Vince May - Presumed Dead

‘Henri? Oh he’ll be all right. He volunteered to stay behind to operate the machinery. As soon as the car is down, he’ll go through the service tunnel to the south side of the peak. He’ll be safe there.’

‘Good,’ Batard sighed. ‘Thank you for your help. I’ll leave it up to you to inspect your cables for damage after the crash… if there is one.’

Driving back across town, he was amazed by the number of people that were on the streets. Word had obviously got out about the approaching aircraft because there were hundreds of people staring and pointing up towards the snow covered Aiguille du Midi. By the time he reached the town center, the streets were gridlocked as people left their cars in the road and got out to watch the drama unfold. Eventually, unable to move any further, Batard abandoned his car and joined the crowd.

Up on the hotel roof, Alice and Philippe stood anxiously, alternately scanning the sky and looking down at their watches. Suddenly, the sound of jet aircraft filled the valley, and as they looked up they saw two fighters peel away to the left and right, leaving a solitary civil aircraft flying directly towards the mountain peak.

The noise of the jets faded as they disappeared into the distance, to be replaced by the steady drone of the Golden Eagle’s engines, crossing the valley overhead towards inevitable destruction. As they watched though, the Cessna abruptly veered away from the mountainside and started a long, curving descent away from them.

‘He’s trying to find somewhere to land!’ Alice cried.

They kept watching the Cessna as it descended, expecting it to drop out of sight at any moment, but then, it turned again, and came screaming back towards the town losing more height until it was barely above the rooftops.

For the second time in three days, events slipped into slow motion for Alice. She was suddenly enveloped in a strange calm. From her vantage point, high above the town, she stood mesmerized, staring down onto the Cessna as it hurtled towards the center of the hotel, four floors below her feet.

Then, right at the last possible moment, as if Ross had spotted her on the rooftop, the Golden Eagle pitched up abruptly and headed directly towards her.

Now, looking straight into the cockpit, straight into her husband’s manic eyes, Alice knew her life was over. I was a fool to think I could ever find happiness after what I did to Alex, she thought, sadly. This is my punishment. This is what I deserve.

Dropping to her knees, she bowed her head and waited for the executioner’s blow.

The blow, when it came though, was from behind. With an anguished cry, Philippe launched himself at her and forced them both down behind the low parapet wall, shielding her with his body as one of the thrashing propellers passed within inches of his head.

A split second later the deserted restaurant erupted into a billion glistening shards as the Cessna ploughed through the glass structure before slithering off the roof and exploding in a huge fireball on the empty tennis courts behind the hotel.

Alice and Philippe lay perfectly still for what seemed like an age as broken glass showered over them. When it finally stopped, Philippe eased himself up and helped Alice to sit. Blood poured down her face and into her eyes from a gash on her forehead.

With the sirens of the approaching rescue vehicles building to a deafening crescendo, and black, acrid smoke billowing around them, Philippe comforted her and carefully stemmed the stream of blood with his folded handkerchief, tying it in place with the thin fabric belt from her dress. With the dressing in place and the bleeding under control, he helped her to her feet.

Alice, smudged with soot, her hair tangled and matted with blood, stared wide-eyed at the wreckage of the restaurant and the flames leaping high into the air from behind the hotel. Bursting into tears, she flung herself against Philippe and clung to him like a terrified child.

‘It is okay,’ he said gently, holding her close. ‘It’s over now, you’re safe.’

Years later, Alice would still sometimes wake in the middle of the night, smothered by fear. The blast of the shotgun ringing in her ears. The muzzle flash stinging her eyes to tears. When it happened, he would take her in his arms and run his fingers over the scar on her forehead and through her short hair, kissing her gently, soothingly, while she clung to him fiercely.

Some nights when this wasn’t enough, she would slip from his arms and wander around the beautiful home they had built when they settled in Chamonix, switching on lights and running her hands over their possessions, just to make sure it was all real. Then she would creep into the children’s rooms.

Charles, tall and strong now, doing well at the local college. Her two precious little girls, ‘blond and beautiful like their mother,’ Philippe always said, sleeping soundly. She knew that when the morning sun came and the nightmares receded, she would walk them along the riverside path to the nursery school in the park, then carry on to their father’s office in town, where she worked part-time.

Once the thoughts of normality had finally filtered reality from nightmare, she would tiptoe back to bed and find comfort in his arms again.

On the nights when she still couldn’t sleep, he would get up and make hot chocolate. When it was ready, they would sit out on the terrace, wrapped in bathrobes, cold hands clutching warm mugs, watching the dawn steal over their beloved mountains.

Then they would talk…

As you’ve probably guessed, I love Chamonix. I first went there at the age of nine with my parents. Ten years later I returned on a motorcycle with my girlfriend on the pillion. We were back again the following year for our honeymoon.

While our children were growing up we spent many happy holidays there hiking the high mountain trails and exploring the glaciers. All the locations in this book, including the glaciers, mountain railway, cable cars and refuge huts are described exactly as we saw them.

After twenty years of hard work together we were in a position to buy a holiday home in Chamonix with a fantastic outlook directly onto Mont Blanc. Much of this book was written while sitting on the terrace with a laptop drawing inspiration directly from the mountains.

First and foremost I would like to thank my wife, Sharon, for the months of neglect she suffered while my head was away in the mountains writing this book. How you’ve put up with me all these years I’ll never know!

Next my good friend Chris Peacock for the awesome job he does on the cover art for my books. You really rock man!

Now my professional help. A great big thank you goes out to the late Angela Sibson from Angel Books for her professional editing and all her personal kindness and support over the years. Rest in peace Angela.

Finally a big thank you to you, dear reader, for choosing this book out of the many thousands available. I sincerely hope you enjoyed it.

Vince May was born in England then brought up in the American community in Saudi Arabia before being sent back to England at the age of twelve to attend boarding school.

After leaving school he obtained an engineering degree then went on to establish a successful career in electronic product design. He is currently Chairman of an environmental test equipment manufacturing company.

He has (to date) completed two full-length thrillers (both available on Amazon) and the outlines and research for two further thrillers. He has also written a Rock Guitar Method textbook and three magazine stories.