Michael Ridpath - Amnesia

‘But nothing more? Nothing about changing the manuscript? About dealing with publishers? Correcting proofs, isn’t that what writers do?’

There was silence from the old man. Clémence could almost hear him racking his brains. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘But I do remember writing something. Something else.’

‘What?’ said Clémence.

‘I don’t know. It was much more recent. It was in that study at Culzie, at the desk with a view of the loch.’

‘What were you writing?’

Clémence could feel the old man tense. ‘Damn!’ he said at last. ‘I can’t remember. It’s like I described before, I can see the pages, I can see my handwriting, but I can’t make out the words. I know it’s important, though. And it’s long.’

‘How long?’

The old man shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Lots of pages.’ He paused. ‘You can’t imagine how frustrating it is not to remember this stuff! And then when I do remember something, it invariably turns out to be something I wish I’d never known.’

Clémence didn’t answer. It must be dreadful. But then it was only so dreadful because the old man had so much to be ashamed about.

‘Do you think it’s stopping?’ said the old man, staring out into the night.

‘It’s slowing,’ said Clémence. ‘But now we are here, I think we should wait for daylight. Get some sleep.’

‘Good idea,’ said the old man, and he rolled over on to his side. Clémence pulled herself up to him, in a spoon.

‘I’m going to make this right,’ said the old man. ‘If we ever get down this mountain, I am going to make this right.

‘I don’t see how you can,’ said Clémence. ‘Sophie is dead. Grandpa has already spent fifteen years in prison.’

‘I know,’ said the old man. ‘But I’m going to find a way.’

A minute later, his breathing became more regular. Clémence felt the fatigue wash over her. Soon she would be asleep herself. She prayed, just before sleep came, that the old man would still be alive when she woke up.

Wednesday 17 March 1999, Ben Wyvis

Clémence opened her eyes. In front of her the snow-draped flank of Ben Wyvis glimmered blue in the early dawn. The sky above seemed clear, save for a smattering of pink-lined clouds.

Her shoulders were stiff. Her thigh hurt where a stone had dug into it. She was cold, especially her feet, which were still damp.

With a start she remembered the body next to her. She couldn’t hear or feel any breathing. Gingerly, she touched the old man’s cheek. It was cool but not cold.

He moved. Groaned.

He was alive!

She moved over and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight.

‘Good morning,’ he muttered.

‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m cold. But that helps.’

‘Let’s stay here like this for a few minutes. Warm you up.’

Clémence felt the sharp edges of the old man’s bones against her chest. He was her grandfather and she didn’t want him to die.

‘Ow!’ said the old man. ‘You are crushing me.’

‘Sorry.’ She loosened her grip. ‘Actually, we had better get going.’

They disentangled, and Clémence pulled herself to her feet. The sky was clear, the mountain was white. It was cold, but the wind had died down.

She helped the old man to his feet, and eased him into his coat.

‘God, my muscles are stiff!’ he said. ‘And they ache.’

‘But you are alive.’

He grinned at her, his brown eyes warm in the frozen landscape. ‘I’m alive. Thanks to you.’

‘Let’s see where we are.’

Clémence strode out into the snow, looking around her for signs of Jerry. She didn’t see him, but she did see a stag, sniffing the air on a ridge barely fifty yards away. It turned and was off, scrambling along the ridge and over its crest.

Clémence followed it, trudging through the snow, until she reached a vantage point to the south side of the mountain.

It was a stunning morning. Snow-blanketed mountain tops stretched for perhaps fifty miles ahead of her. Much closer, to the south-west, was a wooded valley, in the midst of which a main road followed a half-hidden river. A smooth carpet of virgin snow led down the slope to the pine forest. If there were any paths, they were submerged. It looked easy, but she was quite sure it wouldn’t be.

She returned to the old man and told him what she had seen. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Stiff,’ he said. ‘Tired. Cold. And my knee hurts. But I can make it. Let’s go.’

They set off at a slow pace. On this side of the mountain, heather gave way to grass, and there seemed to be fewer bogs. It was also downhill and, with the good visibility, they were able to take a route that avoided sharp descents or rocks.

Clémence threw worried glances at the old man as they trudged downhill. His skin was pale, and he looked so frail that a gust of wind would topple him, yet there was something determined in his step. She was exhausted; it amazed her that he could keep going.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the pine trees drew closer.

The morning light woke Jerry. He had shoved the small passenger seat of the Peugeot back as far as it would go, but it still didn’t leave enough room for his tall frame to rest comfortably. He had probably managed four hours sleep.

He had driven from Wyvis to the Ullapool road and then patrolled it up and down countless times until midnight. There had been no sign of the old man and the young woman, but he couldn’t be sure that they hadn’t been picked up by a car before he had seen them. He reasoned it was more likely that they had stopped at nightfall and decided to stay out on the mountain.

So he had taken a detour to a large twenty-four-hour supermarket near Inverness, where he had withdrawn as much cash as he could from an ATM and bought some essentials, including a pay-as-you-go phone with a charger that would work in a car. Once the police were on to him, he would avoid using his credit card for as long as possible. Then he drove back to an empty car park beside the Ullapool Road to get a few hours of sleep. Fortunately, the snow had stopped.

He was cutting things a little fine. It was just possible that they might have got down the mountain and alerted the police, but Jerry thought it unlikely that the cops would be able to track down Hertz at Glasgow Airport and get his registration number before at least the morning. They would guess he had rented a car, but they had no way of knowing where from. And having shaved his beard, he didn’t match a cursory physical description.

He started the Peugeot and drove up a track marked on his map on the south side of the road, which should give him a good view of the southern slope of Ben Wyvis. And indeed the mountain rose above him: a high ridge with a number of domed tops, the tallest of which was Ben Wyvis itself, stretching out like an enormous whale.

The blue and pink fingers of dawn caressed the snowfield beneath the summit, eventually leaving it a pristine glimmering white.

Jerry pulled out his binoculars and scanned the mountain. Nothing moved. He gave it a second pass, and this time spotted three dark dots high up to the right of the summit.

Deer. No people.

So the old man and Clémence were not up and moving yet. But Jerry was content. If they were going to descend the south side of the mountain, he would get a clear view of them.

Of course, if they decided to double back to Wyvis, he would miss them. On the whole, he thought that unlikely. It was just a chance he would have to take.

He was committed now.

Jerry scanned the mountain patiently every few minutes. After half an hour or so, he spotted two figures very clearly as they made a slow and indirect path down the mountain. He checked their progress against his Ordnance Survey map of the area. Footpaths were marked on the map, but the two people did not seem to be following them — they probably couldn’t make them out under the snow. Jerry waited until he could be sure where they would strike the pine forest and hence from which path they would eventually emerge into the main road.