Patrick Woodhead - The Cloud Maker (2010)

Soon he was climbing down at almost the same pace as Luca. By the time the pair of them reached the lower slopes where they had built the snow hole, the only ill effect that remained was an occasional rasping cough.

His mood, however, had darkened. He knew that what he had experienced up there were the first signs of a full-blown pulmonary oedema. Both he and Luca had witnessed it once before on the north buttresses of Mont Blanc. A solo climber had got himself stranded high on the mountain, cut off by the darkness and high winds. Bill and Luca had turned back earlier that afternoon and reached the safety of the Cosmiques refuge, nestled on the ridge above the towering pinnacle of the Aiguille du Midi.

Throughout the night, the sounds of the dying climber crackled through on their radio.

At first he just coughed, but after a while he began breathing with a slow, laboured gurgling sound as his lungs filled with liquid. By the time the helicopter arrived at daybreak, he had slipped into a coma.

A day later, when they had made it down to Chamonix village, they found out he had died on the way to hospital – drowned on his own body fluid.

The incident was replaying itself in Bill’s mind as they trudged along a narrow ridge in silence. Suddenly, without warning, he stopped and dug his ice axe into the snow. He lifted his goggles up on to his sunburned forehead and turned to face Luca, eyes squinting against the harsh sunlight.

‘You were going to just leave me up there!’

Luca stopped and the rope between them sagged, paying out in a small arch.

‘Not for long, mate. We were just below the summit . . . maybe twenty minutes or so. I thought I could bag it quickly and come back for you.’

‘Don’t bullshit me. We weren’t that close.’

Luca began coiling off the slack in the rope automatically.

‘This isn’t the time to do this,’ he said quietly. ‘We’re both knackered from the climb and we’ve got another couple of hours to camp one.’

Bill picked up his ice axe, shifting the weight of his rucksack. Then he stood looking down the ridge as if weighing up his words.

‘Tell me, Luca, is that how it played out on Everest?’

The placatory expression on Luca’s face was wiped off and his grey eyes became as expressionless as polished marble. Unclipping his pack, he let it slip to the ground, trying to control a sudden surge of temper. But colour had appeared in blotches on his cheeks and when he spoke his voice was barely more than a whisper.

‘Don’t ever say that again. You know exactly what happened.’

After a pause Bill shrugged and went to trudge past him, but this time Luca remained where he stood, barring the way.

‘I’m serious, Bill. Don’t ever say that again. You know what it cost me.’

‘Then how could you even think about leaving me up there? Didn’t you learn your lesson?’

‘Learn my lesson? Jesus Christ, Bill! Did you ever stop to consider that maybe I wasn’t thinking straight up there either? Altitude hits everyone a different way. I thought we were right under the summit.’

‘It shouldn’t even have crossed your mind . . .’

‘Enough of this shit!’ Luca interrupted, raising his hand. Gathering up his rucksack, he started trudging down the ridge, then stopped a few paces farther on and turned back.

‘I’ve just spent the last four hours babysitting you down that cliff. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be fucking up there!’

For a few moments more they stared at each other in mutual recrimination, the heat of the argument threatening to boil over. Then Luca suddenly swung round and continued walking, his gloved hands clenched into fists by his sides.

It took them two weeks to get back, a procession of clambering aboard planes and dismounting trains throughout Tibet, Nepal, and eventually England.

During the journey, the subject of the climb had been broached, but not resolved. Both of them had ended up apologising for what they had said on the mountain, and both had nominally forgiven the other for all that had been said. But it was as if a shadow had fallen over them, a lurking feeling of distrust that had never before been part of their friendship. They still bantered together but it had become stilted and hesitant, as if their time on Makalu was something to be ashamed of, rather than a near victory over one of the world’s hardest peaks.

Now they stood stiffly on the platform by the Heathrow Express, their brightly coloured rucksacks and tanned faces drawing some curious glances from passing commuters.

The normal ritual was for the two men to go to the Windsor Castle together for a celebratory pint before they split off in their different directions, but this time it was tacitly understood that this was not going to happen.

‘Well, here we are again,’ said Luca, attempting to sound cheerful. ‘Your missus will be pleased to see you’re back in one piece. You can tell her it’s my fault we’re late again.’

‘Yeah, well . . . maybe,’ said Bill, smiling awkwardly.

Luca stuck out his hand and they gave each other a perfunctory handshake.

‘I’ll see you around then,’ Bill said, and for a second his habitually cheerful expression flickered, revealing the bleakness beneath. Then he set his jaw and, grasping the straps of his rucksack, turned and disappeared quickly into the sea of commuters.

Luca stood looking after him, part of him wanting to call out. He had had two long weeks to come up with something to break the ice between them. It was just a matter of apologising again for what had happened up there on the ridge, acknowledging that he’d screwed up. He’d never seen Bill lose his temper before, and knew how hurt he must still be.

But somehow the words stuck in his throat. That mention of Everest had cut deep and over the time spent travelling back, fermented into bitterness. He just could not shrug it off. Hoisting his rucksack off the grimy concrete floor, Luca walked towards the gaudy lighting of a café populated by commuters drinking lattes and leafing through the morning papers. Scraping back one of the metal chairs, he ordered a double espresso from the waitress, his eyes wandering idly across the ant-like hordes thronging the platforms, and fixing upon the triangular glass ceiling of the old Victorian train station.

Once again, the image of the pyramid mountain swam in to his mind. It had been haunting him ever since the climb down. It was there whenever he closed his eyes; in the cloudscape as he’d stared out of the plane windows. Several times on the journey back he had opened his mouth to talk to Bill about it, but whatever it was that was hanging in the air between them had prevented him from saying anything more.

He could picture it now as if he were still sitting on that ledge: one face gleaming in the sunshine, edges looking like they had been filed straight then dusted with ice and snow. It was better proportioned even than the Matterhorn, like a child’s drawing of the perfect mountain.

Each time Luca thought about it he kicked himself for not having taken a photo. But by the time he had pulled Bill off the ledge the cloud had rolled back in, and not even the ring of mountains surrounding it was visible. Like his chance of reaching the summit, there had been only the briefest of windows. And thanks to Bill, he had missed both opportunities.

Someone brushed past him in a mackintosh wet from the rain, spilling some of his coffee on to the table. As Luca swore and scrambled for some paper napkins, he heard his train being announced over the Tannoy. He should really get on it – do what Bill was doing and go home. Take a long hot bath, empty his clothes into the laundry basket, and banish all thoughts of fantasy mountains.

The only problem was that he felt like doing exactly the opposite. And there was only one person he knew who would understand.