Patrick Woodhead - The Cloud Maker (2010)

‘Of course, your Holiness,’ said the shorter of the monks, shooting a sideways glance at his companion. Snapping his fingers several times, the commotion in the room quickly died. The novices disappeared through the hall’s many exits. When the last door had been shut quietly behind them the old Lama leaned forward, his neck craned under the weight of his immense yellow hat.

‘Come closer,’ he breathed.

The two monks moved forward obediently, sinking down on one knee so that their heads were almost touching.

‘All is not as it seems,’ the old Lama whispered, his eyes fixed warily on the main door to the hall. ‘We got to the village first and moved the boy.’

Both kneeling men lifted their heads and stared directly at the old monk, their faces brimming with a mixture of scepticism and wonder. Then, as he slowly nodded in affirmation, tears of relief welled up in their eyes.

‘But who was it who was killed?’

‘It was the boy’s younger brother. An innocent,’ the old man replied. ‘We pray for him in his next life.’

As both men went to stand up, the Lama’s arms shot out, pressing them back down on to their knees with surprising strength.

‘You are the custodians of this temple until he returns. I have known both of you since birth and understand that you would never betray the truth.’ His piercing eyes dwelled on each of them for a moment. ‘We must act as if the boy is lost and ensure the Chinese believe they have had their victory. But when the time is right, you must both be ready to receive him in Shigaste and return him to his rightful place.’

‘But where is he?’

A smile flashed across the Lama’s wizened face.

‘He is finally beyond their reach.’

Chapter 9

Driving into Guildford city centre, Luca looked up through the windscreen at the leaden sky. It was the dead colour that only ever seemed to settle across the damp Surrey countryside. The sun lacked the strength to differentiate between the buildings and the sky, so that the drab concrete buildings bled into the skyline like a half-finished painting.

Pulling into the car park in the battered white Toyota Land Cruiser he had inherited when he was seventeen, Luca felt a familiar sense of claustrophobia wash over him. It was always the same whenever he looked up at this particular office block, a feeling that had failed to diminish over the years. He stepped out of the car, slipping on his suit jacket and folding the collar up against the drizzle. Fumbling for a moment with the top button of his white shirt, he adjusted his tie, hating the feeling of constraint. It felt as if there were two hands encircling his neck, waiting to squeeze.

He signed in with reception, taking the lift up to the eighth floor where his father’s company was based. The soft draught of the air conditioning greeted him as he walked through the heavy, glass-panelled doors and into the reception.

It had only been two and a half weeks since he had felt a fresh mountain wind across his face every time he stepped out of the tent, but already it seemed half a century ago. By this time in the morning – 8.30 a.m. – he would have been up for hours, watching the morning sun filter across the snow-clad peaks. But here in England he felt he was sealed away from the outside world – as if nature were something to be feared and carefully excluded.

‘Hi, Luca.’

He looked up to see one of the office juniors standing by the entrance to the kitchen. He was holding a small plastic cup brimming with some viscous brown liquid that could equally have been coffee or tea.

‘Your father sent me to tell you he wants to see you.’

‘Already?’ Luca said, his voice dropping into a mutter. ‘For Christ’s sake.’

Stepping into his own glass-walled office, he began leafing through the pile of papers on his desk, shunting them into two piles. Almost all of them were out of date orders for the four-wheel-drive vehicles the company exported around the world. Cold-calling and making sales came easily to Luca; it was the paperwork he detested so much.

After tapping on his door, Luca stepped inside his father’s office to see him seated behind his large, leather-topped desk, speaking on the phone. He was bending forward, peering down at a document, so that the thinning hair combed carefully across the crown of his head was clearly visible. When he looked up, Luca saw eyes of the same grey as his own, but dark-ringed from age and years of working late. He nodded briefly at his son and raised a finger, gesturing for Luca to keep quiet as he continued his call.

Luca leaned against the door, not wanting to venture further into the room. It hadn’t changed in all the years his father had occupied it: the same cabinets with the same collectibles neatly displayed on top and dusted once a week. Various awards and certificates for exporting still hung on the far wall by the window, and below them, a couple of framed photographs.

Luca didn’t need to see them either, the images were all too familiar. The larger of the two was a formal photograph of the three of them: his mother with her hand on her husband’s shoulder, while he as a teenager – the only son and great white hope – smiled up at them, basking in their approval.

That was before he broke it to them that he was going to dedicate his twenties to climbing; that he would work hard for the company while he was in the country and draw a small wage, but long-term he wasn’t cut out for the family business.

Despite the many conversations they had had to this effect, his father still hadn’t accepted this decision. He tried hard to change his son’s mind and regularly pulled guilt trips on him about the cost of his education and how he was depending on Luca to take over the family business. The word ‘family’ was always stressed, dragged out and emphasised, as if he didn’t know who his parents actually were.

At twenty-seven years old, he knew he should have broken away from it all a long time ago, but the truth was he found it impossible to find project work that was flexible enough to pay him the minute he was back in the country. And so the uncomfortable status quo went on between father and son, bonded by guilt and mutual dependency, both seeing the relationship as a means to different ends.

As his father continued talking, Luca’s gaze moved to the windows where rain was splattering down the long length of the glass. The minutes passed; three, four, five. His father showed no sign of ending his conversation. He had twisted round and was now concealed behind the wide back of his swivel chair. All Luca could hear was the occasional sound as he sucked in the air between his teeth or the odd grunt of agreement.

Then the chair came swinging round again and, without even making eye contact, his father clicked his fingers, pointing to the seat on the other side of his desk. Luca sat down as directed, a joyless smile on his lips. His father had always had a special talent for making him feel humiliated before they had even exchanged a word.

As the phone was finally returned to its cradle, his father leaned back in his chair and eyed Luca above his glasses.

‘So you’re back,’ he said with a brief smile.

‘Yeah. Got in on Thursday.’

‘Good. And, did you reach the top?’

Luca shook his head.

‘No. We missed the summit by a couple of hours. We had a few issues on the ice wall, but the real problem was that Bill got hit from altitude just after we passed seven thousand metres. All the same, it was one hell of a climb. If it hadn’t been for the altitude, we’d definitely have made it.’ Involuntarily, he felt his face break into a wide smile. ‘You know how much I love it up there, Dad.’

His father looked away as if he had said something mildly offensive.