Someone can do the rescue better than me now. Two men rip out of the sliding door, carrying a rolled up metal ladder, heading straight to Jacques. Within seconds of assessment, the ladder is being secured into flat ice well away from the edge; the second rolls it over and follows it. I watch him kneel beside Dan; checking for a pulse on Dan’s neck, for the warmth of his breath.
He stands with a distinct thumb up. Johnny and I hug each other in hope, but realise he may have only signalled for the stretcher.
Jacques has made it down the ladder to help. They barely have room to flatten the stretcher, but they lift Dan on all the same. Straps cocoon him. With everyone back up the ladder, the two helicopter men raise Dan from the crevasse and lay him on the ground beside us. He skin is grey blue; a cut has matted black hair on the back right side of his head. Ice has formed on his sideburns and lips.
We all remember Dan again. No longer a desperate suspended memory; now a fragile life before us. Robert collapses to his knees, arms tucked into his thighs. He rocks at Dan’s side screaming to him above the noise of the chopper. He grabs Dan’s arm and shakes him, pleading for resolution.
“Waiting did you say? Waiting for what Dan?” Dan’s lack of response is crucifying him. Robert’s behaviour had reached a crescendo, a build up that requires a fall.
“Let him go. Let them take him you idiot.” Max shoves Robert roughly away from the stretcher, sending him sprawling. We see two ghosts, one broken by nature, the other by himself. Dan’s ghost is picked up and pushed into the chopper.
“You must go now,” Jacques shouts into my ear from behind. I pull out the ski pole I left behind. Crystals have formed most of the way up the stem, so it takes some persuasion.
“No, no. On the helicopter, you go with him.” Jacques holds out a gloved hand that I take. He kisses me on both cheeks. “You have saved him. You saved all of them.” I am knocked back by his simple but apparent conclusion.
“But the others? How will they get down the Vallée?” Jacques points to himself and Hal. He puts one arm around my shoulder, pushes my head down and we run under the rotor blades.
CHAPTER 47
Juliet 09.49
“HOW DOES LIFE GO ON?”
The helicopter door slams with a categorical “whoomph”. It cuts me off from the other sources of this wholly male melodrama, all of who stare forlornly at me through the window.
I am alone with a sober Dan for the first time since my revelation. Ignoring the helicopter seats, I kneel alongside his stretcher. More importantly he is alive. How did he survive this ordeal? He is strapped down for the journey, loosely draped in one light blanket. The doctor goes to work; he checks Dan’s eyes, his pulse and each part of his body without moving him. The results cause a deep frown. The doctor looks confused when I pick up another blanket and try to put it over him. “Warm slow, very slow,” he advises.
“You made it Dan.” I talk to a silver-grey frozen face, which matches the lack of response.
“We can get you to Ethan and Bepe now.” Keep motivating him.
“We will both be at the wedding next week if you want.” His fragility is in stark contrast to the prospect of the tumult of a wedding. But he is alive.
The rotor blades intensify and my stomach is pulled skyward. We bank away from the group below. This is an almighty land, blessed with soaring vistas blighted with constant danger. The rotors bring comfort that I am in a balanced world again and the chopper tumbles down the valley. The terrain directly below Dan’s fall looks pristine and progressively steep. However, it is followed by a short spurt of massive crevasses. I wonder if we wouldn’t have lost yet more of the group; Steve certainly would have crumbled. Stupid Robert, you are such a stupid man.
I have done a good job, no, a great job. I gave hope where there was none. Within seconds I can draw a longer breath of the thin air; I haven’t breathed for a day.
The doctor has stopped attending him. I am transported back to the week-long bout of gastroenteritis that he had, he was laid up so badly that I had to take three days off college myself. He sat propped up by cushions and me, sipping vegetable soup. Spilling it repeatedly left a crusty layer at the top of my all-yellow, daisy-print duvet. I feigned illness for three days for him. We watched the last throes of Brookside. He felt cosseted but I felt compromised. I had planned to leave him the previous week when I found out I was pregnant. This helped me decide to leave as I could see a life of this to come; there would always be something with Dan. I could only dump him when he felt better.
The doctor is leaning in between the two seats at the front talking to the pilot. I fear touching him now. It feels like I might break off a limb. Is he resting or in a coma? I take courage and reach for Dan’s left hand; the curve of his stony fingers feels like I am holding stone. His fingers are black; no more copywriting by this hand Dan. I remember a chemical hand warmer I have in my pocket and crack it open for my own benefit.
I try to look anywhere but his face so that I am not constantly looking for unfounded life signs. However, loose bloodied headphones are evident in his stone and orange jacket hood. I unzip his coat slightly and his precious iPhone tumbles out with them attached. I carefully place the dead phone in my zipped pocket to await his recovery. What did he use it for last night? Seeking solace from his carefully chosen friends?
We drop down again and follow the now flat valley floor. On the bottom reaches of the glacier, boulders are frequently peppered onto the ice. It is getting quite warm now; sun magnified by glass onto the humans inside. The glacier thins out even more as we bank left over a forest towards Chamonix. The town is intermittently visible on the valley floor below a cloud layer to my right.
“Dan we are minutes away from Chamonix now, minutes away.”
The doctor is back at Dan’s side, repeating his checks and suddenly shouts. “Non, non. Merde. Alons-y. Vite!” He has tried to find a pulse in a wrist, an armpit, and the neck. He starts resuscitation. The glide of our ride has fooled us all. Frantic chest pumps stop suddenly. The doctor only glances at me; he cannot witness my tearful eyes. We have all lost you. Your precious soul lost on a sea of machismo. You let them kill you Dan, you bloody fool.
I can’t cry the wail of a lost love but I release something similar. My love for him tightens my lower lip into a clown-like frown; it quivers as I hold a wall of emotion back that I don’t need to. You waited too much for this life Dan. Were you waiting for me? You deserved something better Dan. You deserved better than I could give you.
I will be taking him home in a body bag. I will ring Sophia and tell her. We can arrange for funeral directors to meet the plane at Manchester. She won’t get her day of reckoning now. I am sure I see the hotel roof as we follow the train track to the helicopter station. An overgrown X marks the spot as we hover and land. Dan is dead on arrival.
CHAPTER 48
Juliet. 15.40
“HOW DOES A BOY BECOME A FATHER?”
At departure Gate 40 fate plays a farewell trick on us. Am I the only one who realises Dan’s age of departure is written large above the heads of the stewardesses at the gate? Forty years, barely half a life Dan.
What a mournful day; endless form filling to confirm a death. We are boarding as planned except Dan isn’t in our luggage. I recall waiting with the marginally disappointed party of hens leaving four days ago. It is better she stayed at home than end up like this. They will never know their luck. Hens wouldn’t have let this happen. The party would have wanted their share of embarrassment for the bride to be, but nothing more sinister. Stags evidently don’t know when to stop.
“Boarding rows 1 to 30 only please. That’s 1 to 30 only.” I am the only one of our party to make this cut. A stewardess with scrunchedback blonde hair calmly makes the announcement. Every one of her eyelashes stands artificially to attention around her vital green eyes. They flutter and threaten to crack. I let all the others queue in front of me. The unnecessary “I was here first” jostling accompanies the que
ue. I wonder again what Dan last used the iPhone for? Johnny has re-charged it so we know that isn’t lost.
“Give it to me, Robert. I will try again.” I request Dan’s boarding card and passport.
Everyone looks spent. They have suffered the dual blow of having to ski the remainder of the Vallée Blanche and then finding that their friend was dead when they got back to the hotel. Having had time to become accustomed to his death I was available to comfort most of them. Robert sought nothing from me and has not spoken since we left the hotel two hours ago. He doesn’t start now.
A crumpled looking bearded gentleman sporting a worn-in Macintosh and peaked cap is ahead of me. I wonder where Dan was going to sit? A pleasant cool draught of air is released through the boarding tunnel into the stifling waiting area.
They have the boarding cards now and I see a note scribbled and highlighted on the manifest; must be giving them knowledge of my predicament.
“Mr Greenhenge is…” Words fail her.
“You must understand me. He must come home with us or we have to wait for him.” Her green eyes strike at me. “You must see our situation,” I say again.
“It’s too late madam. We know who you are. You cannot get the body released and we cannot accommodate you on any later flight, even tomorrow.” I grip the inside sleeves of my jumper and start again.
“But we can’t leave my friend here.” She pushes both passports back into my right hand but keeps Dan’s boarding pass.
“There have to be special arrangements made. Special arrangements you know.” She guides me away from the desk where her colleague is calling the next thirty rows.
“I used to go out with him you know. We have a son together, his name is Ethan but he never met his father.” It is evident that he won’t now.
“I will stay then and sort this out,” I resolve.
“Madam. It’s just a body now. His soul has flown to god.” I didn’t mind her sharing her view on what had happened. The pre-school imagery and assumption of my religious belief didn’t affront me. Maybe it’s the best way to cope at these times.
“He’s getting married next week you know. This was his stag weekend. A celebration of Dan’s marriage.” I don’t correct myself but edit the necessary changes in tense in my head.
“We are women, we can do better than this. We are better than this. You must see that; you must call through to the highest authority.”
“Get out of the way lady, we are trying to get home here.” A man at the head of the queue behind me speaks up for himself and the thirty rows of people stood behind him who are un-amused. No one has boarded since I arrived at the desk.
“Come on lady, get going.” An anonymous traveller throws his voice.
“Back off her. My brother is dead and we are trying to go home with him. They won’t let us!” Chris booms at the waiting passengers. Heads look to the floor but their bodies still twitch anxiously. Chris’s physicality puts any more protest at bay.
“Get Christian on the phone,” Robert appears at my shoulder.
“Christian who sir?”
“Why Christian Denslow of course; your CEO. I used to work for him till two weeks ago. It was a personality thing, he just let me go cause he didn’t know how to handle me.” Robert’s revealing speech has no leverage, these girls do nothing of the sort and he melts away.
“Could you leave him? You are a woman. Could you leave him? Let us go later.” I further implore. At that moment I feel the futility of it all and can’t continue. I am relieved to have tried so hard and still be going home. I have lost power in my voice having asked for a seventh time: twice on the phone, at the check-in desk, with an air steward, with his supervisor and now most weakly twice at this departure gate. We are going home without the stag.
Each step on the tunnel walkway reverberates with a metallic boing.
“You tried. You stood up for Dan. It’s been a pleasure to get to know you a little.” Johnny catches up with me to soothe me.
“I will have to come back for him.” I realise I have taken responsibility for him when probably Sophia will want to.
We settle to seats spread across the plane. The whine of the engines intensifies as we reach the door. I consider how much more substantial a plane feels, weighed up against a helicopter
“Row 28, window seat on your right, Madam.” I leave the boys to seat themselves, they don’t deserve my attention. They gave Dan too little. Scott and Ethan are the only men in my life. I place my ski jacket overhead. I am glad to get out of it, smelling so sweetly but distinctly of sweat as it does. I had no option but to wear it. By the time we got back to the hotel it was an hour past checkout. The hotel staff had kindly dumped our belongings into whatever luggage and brown paper bags they could find in each room, so they could prepare for new guests. The pre-booked return journey with the shuttle van was only saved after a ten-minute wait for him to be re-called. My arguments with the French medical team about why he hadn’t survived were futile. “Warm and dead,” they kept on saying; Daniel warming too quickly had killed him. It has all unravelled now. The push back and departure are suspiciously quick; presenting no further opportunity for English dissent.
There is some serenity in our ascent as we leave so much pain and anxiety on the ground. I look down on the spine of the Alps, cast miles away towards Italy. At this height I can still see mountain ski villages. I ponder my ability to reach them from the surrounding peaks. Maybe we are over the Vallée Blanche again but who can tell. I feel a pinch of pride at just being here but grief soon eats that up again.
I wait for the seatbelt sign to go off, before putting on the headphones that Dan wore at his end. I flick his iPhone to life. What was he doing with it, just playing music or did he leave something. Johnny had shown me its Apps and how to flight disable it. The phone App reveals his last calls which were all to Sophia. He has a note: “Pick up rings” is his token reminder. The photos are a strange set of scenes starting inexplicably with a baggage trolley from the airport. Then scenes from Chamonix: the train station; snowy trees; the hotel and lobby; what looks like his dinner on Friday night (his last supper); one of the river he fell into; at the bottom of the Telepherique; ending in some glorious photos at the top of the Vallee. Remarkable memories in his life, taken with a distinct absence. After the picture taken with Bepe and Sophia at the airport and a random picture of his shoes, there is no evidence of himself or indeed anyone being with him. He is wiped clean from his own story. This intrusion into his life shows how much we can get from the modern day digital trail, but also how little.
Finally, I look in music and there in playlists is “Dan’s Magnificent Seven.” I vow to listen to that after the boys have heard the selection. The Clash’s “Magnificent Seven” and Stevie Wonder’s “Another Star” I recognise”.
The plane drops a little and I fumble the phone. Suddenly, Prince hoarsely cries out. I rip the earpieces out and press the screen repeatedly to make it stop.
Maybe this one; there is a “Voice Memos”, showing a picture of an old style microphone. I record a stupid “testing testing” message but where does it go? I hit a strange button at the bottom and a series of date-stamped memos flash up. One was recorded at 17.52 on 18/04/2009. That was fourteen minutes fifty-two seconds long, another at 18.33 which was twelve minutes thirty-four seconds long. I hesitate to listen, as he is not yet beyond the grave. What if it was recorded specially for Sophia? But what if he thought I might find it and listen? What if he says something stupid to Sophia about Dan and I being in love? She would never get over her grief. Maybe it’s for Ethan?
This was his last ordeal of his shambolic fatal trip? I hit the start button.
“Number one. Have a passion boys… mine was music. I could play but listened better… Music locates you…” wind catches the speaker and blurs his speech for a couple of seconds. Silence reigns, I imagine he must be readjusting himself on the ledge. This is a slow death. Minutes of breathing, rustling and wind whistl
ing elapse before Dan says “Number two.” On the last voice message he eventually says “Number 3…” It is excruciating to hear. He starts as usual with good intentions, to pass something of himself onto his boys just in case. He ends by underlining his inability to heed his own advice. Only those with willpower survive; Dan has killed himself.
I realise now that if I hadn’t made my odd journey as a stagette, that Dan would have died without knowing about his first-born son.
My sobs flowed easily without consciousness. I looked up at Johnny and the green-eyed stewardess standing in the aisle. They watch over me but don’t intervene. Grief at last, I am relieved to see it come. Near death he saw his failings; he needed to act on them years ago.
CHAPTER 49
Juliet 18.30
“HOW CAN I LOVE MY BOY MORE?”
My luggage spins across the interlocking rubber mats. It jostles for position like its owner at the edge of the conveyor belt. This petty behaviour is man at his worse, no, mankind at their worst. The reclamation of personal space and belongings is the last tired act of our journeys. Everyone dreads the ignominy of lost baggage and the hoop jumping needed to recover anything. Instead they all desperately hope they can sail their trolley past everyone else having reclaimed their full set.
Steve picks up an over-sized light brown leather weekend bag. He looks like he is shouldering blame for the death of his work partner. Johnny’s politeness has let his rucksack go around once already. Each person at the belt edge won’t relinquish a hard-fought front row position; they lean to one side but don’t move their feet. He almost falls onto the conveyor belt in an attempt to grab it without having to disturb anyone. Chris is different. With no deference to this game he parts the crowd easily enough through naked insistence and the size of his frame. Three sets of people either side of him get rearranged at the conveyor belt. He is there to stay, but discomfort of being on home soil without his little brother is taking hold. He unrepentantly takes possession of a 1970’s style Head shoulder bag and throws it around his neck. I have lost track of the others but have made everyone promise to walk out to our families together, in case there is any need of support or explanation.
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