Patrick Woodhead - The Cloud Maker (2010)

René looked up from his glass and caught the doubtful expression on his friend’s face.

‘I’m serious. I haven’t seen anyone like this guy in Lhasa before. He was something else, but God knows what. He looked at me like I wasn’t even human.’ René’s jaw clenched as he pictured Zhu’s face; the ashen skin without even a hint of stubble and the black, unflinching eyes. ‘He threatened me with Drapchi.’

‘Drapchi? Jesus Christ.’

René nodded, his eyes suddenly very afraid. He thought back to the interrogation; Zhu perched on his plastic chair, the dampness of the cell and the endless wafts of cigarette smoke. He had never felt helplessness like it.

‘But first things first,’ René’s friend continued. ‘They’ve got to find them and from what you’ve said, that’s not going to be so easy.’

‘I know. I haven’t a clue where they’ve gone. I got news back from the herders that they didn’t go all the way to Makalu, but some pissing little village called Menkom. After that, they just seem to have vanished into thin air. They left nearly three weeks ago. Hardly any food, no porters . . .’

‘So where the hell are they?’

‘You tell me. But one thing is for sure: I either find them, and hand them over to Zhu, or I lose my restaurant and my employees . . .’ René stopped talking, looking down at the table. He hadn’t told anyone about Anu yet.

There was a pause as both men reviewed the gravity of his situation. Then, shifting his chair closer to the table, his companion advised him: ‘In a place like Tibet, you look after just one person – yourself.’ He jerked one thumb towards his chest. ‘We’re all fucked anyway. It’s just a matter of time.’ He gave a wry grin and raised his glass. ‘Here’s to being between a rock and a hard place.’

René reached for his own glass, then paused for a second.

‘I’ll do whatever they tell me,’ he said, turning the glass in his fingers and watching the brandy slosh against its sides. ‘But I’m going to make Zhu wish he’d never walked into my restaurant. That much, my friend, I can promise you.’

The two men downed their drinks in one. René wiped his mouth with his sleeve before taking a long drag on his cigarette, blowing the smoke up into the whirling blades of the ceiling fan. He inhaled again, but this time it triggered a coughing fit. His cheeks flushed even redder. After several seconds of convulsing he settled back down again, the unnatural colour draining from his face. The man opposite looked on with interest.

‘René, can I ask you a question?’

He nodded.

‘Since you’re going to the mountains, you ever thought it might be a good idea to quit those damn’ things?’

René looked across at his friend, his expression suddenly sober.

‘You should know better by now,’ he said. ‘I’m not a quitter.’

Chapter 33

Luca stared down into the neighbouring valley, his eyes still wide with shock.

Near the top of an immense cliff, a cluster of buildings perched hundreds of feet above the valley floor. They were painted white, punctuated by the hundreds of narrow black windows that dotted their vast, sloping façades. Stairways rose from the lower slopes, hewn out of the same rock as the cliff-face and snaking up through the mass of buildings, interlocking here and there before tracking off in different directions. The focal point of the whole scene was the sheet copper roof of the main building that flashed gold in the morning sun. From its sides, long banners of pale blue silk billowed softly in the breeze.

Shara stood next to him, her eyes moving over each building in turn.

‘The Monastery of Geltang,’ she said softly. ‘I’ve waited my whole life to see this.’

‘It’s like a mirage,’ Luca said, then turning to her, his voice urgent despite his exhaustion, ‘where are we, Shara? What is this place?’

She shook her head. ‘All you need to know is that it’s a monastery, a safe place where we can get help for Bill. Save your strength. We still have a valley to cross.’

She turned back towards Bill who was lying against a rock. His head had slumped to one side. She knelt down, cupping his chin in her hands.

Bill’s eyes were half-closed, their bloodshot whites just visible, and his mouth hung open, spittle collecting at the corners. His hair was slicked down with sweat and his whole body trembled violently. He was in the grip of the fever now – soon the delirium would start. As she felt down under his thighs to check the makeshift bandages, a watery mixture of blood and pus seeped out across her hand.

‘The infection has come on so fast,’ she said, tears of guilt pricking her eyes. ‘He’s lost so much blood . . .’

Bill could see her face above his: the swathe of long black hair, the green eyes wide with concern. Then he heard her voice again, but this time only fragments of what she said made sense. There was a rushing sound, as if she were speaking from behind a waterfall. He heard her say something to Luca. A monastery . . . A valley to cross . . .

‘Bill.’

Through the waterfall, he heard his name spoken from a distance, then Luca’s face was right before him.

Now his feet were stumbling across a path, his climbing boots dragging over the rocks and kicking up dust. Stones showered down beside them as they descended into the new valley and he could hear the sound of his own breathing filling his head. It was heavy, laboured, blocking everything else out.

Colours swam across his vision: the dull brown of the path, flashes of blue as his head briefly rolled back towards the sky, and then back to the arid land again.

Then came a brilliant white. It was intense, burning out every other colour. He squinted against it, his whole world painfully bright, before realising that it was the sun reflecting off huge marble steps.

He could hear breathing again, louder now. It was Luca, his face pressed right against Bill’s as he hauled him up the steps, one at a time.

Then there was a dull crack and Bill felt his head recoil. He lay still, face down on the marble steps, where Luca had missed his footing and fallen. A warm, salty taste filled his mouth. Blackness edged around his vision like spilled ink, growing thicker, closing around him, blotting out the brilliant white.

An image of Cathy came to him then. She was curled up on the sofa in the living room, a blanket over her legs. He was there with her. She was smiling. She was smiling because he was there.

‘Come on!’

Luca’s voice.

‘Come on, Bill! Stay with me. We’re nearly there.’

He could hear the edge of panic and wondered why Luca was so upset. Why was he shouting at him?

Another voice. Female. Not Cathy. The swathe of black hair was back again and he felt himself being lifted once more. The stairs. The bleached out white.

To his right, he heard an animal groan as Luca fought with every ounce of strength in his thighs to climb the final few steps into an open courtyard. Luca felt a muscle in his lower back tear and his body buckled to one side, but he kept pumping with his legs, dragging Bill forward.

Luca’s eyes were wide, staring straight ahead. There was a manic light to them as the adrenaline disconnected him from all feeling in his body. Every emotion was blocked, bypassed by the single need to reach the top. He had to finish, had to reach the summit. Nothing mattered except reaching the summit.

They came out into a courtyard of grey flagstones, warmed by the sun. A line of wide-leafed trees ran through the centre, each surrounded by a scattering of fallen white and purple blossom. Further back, just visible through some archways, another smaller stairway seemed to lead to a separate complex of buildings.