Water seeped into my boots. The weight of the extra equipment hung across my shoulders, and the muscles of my thighs strained to handle the burden of my pack. The way sloped gently upwards until we reached the crest of the rise. From here, nestled under a great overhang of rock, we at last spotted the customs house about five hundred yards away. It was a wooden log-cabin type of structure, built up against the rock itself. Flat stones of various colors, some green, some brown, some smoky blue, overlapped unevenly to form its roof. On the opposite side of the road stood a small guardhouse and the supports for a wooden boom for raising and lowering across the road. Now only the supports remained in place. The boom itself lay in the water at the edge of the lake, just beside the guardhouse. In place of the boom, the road was blocked by barbed wire. It had been strung onto several X-shaped frames which were staggered across the road.
We crawled forward, so as not to silhouette ourselves against the skyline. I took out the binoculars again and looked for signs of life. Sunlight reflected off the barbed wire, showing that it had recently been placed there. The area outside the front door was protected by a chest-high crescent of sandbags.
I could also see that, just to the side of the customs house, there was some kind of stairway leading belowground.
I saw no people, however, nor any sign of vehicles or radio antennas. For a moment, I allowed myself to feel some relief that the place might have been occupied only by a couple of men. And perhaps, at the sound of the gunfire, these men had fled.
A short distance beyond the customs house, the lake curved around towards the glacier. That was the route we'd have to take to get out on the ice and begin our march towards Carton's Rock. We could not circle down below the customs house, as the mountain face formed a sheer drop to the valley floor. The site for the building had been well chosen. Anyone who wanted to travel this way had to get by under the shadow of that rock, right past the front door of the house.
The approach was entirely out in the open. There was no way we could sneak by in daylight. If anyone saw us, we would be gunned down before we'd gone more than a few hundred yards.
We decided to wait and then try to slip past in the dark. With no sign of a radio antenna, we assumed that whomever was there had no radio contact with any units standing by down in the valley. We would have to get by them, but they would have to get by us as well. They would have to cross the same open ground.
We removed our packs and took cover in the ditch. The sun was going down. In the distance we could hear the wind out on the glacier. It blew across the ice and ruffled the surface of the lake, then raked against our faces with a bone-hollowing chill.
As sunset bronzed the air, we heard the noises of engines and saw one, then two, then three planes flying overhead in
loose formation. They must have been part of the squadrons we had seen earlier in the day, now returning from their mission. They were much lower than before, and I could see the white-star insignia and distinctive turned-up noses of B-24 Liberators.
I realized how little chance these planes would have stood if they had been flying through clouds on their return journey. Luck alone would bring them through these jagged hills. But soon, perhaps, they would have more than luck, and it seemed amazing to me that this small beacon might save the lives of so many men. Thinking about this allowed me to balance out what had happened to Whistler and Armstrong. The knowledge of their deaths was sinking in, past the fact of it, past the grief of it, to the cold acceptance of their bodies left behind.
Sugden, Forbes, and I took turns keeping an eye on the customs house as well as on the road behind us, in case someone approached from that direction. The third person tried to get some rest. When it was my turn, I lay with my scarf across my eyes. Sun winked through the crossed threads of the wool, which smelled of sweat and old tobacco smoke. For a while I drifted back and forth across the veil of consciousness.
As soon as the sun disappeared behind the customs house, the air became very cold. We waited through the long twilight, until a fingernail of moon rose above the glacier. Stars riddled the darkness in the east, but in the west, the sky was clouding over.
We smeared our faces and hands with mud, not only to camouflage ourselves but also to distinguish between friend and enemy once we got to the customs house. There, if we ran into anyone, it would be too dark and confusing to differentiate between German and British uniforms. Anyone with a pale face would be killed.
We moved slowly down towards the customs house, carrying all our gear. The plan was to stop a hundred yards from the barbed wire, then creep forward and see if we could shift the entanglements by hand.
The three of us spread out about ten paces apart, navigating the uneven terrain while keeping an eye on the customs house, which by now was completely hidden in shadow.
I had become convinced that the place was empty. There were no lights, no smell of smoke or food. Slithering across the crumbling earth, I was soon sweating again under the weight of my pack. The stones over which I crawled were as sharp as coral. I could feel their edges gouging my knees and the blood cooling as it trickled from these wounds. In places, the dry earth gave way to patches of damp ground, in which water black as tar welled up from the moss and leeched into my clothes. If I tried to raise myself, my arms only sank deeper into the wet earth. Whenever I stopped to catch my breath, I could hear the faint sound of the others crawling beside me. By now, the clouds had blown in from the west, and a soft rain began to fall.
We reached the bottom of the rise and were now level with the customs house. The building remained dark and silent. The wire bunched like a haze at the horizon of my little world. Wind off the glacier whistled around the roof of the guard shack. I could feel my heartbeat thumping in my neck.
We were only a hundred yards from the wire.
As agreed, we undid the straps of our rucksacks and left them lying on the ground with the rope, the climbing axes, and the equipment belts we had been issued. Sweat which had pooled against my back under the rucksack quickly chilled now that the pack was off. As soon as we had secured the customs house, we would go back for our gear, then carry on
around the edge of the lake to the departure point for our glacier crossing.
I made sure that my rifle and Webley revolver were loaded and stuffed two Mills grenades into my pockets. From my pack I removed the trench club I had been given by Carton. The cold ball of lead at the end of the club seemed to glow. I looked across at the others.
Sugden's eyes shone in his mud-crusted face. He was watching me.
I wondered if he was waiting for me to change my mind and give the order to fall back.
But then he started crawling forward.
I began to move as well, keeping the rifle across my back and the Webley in my hand.
The rain was falling harder now. The black air hissed as if snakes were slithering above our heads.
We were fifty yards from the wire when I heard a cracking sound.
I knew immediately that it was a flare. I even saw the yellow sparks as they left the flare gun's barrel, just behind the wire. It was as if the flash had exploded in my chest. A trail of burning white sliced the darkness above us.
Â
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THE BLARING HORN of a truck on the road outside St. Vernon's jarred me to my senses once again. I struggled back to the curb.
My cigarette papers lay ground into the road by the wheels of passing cars. The rest had blown away.
Twilight blurred the traffic racing by. Now and then, one of the automobiles ran over the flattened remains of my emergency ration tin, which clacked against the macadam.
Until that moment, I had not known what I should do.
But now I understood.
The answer lay in the passing of these cars, the two lanes of them heading relentlessly in opposite directions. They were like the streams of time itself, one flowing into the past, the other into the future. I was stuck between them, endlessly spinning around. I had to do something to get out of it, or I would be trapped there forever.
That something was to honor Henry Carton's last request.
What I needed was the courage to go through with it.
Suddenly I knew I had just made the third and final wish, which I'd been keeping all this time and hoping that I'd never have to use.
I
WALKED BACK TO MY FLAT and trudged up the stairs, hand gliding along the old sweat-polished banister. I fumbled in the deep pocket of my mackintosh for my keys, wondering aloud what I would have for dinner. Then I unlocked the door and, swinging it wide open with a jab of my toe, was startled to see a man standing in my living room. He was glancing out the window and had his back to me.
“Jesus Christ!” I blurted and staggered against the door frame. I was trying to decide which piece of furniture to hit him with when the man turned around and I realized it was Sugden.
The way he stood there smirking, he looked exactly like his picture in the newspaper advertisement.
“Bloody hell, Sugs!” I shouted. “You just about gave me a heart attack!”
“Sorry, Auntie!” He grinned unapologetically. His face
was red, the tip of his nose and his ears flaky white with sunburned skin.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, trying not to sound nervous. I was not afraid of Sugden. Not of the man himself. What I feared were the memories his presence kindled in my mind.
“Making some tea.” He nodded at the stove. My kettle muttered as the water warmed inside it.
I hung my umbrella on the coat stand, then shrugged off my coat and laid it over a chair. “Look, Sugs,” I said. “No offense, but you can't just walk in here anytime you feel like it. This isn't the bloody dorm.”
“I haven't had a decent cup of tea since I returned from Patagonia,” he said, staring out the window.
“I read about what happened,” I told him. “I'm sorry you had a rough time.”
“Where do you keep the tea?” he asked, as if my words of condolence had not even reached his ears.
“Left cupboard in the kitchen,” I said, resigning myself to the fact that Sugden had not changed since school, and that he probably had no idea he was doing anything unusual by crashing into my flat. I sat down at my kitchen table and halfheartedly swept away some bread crumbs from the bare wood surface. “What is it you want? Besides a cup of tea, I mean.”
“It was a bloody mess in Patagonia,” he said, stepping past me into the kitchen, where he began opening and closing the cupboards. “Men dead. Sponsors all cheesed off.”
“But it was an accident. At least that's what I read.”
“It was indeed an accident. Couldn't have been avoided.” He found the tea tin and shook it to see if there was anything inside. “The whole thing was running like clockwork. Until it went wrong, anyway.”
“People will understand,” I said reassuringly.
He made a sarcastic sound with his lips. The water had boiled now. He turned off the gas and poured some of the water in the teapot. Then he cradled the pot in his hands, tipped out the water, and spooned in some tea leaves. “People won't understand. Doesn't matter why things go wrong. Only that they do.” He poured hot water onto the black crumbs of the tea leaves and breathed in the steam, closing his eyes. Then he threw a dish towel over the pot to keep it warm while it brewed.
“Patagonia must have been beautiful,” I said, hoping to steer the topic towards something more pleasant.
“Oh, it was.” He turned again to face me, arms folded across his chest. “Speaking of beautiful places, I heard someone was making travel plans for you recently.”
I shook my head, not understanding.
“Oh, come along!” He snapped his fingers in the way that our old teachers used to do when we could not answer questions fast enough. “Carton. The Alps. The coffin!”
“But how did you know?” I stammered. “I only just found out myself.”
He was smiling now, pleased to have the edge on me. He came out of the kitchen, sat himself down at the other end of the table, and pattered his fingertips on the wood, as if giving a drum roll before making his next pronouncement. “It just so happens that Dr. Webb is my doctor as well as Carton's. He was giving me a checkup yesterday, to make sure I was still in one piece after coming back from South America, and he mentioned this business with the coffin.”
“It's an extraordinary request,” I said.
He nodded. “It certainly is. And damned awkward for you as well, I imagine.”
“How so?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Well, evidently Carton had never heard of your Society of Former Mountaineers.” He said these last words with a mocking plum-in-the-mouth pomposity. “So look,” he continued, “the reason I'm here is because I think we can both do each other a favor.”
“We can?”
“Yes, I'll explain”âhe jerked his chin towards the kitchenâ“while you pour the tea.”
Too unnerved to protest, I obediently got up and poured the tea.
“I need to get things back on track after this business in Patagonia,” he began, “and since you're not going to do it, I thought it would be a perfect thing for me. The publicity would be great. The sponsors will soon be lining up again. I have to keep my eye on that sort of thing, you see. Mountaineering is an industry, just like selling cars.”
“Sugs,” I said. “I'm sorry to tell you this, but I'm actually thinking of doing it.” I set the chipped red mug of tea in front of him.
He was staring at me. “What?” he asked.
I told him again.
“No,” he shook his head. “No, that won't do at all.”
I sat down at the other end of the table, ready to explain why I needed to do this. But I didn't get the chance.
Sugden's face grew suddenly dark, as if a shadow had passed through his blood. “Henry Carton was a great man,” he said.
“I know,” I replied, “but what's that got to do with it?”
“There are two blemishes on the name of Henry Carton,” he said, “and two only. The first”âhe bent back one finger until it looked as if it was going to breakâ“is his wretched nephew, whom I once made the mistake of calling my friend.”
My jaw clenched. “You don't have to talk about Stanley like that.”
“The second,” he continued, “is that God-awful mess you got us into in the war.”
“For the love of God, Sugden!” I said, rising slowly to my feet. “Do you still blame me for the fact that we didn't turn back after Armstrong and Whistler got killed? Have you actually thought about what would have happened to us if we had tried to make our way out through the Palladino Valley? The nearest Allied troops were hundreds of miles to the south, with the entire Fifteenth German Army Corps between us and them. It's almost as if you think I killed those men myself. Well, Carton didn't think so, and why should you?” By now I was almost shouting.
Sugden's eyes were filled with hate. “I don't think you killed them. What you did was to bring us all together in the first place. So that we went there. So that those men died.”
“But I had no way of knowing what would happenâ”
He raised his doubled fist and smashed it down on the table. Tea jumped from his mug and splashed onto the bare wood. “It doesn't matter if you knew!” he howled. Then immediately his voice sank back almost to a whisper. “It's the same thing as with the sponsors for my expeditions. What matters is what happened. Not how or why or what excuses you are able to make up. We can sit here talking about it until hell freezes over, but the fact remains that if it wasn't for you, those men might still be alive. You were put in charge, whether you wanted to be or not. It all comes down to you. That's all there is to it.”
I felt as if I were choking. “The board of inquiry ⦔ I started to say.
Sugden breathed out noisily. “The board of inquiry was headed by Carton, and he put his own reputation on the line to make sure you were cleared. And why? Because he let himself be swayed by that coward you call a friend.” He could not even say Stanley's name.
I managed to gasp in a breath. “You don't know any of that for a fact.”
“You're right.” He smiled coldly. “I don't. The only fact I know for sure is that you have no right to be alive when our old comrades are dead.” He looked at me for a long time before he spoke again. “But I guess that's just something you've learned to live with, isn't it?”
My hands were shaking.
He fetched his coat and stood in the doorway. “You listen to me, Bromley. This is what you're going to do. You're going to tell Dr. Webb you've decided not to go. He'll know to pass the offer on to me. I've already explained it to him. I'll get the word out to the press. I'll even put in a good word about you and your friend. That way, you won't have to walk away from this with your tail between your legs. Then I'll get some good people together and make sure the job is done properly. This isn't some offer I'm making, Bromley. This is how it's going to be.” He shook the anger from his face, like a dog shaking water from its back. “Thank you for the tea, Auntie.” After flashing his Trust-in-the-Machine smile, he walked down the stairs and out of the flat, leaving the door open.
I heard the striking of a match and then the click of his iron-heeled shoes as he walked away. A moment later, a faint wisp of tobacco smoke reached the place where I was sitting.
Sugden's voice still echoed in my head. It was as if a dozen people were speaking at the same time. They were all saying
the same thing: that I had no right to be alive when my old friends were dead. The voices grew louder, each one shouting to be heard above the others and all of them saying the same thing.
Suddenly I understood, with total clarity, that there was only one way to make them stop and if I did not stop them they would howl at me for the rest of my life.
I walked through the kitchen and into my bedroom. There, I hauled out a small metal trunk from under the bed. I opened it, and dug around under the pile of my old service clothing, Sam Browne belt, jerkin, balaclava, and God knows what other rubbish until my hand closed around the smooth leather slab of a holster. I opened it, drew out the Webley, surprised at the weight because I had forgotten how heavy it was. I got back on my feet and started walking towards the kitchen. As I walked, I pressed the release button and brought the barrel down to check that the cylinder was fully loaded, which it was.
I had no time to think this over. If I started thinking, I would only come unraveled and not be able to go through with it. I would sit down at the table and I would finish the business. The way to do it, I thought, is with the barrel in my mouth, gun upside down with the butt pointing towards the ceiling. That way, I did not have to pull the trigger with my thumb and risk messing things up.
Entering the living room, I almost walked right past Stanley, who was standing in the doorway.
“The door was open downstairs,” he said. “Where are you going with that gun?”
I stopped and stared at him. I was shaking all over and sweat was running down my face.
“Are you going to shoot those pigeons finally?” he asked. “You know, I didn't want to say anything about it before,
because I thought you were only kidding, but I think it's illegal to shoot them.”
I had no idea what he was talking about, or what he was doing here. “Pigeons?” I asked. My throat had become so dry that I could barely speak. Each breath felt like hot ashes drawn into my windpipe.
Stanley tugged at his ear. “Well, I heard it was illegal, anyway. Not that it should stop you necessarily, but someone's bound to hear the noise.”
I looked at the gun in my hand. Then, hurriedly, I set it down on the table.
“You heard about my uncle's last request?” he asked.
I nodded.
“It's excellent!” He picked up Sugden's tea and took a sip.
“It is?” I mumbled.
“Of course! Didn't you hear? If the trip falls through, he's going to be cremated and I still get my inheritance because I agreed to go. All I had to do was
agree.
And since you're not going, I don't have to go either.” He looked at me and frowned. “Are you all right? You're sweating.”
I wiped a hand across my face. “Sugden was here,” I said.
Stanley's eyebrows rose. “What?”
I sat down and told him what Sugden had said about taking over the expedition.
“Bastard!” shouted Stanley. “He ought to just leave you alone!”
The gun was still lying on the table.
Stanley was staring at it. “Wait a minute,” he said slowly.
I looked at him.
His eyes were narrowed into slits. He gestured towards the revolver. “You weren't thinking of ⦔ He couldn't finish his sentence.
“Of course not,” I said.
But he saw right through me. “My God, you were!” He lunged forward, took up the gun, and waved it at me. “Don't you bloody dare do something stupid like that!”