took a sip: concentrated cordial. Richard’s thermos was still in Cally’s rucksack and still contained some water. Neep got it out, added some of the cordial and then poured it into the cup. He put the cup on top of the cupboard, along with the biscuits.
A few minutes passed before Richard came over. He took a drink and ate a few biscuits. And only then did the words rush out.
“I feel that I’m to blame for this. I should have been there for her today. I should never have let her come in the first place. I’ve been concerned about her for months. I admit she has come a long way since we first met her. But recently she’s been going too fast. I’ve suspected for some time that her panic attacks haven’t stopped. She is just covering them up better - all the white faces and brave smiles. Now she is out there, alone. I’d love to think that she has been able to get herself off the hill and down to safety. But I’m afraid for her, because I think she just won’t be able to cope.”
He turned to Neep, his face lined with worry. “Cally is much more vulnerable than most people realise. The managers at Crombie don’t know what is happening. They never have. Otherwise they wouldn’t have given her the cleaning job. And promoting her to this new supervisor job was just madness!”
He composed himself a little and went on, “I’m also convinced she has been pulling the wool over the eyes of her psychiatrist. She is still taking medication – I saw her do it yesterday and I think she did it more than once. She was out of her face for most of the afternoon – she could hardly speak.”
His voice tailed off, leaving a silence. Neep spoke into it. “Surely her doctor would know if she were taking a lot of the pills?”
“You’d hope so”, Richard said. “But Cally can be a good actress when it suits her. The doctor probably thinks she is recovering really well. After all, she convinced us all that she was ready to come on a ski tour in the mountains.”
He fell silent again, as if reflecting on what he had just said. Then he took Cally’s rucksack and emptied its contents on the floor. He opened several bags before he found the medication, in a white card box.
“Look!” he said, handing the box to Neep before continuing his search.
Neep was examining the pills in in the dim light when Richard pulled a cellophane-wrapped packet from a stuff-sack.
“For fuck sake!” Richard said. “I thought she was over all that!”
Neep looked up in surprise. It was the first time he had ever heard Richard swear. He took the packet from Richard and read the description: Disposable pants for moderate to heavy bladder weakness.
Richard was already on his feet. He crossed to his own rucksack, pulled out some of the contents then closed it up and swung it on to his shoulders.
“You’re not going out again?” Neep said.
“Yes, I am. I’ll take the map and the GPS, so I won
’t get lost. I might be gone for a couple of hours. You should try to get some sleep.”
So much for not splitting the group, Neep thought, but kept it to himself. He could see that Richard was determined.
After Richard left, Neep put more logs in the stove.
Maybe Cally would smell the smoke.
He lit a second candle, and made sure the curtains were open as wide as possible.
Maybe she would see the light in the window.
Chapter 25
Night had fallen by the time Cally got to the cabin that she now thought of as The Horror Hut.
She stood outside it for a long moment, giving it a chance to dissipate, as mirages are supposed to do. Then she unshouldered her rucksack and lowered it on to the snow, wincing at the pain in her arm. She unclipped from her skis and pushed the door open.
The cabin was as they had left it, earlier in the day.
Making three trips she took in her two skis and her one pole, and then went out a fourth time for the rucksack. She knew she had to do something about her arm. She could bend the elbow a little, but only a little. If she tried to force it, the pain was intense. And if she tried to rotate the joint, making even a small action like twisting Neep’s head-torch to turn it on, the pain was excruciating. She was now certain the elbow was dislocated.
From a first aid at work course she knew the correct action was – as usual – to advise the casualty to seek medical assistance. But the tutor had told the class about people who had joints that were chronically unstable, and they’d all had a laugh about how the world was full of folk who were falling apart. They’d pick up the baby or reach for the light switch and pop! Out would go their shoulder.
They usually learned how to ease the joint back into place, the tutor said. It was just a question of doing it the right way.
Cally thought it was worth a try. But when she moved her arm this way and then that way, nothing happened. Except pain - a lot of pain.
Her eyes wet with tears, she tucked her arm back into her jacket and tried to get a fire started in the stove. But she could hardly function. The arm was useless, and by messing around with it she had made it really sore. She had to do something about it.
She moved over to the door then reached her left hand up to a wooden beam above it and gripped it as tightly as she could manage. Then, cautiously, she pulled downward, gradually increasing the weight, bending her knees. Now she could feel a movement in her elbow, as if it were almost on the point of going back in. It was sore. It was very sore. But it was working. She kept at it and felt it was almost there. But then at the crucial point she knew her hand was going to slip.
She needed something better to hold on to.
She stood for a few minutes, waiting for the pain to subside. Then she shone her head-torch round the room. She noticed the cord that Richard had slung last night to hang their wet gear on. Maybe she could do something with that?
She went back to the door and looked at the beam. It was no good; there was nowhere to tie the cord.
Then she remembered.
She had to look in a lot of pockets before she found the key to the other door. Then she took down the cord and went out into the night.
While crossing the snow she felt her leg knock against something. Her torch beam showed it was a pulk-sled. Of course. Richard said the gunman had left it here before coming after them. The memory seemed unreal, like a dream she’d had years ago, not something that happened this morning.
The padlock opened easily but the door stuck at the bottom, as she expected, and she had to kick the snow away. And, as she expected, when the door finally came open the smell was awful: a sickening stench of decay. It was much worse than before; the heat of their fire last night had obviously speeded Hawkeye’s decomposition. Gagging, she pulled the door wide and took a few steps back, letting the smell escape.
Then, being careful to keep the torch beam away from the hanging figure, she edged into the cramped space beside Hawkeye, feeling his body against her own. She took the cord from her pocket and with her good hand she doubled it and hooked it over the beam that supported the dead hunter. Using her teeth and her good hand she tied a knot, making a loop. It was too loose, so she doubled it, leaving a smaller loop into which she carefully inserted her left hand. Then she tried putting some weight on it. It seemed okay.
She pulled down on the cord, increasing the force gradually, gasping at the pain. The loop was good. The joint seemed to want to go back into place. But there was a point beyond which she was afraid to go, because the agony was just too much. She stopped, relaxed again, released her hand from the loop and experimented. It seemed better when she unclenched her fist; there was more movement.
So she inserted her hand into the loop again, made it tight around her wrist, then pulled down on it. She strained to keep her hand open, even though she was afraid of the cord slipping. It was painful, but she felt she was getting there. She just needed to bend her knees, to swivel round a little to get a better angle.
As she changed position, she lifted her head and the beam of her torch shone on to Hawkeye, revealing a face that was now white and bloated. Blisters swelled on his cheeks and forehead and froth oozed from his mouth and nose. His tongue protruded obscenely, as if he was trying to lick her.
Recoiling sharply, Cally slipped backwards on the snow and felt her legs go from under her, leaving her hanging by one arm and staring into the decomposing face.
There was a loud crack from her elbow.
She screamed with all the power in her body.
When she finally found the strength to get back to her feet, she freed herself from the cord and went out on to the snow, away from the corpse, feeling grateful for the bracing shock of cold snow around her ankles as her boots sank into the drift.
She tried to bend her elbow. It seemed to move more easily. It still hurt, but the pain was duller.
She closed the door and locked the padlock. Then changed her mind and unlocked it again, pushed past the corpse and hauled out a bag of logs.
The hunter’s ski poles were in the corner, beside Neep’s damaged skis. She took out the poles, both of them. They would be useful tomorrow. The cord might be useful, too, so she untied it, pleased to see she could now move the fingers of her left hand.
She carried the poles and the cord into the main room then went back for the logs. Then she was careful to lock the padlock.
Now functioning better, she fished the spare lighter out of Neep’s rucksack and got a fire going. Then she lifted the rucksack on to the table and pulled out the contents. Everything was in neat stuff-sacks.
After she unpacked the sleeping bag she put it on the floor, to give the filling a chance to rise, and then she fixed the cord back on the nails and hung her jackets on it. In the pocket of one of them there was a little red mitten. It was soaking wet, so she put it on the back of a chair. Then she got out of her wet trousers and thermals and hung them up. Naked except for the head-torch, she wriggled into the sleeping bag, and sat wedged in a corner, the same corner she had sat in last night at the start of her watch.
Now that she was indoors, safe, she could feel the tiredness hitting her. And a groggy feeling, too, the result of the bang on her head, she supposed. She put a finger in each ear. No sign of blood. God knows what her face looked like, though.
She tried not to think of the benzos that were in her own rucksack, wherever it was. She would die for one right now. She knew there was ibuprofen in the first aid kit in Neep’s rucksack. It would be a very poor substitute, but it might help her elbow, so she rolled across to the table and hauled herself on to the bench.
After a search she found the painkillers and put them on the table. More rummaging produced a thermos. She unscrewed the cup and emptied a little of the contents into it. Saft. It was cold now, but still nice. Nice and sweet. She swallowed two ibuprofen tablets and then took a third, for luck.
In a bag that contained clothes and socks, she was surprised
to find an unopened half-bottle of vodka. Not the kind of thing Neep should have been carrying, she thought, if he wanted reduce the weight of his pack.
She unscrewed the cap and took a slug.
Jesus Christ it was rough!
She was out of practice - couldn’t take it neat any more. She poured some into the saft and sipped it. That was better. She drained the cup.
She hadn’t drunk much alcohol since the transit van days with Alec Filshie, when her routine had been to take a big slug before going on to the mattress and a bigger one afterwards. And then several very big ones when she got back to her room. She had gotten very fond of vodka.
But her routine had ended suddenly.
One Sunday, the memorable eighth of December in the year before last, the same day that the mountain rescue guy came along to the dry slope ski session to give his Harsh Arithmetic of Calamity talk, she had as usual gone up to the bus stop. But the transit van didn’t turn up. She waited for over an hour before taking a bus back to Crombie.
By that time Filshie was over eighteen, so he had been spat out of the child-care system, and he was living in a house in town. Cally went round there but nobody answered the door.
The next Sunday she waited again at the bus stop, but again the van didn’t show. Then she heard from one of the Crombie residents that Filshie had left town and was living in Glasgow. He had picked a fight with the wrong person and had gotten a real battering - and the promise of another one if he stuck around. Although that made sense to Cally, knowing Filshie as she did, it didn’t explain why the transit van hadn’t come for her – Filshie’s mate had always driven it. So she waited for it the next Sunday, again with no success.
Then she learned that Filshie had been charged with possession and supply of Class A drugs. Apparently he had come back to Aberdeen for a few days, to clear out his house, and somebody had tipped off the police about a consignment of heroin and cocaine that he was storing. When they raided the house they not only found the drugs, but also a collection of weapons and a batch of child pornography images that had been printed off the internet. Some drugs were also found in the transit van and the driver was charged. Filshie claimed it had been a set-up, and that all the evidence had been planted, but the court had thought differently and he was now in the Young Offenders Institution at Polmont, serving a three-year sentence.
The Red Mitten Page 15