the ridge, then stopped a few paces farther on and turned back.
‘I’ve just spent the last four hours babysitting you down that cliff. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be fucking up there!’
For a few moments more they stared at each other in mutual recrimination, the heat of the argument threatening to boil over. Then Luca suddenly swung round and continued walking, his gloved hands clenched into fists by his sides.
It took them two weeks to get back, a procession of clambering aboard planes and dismounting trains throughout Tibet, Nepal, and eventually England.
During the journey, the subject of the climb had been broached, but not resolved. Both of them had ended up apologising for what they had said on the mountain, and both had nominally forgiven the other for all that had been said. But it was as if a shadow had fallen over them, a lurking feeling of distrust that had never before been part of their friendship. They still bantered together but it had become stilted and hesitant, as if their time on Makalu was something to be ashamed of, rather than a near victory over one of the world’s hardest peaks.
Now they stood stiffly on the platform by the Heathrow Express, their brightly coloured rucksacks and tanned faces drawing some curious glances from passing commuters.
The normal ritual was for the two men to go to the Windsor Castle together for a celebratory pint before they split off in their different directions, but this time it was tacitly understood that this was not going to happen.
‘Well, here we are again,’ said Luca, attempting to sound cheerful. ‘Your missus will be pleased to see you’re back in one piece. You can tell her it’s my fault we’re late again.’
‘Yeah, well… maybe,’ said Bill, smiling awkwardly.
Luca stuck out his hand and they gave each other a perfunctory handshake.
‘I’ll see you around then,’ Bill said, and for a second his habitually cheerful expression flickered, revealing the bleakness beneath. Then he set his jaw and, grasping the straps of his rucksack, turned and disappeared quickly into the sea of commuters.
Luca stood looking after him, part of him wanting to call out. He had had two long weeks to come up with something to break the ice between them. It was just a matter of apologising again for what had happened up there on the ridge, acknowledging that he’d screwed up. He’d never seen Bill lose his temper before, and knew how hurt he must still be.
But somehow the words stuck in his throat. That mention of Everest had cut deep and over the time spent travelling back, fermented into bitterness. He just could not shrug it off. Hoisting his rucksack off the grimy concrete floor, Luca walked towards the gaudy lighting of a cafe populated by commuters drinking lattes and leafing through the morning papers. Scraping back one of the metal chairs, he ordered a double espresso from the waitress, his eyes wandering idly across the ant-like hordes thronging the platforms, and fixing upon the triangular glass ceiling of the old Victorian train station.
Once again, the image of the pyramid mountain swam in to his mind. It had been haunting him ever since the climb down. It was there whenever he closed his eyes; in the cloudscape as he’d stared out of the plane windows. Several times on the journey back he had opened his mouth to talk to Bill about it, but whatever it was that was hanging in the air between them had prevented him from saying anything more.
He could picture it now as if he were still sitting on that ledge: one face gleaming in the sunshine, edges looking like they had been filed straight then dusted with ice and snow. It was better proportioned even than the Matterhorn, like a child’s drawing of the perfect mountain.
Each time Luca thought about it he kicked himself for not having taken a photo. But by the time he had pulled Bill off the ledge the cloud had rolled back in, and not even the ring of mountains surrounding it was visible. Like his chance of reaching the summit, there had been only the briefest of windows. And thanks to Bill, he had missed both opportunities.
Someone brushed past him in a mackintosh wet from the rain, spilling some of his coffee on to the table. As Luca swore and scrambled for some paper napkins, he heard his train being announced over the Tannoy. He should really get on it — do what Bill was doing and go home. Take a long hot bath, empty his clothes into the laundry basket, and banish all thoughts of fantasy mountains.
The only problem was that he felt like doing exactly the opposite. And there was only one person he knew who would understand.
Breaking into a genuine smile for the first time in a couple of weeks, Luca tossed a couple of pounds on to the table, shouldered his rucksack, and set off in the direction of a phone-box.
Chapter 5
From a distance, the only indication of the two military jeeps was the dense cloud of dust trailing behind them. The two vehicles bounced over the pitted road in close convoy, engines revving high to cope with the altitude.
Second Lieutenant Chen Zhi had been squashed uncomfortably on the battered passenger seat for three hours. His olive green military uniform was grey with dust and he sat awkwardly, his heavy frame listing over and forward as if trying to see something just below the jeep’s outside wing mirror. In truth, all he was trying to do was relieve some of the mounting pressure from being jammed in the same position for so long. His lower back ached, and with each new pothole he could feel his whole body jar from the contact.
As he stared out through the windscreen Chen was caught between willing the journey over and dread of what he knew was waiting for him at the other end. The front wheel bounced over a hole again, connecting with the wheel arch of the jeep and sending everything on the dashboard flying into the air. Chen looked across at the driver, amazed by how many potholes he was actually hitting, but remained silent. The noise from the strained engine was too loud for him to speak.
Instead, he reached into the top pocket of his shirt and pulled out a leather wallet. Behind his own picture and official military ID was a strip of four photos taken in a train station booth in Lhasa. The picture showed his ten-year-old son sitting on his mother’s knee, with Chen himself kneeling behind them awkwardly in civilian clothes. His son was trying to wriggle free, while his wife looked over her shoulder as if to ask for his help. He wondered why he’d always liked this photo so much. Perhaps it was because it felt real and spontaneous — a lifetime away from what he had now become.
The photos had been taken four years ago, before he had even joined the service.
Amongst everything that had changed, the one constant was that on the rare weekends when he had some time off, he still took his son past that same train station on his way to play Mah Jong. The other men never said anything about the youngster tagging along. Then again, it was hardly as if anyone would have dared. They all knew Chen was in the Public Security Bureau now — and PSB were untouchable.
He sensed a new movement and turned to see the driver craning his neck forward over the steering wheel. Hammering the gearstick hard into third, the jeep jumped forward as the engine took the brunt of the braking and their speed slowed. Up ahead, a small outcrop of houses stood baking in the midday sun.
They pulled up behind the lead jeep. Chen could see the other soldiers quickly leave their vehicles and fan out across the tiny village square. All of them brandished rifles on their shoulders. The locals melted back into doorways, their eyes wide.
Chen watched through the streaked glass of the windshield. Despite the long hours and the stifling heat of the jeep, all he wanted to do was stay where he was.
Beijing must have known how much he would hate this. It was always like that. Always a test. And once he opened the door, he knew he would have to go through with it. The die would be cast.
There was a tentative rapping on the window and Chen swivelled in his seat to see a man standing only a few inches from the glass. With a flick of his wrist, Chen motioned him to back off and then, with a heavy sigh, pulled on the door handle.
Outside the air was maddeningly hot. Everything was caked in dust: houses, vehicles, people. Everything was grey, and still as the grave.
Straightening his back so that he brought himself up to his full height, Chen motioned for the man to come closer. He was not Tibetan. Indian perhaps, or a mixture of the two, with fast, shifting eyes that like a fly never
