Michael Ridpath - Amnesia

And somewhere very close to them was a man with a rifle, who was intending to use it on them.

They had a problem.

‘Where is this loch, then?’ Clémence said.

‘Ahead,’ grunted the old man.

‘Are you sure?’

The old man didn’t answer. Of course he wasn’t sure.

Suddenly the old man felt a tug on his sleeve. He turned to see Clémence holding a finger to her lips. She pointed.

Ahead of them, through the snow, they could make out the darkness of a hunched figure crossing in front of them. And a rifle.

The old man crouched low, and Clémence did the same. The figure disappeared to their left.

They waited a minute. ‘I think he must be heading back down the mountain,’ whispered the old man. ‘He’s probably on the path. Let’s take a look.’

They stumbled ahead twenty yards until they came to the footpath. Jerry’s footprints were already disappearing under newly fallen snow.

‘What now?’ said Clémence.

‘He went left, so we go right,’ said the old man.

‘What if he doubles back?’ said Clémence.

‘We’re in trouble,’ said the old man. ‘But the only way we are going to get down the other side of the mountain in this visibility is by following the path.’

‘All right,’ said Clémence. ‘Let’s go.’

The old man looked ahead at the snow. He was exhausted. He was finding it difficult to force one creaky leg in front of another, and his knee was giving him trouble. He had no idea how far it was to the road, or what the terrain would be like, but he knew it must be miles.

‘Are you OK?’ said Clémence. ‘Can you go on?’

‘Yes.’ The old man nodded. ‘Come on!’

He tried to hurry, but he couldn’t. The best he could manage was to force one foot in front of the other in a shuffling limp. The snow let up a bit, so that the visibility was more like thirty yards than five, but it was getting dark. The black waters of the small loch brooded to their right.

They battled on until the cliffs they had seen earlier emerged in front of them.

‘You need a rest,’ said Clémence.

‘No. Let’s keep going,’ said the old man.

‘Just ten minutes,’ said Clémence. ‘Here. It’s out of the wind.’

She found a boulder in the lee of the cliff, and brushed off some snow. The old man let himself down heavily on to it and Clémence sat next to him.

It felt so good to be still.

‘Who the hell is Jerry?’ said Clémence. ‘And why does he want to shoot us?’

‘No idea,’ said the old man. ‘He’s American, isn’t he? Do you think he is something to do with Nathan? His son, maybe?’

‘Uncle Nathan and Aunt Madeleine didn’t have any children,’ Clémence said. ‘I’m pretty sure about that.’

‘Well God knows who he is. But he seems determined to kill us.’

‘I’m sure Jerry Ranger isn’t his real name.’

‘I’m sorry I got you into this,’ said the old man. ‘If it wasn’t for me, you would be safely back at St Andrews, wouldn’t you? I am very bad news.’

‘You are.’ Clémence turned to him. She reached out her hand and squeezed his. ‘You’re freezing!’ she said.

‘Only my hands,’ said the old man. ‘Poor circulation.’ The truth was that sitting still, he was rapidly getting colder.

‘Come on then,’ said Clémence.

‘All right,’ said the old man. But it was all he could do to straighten his stiffened joints and stand up. He stumbled forward.

‘Can you do this?’ said Clémence. ‘I’m exhausted. You must be too.’

‘We can’t stay here,’ said the old man.

They followed the path, which, much to their relief, soon began to head downhill. And then it climbed again. At a couple of points it seemed to fade away under the snow, especially when the heather thinned out. After a few more minutes, they arrived at what seemed to be a fork.

‘Which way?’ said Clémence.

‘I don’t know,’ said the old man. The fork to the left seemed to head downhill. ‘Let’s go that way.’

The path descended gently, and then steeply, down towards a stream. It was flowing away from them, which meant that they were probably on the far side of the mountain from Loch Glass. The descent jarred his complaining knee. Then the path forked again: one way crossed the stream and the other ran along it. It was still snowing, and it was getting darker.

The old man leaned back against a rock. ‘I don’t know which way now.’

‘Can you go on?’

The old man shook his head. ‘Not much further.’

They looked at each other. ‘We’re going to spend the night on the mountain, aren’t we?’ said Clémence.

The old man nodded.

‘Well let’s get back to the cliff. At least there’s a little shelter there.’

The old man nodded again. He looked back up the steep slope they had descended.

There was no way he could get up that.

A night on the mountain would probably kill him. A night on the mountain with no shelter would definitely kill him. They couldn’t just collapse where they were. They had to get back to that cliff.

There was no choice.

The old man forced himself to put one foot ahead of the other as they climbed the slope. Don’t think about how far they had to go, just one foot after the other. And then again. And again. It was hard going, very hard going, for both of them, but eventually they made it back to the fork. Clémence gave the old man her shoulder and dragged him back to the cliff.

The snow had eased off a bit, but it was now completely dark, and the wind was biting. Clémence left the old man for a few minutes. When she returned she dragged him to a hollow in the rocks she had found, with a flat floor of almost dry dead bracken.

She sat on the bracken in the hollow. ‘Come here,’ she said, and the old man slumped down next to her.

It was going to be a very long night. He shivered. It might well be his last.

In the darkness and the snow, Jerry lost sight of the path down towards Culzie. He shouldered his rifle and stumbled downhill, his confidence that he would eventually reach Loch Glass waning. He peered through the snow-streaked gloom for signs of the twisted trees of the wood which surrounded the cottage, but he couldn’t see them.

In the end he stumbled into the ditch which ran along the lochside track. He climbed up on to the track and could just make out the boathouse, and the dark waters of the loch beyond. He turned right, and made much better progress along the road, until he came to the turn-off to Culzie. He decided to go back to the cottage, warm up, search it quickly and try to disable the phone connection. He didn’t have anything on him to cut the wires, but he could just smash the phones themselves to make them unusable.

Some lights glimmered through the gloom as he approached Culzie. Alastair and Clémence must have left them on. Snow was piled several inches high on the roof of the Renault. He was about to throw open the front door and flop into the cottage, when he caught sight of a bicycle leaning against the wall.

Strange. He was sure that the old man didn’t own a bicycle, and neither did Clémence.

He crept around the side of the house. The curtains to the living room were drawn and a line of light slipped out beneath them. Jerry tried to peer through a crack in the curtain, but he couldn’t see anyone in the thin strip of room that was revealed.

Someone had drawn those curtains! Someone had ridden to the cottage, had drawn the curtains in the living room, and was probably waiting for the old man and the girl to return.

Who could it be? Jerry had no idea, but he did know there was just one bike, and therefore probably just one person inside. Jerry had a rifle. He had surprise. He could easily overcome whoever it was: tie him up, or even shoot him. Or her.