Rosie Thomas - White

The helicopter ride was nothing like flying the trim A-Star with Ralf across the serene silvery expanses of the Canadian mountains. The Asian Airlines flight from Kathmandu to Lukla was a pensioned-off ex-Russian machine that lifted off the runway abruptly, without pre-take-off formalities, and juddered over the grey haze of the valley towards the mountains.

Finch sat in her metal seat and tightened the webbing strap across her lap, trying not to think about crashing into the fields beneath them. Her knees were wedged against a mountain of expedition baggage secured under netting that filled the centre of the cabin. She had checked them on board already, but she searched out the barrels in which her medical supplies were packed and kept her eye on them as if they might jump up and roll away. Anything was better than looking out of the porthole behind her head, either at the view down to steep ridges striped with different coloured crops or upwards to the blanket of mist that blotted out the peaks. Bundled up beside her with his chin on his chest was Adam Vries. The noise of the engines made conversation difficult, but she nudged him and raised her eyebrows, you okay?

He nodded wearily. Two days of sickness had left him grey and listless.

The helicopter tilted sharply and changed direction, climbing steadily. Finch closed her eyes and swallowed hard to equalise the pressure in her ears. When she looked up she saw that Sam McGrath was grinning at her from his seat on the other side of the netting. She gave him what she intended as a glare in return. He had seen her abject fear on the bad flight up to Vancouver and she wasn’t pleased to have him watching this fresh ordeal.

She wasn’t quite sure yet how he had insinuated himself, but he was here for the ride and maybe a couple of days’ trekking with the expedition on the walk-in towards Base Camp at the foot of the Everest icefall. She hadn’t seen him for the whole of the last day in Kathmandu and had concluded that after all he had been easy enough to shake off. Her relief at this had, she was certain, been entirely untinged by regret. And then, in this morning’s bleary dawn at the airport, there he was again. Standing joking with Rix and Mark Mason at the check-in for Lukla, towering over the packs of Japanese tourists who were waiting to see if the weather would lift and allow them to embark on sightseeing flights around the Everest massif.

‘What’s he doing here?’ she had murmured to George.

‘They went out on the beer again and Rix and Sandy just asked me if he could come along for part of the walk. All the guys seem to have really taken to him.’ George shrugged. ‘Makes no difference to me, so long as he pays his way. Might even be helpful. He looks in good shape. You know him anyway, don’t you?’

‘No. I just met him once, on a flight into Vancouver.’

‘Coincidence.’

Finch noticed that Sam fitted easily into the group. He wore well-trodden hiking boots and similar clothes to the other men, and he looked just as fit and testosteronically confident. But of course, she remembered, he was an almost-Olympic marathon runner. He was probably stronger than any of them.

‘Good morning,’ he said cheerfully to her. And then, ‘You’re not happy about this, are you?’

‘Is my happiness or otherwise particularly relevant?’

‘Of course it is.’ He had mobile eyebrows and they flattened now in a straight, sincere line. There was a puppyishness about him that irritated her.

She made an effort to sound neutral. ‘It doesn’t make any difference to me if you walk in with the expedition. It’s just a few days’ hiking.’

He smiled at her. ‘I’m looking forward to it. Magnificent scenery, I believe.’

Thin veils of mist blurred the blue view through the portholes and the helicopter rocked through the bumpy air. The mist thinned into streaks, and above and beyond puffed great towers of cumulonimbus. Warm, moist air was sucked up from the valleys to funnel upwards. The weather up here was usually changeable, often threatening, always unpredictable.

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