stamina and determination, and while we were running uphill and downhill in clear weather, we felt quite pleased with ourselves. When the weather closed in it was a different story. The day-trippers stayed in the pub and we were in the shit.
It got seriously cold eight hundred metres up in the Brecon Beacons, and you could easily freeze to death lower down when the wind blew. We’d all heard the stories of the lads who’d lost their way when the snow started to fall, then got exhausted, bogged down or injured, and never made it back. Legend had it that one of them was frozen so stiff the rescue crew used him as a sledge to get back down the mountain.
We’d made a shitload of stupid mistakes, and taking off that morning in combats, T-shirts and thin waterproof tops was right at the top of the list. The mist closed in as we summited Waun Fach and the blizzard quickly followed. It wasn’t long before we knew we were in trouble.
My watch hadn’t had a temperature gauge, but my fingers and toes told me it was getting way below zero. One of the first signs of hypothermia was mental confusion, but some would say that was what we’d been suffering from in the first place. The only sane thing we’d done was pack bivvi bags, rations and a hexy stove in our Bergens.
Somehow we managed to make our way down, trying to get out of the killer wind, and stumbled upon a cave. We had no idea where.
It wasn’t until the following afternoon that the conditions cleared enough for us to get our bearings. Trev had originally nicknamed our refuge the Elephant’s Arsehole, because of the shape and colour of the stones that flanked it, and because it was large enough inside to shelter a couple of idiots, but I guess he couldn’t bring himself to say that to a priest.
‘A penny for your thoughts, as my mother used to say …’
I looked up from the plate of lasagne he’d put in front of me. I’d almost forgotten he was there. ‘Sorry. Miles away.’
‘No apologies necessary. It’s always good to see you smile.’ He was smiling too, but I could still see the tension behind his eyes.
‘Don’t worry about Trev. He hates surprises, but there’s no one in our game who can deal with them better than he can.’ I told him a couple of silly stories about us getting into scrapes in Colombia and Trev taking charge.
He gave a chuckle. ‘And what about you , Nicholas?’
It wasn’t the question itself that caught me off-guard, but the fact that only one other person in my life ever used all three syllables in my name, and she was the woman I’d left behind in Russia thirty-six hours ago.
Anna hadn’t come to Domodedovo airport on Sunday to wave me goodbye. We’d agreed that if I was going to carry on being a bullet magnet, it would be better for her and our five-month-old son to stay well away from the target area. And, besides, neither of us had wanted to prolong the agony.
Cutting away was never going to be easy. I’d seen them safely tucked into their gated community on the Moscow margins, given them both the warmest hug that I’d ever given another human being, picked up my grab bag and got into the cab.
I’d left some stuff there, partly because I’d always liked travelling light, and partly because it helped convince me that I wouldn’t be gone for ever. I still wanted to be with her and our son, but we both knew they’d always be safer when I wasn’t around. Her words still echoed in my head: I don’t think you pick fights, Nicholas. But they sure pick you … You were the kid who always got into fights at school and didn’t know why …
I heard myself starting to leak the story to Father Mart as the wind rose outside and began to chuck the odd fistful of hail against the windows. ‘You remember the blonde one from Abba?’
‘With or without the beard?’
‘Funny. The one with the cheekbones and the sad smile. That’s Anna. We met in Tehran. At an arms fair. She was an investigative journalist. The
It got seriously cold eight hundred metres up in the Brecon Beacons, and you could easily freeze to death lower down when the wind blew. We’d all heard the stories of the lads who’d lost their way when the snow started to fall, then got exhausted, bogged down or injured, and never made it back. Legend had it that one of them was frozen so stiff the rescue crew used him as a sledge to get back down the mountain.
We’d made a shitload of stupid mistakes, and taking off that morning in combats, T-shirts and thin waterproof tops was right at the top of the list. The mist closed in as we summited Waun Fach and the blizzard quickly followed. It wasn’t long before we knew we were in trouble.
My watch hadn’t had a temperature gauge, but my fingers and toes told me it was getting way below zero. One of the first signs of hypothermia was mental confusion, but some would say that was what we’d been suffering from in the first place. The only sane thing we’d done was pack bivvi bags, rations and a hexy stove in our Bergens.
Somehow we managed to make our way down, trying to get out of the killer wind, and stumbled upon a cave. We had no idea where.
It wasn’t until the following afternoon that the conditions cleared enough for us to get our bearings. Trev had originally nicknamed our refuge the Elephant’s Arsehole, because of the shape and colour of the stones that flanked it, and because it was large enough inside to shelter a couple of idiots, but I guess he couldn’t bring himself to say that to a priest.
‘A penny for your thoughts, as my mother used to say …’
I looked up from the plate of lasagne he’d put in front of me. I’d almost forgotten he was there. ‘Sorry. Miles away.’
‘No apologies necessary. It’s always good to see you smile.’ He was smiling too, but I could still see the tension behind his eyes.
‘Don’t worry about Trev. He hates surprises, but there’s no one in our game who can deal with them better than he can.’ I told him a couple of silly stories about us getting into scrapes in Colombia and Trev taking charge.
He gave a chuckle. ‘And what about you , Nicholas?’
It wasn’t the question itself that caught me off-guard, but the fact that only one other person in my life ever used all three syllables in my name, and she was the woman I’d left behind in Russia thirty-six hours ago.
Anna hadn’t come to Domodedovo airport on Sunday to wave me goodbye. We’d agreed that if I was going to carry on being a bullet magnet, it would be better for her and our five-month-old son to stay well away from the target area. And, besides, neither of us had wanted to prolong the agony.
Cutting away was never going to be easy. I’d seen them safely tucked into their gated community on the Moscow margins, given them both the warmest hug that I’d ever given another human being, picked up my grab bag and got into the cab.
I’d left some stuff there, partly because I’d always liked travelling light, and partly because it helped convince me that I wouldn’t be gone for ever. I still wanted to be with her and our son, but we both knew they’d always be safer when I wasn’t around. Her words still echoed in my head: I don’t think you pick fights, Nicholas. But they sure pick you … You were the kid who always got into fights at school and didn’t know why …
I heard myself starting to leak the story to Father Mart as the wind rose outside and began to chuck the odd fistful of hail against the windows. ‘You remember the blonde one from Abba?’
‘With or without the beard?’
‘Funny. The one with the cheekbones and the sad smile. That’s Anna. We met in Tehran. At an arms fair. She was an investigative journalist. The
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