C.J. Cooke - The Blame Game

Michael Contents Cover Title Page Copyright Dedication Epigraph Part One 1. Helen 2. Helen 3. Michael 4. Helen 5. Michael 6. Helen 7. Michael 8. Helen 9. Michael 10. Helen 11. Michael 12. Michael 13. Helen 14. Reuben 15. Helen 16. Helen 17. Helen 18. Michael 19. Helen 20. Helen 21. Michael 22. Helen 23. Reuben Part Two 24. Helen 25. Reuben 26. Michael 27. Helen 28. Michael 29. Michael 30. Helen 31. Reuben 32. Michael 33. Helen 34. Helen 35. Helen 36. Helen 37. Michael 38. Helen 39. Michael 40. Michael 41. Helen Part Three 42. Helen 43. Reuben 44. Helen 45. Helen 46. Helen 47. Reuben 48. Helen 49. Helen 50. Reuben 51. Michael 52. Helen Part Four 53. Michael 54. Helen Acknowledgements A Q&A with C. J. Cooke Keep Reading … About the Author Also by C. J. Cooke About the Publisher

14th June 1995

The minute I finish my exams I get the cheapest flight I can out of Heathrow. Luke and Theo are already gone – their parents got them first class tickets. I buy the most sophisticated climbing equipment I can squeeze into my tatty rucksack: shorts, T-shirt, hiking pants, sleeping bag and dry bag, tent and stakes, crampons, stove, towel, light, cutlery, thermometer, thermos, Swiss Army knife, rain gear, balaclava, goggles, sandals, granola bars, noodle packets, Chapstick, headlamp, first aid kit, ice axe, carabiners, prusiks, harnesses, rope, flask, and my lucky bear claw.

I expected Chamonix to be a campsite. Instead the bus pulls up to a charming Alpine village with hotels, B&Bs, shops, restaurants with verandas and parasols, right in the crease of a mountain range. It’s pretty mind-blowing here, like being on another planet. All around me are unimaginably tall, jagged peaks, like the spine of a massive dinosaur. I stand in the middle of the street looking up at them, awe-struck. They’re so tall I suddenly feel scared. Ben Nevis didn’t look this big. That’s because it isn’t, you moron , I tell myself. Mont Blanc is fifteen frickin’ thousand feet tall. It takes me a moment to spot her, and then there she is: the almost-perfect triangle at the very top of the massif.

I dump my bags at the youth hostel and set about scavenging for grub.

I head into the pub and lo, Luke and Theo are standing right in front of me with a couple of beers. I can tell who’s who by the choice of outfit. Luke’s dressed like the eighties vomited all over him. Neon pink leggings, white leg-warmers, a Bon Jovi T-shirt and blue goggles over a black bandana. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s wearing a leopard-print thong. Theo’s dressed like he’s recruiting for the SAS: khaki everything, even the boots. A girl is with them. She must be Luke’s girlfriend, Helen.

When Theo catches sight of me he leaves the table and walks quickly towards me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and effectively spinning me the whole way around.

‘Hey,’ he says, nudging us to a table on the other side of the pub.

‘Theo, can you get off me,’ I say, breaking free. I glance over at Luke who is deliberately avoiding eye contact. ‘What’s all this about?’

He sighs, puts his hands on his hips. ‘Look, I know you had a problem with Luke’s girlfriend coming on this trip. I just want you to … stay calm, you know?’

‘I am calm. I’m as calm as a cucumber patch.’

He tilts his chin. ‘You being sarcastic?’

He hates it when I rip the piss out of him. ‘What are you, his bodyguard?’

I catch Luke glancing over to check out my reaction. Theo takes out a pack of cigarettes.

‘Smoke?’

I shake my head.

‘Go on, have one.’

I relent with a sigh. He lights it for me, sits down and invites me to join him. I won’t, so he stands.

I met Luke and Theo two years ago, when we starting a degree in Medieval Literature at Oxford University. They’re twins, both six foot two, blonde rugby-playing public schoolboys who scored straight As in their exams. Both on a full-ride scholarship. Not that they need it; their folks made a fortune in the tech boom in France. They’re identical twins but you can tell them apart. Theo wears glasses, has recently grown a Musketeer moustache, and his personal style is somewhere between misunderstood genius and Kurt Cobain, but even if you closed your eyes you’d pick them out by their voices. They’ve lived all over the world but spent most of their lives at boarding school in Cambridge, though Luke’s accent is still more Oz than Brit with the occasional French twist. Theo’s is perfected Norf Landan.

It’s their personalities that really set them apart. Luke’s an arrogant git but can be good fun when the mood takes him. Theo’s Luke’s shadow, a classic introvert. He prefers to sit in a corner with a beer and a book but he goes to the pub with us out of duty to Luke. He can be weird. He sees a psychiatrist every week. Luke says Theo’s Theo-ness is down to their time at boarding school in Melbourne. A soft-natured three-year-old crying for his mum makes easy prey for bullies and cruel teachers and I reckon he’s never shaken that complex.

And now it seems we’re bringing one of Luke’s groupies along. This Helen . It was only meant to be the three of us. I’ve never even met her. She lives in London and Luke only sees her at weekends. I’ve nothing against girlfriends, or girls for that matter. I’m sure girls can climb just as well as blokes. But she’s never climbed before, and I know exactly what’s happened: she’s one of these possessive types that can’t let Luke out of her sight. He tends to date girls who’re messed up and needy, the ones who only came to Oxford because their folks pressurised them, wanting to make good on years of private school fees, but who are starting to go slightly crazy from the pressure. His last girlfriend got him into cocaine. I’m no angel but I draw the line at the hard stuff. That, and I don’t have any money.

Anyway, the point is that this trip is no stroll in the park. It takes training, strength, stamina and experience – with a good dollop of common sense – to climb Mont Blanc, and if I’m honest even I feel a wee bit intimidated. People have died doing this climb. I’ve spent the last three months training to make sure I’m up to it. What if she has an accident, or freaks out? What if she decides halfway up that she wants to go home? It’ll wreck the trip. A once-in-a-lifetime trip that’s costing an absolute fortune. Luke and Theo’s folks are loaded, so they don’t care how much it costs. But for some of us this means living on beans and toast for the next six months.

I thought Luke was kidding when he first mentioned about a girl tagging along. When it seemed he was actually serious, I tried to get him to see sense. Gently, then with more muscle. Meaning that I plied him with vodka.

‘This new girlfriend,’ I said, once he’d knocked back the fifth glass. ‘The one who’s apparently coming with us to the Alps. Won’t she feel a little like a third wheel?’

‘Fourth wheel,’ Theo corrected.

‘Don’t get what you mean,’ Luke said, lighting a cigar and swearing when the match burnt his fingers.

‘Not exactly a girl’s thing, is it? A twelve-day peregrination up a mountain.’

Luke sniffed at this. Peregrination was his word. He’s such a snob when it comes to language. Why say ‘trek’ when you can say ‘peregrination’?

Luke took a drag on the cigar and blew a thick O of smoke in my direction. ‘Helen’s up for it,’ he said. ‘She’s into that kind of thing.’

‘There aren’t any showers in the Alps. Twelve days without washing, mate. Girls can be a bit funny about that kind of thing. You sure she’s up for that?’

Luke leaned into me until his nose almost touched mine.

‘Michael, my love, she’ll be fine with that.’