Authors: Michael Wood
Exhausted again, he found relief on the heather slope above the crag. He checked his watch. 850 feet had been achieved in 19 minutes.
A sharp, burning, pain in the backs of both knees, hot heaving lungs, and a parched throat, told him to stop. He ignored them.
Diagonally left, across the heather, he found his way around the next escarpment, passing the base of a pinnacle, and joining a sheep track.
The slopes ahead looked easier now, but Wainwright’s map warned of two false summits before the true summit was reached. Ben fixed his eyes on the first one, as he asked his body for a final effort. He started upwards, moving through barriers of pain and exhaustion.
*
Hector stopped his car at the end of the forest dirt road. Apart from having to swerve to avoid a fallen tree branch, the fast journey had been uneventful. He had driven quickly because he wanted to get it over with, and get out of the area as soon as possible.
After it was over, he had decided, he would head for the flat lands of East Anglia. With all ten photographs completed, he hoped the rage would subside. He could start a new peaceful life there, away from the mountains, away from temptation.
He opened the car boot, and stepped back - she might be planning a surprise attack. He needn’t have worried. She looked dazed, tired, disorientated. The bumpy forest road must have taken its toll. He noticed that she had put her shoe back on.
He reached in, took hold of the rope and jerked it upwards. ‘Out!’ he ordered.
Slowly, Helen eased herself on to her knees, then twisted around until she sat on the boot rim. Then she swung her legs over, and dropped to the ground, stumbling to her knees as her legs gave way. Hector let the rope go slack until she recovered.
He pointed to a path that led upwards, through the forest. ‘Go ahead,’ he motioned.
She stood still, shivering, as the cold evening air pierced her thin blouse.
‘Move,’ he shouted, and tugged on the rope.
Helen jerked forward, and started up the slope.
After 50 metres they reached a fork in the path. ‘Right,’ he ordered.
A few more paces, and they arrived at a dry-stone wall. Stones had been piled up on either side, to assist in scaling it. Beyond it, 100 metres of gently sloping fell led to the top of Barf.
Hector motioned her to go first.
Helen climbed up the stones, leaning on them with her tied hands to keep her balance. Hector followed closely behind, holding the rope. At the top, Helen turned around, and reversed down the other side, again leaning on the stones for balance.
As she stood on the firm ground, watching Hector starting down from the top, concentrating on the stones below him, she lifted her hands, grabbed the rope and pulled hard. It was enough to pull Hector off balance, made him let go of the rope. She saw him grasping for air, trying to stop his fall, before she turned and started to run.
She ran along the path, towards the summit. She knew about the sheer drops on Barf’s north and east faces, but, hopefully, she could escape to the west, down to Wythop valley.
Desperation put energy into her tired legs. They pumped like pistons under her skirt, dodging the boulders buried in the path, leaping bog holes, wash outs, heather clumps.
She was fit from all the swimming she did, but with tied hands, and a rope dragging in the heather, it was difficult to keep balanced, run at full speed.
Halfway to the summit, after leaping a boulder, her balance gave way and she felt herself falling. She flung herself sideways on to the heather and, on impact, rolled over on her shoulder. Within seconds, she was back on her feet, and running again. In those few seconds, she saw him - running fast, closing in.
Ten more metres, and she could hear his feet pounding the path behind her. Ten more, and she heard his panting breath. She begged her legs to go faster. Five more, and her head jerked back as he stood on the rope.
The sudden jolt shot pain down her neck, made her dizzy. She staggered, disorientated.
Hector’s impetus, and step on the rope, threw him forward, off balance. He collided with Helen, and they crashed to the ground together. They lay in the heather, gasping, chests heaving, vaguely aware of pain, uncommonly aware of each other.
He wasn’t moving, he hadn’t moved since they fell. His body lay at a strange angle, legs askew. Maybe he’d hurt himself. She had to try again…dizziness...pain...as she pushed herself up.
She was on her knees. She started to crawl away. Her neck jolted to a stop again. She looked back and saw the rope trapped under his body, saw him smiling at her.
He got to his feet, wrapped the rope around his left wrist, and pulled her to her feet. ‘You must be in a hurry to die,’ he breathed.
Helen swayed on her feet, dizzy and nauseous. She could see the summit, 20 metres away. It was now or never...
She charged at him, tied fists flaying in front of her, feet kicking. He saw her coming, and jumped out of the way, a glancing kick to the right leg being the only contact.
Now they circled each other, he holding the rope, like a cowboy with a wild horse. He put his right hand in his anorak pocket. She charged again. He swayed out of the way, wrenched her back with the rope, brought his stone-filled hand out of his pocket, and hit her on the temple.
He caught her in his arms before she hit the ground, hugged her with his left arm until he had the stone back in his pocket, then used both arms to hoist her over his shoulder.
He staggered along the heathered path, knees bending under the weight. Gradually, the heather gave way to grass, and then to a platform of bare rock pavement at the summit. Large chunks of pavement were missing, leaving deep grass filled holes pockmarking the surface.
Hector carefully negotiated his way around the holes, and approached the summit’s south eastern rim. Ignoring the magnificent views about him - the lake below, the towering fells across the lake - he walked around the summit’s perimeter until he reached the north eastern edge. Here, facing Skiddaw, the edge broke away, down a sheer crag. He had been there before, at rehearsal.
Two metres from the edge, he found a flat section of pavement. He squatted, lowered Helen down, turned her on to her back, put her hands on her stomach, placed her feet together. She was ready to be rolled over the edge.
Hector knelt down beside her. From his inner, zipped, anorak pocket he pulled out his camera. He switched it on, checked it had film in, removed the lens cap, and laid it on the pavement, beside her.
He pushed back his anorak hood, lifted his Walkman earphones from around his neck, and placed them on his ears. His right hand went to his anorak’s outer pocket, and emerged with the stone. He was ready.
His left hand went to the Walkman, strapped to his waist. He switched it on, pressed the ‘play’ button, and waited for Handel’s music to inspire him. He raised his hand, ready to strike. She was coming round...her eyes were beginning to flicker. What excellent timing!
The music didn’t start. He pressed the ‘play’ button again. Still nothing. He pressed the ‘open’ button and looked down. The cassette holder was empty. He had forgotten to put the tape in. ‘SHIT!’
He slammed the cassette holder shut, and tore the earphones from his head. He was furious with himself...he had spoiled the ritual...a noise...footsteps...somebody was coming....
*
With the two, agonising, false summits behind him, Ben dragged his screaming knees up the final slope. Just a few more thrusts.
He stepped on to the top, gasping. With his hands on his knees, chest heaving, he raised his head to look around. There was nothing to be seen.
He’d beaten him to it. Or, he wasn’t coming - he’d headed for the motorway. Or, worse still, he had been and gone. He looked at his watch. 33 minutes. It answered nothing.
He’d arrived on the top a few metres to the south of the highest point, a few feet below it. He would check the whole summit, then head down the path towards the forest. If he was still on his way, he could intercept him there.
He started up the gentle slope, walking northwards towards the highest point, his legs like quivering jelly. As he gained height, distant Scottish hills came into view.
Now, as his head cleared the summit’s curve, he could see Sale Fell, then the lake’s northern tip, then...a small man kneeling...a woman lying...rope... Helen’s hair...legs...close to the edge.... HE WAS HERE!
The sight was unbearable. Instinct took over. He roared: ‘NO.O.O.O...,’ as he charged the short distance between them. His legs stuttered and wobbled on the flat, hard, pavement, slowing him down.
Everything seemed to slow down. In slow motion, he saw the man rise...turn to face him...put up no defence as he hit him with a rugby tackle...heard him yell as his head hit the ground...Ben landing on top of him...heard Helen shout ‘BEN...’
Lying on top of him, Ben smashed a punch into the man’s cheekbone.
Helen shouted something.
Ben hesitated...held the next punch back...found he was looking at Ian, the Controller of Keswick’s mountain rescue team.
‘Ben...it’s me...Ian..’ Ian shouted, still not defending himself.
‘What’s your fucking surname?’ Ben hissed.
‘Smith....’ Ian shouted.
Its banality caused Ben to hesitate again.
‘I heard the police radio messages on my scanner,’ Ian hurried. ‘I live in Wythop valley...I came up to see if I could help...I found your wife lying there....’
Helen was shouting again: ‘BEN...it’s not him...it’s not him..
.he
saved
me’
Confused, but cautious, Ben held on to him, as he turned to look at Helen. She had propped herself up on one elbow. He saw the rope around her neck, blood on her temple, matted in her hair. Tears drenched her face. She held her hand out to him, her face twisted in a cry of pain and relief.
‘He saved me, Ben,’ she confirmed. ‘Look...he cut my hands free.’ She held up the rope.
Ben rolled off Ian Smith, and crawled across to Helen’s side. He grasped her hand, and hugged her, gently. ‘Are you alright...are you alright?’
Helen nodded between sobs of relief.
Ian Smith moved closer, holding his cheek. ‘Where did he go?’ Ben demanded.
‘I didn’t see him,’ Ian said. ‘He must have seen me coming...I stopped here to help your wife...’
Ben rose to his feet. He knew there were few places to hide on the top of Barf.
‘Stay here,’ he ordered Ian. ‘Get that rope off her neck. Watch out for him...shout if you see him.’ He would thank him later; worship him forever.
He moved away from them, away from the edge, alert, arms out, crouching, almost like an ape. He wished that he had a weapon.
Slowly, he edged forward, forcing his shaking legs around the pavement holes, looking down each one, looking to the distance, turning to check on Helen, head swivelling, eyes everywhere.
He hadn’t gone far, when, directly in front of him, out of a hole in the pavement, Hector Snodd climbed into view.
Hector didn’t run. He stood still and raised his hands, palms out, in a gesture of surrender.
Ben tensed, ready for anything. He wasn’t going to trust a mass murderer, however small and pitiful he looked.
His instincts urged him to rush forward...to kill him...strangle him...feel his evil life ebb away in his hands...smash his head against the rocks...break all his bones...throw him, like a rag doll, to the buzzards. He had kidnapped his beloved Helen, imprisoned her, terrorised her, roped her like a dog. He would have killed her in the most hideous way. A hideous death is what he deserved.