C.J. Cooke - The Blame Game

I scroll through my gallery to find the photographs I took of the letters. Helen doesn’t know I opened them, but she knows we were receiving them. Why hide them from me? Every year, a new letter. And always on the date of Luke’s death to make a point. As if I could ever forget.

I took photographs of the letters in case she got rid of them. And I needed time to think about what the letters said, about why she didn’t tell me about them. There are many secrets in our marriage, but they pale in comparison to squirrelling away letters that contain so much threat. Helen’s forever accusing me of avoiding confrontation, and yet she was the one keeping these from me. Why? What has she got to hide?

I start to panic when I can’t find the images. There are photos of Reuben wearing a snorkel mask for the first time, giving a big thumbs up. Pictures of Saskia pirouetting in her Trolls swimsuit, her face all lit up when she spotted the dolphins. I try to flick past them as fast as I can but something in my chest gives and I have to look away so as not to start sobbing.

Finally, I pull up an image of one of the letters and zoom in on the cream page.

Sir,

We write again on behalf of our clients regarding the death of Luke Aucoin.

Our records show that you signed for our previous letter. We request that you contact us immediately to avoid further consequences.

Sincerely,

K. Haden

A wave of anger rolls over me as I read the words ‘further consequences’.

‘Where to, man?’ the taxi driver asks.

‘The airport,’ I tell him. ‘Make it quick.’

It’s decided: we’ll spend the next three nights in Chamonix learning stuff like what to do in an avalanche (‘Duck?’ Theo offers), crevasse rescue (‘It’s called chucking a rope down there, mate,’ Luke says), and belay techniques, or in other words, we’ll be drinking our body weights in vodka and singing German folk songs, with some token ice pick swinging in between.

This morning we’re joining a crowd of fifteen other climbers led by a mountain guide named Sebastian who is taking us up the Aiguilles Rouges for some mixed climbing techniques. This part of the Alps reminds me of Ben Nevis in Scotland, or the Lake District – a palette of earthy brown and velvety green, with gentle rises and pockets of snow in the nooks of distant peaks. Mountains stretch as far as the eye can see, no sign of human life anywhere. Just our little group swallowed up in the mountains.

It’s a warm sunny day without much of a breeze, but Sebastian has us all geared up as if we’re approaching the summit – helmets, crampons, ice picks, the lot. Still, I get to watch the sun rise over the mountains, a rich, yolky light breaking over the crystalline towers, bright rays the length of motorways pouring across the valley. It’s pretty awesome. Enough to make me feel more at ease around Helen.

‘Where did you meet Luke and Theo?’ she asks me amiably, once we’ve settled into our stride. ‘I mean, I know you all go to Oxford but did you know each other before?’

‘Nah. We’re all on the University rowing team,’ I tell her. ‘Ugly here got us all into climbing. Didn’t you, Luke? We did Ben Nevis last year.’

He grins. ‘Dragged you and Theo kicking and screaming up Ben Nevis, more like.’

‘We’re doing Kilimanjaro next. Then Everest,’ I tell her, and she looks impressed.

‘Wow, Everest,’ she says, glancing at Luke, who clearly hasn’t mentioned any of this to her. ‘I don’t think I’ll be going on that trip!’

Oh, are you sure? I want to say in a voice dripping with sarcasm. What a pity .

‘Come on, you lot!’ a voice shouts. The guide, Sebastian. He’s made the group stop on a massive rock ledge overlooking a sapphire lake. We take off our helmets and rucksacks and start to set up the stove, but Sebastian shouts at us again.

‘This is not the lunch stop,’ he says. ‘First, we learn how not to die. Second, we eat. OK?’

Sounds fair.

Helen stands close to the front of the group, watching Sebastian as he demonstrates how to make a top managed belay site.

‘If you need to lower into a gorge, you need to set up an anchor,’ he says, looping a figure eight of rope around a tree by the edge. ‘You clove hitch yourself into the shelf which enables protection at the edge. My belay device clips into the masterpoint. I need two lockers on the masterpoint – use a small carabiner for this to redirect the brake strand, OK?’ He holds up a carabiner and links it to the shelf. I take a peek over the edge. Quite a distance to the bottom.

‘Now, for a demonstration. Who will be my volunteer?’

A nervous laugh ripples among the crowd.

‘You,’ Sebastian says, gesturing for me to step forward.

‘What, me?’ I say, glancing around.

‘We’re going to cover what happens in the event of an arête shearing your rope, OK?’

Luke laughs and shoves me forward. One of the more outspoken blokes in the crowd – the South African fella with purple dreads – raises a hand. ‘An arête ? What is this?’

‘An arête is a knife-edged ridge,’ Seb says. ‘If your rope is rubbing back and forth on this, what do you think will happen?’

‘It’ll break,’ everyone murmurs.

He holds up a worn piece of rope and demonstrates. ‘Snap!’ He turns to me and gestures at me to lower down off the side of the cliff. I’m not feeling overly confident about this right now. Still, I hook myself to the rope and try not to look too terrified as I lower down, eyeing the rope fearfully as it tightens around the tree. He lowers me down about twenty feet – which feels like a hundred feet – when suddenly I feel the rope go slack. My feet slip against the smooth rock and I scramble wildly to find something to hold on to. There’s a chink in the rock face and I dig my fingers into it, my heart thumping like there’s a box of frogs in my chest.

A few moments later, Sebastian shouts at me to climb back up. The rope tightens and I scramble back up there like Spiderman.

Everyone applauds and I try not to faint.

‘So, you see,’ Sebastian informs the group. ‘It’s important you know how to make a secure anchor when descending, but even more important is making sure your rope doesn’t run over any sharp edges. If you find yourself in a no-fall zone, the number one rule is …?’