Ice Claw

his dad had helped, Max had limited funds. He had done every odd job he could to earn money. It didn’t buy him the best equipment, but it was enough to help cover the costs needed to get to the French Pyrenees and compete.

Max had trained for two years to enter this contest, and his teachers had encouraged him every step of the way. Dartmoor High wasn’t a normal secondary school. Built into the rock face like a small medieval fortress on the northern edge of the Dartmoor National Park, it offered a sound education with an emphasis that engendered self- reliance. The often-treacherous moorland tested not only the boys at Dartmoor High; it was tough enough to be used as a combat training ground for British soldiers and marines.

What Dartmoor didn’t have was snow slopes, so Max had relied on skateboarding to work up his skills. A slither of downhill tarmac road with a wicked lump forced up by the roots of a hawthorn tree gave him a perfect takeoff ramp. The deep heather cushioned his falls, and there’d been plenty of them, but between that and the dry ski run at Plymouth he had learned some of the skills needed to compete. There were two remaining events, and tomorrow’s was crucial.

The nurse saw Max’s concern. “Perhaps I can help,” she said. “The roads, they are icy, so the ambulance will probably not return from Pau in time to take him before tomorrow. It is possible we could give him a bed here for the night.”

“That’s a great idea, Max,” Sayid said. “I don’t fancy you trying to carry me up the three flights of stairs at the hostel.”

“Your room is upstairs?” she said. “No, then you stay here for the night. Wait a moment. I will go and arrange it now.”

She left the two boys alone and went to an administration desk, where she flipped over pages, checking a chart.

Sayid smiled at Max. Hostel beds had wooden slats with hard mattresses, and the showers had a tendency to gasp and splutter just as you were covered in soap. A comfy hospital bed with personal attention was like a mini- holiday. Almost worth the pain.

Max looked through the window. He’d lost track of time. It was late. Cones of light from the streetlamps cast deep shadows across the village’s jumbled buildings.

“All right, Sayid, you lucky devil. I’ll come and see you in Pau after the competition. OK?” Max told him.

Sayid nodded. But as Max turned to go he took his arm. A distraught look crumpled his face.

“What?” Max said quietly.

Sayid hesitated, then shook his head sadly. “Max, I lost Dad’s beads.”

“Where?”

“When I went through those lower branches.”

Max remembered Sayid’s downward path as they had raced the avalanche. The beads were important to Sayid. Max unconsciously touched the old stainless-steel watch on his wrist. His dad had worn it when he had climbed Everest twenty years ago and had given it to Max on his twelfth birthday. The inscription on the back plate said, To Max. Nothing is impossible. Love, Dad.

A few years ago Max’s dad had rescued Sayid and his mother from assassins in the Middle East, but Sayid’s father had been gunned down. The string of beads-called misbaha-was, like Max’s watch, one of the few things Sayid had from his father. A misbaha, a string of either thirty-three or ninety-nine beads, was used to help its owner do anything from meditating to alleviating stress. They were, in their own way, very personal, and even though these prayer beads, or worry beads, as they were more commonly known, were only of ebony, they were priceless as a tangible link to Sayid’s dead father.

Max’s dad had risked his life to save Sayid’s family, but what had Max done? Put Sayid’s life in danger by taking on a stupid bet. Sayid might have gone off into dangerous snow territory, but Max felt responsible.

“I’ll take a look after the competition,” Max told him.

“Don’t. It’s too dangerous up there,” Sayid said. “They’re not worth getting killed for.”

Snow and ice crunched underfoot as Max made his way down the half-lit streets towards the hostel on the edge of the ancient town. The gloomy light created sinister shadows, embellishing the old stonework with rippling darkness. The high Pyrenean town had given very little away to the modern world, and the fifty-year-old streetlamps were now more quaint than effective.

He carried his snowboard and Sayid’s broken skis across his shoulder. A pizza and a mug of hot chocolate would be a treat right now. The efforts on the mountain had drained his energy, and niggling anxieties about tomorrow’s competition gnawed away at his mind. Occupied by these thoughts, Max missed the shadow that flitted between buildings across the street. But then he heard a grunt of effort and looked up to see a figure leap from a low wall, hit the street running, kick against a car for balance, roll and lope effortlessly away. All in one easy fluid movement. Parkour, thought Max immediately. Freestyle urban running, which had been developed by a group of French enthusiasts and now had a dedicated following in cities around the world. They used buildings, cars, bridges-in fact, anything in their way-as elements in an obstacle course. This runner was fast and perfectly balanced. The black-clad figure disappeared from view, but only for a few seconds. Scratchy exhausts from off-road motorbikes suddenly tore the silence from the streets. Their headlights picked out the runner from the darkness as they roared into the street from different alleyways. Within moments the riders swung their machines into a tight circle. Cutting and weaving, their studded tires gave them perfect grip on the icy surface as they taunted the runner, now barely able to take a step without being hit. The bikes competed to make the most noise, and exhaust fumes cast an eerie veil over what was fast becoming a vicious attack.

Four of the six bikers wrenched their machines to a standstill, a four-pointed star blocking any escape, as the other two revved and slid their bikes, sideswiping the runner. The noise suffocated any cries from the desperate victim, who fell and rolled, narrowly avoiding the wheels of one of the bikes. But then, as he got to his feet, he was shouldered by one of the riders who roared past.

Max suddenly realized that the bikers were going to maim or kill their defenseless victim. He reacted instinctively. His snowboard scratched across the ice, moving fast-he had already covered twenty-odd meters. He needed to find a gap between the bikes and put as many of them on the ground as he could.

Bending his knees, throwing his balance forward, he picked up more speed. The runner was down, winded, maybe even injured, and the bikers were going to ride over him.

Max lifted Sayid’s unbroken ski, held it across his body and swept between two of the stationary bikers. It shattered as it hit the unsuspecting riders, knocking them aside and throwing them into the others. It was sudden chaos. Bikes and riders fell, engines stalled, another machine slid away out of control. Max’s blitz had taken them all by surprise.

The sliding bike’s headlamps spun crazily across the faces of the downed bikers, and Max saw that they were about his age. One of the attackers rolled to his feet quickly; though still dazed, he glared into Max’s eyes. This boy was older by a couple of years. Max stared. The boy’s head was an unusual shape. His cheekbones and nose protruded forward and his chin receded. Snarling and gasping for breath, he revealed ragged, broken teeth. Max couldn’t remember where he had seen a face like that before. Then, with a shock, he knew.

His father had taken him on a diving holiday off Aliwal Shoal in KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa. The muddy rivers that run into the sea there are a haven for Zambezi sharks.

The reef was five kilometers offshore and the water had good visibility, but as they surfaced a local diver signaled, shouting a shark warning, “Johnny One-Eye!”-the local nickname for those ragged-toothed killers.

This boy reminded him of one of those cold-staring, emotionless creatures. A thin white line-an old knife wound-ran from his ear down across his neck. It was a warning signal that he fought close and dirty. Max was bigger than any of them except Sharkface, but he was outnumbered. They would quickly overpower him, put him on the ground and kick him into submission. Or worse.

Max released the board’s bindings and pulled the slightly built runner to his feet. Time to go. The black ski cap had been torn free in the struggle; a tumble of auburn hair fell across the runner’s face.

It was a girl.

The cafe’s steamed windows blurred the empty streets. Max and the girl ate pizza and drank hot chocolate. Occasionally a car would crunch by, and once they heard the high-revving engine of a motorbike. Max tensed, but it passed without stopping. The girl reached out-a small gesture of assurance. Max liked the warmth of her touch but squirmed his hand away to fiddle with his food. French girls were more demonstrative than any of the girls he knew at home, and they seemed unafraid to express their feelings. Max concentrated on his pizza. Her name was Sophie