There was a faint clink of metal as more rope rattled through the loop. It was nearly dark now. If he didn’t find Ginny soon . . . Paul shook his head, trying to dislodge the thought. He wasn’t ready to accept the fact that Ginny was most probably dead.
And Cat – his wife, Ginny’s sister – had caused her death. It had been an accident. She was upset. She hadn’t meant to push Ginny. Things had all just got stupidly out of hand. He wished he could turn back time – not just to before this horrible thing happened, but to months before . . . when he’d acted like an absolute idiot at work and lost Cat’s trust for ever. Sure, she’d stood by him. So he would stand by her now, too. No matter what happened.
‘I just want to see if I can spot Tristan,’ he said, moving away from his wife. She’d stopped sobbing and was sitting eerily still. There was a rustling sound from the trees behind them, and he turned, but of course there was nothing to see. The densely packed pines were impenetrable in this fading twilight. That sound again: small, light, fast. A rabbit, probably. Or a fox.
He knelt down at the edge of the path. ‘Tristan? Are you there?’ He was whispering. He almost laughed to himself. Why did people start to whisper when it got dark?
He could barely see anything past the first rocky slope. The rope whirred. Tristan had been very brave to head down there like that, in the dying light. Very brave, but very foolish. Did he even have a torch? Paul shuffled back and opened the side pocket of his rucksack. No torch. Not on his packing list. He’d packed exactly what Cat had told him to – she’d said everyone had a list and the point was that they would all share in carrying all the things they needed, instead of everyone bringing the same thing. A good idea, sure. But he’d have liked having a torch right now.
The only thing in his rucksack not on the list was his classic red Huntsman Swiss Army knife – a present from his dad for his twenty-first birthday, and something he never travelled without. It had everything on there to saw wood, strip wire, open bottles and tins, and, of course, cut pretty much anything – but it didn’t have a bloody torch. He’d bought one of those tiny lights that help you find your keys in the dark and clipped it on to the keyring. He’d hoped that maybe one day the company would update the tools to add a torch – he’d rather that than them spending time making the casings wooden or camo instead of the classic red. He did like things to look traditional, but tradition wasn’t helping him much right now. He took the knife out and slipped it into his pocket. Then he went back to the edge. ‘Tristan?’ He shouted it now, and his voice echoed in the empty darkness. Something in the bushes scurried away.
Paul peered over the edge again, but it was useless. If he couldn’t see Tristan, how was Tristan going to see Ginny? He thought about what he’d said earlier to Cat, joking with her about her annoying sister. Suggesting they tossed her over the edge. Fuck . . . could he have put that thought in Cat’s head? Some subliminal command that he’d had no plan to make? He took the Huntsman tool out of his pocket and flipped out one of the knives. Sharp enough to cut bone, his dad had said, laughing. In case you need to survive in the wild.
He held the knife out and it glinted in the moonlight. The rope whirred, and another intrusive thought popped into his head. He could cut the rope. See how good a climber Tristan really was. If he was good, he’d make it back. If he slipped . . . then he’d be with Ginny after all.
Stop it, Paul. What the hell is wrong with you?
It was shock, he knew. Cat would be horrified if he said any of this out loud, but sometimes his thoughts really did reveal his true soul. He flipped the knife back in. Cat still hadn’t moved. She was staring straight ahead, watching him, the whites of her eyes the only things visible now.
He thought about Ginny, and what she’d been saying before she . . . before she fell. He shook his head. No. Ridiculous. He was overtired and his thoughts were in overdrive, like some kind of waking nightmare.
‘Was it in Ascot?’ she’d asked.
Cat’s conference had been in Ascot. He remembered now, because he’d suggested he head over on the Saturday and go to the races – he’d checked, and there was a meeting on – and stay with her that night in the hotel. It’d be fun, he’d thought. But she’d turned him down. Said it would be all work and no play.
Which was bullshit, of course. What kind of work conference has no play?
But then he’d forgotten all about it. Gone down the pub instead. He’d been secretly pleased the next day, when she’d said she was staying an extra night. He went out for a Sunday sesh too. Regretted it on Monday morning. Perils of being a delivery driver. But it’d been fun.