Authors: Belinda Pollard
Peter appeared in the doorway as she mounted the steps, and held out a hand towards her. She took it gratefully, and his grip was warm and strong. It was dim inside, and seemed to be full of people, all busy. As she entered, she reeled from a rank, caged-animal odor—it took a moment to register that it was the smell of human bodies unwashed for weeks, and constantly assaulted by fear.
In the confusion it was so hard to make out Rachel. Hemi was busy with someone on the floor on one side of the hut, and she caught a glimpse of blood and surgical gloves. Peter steered her towards the other side of the hut, to a bunk against the wall, and a blue sleeping bag with someone in it. The face emerging from that sleeping bag. Oh that face. So dear, so very dear.
She knelt on the floor beside the bunk. “Rachel. Oh my darling. Rachel.”
“Mum? Is that really you?”
“Yes it’s me. Here I am darling. I’m right here.”
Arms fumbled out from the sleeping bag and reached for her. “Mummy. Oh mummy.” The childhood endearment pierced Ellen’s heart and she was overwhelmed. Always she’d been able to be calm and strong when her child was sick, not show her own fear, whatever the crisis. But not this time. Deep, guttural sobs burst from her as they clung to one another. Rachel wept too, a weak mucousy noise, catching in her throat. “I’m so glad you’ve come.”
Standing behind Ellen, Peter felt his eyes moisten, and took a slow deep breath, composing his face. He turned and headed outside, looking for the medivac crew.
On the beach, Peter joined Hawk, and saw a small wiry man he didn’t recognize, hanging off at a distance, fidgety and uncertain. His senses went on full alert, but then he caught a glimpse of the little dragonfly chopper parked round the far sweep of the bay behind their own machine, and the man’s presence made sense. He looked at Hawk and inclined his head in the direction of the other man, a questioning look in his eyes.
“He’s just killed one of his best mates,” Hawk said. “He’s gutted. Hovered out there for ages waiting for Tom to come back up. Wants us to start a search, even though he knows it would be a useless exercise. And he’s worried about the woman Tom shot.”
As soon as he’d briefed the arriving medical rescue team, Peter left Hawk to lead them through to the hut, and went to talk to the dragonfly pilot. He would take his details, tell him they’d question him formally later, instruct him to go home. Lift the burden of any further action from the man’s shoulders by a display of uniformed authority.
But from there, the burden wouldn’t be carried by the uniform, but the shoulders inside it. The shoulders of a flesh-and-blood man who had failed to notice the pain and fear of a friend and colleague, and how despair had disorientated his moral compass and turned him into an enemy. Had seen the breath of that friend and colleague snuffed as swiftly as a church candle, and would later this day face the task of telling a wife and mother what had happened to the center of her family’s life.
Peter felt the heaviness of it within him, pushing his feet down further into the gravel as he crunched his way across the beach.
***
Callie sat close to Jack on one of the bunks, keeping out of the way, watchful and tense. It was like being in a backwoods emergency room. They’d stopped Erica’s bleeding, but she needed fresh blood supplies. Rachel’s condition needed to be assessed before they moved her. And so Hemi pumped IV fluids into Erica while the doctor and medivac paramedic working on Rachel connected a drip, tested her blood, asked questions. Ellen moved to the head of the bunk to give them access, and stroked her daughter’s forehead tenderly.
Hemi glanced up, saw the mood of the two healthier hikers, and grinned his trademark grin. “You guys did a great job with this one, no joke.”
“Really?” Jack said, astounded.
Callie said, “But it looks like a massacre in here.”
“A wound like that, the first couple of minutes are vital. You did everything right. That’s why she’s gonna be fine.” He grinned down at Erica now, who opened her eyes and gave him a weak smile. The morphine was doing its thing. “No dancing for a coupla days though, okay?”
The other paramedic noticed the exchange and looked over from his station near Rachel’s bunk, and said, quietly, “This one’s doing much better than we expected.”
Callie’s face crumpled and she began to weep softly as a swirl of emotions went through her. Relief was dominant but there were so many undercurrents. So many losses—of lives, of opportunities, of innocence. She fought to keep the noise down, so she wouldn’t disturb the others.
***
Jack gathered her into his arms and rocked her gently, just letting her weep it out. The encouraging words from the two paramedics seemed to have lightened his body by about a hundred kilograms. Maybe the four of them really were survivors. Maybe they really were safe. He grimaced at his red hands around Callie’s shoulders, but the blood had dried now, so he figured it didn’t matter much, and besides, she was liberally splashed with it anyway. He caught a glance from Peter, who’d paused from sorting the contents of their rucksacks in the corner. “It’s probably not the best holiday we’ve ever had,” Jack said.
Peter quirked an eyebrow. “We might not get you to star in the next tourism ad then.” He went back to his sorting.
Callie grew quiet as her tears ran their course, and she sat back and started fishing for her t-shirt underneath her fleece, looking for something to wipe her face that didn’t have too much blood on it. “I’d lend you the team hankie,” Jack said, deadpan again, “but I don’t know where it is. I think Erica had it last.”
Callie stifled a giggle and looked at the dried blood on her hands. “You know what, I think I’m going down to the lake to wash this lot off.” She looked at the policeman, inquiring. “Is that okay?”
“Sure. Anything in your pockets before you go?”
She turned them all out, both pants and fleece, and all she found was two curly fern tips. She placed them carefully on the edge of the bunk near the policeman, and gave him an impish look. Her spirits were reviving. “You can have one of those if you’re peckish, but you have to leave the other one for me.”
Jack did the same with his pockets, then followed her down to the water. By the time he’d crunched his way across the gravel beach, she’d already shed her boots and walked shin deep into the clear frigid water, and was sluicing water up her arms, and then her face. She paused a moment, and then immersed her scalp in the water and began washing her hair, even though the cold water must have been agony for her scalp wound.
By now, Jack was alongside her, joining in with gusto, washing his hands and face, and then his hair. The cold was both numbing and exhilarating. He then hauled both t-shirt and fleece off over his head and plunged them into the water, scrubbing with his fingers at the blood, and all the other stains.
Somewhere along the way it stopped being about hygiene and became a ritual, a symbol—washing themselves free of much more than blood and sweat.
She watched him, considering. “Won’t you get cold if your clothes are all wet? We’re still a couple of hours from civilization.”
“Have you forgotten already what Ranger Bryan told us? Merino t-shirts, polyester fleece, so they dry fast and keep you warm even if they get wet. That doesn’t just apply to rain.”
“Well then. You’d better look the other way or pretend we’re at the beach.” She quickly stripped down to her bra and began to wash her own shirts.
Jack flushed to his hair follicles. He didn’t know where to look. But he knew where he wanted to look. So he definitely must be feeling better.
They washed and scrubbed and wrung and laughed, and then made their way back to the hut, their clothes damp, their faces clean and shining, their spirits more alive than they’d ever been.
***
The medivac helicopter was loaded with its precious cargo. Two patients, both stable now. Two lives that would always carry scars, but would nevertheless go on from here. Two futures retrieved from the cliff edge of death.
Ellen’s duffel bag was stowed, and she turned to Callie and Jack, finally able to give them a moment’s attention after the long minutes of tunnel vision while Rachel was being treated. “Thank you for getting my little girl out of there.” She reached for a hand of each one, squeezed hard, and gazed into the eyes of first Callie, then Jack. “We’ll talk more before long, but I can’t leave without saying thank you. From the depths of my soul.”
“You’re so welcome, Mrs C,” Callie said, a schoolgirl again, addressing a friend’s mother, her voice thick with emotion. Jack just smiled sheepishly and returned the squeeze of her hand.
Ellen turned to thank the rescue team. A quick peck on the cheek for Hawk, who looked awkward but pleased. Another one for Hemi, who said, “Aw, come on,” and turned it into an enveloping hug.
A long, speaking gaze for Peter, her eyes full of relief, thanksgiving, hope, even forgiveness. She held out both hands to him, and he took them, squeezed her fingers, and then enfolded her in a fierce hug. It wasn’t a very professional thing for a uniformed police officer to do, but he could count on Hemi and Hawk to be discreet. “Let us know how you get on,” he muttered as he released her.
“I’ll tell you all about it over a caramel latte one day,” she said, with a teasing smile. “Soon.” She turned and stepped aboard the helicopter, and the others moved back as the engine began to hum.
58
The launch chugged down the lake, cutting a widening white trail through the upside down hills and peaks sealed into its mirror surface. The sun was well up in the sky now, but the wind had not yet risen. The mountains clustered around to watch them go, whispering. When they were lost and fearful, Callie had struggled to keep hope alive with thoughts of civilization, a square meal, a hot shower, a soft bed. But now she felt a strange reluctance to go back to the hum of traffic and the buzz of machines, the glow of her laptop, the burble of her phone, the ceaseless workplace obsession with trivialities and beat-ups and prying into other people’s traumas. Whatever else these last few weeks had been, they had been utterly real. After week upon week of numbness after William’s defection, she had felt something again, really felt it, more than she’d probably felt anything in her life. It could be addictive, that sort of intensity.
The big tall sergeant who seemed to be just a little bit sweet on Mrs C had sent the pilot home—not enough room for all of them in the helicopter. He’d brought the amiable paramedic with them on the boat, even though they’d already received first aid for their cuts and bruises and muscle strains. At first Callie had feared he was present in case the pain in her side turned out to be more than just broken ribs. He’d said a full medical check later in the day would be soon enough, after a shower and some clean clothes, but was he secretly concerned? But she became calm again as the realization dawned that they were probably going to be questioned, informally at least, and the policeman would need a witness to whatever they said.
She was content to sit next to Jack opposite the other two, and quietly nibble sultanas from the ration pack she’d been given—slowly, as instructed, so as not to overtax her unaccustomed stomach. She didn’t need to control or guide anything now. Things could just unfold.
***
Jack had no desire to be passive. He could eat cold oat porridge out of a bag with a plastic spoon, and be blunt at the same time. “So I guess you’ll want to ask us some things,” he said, feeling only mildly silly in his one-armed jacket. It’s missing arm, soaked in Erica’s blood, lay on the floor at Altham Hut awaiting a cleanup team. “You should get the details before we get among other people. Otherwise we’ll hear rumors, make wrong connections, get confused, forget.”
Peter nodded, his expression wry. “Have you done this before?”
Jack shrugged. “I interview people for a living too.”
And there’s quite a lot of things I’d like to ask you.
Peter said, “Do I need to say that this conversation is ‘off the record’?”
Jack laughed. “Anything that would be sub judice is obviously off the record anyway.”
Peter apparently caught the implication, and so did Callie. “Are you thinking of writing about this?” she asked, curious.
“Not today. But I reckon I’ll want to eventually. Won’t you?” He looked at her, and his face darkened. “People have to know how toxic money can be when it’s used to manipulate people. What’s happened to us will be a quick blip in the news, forgotten tomorrow. But the lives of Sharon and Adam—and even Kain and Bryan—can’t mean so little as that.”
***
“So you see it as being all about money?” said Peter, interested. He had a hunch he’d get better results if he discarded his professional persona and just conversed with these two.
“No, money was just the tool. The problem was bitterness. Unforgiveness. At first I thought Bryan was acting as some sort of impartial judge and jury because he was nuts and he blamed us for Liana’s death. Do you know about Liana?” Peter nodded, and Jack continued. “But he wasn’t quite as deeply nuts as he seemed, and he definitely wasn’t impartial. I’m convinced he dressed it up as the scales of justice to make himself feel righteous, but really he just wanted good old-fashioned revenge. Revenge on Kain and maybe Adam for sleeping with his girlfriend, revenge on the rest of us in case we knew about it all along, revenge on us and the world for being friends with his money instead of friends with him. If he could have forgiven us and himself for failing Liana, and gotten on with his life… none of this would have happened. His wealth was the best weapon he had, and it turned out to be a powerful one. Erica didn’t take the bait quite the way he’d have liked her to, but he was a good judge of character with Kain.”
Callie said, “I’m not sure if that’s completely true. I think Kain had trouble deciding how to respond to what happened. And then he regretted what he did.”