C.J. Cooke - The Blame Game

‘Can she actually climb?’ I said.

A grim look. ‘Can you?’

‘This isn’t a walk in the park, Luke. It’s the highest mountain in Europe.’

‘It’s the highest mountain in Europe,’ he parroted in a high-pitched voice. ‘She’s fitter than you are, mate. She’s a ballet dancer. Fit as butcher’s dogs, those girls.’

‘I’m sure Helen’ll love being compared to a dog,’ Theo said.

‘Dancing’s hardly climbing, Luke.’

‘What I mean is, she’s athletic …’

‘I’m not risking my neck with an amateur.’

He frowned. ‘So you’re saying you won’t go if she does?’

I took a long drink of my beer, enjoying watching him sweat, his eyes turning nervously to Theo. The thing is, we work very well together as a trio, particularly as Luke finds his twin boring and strange. He spends most of his time trying to palm Theo off on to someone else, occasionally paying other guys to take Theo out for a beer, but Theo prefers to be in Luke’s shadow. And I’ve a knack for getting on both Theo’s and Luke’s level, so I’ve assumed the role of go-between, a stepping stone for their disparate personalities. I’m able to bring out the best in Theo, thus making his constant presence (‘like a frickin’ tumour,’ Luke likes to say) bearable and occasionally pleasant.

‘Come on, Mikey,’ Luke said, backpedalling. ‘This is our epic adventure. It won’t be the same if you don’t come.’

I shrugged, gave him a look of sorry-but-that’s-how-it-is.

He leaned back in his chair, glanced at Theo. ‘We could ask Oliver if he’ll take Michael’s place.’

Theo nodded.

‘Oliver?’ I said. ‘Who’s Oliver?’

‘He’s in Theo’s Old Norse class. Said he’d like to come. He could take your place, Mike. You could maybe even sell your plane ticket to him …’

‘What?’ I said panicking. ‘No! I mean …’

Luke grinned. He knew he had me. He knew better than I did how much I wanted this climb.

‘We’d prefer you to go instead of Oliver, mate,’ Luke said, wrapping an arm around my neck and putting his cigar to my lips. ‘But if you’re a widdle bit afwaid of a girl …’

I shoved him off. ‘Alright,’ I said. ‘I’ll go. But on one condition. We stick to the walking trails. No climbing. No abseiling.’

‘Piss off,’ Luke said. ‘You’re suggesting we don’t actually climb the mountain? What would be the point in going?’

Luke raises his head as I make my way towards the table. He gives me a big cheesy grin and actually stands up to give me a big ‘come here, you’ bear hug which we both know is an attempt to butter me up. I was sure she wouldn’t come. Luke is all-or-nothing, always acting on impulse, so it was likely that his spur-of-the-moment decision to bring her along would be dropped as fast as it was raised.

‘This is Helen,’ Luke says. I grin at the girl beside him, who blushes and says hello. She’s tall, about five foot nine, blonde hair worn in a plait, skinny but not anorexic. A bit shy, and preppier than I expected, with a slender face and high cheekbones, a look of a librarian about her. ‘I’m Michael,’ I say, offering a hand as she seems the sort of girl who does handshakes. A surprisingly firm grip. ‘Nice to meet you,’ she says, and I try to force out the same response but can’t. She’s pretty, though, in a way I didn’t expect. She seems … normal.

‘Nice to meet you, too.’

The words stick in my throat. After all, I finished with Nina a month ago on the basis that I’d be heading off to the Alps for a fortnight and wanted to be free to do as I pleased. Nina might have mentioned that she wanted to see other people the night before but that isn’t the point. I made sacrifices, dammit.

‘I hope you don’t mind me gate-crashing your trip,’ Helen says, sliding her eyes to Luke who shakes his head as if to say, of course not . Git.

‘Yeah, not at all,’ I say, lying through my teeth. ‘The more the merrier, right?’

Later, we head outside for a practice climb up one of the crags ten minutes from the village. It’s the size of a skyscraper but still looks puny compared to the mountains. Seems we’re not alone in this idea, either – about a dozen other climbers are scaling the crag with us. An older couple from New York City, a bunch of tie-dyed, weed-smoking hippies from Portugal, and some plaid-wearing members of a Welsh photography club.

Helen looks visibly nervous about climbing this size of peak and I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from calling it out to Luke. If she can’t manage this, how’s she going to manage Mont Blanc? He spots it though, and subtly suggests we take the walking trail that winds around the side of the crag, avoiding the rocks. Theo finds a ledge about six hundred feet above the valley and we all take a breather, sitting on the big slab with our legs dangling. Luke produces a box of cigars from a pocket in his trousers and passes them round.

‘Mate,’ I say, my mood rising considerably. ‘You’re the best.’

‘There’s more,’ he says, unzipping another pocket.

‘What you got in there?’ Helen says, wiping her face. ‘A parachute so we can all just float back down instead of climbing?’

‘Even better, my love, even better,’ Luke says, pulling out a flask. ‘I’ve got … whisky.’

Helen doesn’t look thrilled but Theo and I are all over it, and in a handful of minutes Luke’s tapping the bottom for the last dregs. I lie back, my legs dangling over the edge, nothing but air between me and death six hundred feet below. The moon is a Cheshire cat’s smile in an inky, cloudless sky.

‘There she is,’ Luke says, leaning towards Helen and pointing at the whitest peak. ‘Mont Blanc. The imaginatively-monikered “white mountain”. Highest mountain in the world.’

‘Western Europe,’ Theo corrects.

‘Highest mountain in Western Europe ,’ Luke says sourly.

We sit for a moment in the still warm air, looking over the silhouetted peaks towering above us and the lights of Chamonix below, the hostels and alpine huts glimmering and small as a gingerbread village. To the right I can make out movement, or what looks like a stream of ants hustling along a narrow trail. I take out my binoculars and there they are: hordes of climbers already setting off on the trail.

‘Feels like we’re going on a pilgrimage,’ I observe, stupidly.

‘You bring your rosary with you, then?’ Theo says.

I pass the binoculars to Luke and he glowers at the people heading off. ‘This isn’t a pilgrimage, it’s a traffic jam.’ He looks over the lights in Chamonix and I read his mind: we didn’t think there would be so many hostels. ‘Thought we’d be doing this alone,’ he says. ‘Just the four of us.’

‘Like the four horsemen of the apocalypse?’ Theo says.

‘You’re so competitive,’ Helen tells Luke, rubbing his arm.

‘You say that like it’s a bad thing,’ Luke says, kissing her hand.

‘It’s not like there’s someone at the top handing out awards for whoever arrives first,’ Helen laughs.

Theo shrugs. ‘You never know.’

‘The summit is its own reward,’ Luke says.

‘So you won’t be bothered if I get there first?’ Helen says, and I see Luke’s face fall.

‘Not at all.’ He breaks into a beaming grin, then slaps me and Theo on our backs before tilting his head to the sky.

‘I love you guys,’ he says, then adding: ‘and girl.’

‘Luke, babe, don’t take this the wrong way,’ Theo says. ‘But … I’m not snogging you. Don’t care what you give me. I draw a line at tongues. Pecking is fine, but snogging – no. I’m your brother and it’s wrong.’