through a chink between the shutters to the top of a tree and the side walls of some houses. On a balcony level with his sightline an old woman was peeling vegetables over a plastic bowl. A plump baby played at her feet until a young woman, hardly more than a girl, came out and swept him up in her arms. The baby’s thumb plugged into his mouth at once and his head settled on her shoulder. The mother cupped the back of it with her hand, stroking his hair. Sam watched until she had carried the infant inside, then sat for a while with unfocused eyes, wondering what Finch would look like with a baby.
Whatever Adam might think she wasn’t a fridge. Something in her eyes, the turn of her head and hips, made him certain of that. When he looked again he saw that Adam had drifted into a doze. He would have liked to slip away and maybe go out for a beer with Rix and the others, but he was afraid that if he moved he would wake him up. He leaned his head against the chair back and let his own eyes fall shut.
Last night had made him think of his father.
Michael would talk about mountains in the same way, using the very same words. He remembered conversations overheard.
Michael and Mary outside the tent on summer nights when he was supposed to be asleep, and the timbre of his father’s voice in response to Mary’s questions why, and what for – and the always unspoken but equally ever-present words within his own head, danger and falling and dead –
‘I need that reality. If I don’t climb, my grip on reality fades and I feel like nothing exists.’
‘Not me? Or your boy?’
‘Of course. But not in the same way, Mary. Nothing’s the same as the way you feel up there with the rock and space. I’m no good with words, you know that. I can’t explain the need for it, the being more alive than alive. But it’s always there, once you’ve tasted it.’
‘So am I always here, so is Sammy. We don’t want anything to happen to you.’
Sam remembered that he would squirm in his sleeping bag, trying to bury his head, to bring his shoulders up around his ears so that he couldn’t hear any more. But the voices came anyway, as much from within his head as outside it.
Michael would give his warm, reassuring laugh. ‘Nothing will happen. It’s concentration. If you keep your mind on it you don’t make mistakes.’
Sam thought of Michael as he was now, moving painfully around the old house, all alone, with only the television freak shows for company. When I get back, he promised the dim room, I’ll see more of him. Maybe it’s time to move the business a bit closer to home. If there still is a business when I’m through with this caper.
An hour later Adam woke up again. ‘I’ve got a thirst like the desert,’ he whispered.
Sam passed him the water, but held it so that he could only take a sip or two at a time. ‘Otherwise you’ll spew it straight up again.’
‘Thanks, nurse.’ He rubbed his cracked mouth with the back of his hand.
Sam went into the bathroom and found his face-cloth, rinsed it in cool water and handed it to him.
‘Nice. But I’d still rather have the doc to hold my hand.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Is that what all this is about? You should see me when I’m really looking my best.’
‘She told me to keep an eye on you.’
‘Ah. I see.’ Adam lay back again. ‘I appreciate it. I think I may go back to sleep. Don’t need you to watch me any more. Honestly.’
Sam stood up. ‘I’ll catch you later.’
‘Ahuh.’
There was no one to be seen downstairs. Sam hung around for a minute or two, hoping that Finch might appear again, but in the end he gave up. He found a bar a hundred yards from the hotel gates and sat at a rickety iron table under a bamboo awning, keeping watch.
He didn’t have much of an idea about what he was going to do next.
Al was in a taxi on his way in from the airport. He had been to Kathmandu a dozen times before, so did not have much attention to spare for the congested road and the scrubby concrete housing that lined it. He sat motionless in the back of the worn-out Mercedes, his eyes apparently fixed on the grime-marked collar of the driver’s blue shirt.
Karachi had been a last-minute diversion, a visit to an old climbing friend. They had sat for a long time over too many glasses of whisky, not talking very much, merely pursuing their memories in one another’s company. When it was time for Al to leave again Stuart had come to see him off.
‘Drop in and see me on the way back, when you’ve got the big hill in your pocket.’
‘I might just do that.’
Stuart stood watching Al’s back as he moved in the line of veiled women and men in loose shalwar kameez towards the barrier. He stood a full head taller than anyone else, and he looked fit and relaxed. Just before he disappeared Al glanced round and nodded a last goodbye. Stuart lifted his hand and held it up long after Al had gone. They had known each other for many years and had said casual goodbyes before a score of expeditions. That was what happened and this was no different. History made no difference. It was the present and the future tenses that counted for climbers.
As his taxi approached the Buddha’s Garden Al was acknowledging to himself that the stopoff to see Stuart Frost had been a delaying tactic. He hadn’t wanted to get to Kathmandu, to join this group, until the last moment. But now that he was here he focused his mind on what was to be done. It was a job, like any other, as well as a climb.
As he was checking in, with his weather-beaten packs piled beside him, George Heywood came out of the bar. He shook Al’s hand, enclosing it warmly in both of his. George was bald, with a seamed face and sharp grey eyes.
‘Good to see you, Al. Thought you might be going AWOL at the last minute.’
‘Why?’
George laughed. ‘Now I see you I realise I was worrying about nothing. You look good.’
‘Everyone here?’
‘Yup. You’re the last.’
‘Good.’
‘Ken’s in the bar, with Pemba and Mingma. You want to go and change or something, or will you come and join us?’
‘I’ll come,’ Al said.
The three men stood up when they saw Al’s tall frame following George to the table. Pemba Chhotta and Mingma Nawang were the climbing sirdars – experienced Sherpa mountaineers who would be sharing the guiding duties with Al and Ken. They had worked with Al in the past and they showed their liking for him in broad smiles of greeting.
‘Namaste, Alyn,’ Pemba said formally.
Ken was more laconic. He clasped Al’s hand very briefly. ‘Yeah, mate. Here we are.’
‘Ken. I saw Stu in Karachi. Sends you his best.’
Their
