by Jane Jesmond
I staggered to my feet and went to the anchor rock. I put my arms round it, leant my cheek against its wet roughness, breathing heavily.
He came up behind me and put a hand on my shoulder. I didn’t want to look round. I didn’t want to see the answers in his face.
‘They’re coming,’ he said.
I turned, but he was in shadow.
‘There are headlights on the horizon. All round us. You were right.’
I whirled round. Soft flashes shone against the sky, sudden glimmerings, still far away but closing in.
‘I’ve put the harness on,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know if I’ve done it right.’
I checked.
‘It’s fine.’
‘So. You’re going to lower me down, chuck the ropes and stuff after me and then come down yourself.’ I nodded. ‘And you can do that? Lower me and get down without ropes?’ I nodded again. ‘OK. Then we’re going to do it. With one change.’
He had something in his hand. A knife. My knife. The one from my climbing kit. I stared at it, wondering if I should be afraid. I dug my heels into the soft earth and flexed my knees. I could outrun him and outfight him, too. With his broken arm. I could be over the edge and out of here before he could draw breath. But he held it out to me.
‘Take it,’ he said. ‘And put it in your pocket. Lower me down. But if they come, you cut the ropes, chuck everything over the edge and then come down yourself. Don’t leave it too late either. The moment you hear or see anything, you cut the ropes. I won’t go down until you promise.’
I was empty. Everything had spilled out of me.
‘Promise.’ His voice was insistent.
I nodded.
‘I need you to say it.’
‘I promise.’
It meant nothing. It was just words and I’d have said anything to make him do what I wanted.
I clipped the rope to his harness and checked the length on auto pilot. The edge overhung slightly which made it easier for him to descend without banging against the side. After that, it fell sheer for a hundred feet or so before narrowing down into a steep-sided valley, the bottom of which was lined with bushes and small trees.
‘Climb over,’ I said.
I watched him hesitate. Going over the edge is the scariest part. Especially the first time. Especially with only one working arm. His hand clutched the trunk of a small elder tree as he went over and he still grasped it as I prepared to lower him.
‘You’ll have to let go,’ I said.
His fist whitened.
I flicked a glance behind me. The headlights were closer.
‘Nick…’
‘I guess I’ll have to trust you, then.’
He smiled.
‘One thing,’ he said rapidly. ‘I don’t know anything about what happened to you on the lighthouse. The first time I met you was on the coast road. I only go up the lighthouse when I have to. Don’t like heights, you see. Never been able to bear them.’
And with that he let go of the tree and pushed himself off.
I lowered him quickly. It’s frightening but over sooner. And we didn’t have time to waste. When the mark I’d put on the rope appeared, I slowed its speed and peered over the edge. It was impossible to see where he was. I’d have to let him go the rest of the way gently.
I heard the Land Rover before I saw it. The sound of its engine revving tore the silence apart. Stuck in a muddy dip, I guessed and whipped a glance behind me. Its headlights jerked up and down in the distance. I lowered Nick as quickly as I dared. The rope ran a little faster.
How far away from the bottom was he? Not much? But even a short fall can damage. Or kill.
I remembered my promise: to cut the rope as soon as I saw or heard anything.
But while the Land Rover was stuck in the mud, I was safe. I angled myself so the anchor rock hid me but so I could still see the car’s lights in the distance.
Time slowed. The Land Rover’s beams sliced the horizon and the rope inched out of my belay. The sky pressed down on me like the top half of a dark blue, grey-streaky mussel shell, closing slowly to snap me shut in a trap.
Doors slammed and men shouted. I peered round the stone. They were getting out to push the Land Rover through the mud. It would be free any second.
I took the knife out of my pocket. It glinted, heavy and cold in my hand. I closed my fist around it and remembered.
Remembered the crumbling tower, remembered clinging to the window sill with my knees and the rope holding Grid dragging me over the edge, remembered my hands grabbing this knife and shaking as they prised it open. It took me longer than you’d think to cut the rope holding Grid. You’d think it was a quick slash and then… job done. But it wasn’t. It took me nine passes of the blade to drop Grid to the ground. Nine times of deciding I had no choice. Nine times of feeling the rope jerk an infinitesimal fraction of an inch longer and realising Grid, dangling down below, must know exactly what I was doing.
But now, on the top of the cliff, with the rope holding Nick slowly running through the belay, I swung my arm in a great arc, as perfect as a rainbow, and threw the knife into the dark. A promise broken. Two promises broken. The one I’d made to Nick and the one I’d made to Kit. But I didn’t give a fuck. I was tired of promises. It was time for me to make up my own mind about what I would and wouldn’t do. I’d never cut Nick’s rope. Even if the chasers arrived, I’d get him down. Nothing else was possible. I knew I could and it mattered more to me than being caught myself.
The noise of revving started again and shouting came from the direction of the Land Rover. At the same time, the rope carrying Nick slackened and dropped on my foot. He’d reached the bottom. I tore the ropes loose from the anchor rock, grabbed everything, raced to the cliff and threw it all over.
With a great roar, the Land Rover came free; its headlights gave a final bounce and the beast was loose on the moor again. More doors slammed and the car moved towards me – but they were too late. Out of view behind the rock, I dropped onto the ground, scrabbled to the cliff and lowered myself over the edge.
They’d never know we’d been there.
Twenty-Four
For one kick-heart moment, I thought I’d forgotten the way down. My fingers clung paralysed to the first ledge as I heard the Land Rover coming closer. Heard it stop. It wouldn’t take them long to come to the edge. To look over and see me hanging a couple of feet from the top. Easy enough to lean down and grab me. Easy enough to reach down and kick me loose.
I forced myself to push the panic away. With my eyes shut I let my body feel the rock. I knew this climb. It was fixed in the memory of my muscles from the countless times Pa had made Kit and me climb up and down the face. Every bit of me thanked him for making us downclimb it instead of rapping down on ropes. As the panic receded, my left foot moved automatically towards the ledge that was the first foothold and my hands reached down to find the crack that took you down the first few metres.
I climbed down to a wide ledge and took a moment to catch my breath and calm the blood beating through my body. I couldn’t see Nick below. I swung off the ledge and carried on down. My hands and feet remembered the way before my head did and I let them lead.
I missed my climbing shoes but I didn’t miss the ropes. In fact, it was easier without them. There was nothing to push out of the way and nothing to weigh me down. It was just me and the rock. And about a third of the way down, the magic came back and took me by surprise.
I’d always loved the physical stuff. The feel of the different rocks. Sandstone with its rough, grainy surface giving my feet and hands grip. Granite, with its smooth-edged cracks, and limestone, full of pockets for fingers and toes and fossils of little dead things that once lived underwater and caught my eye as I climbed. And the more I climbed, the more the magic took me over and the rock came alive.
&nb
sp; Sometimes, it’s kind, pushing knobs into my hand and narrowing cracks to the perfect width. Other times, it is moody. It dangles ledges a few millimetres out of my reach and slips an overhang between me and the next hold. It pushes me to the outside edge of my strength, makes me cling with three fingers lacerating on a knife-like edge and leap towards an untested flake.
It’s my partner, my enemy, my lover, my friend.
That night, it was an old friend, a childhood friend, visited after a long absence but as familiar as the taste of the fruit gums I used to buy from the village shop on a Saturday morning. Everything fell away from me but the pleasure of its feel. I was nothing but eyes and ears, and nerve endings where my skin touched the rock. I forgot the men up on the moor, the fear that Kit or Sofija had tried to kill me, my grief over Grid and Seb and lost myself in the simplicity of the moment. Perform or fall. Not that I was worried or frightened. All I needed was to concentrate on the purity of each move, and that came easily.
I hadn’t wanted coke for a couple of days. Not since the night I found it at Nick’s. And I sensed I might be free from its grasp forever so long as I could keep on climbing. All the craziness, all the drug-fuelled highs had been a reaction to the awfulness of what had happened to Grid. I’d have done better to go climbing straightaway. Alone. Given myself time to face up to what I’d done and work out how I’d let the thrill of danger take me over. Climbing was about so much more than that. It was a part of me. It made me who I was. And nothing else came close.
‘Not bad,’ Nick said when I jumped down the last few feet and landed in the soft earth and leaf mould at the base of the face. I gasped; I’d forgotten he was waiting at the bottom.
‘Shh,’ I said. ‘They’re nearby.’
He’d hidden my climbing gear behind a bush. I’d come back for it another day.
‘Did they see you?’ His eyes raked the line of the edge above.
‘No,’ I said. ‘But they’ll work it out eventually.’
I pointed down the valley. The sooner we were away from the moor the better. ‘We need to go down there. Are you OK to do that?’
‘Where does it go to?’
‘The coast road.’
‘Phone?’ he said.
I shook my head. ‘No signal until we get to the road.’
‘Can I check?’
I handed it to him without a word. His hair had dried in tight curls tangled round bits of twig and grass, and bruises and blood showed black on his face.
‘Let’s get going.’ The sharpness of his voice startled me. ‘They must have rope in one of those cars and if they work out we’ve climbed down here, they’ll come after us.’
We stumbled along the bottom of the ravine. A slash in the moors, whittled away over thousands of years by a stream or a small river that had dried up or gone underground, it was covered in stones washed down from the sides by rain. Moss and weed had grown on the stones and they were slippery. I led and Nick followed, putting his feet where I put mine and grabbing my outstretched arm in places where he needed help to lever himself up and over. He was always right behind me, forcing the pace, waiting for me to move my feet so he could step where they’d been. The only time he stopped was to hold the phone up and check it for signal.
We didn’t speak. Which was fine by me. Despite the fear that the men might be behind us, the magic of the climb still flowed through my blood. I didn’t tell him I’d broken my promise and chucked the knife. Too late, I realised how reckless that was. Fingers crossed we wouldn’t need it later.
After a while, the pace took its toll. Nick started to slip on nearly every rock. I slowed a little.
‘Keep going.’ His voice was grim.
All my doubts about him crowded back.
‘You need a rest. Take a break. We’ll be faster after that. Anyway, I’m not going any further until you give me some answers. I’m not moving, Nick,’ I said. ‘Not until I know what’s going on.’ I wondered if he’d leave me. The same thought seemed to come to him and he peered ahead into the moon-shadowed gully.
‘You’re a stubborn…’ he said. ‘We really don’t have time for this.’
‘I don’t care. Who are those men after us? What have you done?’
A wave of an emotion I couldn’t read crossed his face, but then I could never tell what he was thinking. As if aware of my scrutiny, he flashed me a smile then bent his head again so the moon hit his hair and left his face dark. Afterwards, when I wasn’t so tired, I’d think about all this. Work out why I found him so attractive. Even now, I wanted to move closer to him. Close enough to see into the shadows where the moonlight missed his face.
He swore and muttered something to himself. It was my turn to wait and a sick, breathless feeling flooded my body.
‘What do you think I am?’ he said.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I really don’t know.’
‘A criminal?’
‘Probably.’
‘Yet you helped me.’
I shrugged. If he couldn’t see the symmetry between tonight and last Friday night, I wasn’t going to explain.
‘I’m a police officer,’ he said.
I laughed. Couldn’t help myself.
‘I am,’ he said. ‘Why are you laughing?’
‘You don’t strike me as being the policeman type.’
‘Maybe that’s why I’m good at my job. I don’t strike people as the policeman type.’
I thought about it. Something unknown ran through him, like a hidden vein of knife-sharp quartz. I’d always sensed it.
And like a pattern of dominoes falling in a ripple, changing colour as they tumbled, everything about him looked completely different. The fake website, the cocaine hidden in his workshop, the sleazy propositions he’d made to Kit, they were all a lure.
‘Ah. Undercover, I suppose.’
‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘And the people I’m after, they’ve got a cargo coming in tonight. And if we’re quick, we might be able to catch them.’
He turned to move off but something held me back. Some vestige of doubt clung to me and rooted my feet to the ground. Then I thought of men running down the ravine after us and cars speeding round to head us off on the coast road and my feet started to move. He let me go first but flung a last few words at me before stepping in behind.
‘It’s not drugs, by the way,’ he said. ‘It’s people. They’re the cargo.’
I clambered over moss-covered rocks, grabbing at stumpy hawthorn trees to stop my feet from slipping, my head full of vivid images. A cargo of people: migrants clinging to the sides of boats; children sitting in makeshift tents with only a square of cardboard between them and the mud; faces, endless lines of faces, all sharing the same hollow look of despair. I thought of Ma trying to get her friend out of Libya. My feet faltered and I stumbled, tripped and fell.
Nick was by me in a flash, holding out his good arm. I shook my head and levered myself up.
My phone bleeped. We had signal.
I looked at the text. A string of question marks. And passed the phone to him.
I gathered some things from his rapid speech. Firstly, he was definitely a police officer. The conversation left no doubt. Secondly, there was something major going on tonight. A delivery, he called it. A large one, he thought. He didn’t know where or exactly when but he was desperate for it to be intercepted because he was coming in. So this was last-chance saloon. It was all over. His cover had failed. He didn’t know how. They’d turned up at his cottage this evening. Knocked him about a bit and locked him in the workshop, ready for someone else to come and deal with him. After the delivery. But he had a key hidden in the workshop and had escaped.
That was all he said. Nothing about me. Nothing about the chase through the narrow lanes or the crash. He told them there were men looking for him on the moor and on the coast road, but that
was all. I couldn’t follow the rest. Just questions from the other end, and Nick’s answers were terse. When the call was over, he sat with his head leaning on his good arm for a moment.
‘What will happen to them?’ I asked. ‘To the people in your delivery? If you get them.’
His eyes didn’t leave my face but their focus shifted.
‘If we get them,’ he replied. ‘It’s not looking very likely.’
Images of people fleeing war, or torture, or poverty flowed through my head. The whole undercover thing seemed a massive amount of work to catch a few refugees.
‘But what will happen? Will they get sent back to wherever they came from?’
‘Perhaps. I don’t really know.’
‘No. You only catch them.’
Something in my tone of voice startled him and his focus returned to my face.
‘These people? Who do you think they are?’
‘Just people. Caught up in something beyond their control and trying to escape it.’
‘You’re right. And you’re wrong.’
There was a long silence. He looked down at the ground. Bent over and picked up a stone, cleared the moss and mud off it and threw it out into the night. It landed below us and clattered against unseen rocks.
‘Let’s hope no one was watching from above,’ I said.
‘We should head down,’ he replied.
‘No,’ I said, firmly. I knew he hadn’t told me everything. ‘I’m right and wrong about what?’
Another silence.
‘I might as well tell you,’ he sighed, ‘you know so much already. They are refugees. Not necessarily legal ones but they’re looking for refuge. They think they’ve found it, too. They think they’re coming to safety. And they all have great plans. Work, of course. They want to work. Most of them owe money to the traffickers and many of them have families they need to support back where they came from. And they are going to work. Hard work. Rotten work. Long, long hours. Work no one else wants to do.’
He picked up another stone and made as though to throw it again, then thought better of it.