TORQUE - Sample Chapters

by
Moira McPartlin

The beginning of the end

Sprawled on the ground at the top of the deep gorge, Gus lies broken. A few feet away, out of reach, an orange rucksack stands erect, fastened with only one of the two clasps; its base is damp from the last drops that seep out of a toppled water bottle. The red bandana, shrouding his head to protect him from a thick halo of small biting insects, is useless. His right leg, skewed at an odd angle to the rest of his body like a detached lump of dead meat, oozes black blood through torn trousers and every now and then he rallies his body to wave the midges away with his one good arm; the other, swollen and twisted, he hugs to himself.

He can't remember how long he has lain there.

When will they come? It must be soon.

He cranes his neck to search for any sign of life in the valley. The daylight on the western horizon is the last to leave and he strains to identify the contours on the hump he clambered over yesterday. His eyes narrow as he tries to hold the focus, but he loses the hillside into the night.

Where is the man in the hat?

Midges nip at his wrists, he tugs his sleeve over his good hand then eases the other sleeve down but his pain screams at him to stop.

He pushes his face into the damp peaty earth, nuzzles it like a pig searching for truffle, the cool damp moistens his lips, he lifts his head to spit out grit, a cold shudder of pain passes through him as he snorts and coughs.

If he sleeps they�ll come quicker, he�s tired of all the fighting. But he has to breathe and each time he opens his mouth the insects violate him. He knows their persistence from past trips. Word gets out and they congregate to share in the flesh fest. But never this bad; no never this bad.

He begins to pray to a God he hasn�t considered in years, not since his mum tucked him in at night when he was a wee boy. �When I lay me down to sleep I pray the Lord my soul to keep.�

He prays for rain. They'll leave him if it rains. He prays for cold. They hate the cold.

There's no water left, he knows; he can handle that.

Just a few metres away from him lay the jaws of the gorge. Below the river roars. His ear presses to the earth to hear it funnelling between the narrow walls. He has no notion of the depths, of how far he is from the water. Could he make it down to the water? He needs water.

He�d been heading for a route down the gorge when he fell. Why?

The figure; that was it, the guy in the hat. He�d chased the guy, wanting to catch him. But he lost his prey in the boulder field, that�s what stopped him. He�d hopped from stone to stone, but a sneaky clump of heather hid the gap, wedged his foot in the hole, over he went. He touches his head and feels a lump.

In the gloom he can see a thread of light on the horizon, a town a million miles away. Warm air whispers around, perfect for midges. His breath attracts them, he knows, he mustn�t breathe. He pulls the bandana off his head to cover his mouth and nose. They grasp his neck like a barbed wire necklace, gnawing his skin. He screams. The scream echoes in the valley, once, twice; three, four, five times, off each hillside, each corrie, each outcrop before returning to mock him with no reply. Then he is silent. Listening, listening for the man in the hat, waiting, listening to the river below calling to him, �I�m here, I�m here.� He tastes the cool water on his lips, the sweet clear jewels course down his parched throat, lathering his gullet, vanishing before it reaches his belly. He licks his lips and finds them still dry and the water gushing below.

He prays for rain. Hail Mary who art in heaven. She'll look after him. But what�s the point, she did fuck all for him before.

�Sorry, sorry, God ah didnae mean that.� He shouts the words out loud and swallows another portion of swirling blackness.

He coughs, spits, and then giggles to himself as he imagines drinking his own blood.

What day is it anyway? He tries to remember this morning. Is it only Sunday? Please God make them come soon.

Chapter 1

The Walk

Gus predicted the evening traffic out of town would be bad, but it turns out to be diabolical. When he still hasn�t reached Perth by nine, he curses again that posh bint who turned up at the surgery for a filling just before closing. Then he curses Lorna who nabbed him back at the flat to pack her car for her. Lazy bitch, wet nail varnish was no excuse. Why she needs so much stuff for her weekend away with her pal, God only knows. At these expensive places, with their seaweed wraps and mud packs, a bathrobe is all their skinny arses need.

When the traffic thins out after Perth, Gus increases his speed and relaxes into an indulgent sing along with Dire Straits who blare from the MP4 player. He belts out the words of �Tunnel of Love�, substituting his air guitar rift with tapping fingers on the steering wheel. It had been a while since he last ventured up this road. How long? No, never mind.

It�s after eleven o�clock when the tyres of his Saab crunch into the car park and Gus curses that bloody patient again. She was desperate she said, was going on a long haul flight next day, on business, she stressed. A Friday treat, a Thornton�s toffee had whipped out her gold inlay leaving a gaping hole. Greedy bitch. Only a Jordanhill dentist would fuck off golfing on a holiday weekend Friday without leaving emergency cover. Still his new patient made a nice wee change from the usual sugar and drugs induced rotten mouths brought to him at the last minute with cries of, �Take the lot oot, pit me oot ma misery.�

The rotten mouths of Mosshill needed him; there were little or no national health dentists left and his father revelled in telling his mates in the Miner�s Club that his son was doing his bit for the working man. The Mosshill surgery was in a side street just off a decaying artery out of the city. It had the worst post code in the West of Scotland. Every morning he drove past houses with at least one window boarded up and in some cases the whole close barricaded off. And he knew that the working man his dad reminisced about vanished with heavy industry, replaced by drug dealers, the unemployed and criminals. The community�s only shops in the main street where Gus parked were a sorry assortment of shabby charity shops, tanning salons and bookmakers. Marty, the practice senior partner, had set up shop in the idealistic sixties when the city�s slums were being regenerated; unfortunately the rejuvenation programme by-passed this northern outpost.

The car park is littered with cars and vans; ancient Volvos parked next to class Audis and Beamers; a couple of camper vans with empty bike racks failed to look inconspicuous in the far corner and the inevitable sprinkling of rusty buckets boasted mountain marathon vanity stickers.

�Pathetic.� Gus said to the lifeless car park.

Not a soul stirred. He wonders at the potential numbers camping near the old bothy. He�d already picked out his camp site on the ordnance survey map last week, well away from the popular spots the hoards occupied. Lorna had been winding him up about how meticulous he planned each trip, catering for all eventualities. It didn�t always work out as he planned though.

�You would think you were heading up the Amazon.�

She didn�t have a clue.

Due to his forced night march Gus recalculates at least a two hours hike to reach his intended camp. The evening is warm for late September, dusk has been and gone and the trees surrounding the car park turn the night black. He risks switching on his head torch before he stuffs waterproofs in the top of the rucksack and straps the tent to the side. He and Frank religiously replaced their head torch batteries before each winter. It was a ritual Frank insisted they observe. Each October weekend, when the clocks changed back to GMT, they bought new batteries and wrapped the old ones up in cling film to be stored in the bottom of the rucksack for emergency spares. The previous years spares were binned. Now, with still four weeks until the clocks changed, so technically still summer, he is stuck with year old batteries.

There is no breath of air in the forest. Warm smells of pine and dust wrap round Gus as he listens to the car engine tick tick as it cools. The lack of rain over the past week adds to the humidity and the midges are having an orgy. He feels them biting his ears and neck.

Trees lurk over the cars. Gus detects the faint whiff of cattle and wonders if the farmers spread the muck early up here. The smell pulls memories of autumn and tattie howkin at the Top Camp Farm when he was a boy. At first his mother had forbidden him to go.

�A wee lad of nine years old shouldn�t mix with thon rough lads that go to the tatties.�

But Gus had whinged and pestered; with few pals at primary he knew this would be a ticket to the more popular lads.

�Let him go Rita.� His dad had told her when he came home from his shift, still smelling of strong soap, eyes, mascara lined with coal dust. �He�ll sin git sick o� a five aclock rise.�

Gus can still see her in that wine dressing gown tied snug round her small waist, as she buttered his pieces and filled his dad�s old pit flask with home made soup. Waving her tea towel at the door, she sent him skipping to the end of the street to jump on the farm trailer, already full of the village waifs and strays. Both the catholic and protestant kids went picking, calling a temporary truce from the running sectarian battles that raged the rest of the year. Gus had known within an hour that manual labour was not his game and an alternative way to earn a living was a must. He chucked the tattie howkin after three days; he wasn�t that desperate for pals. Every night it took hours to pick the dirt from under his finger nails, it was disgusting. A big Jessie, his dad called him, but he didn�t care. He�d thought he would try berry picking the next summer, but never did.

As Gus hoists his rucksack onto his back, he hears a twig snap behind his car. He peers into the forest but sees only the shadows of the tree trunks. He wishes Frank was here. Looking back as if expecting someone to come out of the gloom, Gus stops and shakes his head, this is daft. Then just as he begins to walk through the darkness a stag dashes out of the forest in front of him, crosses his path and disappears into a thicket on the other side. Gus jumps, and then turns to check no one is about to see his fright.

As he leaves sight of his car, he checks for the third time it is locked by directing the electronic key into the distance and watching for the orange lights to flash. He smiles, satisfied, as always, at the car lock�s range.

His walking poles propel him along the track, lengthening his stride without much effort, keeping his rhythm steady. He forges forward into the mountains leaving his spooks behind him.

The night grows lighter as the track winds out of the forest and into the open glen. Ahead, he sees what looks like a figure crouched low beside a tree. It is still, silent, watching. He stares, willing the figure to move, it grows larger with each step Gus takes. His own dry laugh surprises him, it is no figure but a root ball from a fallen tree tucked in behind another to form the illusion.

What is wrong with him tonight?

Chapter 2

The glare from the orange street light bounced on the frosted pavement around Gus� feet as he scraped the ice off his car. What was going on, it was only fucking October? The red sandstone tenement reared up behind him, snug, curtained windows protecting those slumbering inside, not even weirdo insomniacs stirred at this bloody hour. The council tower blocks along the river loomed like stacked dominoes, lights twinkling twos and threes; bus drivers and cleaners no doubt, the only other idiots out of bed. The wild smell of the urban foxes clogged his nose and throat as the cold air seeped through his scarf. A mist clung to the houses muting the glow from the street lights further along the crescent. Out on the Great Western Road he stopped at an all night garage and bought pre packed sandwiches, a bottle of water and a couple of Mars Bars he hoped wouldn�t freeze in the cold and break his teeth.

On the Loch Road patches of fog hampered his speed a little, although he still managed to average seventy, even on the winding stretches. When the road straightened out he booted the speed to ninety, those dozy cops wouldn't be about at this time in the morning, they'll have opted for the scoffing bacon rolls in some village caf� duty.

The fog thickened over the Moor where birches crept across lochans and the rowan spectres loomed out from roadside boulders hoping to grab a reckless car. When he arrived at the car park in the Glen visibility was almost zero. He felt enclosed by the darkened mass he knew surrounded him beyond the fog. Saliva filled his mouth as he bent to double tie the knots on his boots. It was impossible to see if others had arrived. Footsteps crunched on the gravel to the left, or behind him. Gus wondered if Tam had the foresight to invite along some decent women on the walk, Tam knew some stoaters, but had the acquaintance of a few mingers too.

Tam hadn�t changed much since their first day as inmates in the Edinburgh University Hall of Residence. Gus had returned to his room after his initial exploration to find a young lad with long ginger hair and bushy beard rummaging in a box of books. He looked up as Gus entered and smiled with crinkling eyes. The guy looked older than him, but that might have been the beard.

�Ah ha, the new arrival. I'm Tam.� He held out his hand in a formal way which took Gus by surprise.

�Eh, hi I'm Gus, yes, I just arrived this afternoon, studying dentistry.� God he sounded as though he were on University Challenge.�

�Yuck, don�t fancy that. All that looking in on folks mouths, blagh, not for me. What made you go for that?� Tam shuddered.

Gus felt his face go red and bit his lip.

�Money I suppose.� He mumbled. Why did he always have to justify his choice?

His first experience of dentists was in primary one when a big green van trundled into the school playground. The Dentist Van. �Butcher Van� the older kids chanted.

Children filed out of the class to wait by the van and one by one they crawled up metal rung steps through the door to an uncertain fate. Some of the children were only in minutes before they skipped back out. Others, usually the smelly kids, took longer and were told to wait. There was mention of gas, some children cried. As the queue grew short and moved inch by inch to where Gus stood with the rest of the wee ones, he had an urge to run home, but just before he climbed the steps his dad arrived in the playground and accosted the headmistress. No child of his was going to that butcher; they had already ruined both his daughter�s teeth. Gus would go to a proper dentist. There was something about the terror of that wait and the power of the man in the van that stayed with Gus, but he couldn�t tell Tam that.

�'What about you Tam, what�s your chosen profession?�

�Accountancy, loads of dosh in accountancy they tell me.� Tam looked round the room. �Where's all your stuff?�

�I've put it away, there�s plenty room left for yours.� He said, opening a small chest of drawers to prove that it was empty.

�God, you�re on the ball.� Tam began to pull clothes out of his rucksack and stuff them in the drawers, before lifting the box of books onto the floor and kicking it under the bed. He dusted his hands together.

�Right, fancy a pint?�

That was the beginning of their four years together. Tam was a canny guy and Gus found him easy to live with, if a little untidy.

After Fresher�s Week they became a threesome. Larry was in Tam�s year and would join them at the pub most nights.

Accountancy had proved lucrative for both Tam and Larry but even after all these years Gus still had to endure their jokes about his silent captive audience, spitting blood when he finished boring patients with climbing tales.

Laughter tinkled in the cloaked car park, doors slammed. Gus bashed his mittened hands together to warm them and to signal his presence, but his muffled hand clap brought no takers. He could smell tomato soup, someone was starting early on their lunch and Gus realised that he too was hungry, having traded his breakfast for an extra ten minutes in his pit. He should have bought an extra Mars Bar. As he tightened gaiters to his boots Gus became aware of a dark figure looming over him. He looked up into the smiling face of a young man in his middle twenties; a bobbly woollie hat hiding his hair. Gus� first impression was �who the hell under the age of eighty wears bobbly hats, for God sake.� Then he noticed that the cheap imitation Goretex jacket looked a little too small for the youngster�s broad frame and wondered if the poor guy had bought it from one of those catalogues Gus� mother used. When Gus was small she would buy his school and holiday clothes at inflated prices from one of these rip off merchants, but because she only had to pay back a couple of pounds a week, she would go a bit mental and buy herself an outfit too. She�ll still be paying for his graduation suit no doubt.

The guy�s boots looked the business though. Gus wondered who he was.

A soft voice asked. �Are ye here for Tam's last Munro?�

�As a matter of fact I am.� Gus wondered how a guy so shoddily clad knew Tam and as if reading his mind the big lad said.

�Ah�m Frank, Tam lived next door tae me in Stirling, his parents still live next tae ma mum and dad.�

�Gus Dryburgh.�

Frank nodded, as if he already knew.

�We both joined the university mountaineering club together, but Tam was only interested in hill walking, not climbing, claiming he was too feart of height.� Gus snorted. �I�m surprised he managed to reach this Munro compleation before me actually. It�s taken him years to bag the tricky Skye Munros, because of that fear. I�ve had to practically haul him up some of the more interesting ridges.�

The big lad remained silent.

�Still Tam�s a great guy, canny and quiet. Solid.� Gus blundered on. �Likes a bloody good drink though.�

The big lad nodded again and Gus felt he had maybe said enough to Tam�s next door neighbour.

Both men turned at the crunch of tyres, which was followed by a shout of, �Is there anybody there?' The bad Boris Karloff impersonation failed to disguise Tam�s refined Central Scotland accent. With that summons, happed up multicoloured bodies began to emerge from the mist. Tall, short, thin, fat, three dogs plus a couple of kids, who Gus frowned at. Kids on the mountains were a pain in the arse, always falling over, girnin� and holding everyone up.

Around twenty of Tam's friends congregated in the car park for the beginning of this auspicious day. People huddled while walking poles were adjusted and rucksacks pulled on, then the bodies moved off as one mass, chattering, laughing, and anticipating what lay above the mist. Previous excursions were discussed and the know-alls who�d experienced the conditions before were eagerly awaiting the outcome.

�It�s definitely only a thermal inversion?�

�Wonder how high it goes?�

�Are there clear skies above?

After about a hundred metres the group began to split. The proper walkers up ahead, some gasping to try and keep up the pace and save face; at the back the slower group lumbered along with the snot nosed bairns. Soon the pattern of the day was set. Frank and Gus walked in front with Tam and his side kick Larry following closely behind.

�Tam said you�ve compleated yer Munros, Gus.� .

�Don�t know where he got that idea.� Gus snipped then clamped his mouth shut and started again. �Eh no, I still have some remote ones to do, not too many though, thank God.�

�Same as me, ah�m no too bothered about them.�

Aye right! Gus thought, every hillwalker says that.

�Well I can�t wait to get them finished and get on with my climbing career. I just hope those bloody surveyors don�t find any more hills over 3000 feet.�

Frank nodded, and Gus wondered if he was always this quiet, it was like talking to his patients.

�Do you climb?� He tried again.

�No as much as ah�d like, the climbing wall and that, a few things in the Caingorms.

'Glasgow�s climbing wall?'

�Och, sometimes, but ah don't know many folk through in Glasgow yet.� He shrugged his shoulders.

Gus always struggled to find decent climbing partners and Kenny hadn�t returned any of his calls since the Balmoral trip.

'Why don't you come through sometime, I don't have anyone to climb with at the moment, we could give it a go.'

Gus was warming to the fact that Frank was a potential new climbing partner. He fell into silence as he dreamed of the routes they could do together, running through the climbs in his Hard Rock book, his usual bedtime reading; all the routes his duty of care, as youth club leader, had prevented Kenny attempting with him. If this Frank character wanted to push the grades, well that was up to him. Maybe it was just as well Kenny had dropped out the picture.

Gus� thoughts had just moved on to the Alps and the Matterhorn when Larry lolloped up behind them, joining them on the broad path. He thumped Gus on the shoulder.

�How's Raith Rovers doing these days?�

Gus blew out an exasperated sigh.

�Can't you come up with any new lines Larry?�

�Oh dear, must be bad then.�

�You know I don't follow football.� Damn, thought Gus, why did he let him hook him like that? He was still furious at Larry�s bad behaviour at Balmoral.

Gus had spotted Larry as soon as he entered the bar, ducking his head as usual to avoid the door jam. The introduction of the smoking ban hadn�t improved the ambience of the place since Gus� last visit. The mirror above the cluster of whisky bottles clung to its film of yellow grime and the air smelled of putrid rotting socks, sour beer and old chip fat. Gus watched Larry look towards the food counter and saw him flinch. He couldn't help the smile that crept to his lips and decided to hurry and finish his lasagne and garlic bread before Larry realised he was here.

A wee lassie with half a dozen rings through her right eyebrow and even more through her nose clicked off the hot plate lights. The barman wiped his hands on a soiled dish towel and smirked to no one in particular.

Gus watched as Larry glanced round the crowded room before his eyes settled on him and then move to Kenny who sat by Gus side. Kenny�s plate looked licked clean, but the young lad had worked hard today � a grand day�s climbing. Larry�s reaction was as Gus expected; a scowl then a re-arrangement of features into the friendly smile of a viper before louping over to their table.

�How are Raith Rovers doing these days?�

Gus sighed, �How should I know?� always the same routine.

Kenny fiddled with his shining fork.

Gus nodded towards the shutter, trying to hide his smile. �Looks like you missed the food.�

Larry looked at the bar. �Yep, would have made it too if old Lizzie had opened up to us. Tam�s not going to be happy.� He said nodding to the door.

Larry winked at the sullen youth. This was his way of drawing people in, Gus recognised the signs. Larry tried to be the life and soul, pity his mouth let him down.

�Who�s Lizzie, ah thought ye wir wi Tam?� A nasal ned like voice burst from Kenny�s thin cracked lips.

�Doah! Lizzie, The Queen, dummy! Are we not on Balmoral Estate? The locked gates? Oh never mind.�

Larry snatched the baseball cap off his head and clawed at the stubble. Gus gaped at him, the last time he had seen him he was thinning but this was extreme. Larry laughed.

�Scalped last year in Kathmandu, you know what these Sherpas are like.

Larry looked towards the door, then back at the two men sitting.

�What would you gents like to drink? Another pint?�

Before they had a chance to answer all three�s attention was drawn back to the door where Tam tumbled in. He ran to the food counter and slammed his hands on the closed shutter.

�FUCK!�

The chatter in the bar never missed a beat. The bar man shook his head as he pulled a pint for a regular. They nodded to each other in sadistic agreement.

Tam strolled over to the table and smiled at Gus and the youth.

�What�s happening?�

�No food by the looks of it Tam.� Larry put his arm around his friend�s shoulder. He always tried to make out that Tam was his best mate and Gus was second choice. Gus minded at Uni, but not now. Tam liked everyone as long as they gave him decent company on a hillwalk. Gus� mother called Tam one of life�s good guys, but she�d never seen him drunk.

�But, never mind young Thomas you can have the choice of two bags or three. I'll have two. Oh and these two chaps would like a couple of pints of lager, I'll have a Guinness to keep my protein up.� Larry patted his slight paunch.

Tam trotted off to the bar and Larry moved his bulk into the seat beside Kenny who was now picking skin from the palms of his hands below his fingers. Gus half expected him to put the scab in his mouth. Their silence ripened with the smell of sweat dried polyester and decomposing fleece jackets. Gus cleared his throat as if to speak then looked across to the bar.

�Bringing any hot totty to Tam's Last Munro in a couple of weeks?� Larry smiled. Gus decided to remain silent, he refused to be hooked.

Little Miss Piercing slouched over to pick up the plates and Gus was knocked sideways as Kenny perked up in his seat, a smile on his face for the first time since they topped out on the climb earlier.

�You won't need to wash that one.� Larry said pointing to the lad�s plate. The girl ignored him. Gus looked at Kenny to judge his reaction, but his head was down, his attention back on his calluses.

�I wonder how she manages to pick her nose.� Larry stage whispered. The girl hesitated for a second before flouncing through the kitchen door letting it swing five times before it came to a sudden halt.

Larry jumped up to help Tam with the four pints he was attempting to carry in one trip, beer sloshing onto the stained carpet. The four packets of crisps held in his teeth crinkled to the floor as he opened his mouth. Kenny stared hungrily down at them as Larry picked them up and laid each one in turn on the table, splitting them down the side, exposing the pale yellow crisps in open invitation. The youth reached out to take some but Larry slapped the back of his grubby hand.

�Manners young man, at least let us have one handful.� Both he and Tam grabbed a fistful and gobbled them, before returning to the packets which now only contained crumbs. The kid licked his index finger and picked each packet clean of crumb and salt.

Larry slugged at his beer licking the creamy froth from his thick upper lip.

�Ah I needed that. Had a skinfull last night, eh Tam?�

Tam nodded, his lips welded to the rim of his glass, slurping the black liquid.

�Pee was the colour of marmalade this morning, but still, walked the hangover off in half an hour.� Larry sat back in his chair folding his arms across his chest. �Where have you chaps been?�

The youth looked up.

�Lochnagar,� he said

Larry nodded. �Good choice. Aren�t there a lot of easy climbs up there?�

Tam took the glass from his lips long enough to add. �We've been up Beinn a'Bhuird, my second last Munro.�

Both men ignored him. Gus sat up in his chair, ruffling his feathers. He tried not to bite but couldn�t take it any longer.

�Climbed anything good on Lochnagar recently, Lawrence?�

Larry furrowed his brows and ran his tongue over his perfect capped white teeth.

�No, no I don't believe I have. You know I prefer pitting my wits against the mighty oceans to clinging onto crumbling rock like a limpet.� He unfolded his arms, placed his large manicured hands on the table and heaved himself up to his full height.

�Still, each to his own.� Larry grinned over towards the youth then at Gus. �Each to his own.�

He slapped Tam on the back. Gus could feel the vein in his forehead throbbing and willed it to stop.

�I guess we have no choice but to drive ten miles for our smoked salmon and chips by Royal appointment.� Larry gulped down the dregs of his pint and looked at Gus.

�Would you like us to bring back some bones for your pet?� Nodding towards Kenny.

Gus� mind raced to think of something scathing in reply, but he wasn�t quick enough. Larry turned and hurried from the bar, leaving Gus to seethe.

Fuck, it had taken months to build up Kenny�s confidence and Larry had wiped most of it out in that short conversation.

Gus looked at the boy�s bowed head.

�If you pick any more skin off your hand you won�t even manage a V Diff. next time out.�

Kenny shrugged and glared at Gus.

�Ur they per poofs?�

�Eh no, what makes you say that?�

�Jist.� He drained his pint. �Kin we shoot the craw now, ah�ve hings tae dae.�

In the Saab, Gus turned the radio up a couple of notches to drown out Kenny�s silence. Let him sulk, he thought, he�ll be out of his huff by next Friday night when they arrange their next climb.

When he pulled up in front of the Mosshill church hall Kenny jumped out and retrieved his gear from the car boot.

�Ah�ve stuff oan the next couple o months , see ya.� Then marched away from the car without giving his usual annoying tap on the roof.

Larry looked at Frank, his brows furrowing but his eyes laughing.

�What happened to your other little climbing monkey Gus?�

Gus ignored him.

�Do you ken Tam as well?� Frank asked Larry with a slight hint of disbelief in his voice. Gus couldn't help smiling.

�Tam, Gus and I used to share.�

�Share what?� Frank asked with innocence.

�A flat.� Larry's frown lost its laugh. �And you?�

�Ah'm Frank Burgoyne.� Frank held his hand out formally for Larry to shake. �Ah don't share wi anyone.� And walked on ahead.

Larry looked at Gus and shrugged his shoulders. �Tam does know an awful lot of funny folk, don't you agree?�

Gus said nothing, he shook his head and walked on thinking, I'm going to like this young guy, maybe Larry had done him a favour after all.

Frank slowed his step to allow Gus to catch him on the path.

�Why did he ask ye about Raith Rovers?� Frank asked.

�Eh, Because I�m from Kirkcaldy.� Gus never told people he was from Auchendenan, it was the back of beyond and most people had only heard rumours about the place. When he was small he thought it was the greatest place on earth, but when the pits in the area started to close, many of the old families moved out, to be replaced by bampots who relished being on the dole and took pride in how much they could swindle from the government. The small row of shops that had remained the same for years, suddenly began to close or change hands. Pakistanis were snapping them up and the old cold meat counters with their lethal looking steel slicing machines were replaced with buckets of hot smelly pakora and aisles swaying with cheap booze.

Frank nodded. �Right. So there�s no many folk like that Larry in Kirkcaldy then.� He said, not expecting an answer and walked on.

As predicted by the know-alls in the party the mist stopped at around six hundred metres, forming a thick white blanket of cloud that covered the earth below. Above that height the sky opened to the bright cobalt blue of early winter. Clear air rewarded them with views for miles, showing an expanse of snow dusted peaks piercing through the cover, forming irregular humps like bent knees under a duvet. The dumpling form of Ben Nevis hulked above everything in sight. Frank stood looking down on the mist then, lifting his arms above his head, he began to swing them in an arc. Larry sidled up behind Gus.

�Hey, look at that prick, what�s he up to?�

Gus walked over and also lifted his arms in the air; others in the party began to do the same.

�Look Larry old chap.� Gus said in parody of Larry�s public school accent. �It�s a Brocken Spectre.� He smirked at Larry who was still looking befuddled. �It�s a strange phenomenon that happens when a shadow is cast onto the cloud, a halo forms round the shadow, you sometimes see them on the shadow of a plane you�re travelling in. If you move your arm you can see your own personal rainbow.�

Larry peered at the clouds.

�Look, there.� Frank pointed and smiled at Larry. �Move yer arms.�

Larry lifted his arm and waved a little wave, Gus and Frank looked at each other and both burst out laughing. Larry stomped off in a huff.

When they reached the summit ridge, Frank stopped and spun, scanning each aspect of the landscape as if memorising it. With Frank�s woolie hat now removed and stuffed in his pocket, Gus could see his ruffled dirty blonde hair had early signs of thinning. Gus watched as Tam walked up to Frank and saw the two men smile broadly to each other. With the flourish of an arm, Frank ushered Tam onwards and up the last push to the summit. Larry rushed forward to catch them but Gus held out an arm to block him.

�It�s traditional for the person compleating his Munros to reach the summit before the rest of his party. Don�t you know that Larry?�

As Tam reached the mountain top, Frank let out a whoop, then from his rucksack pulled out two bottles of champagne and a cellophane roll of plastic cups. Tam waited until the rest of the stragglers reached the summit cairn before opening the first bottle carefully, like a Scotsman. He allowed the cork a loud bang shooting it into the air while, as instructed, Frank held the cups to the ready to catch the first drops as the fizz tumbled from the bottle. It would go against the grain to waste the bubbly. Some of the women handed out sweet tablet, fudge and chocolate brownies. One of the children had drawn Tam a picture of a bearded stick-man on top of a pointy peak. Tam beamed and swung the youngster high in the air before planting a soggy, beardy kiss on a cheek which was then furiously rubbed by the recipient.

�Eh, when we get back to the cars we must exchange phone numbers.� Gus said to Frank as he handed him back his drained paper cup. Having witnessed the young man�s rapid progress up the hill with champers weighing him down, he wondered how fast he�d be on the descent. Gus didn't want to risk loosing his new found climbing partner. Frank turned from the celebration.

�What? Oh yeah, OK. See ye at the bottom then.�

Chapter 3

The Walk

Once out of the forest Gus switches off his head torch and relies on his instincts before his night vision kicks in. His eyes trace the line of the broad well-made path that stretches towards the horizon. A bulk of mountains stands in black silhouette against the purple sky. On either side of the glen, smaller hills open their broad arms to form a welcoming basin for travellers. A stag�s lonely lament accompanies the crunching of Gus� boots on the gravel, the bellow twisting a knot in his stomach he struggles to identify. The midges retreat to a safe distance as Gus strides out, but zoom in for the attack when, warmed from the exertion of the first mile, he stops to peel off a layer of clothing. He hustles the jacket into the top of the rucksack and starts again, unscathed by the pests.

Dark clouds gather in the south turning the purple spangle light to charcoal. The moon wrestles with the clouds, plunging Gus into darkness, then teases him with a crack of light. He strides on, eyes intent on the darkness and his final destination. A humming tune enters his head

��Always look on the bright side of life.��

Where the fuck did that come from? It was the song Frank persisted in singing when they climbed and it grated on Gus' nerves.

When they first started climbing together, Frank took the lead on difficult pitches, but that situation changed once Gus improved and worked up his grades. When Gus led and struggled, he could often hear the deep rumbled tune from the belay below. Even if Frank was left freezing on a tiny ledge waiting for Gus to solve the problem he remained cheery. Now Gus couldn't rid his brain of the damn tune.

�Always look on the bright side of life.� He looks at his multi function altimeter watch and calculates a river crossing in half an hour. The inevitable riverside campers should all be asleep by now. The evocative smell of wood smoke wafts through the air, reminding Gus of his last bothy trip. He knows for sure he is not alone in the glen. The small bothy discharging the smoke huddles tight in a dip just before a ruined lodge. Being popular with walkers on a weekend, Gus knew the bothy would now be cramped and smelly with human occupation. The overspill backpackers pitch along the river just beyond the lodge, but whenever Gus visited the spot in the past, the banking heaved with tents and that resulted in noise and crap and pink toilet paper. Why was it always pink? Another hour�s walk will transport him from the human faeces into the upper reaches of the mountain glen.

Lights beacon from a couple of tents exposing silhouetted figures. One is pulling off a jumper, arms waving about, struggling and wriggling in the confined space. Gus stands to wait and see if he can make out a naked profile. Long hair flops forward, ending his free peep show. Another figure moves inside the tent and blocks his view. The muted rumblings of male voices, discussing the plans for tomorrow, reverberate in the camp. Giggling erupts from the darkness, and someone shouts from further up the valley, �Shut the fuck up and give us some peace!�

Gus shirks off his rucksack and debates with himself whether he should just pitch here. Frank always refused to stop at this spot and Gus had never argued. A few of the lights went out as Gus tussles with his decision, but when the midges make a startling reappearance, he heads for a small foot bridge that carries him across the river back to the main track.

He drags his feet up steps cut out of the worn earth, these progress to big blocks forming a staircase newly constructed since he was last here. The gravel is soft in places, he remembers parts being boggy, but now the path is wider, smoother and drier. His mind drifts to thoughts of the sleeping bag stowed in his rucksack. Maybe he should have stopped at the main camp, tucked up by this time, but feeling more alone. No, another half an hour should see him at his chosen spot, it will be fine.

The moon concedes the fight to the thickening clouds and plunges the sky into blackness. Gus decides to struggle as long as possible without his torch. Scanning the side of the path with narrow eyes, he searches for his camp-site; a flat piece of ground beside a small stream; it should be close now. He stops and looks ahead and catches a pinhead of light twinkling on the mountain ridge, someone out late or bivouacked up high. The light moves. It flashes in and out as if the owner is traversing the ridge. Crazy bastard, Gus thinks, trying to night walk that treacherous terrain. Thousands of years before glaciers had ripped out huge chunks of rock leaving sheer cliffs that plunge hundreds of feet to the valley floor. Only one light shines so the lunatic must be alone and although Gus shakes his head in wonder, he stands transfixed, watching. Then the light movement stops in line with him as if waiting for Gus to continue his walk towards it, but that's daft because he's in darkness and the light is miles away. He stares at the light, and the light stares back, as if he�s trapped by its beam. After a few minutes the light flashes then snuffs out leaving a black hole in the night. Gus hears his heart pound in his chest, a trickle of sweat runs down his neck and turns cold as a shiver rattles down his spine. Rubbing his face and neck to rid him of pests, Gus realises he still can�t take his eyes from the spot where the light shone. He wills it to shine again, tolerating the bites, but after what appears to be an aeon, but in reality is only a couple of minutes, Gus forces an end to his vigil. He steps off the path and pitches his tent ten metres from the track. This is short of his planned spot by the stream, but he can�t drag himself further, and even though he hears running water close by, he�s too weary to find it. There should be enough water left in his bottle to last him the night.

Sleep doesn�t come at first. He sips malt whisky from his hip flask and stretches out on top of the sleeping bag, his bare toes wriggling, glad to be free of the sweaty boots. He hears a breeze tug at the tent, good that�ll keep the midges down. Heather the Weather had given a stonking forecast for the Bank Holiday Weekend. Let�s hope she�s spot on and true to form. As his mind drifts into the rapid images before sleep, he replays the vision of the light on the ridge and wonders if the mad bastard found shelter for the night.

Gus wakes to the sound of sand sprinkling on the tent. Even before he opens his eyes he knows the sun is up. He turns onto his back, twisting the sleeping bag round his body. The satin sheet pocket, he uses to protect the expensive down bag from dirt and occasional unplanned ejaculation, double wraps him like a butcher's sausage. He's hot and sticky and tries to ignore the predictable morning erection because he�s busting for a pee and doesn't want to wash the sheet sleeping bag again after this trip. The sprinkling on the roof continues; the persistent sound at last penetrating his brain. The horrifying recognition of the truth dawns on him as he sits up and disentangles himself. Ah fuck, midges. By the sound of the bombardment on the tent outside he reckons there�s an army waiting for him and that signals a hasty retreat. The toilet and a wash will need to wait, he decides, as he tries to ignore his swollen bladder. His eyes feel gritty and his mouth is dry, he's probably dehydrated and figures he can hold off a pee but will need a brew before he faces the hordes. His stove and water are outside the inner tent, in the bell. Quick action is required to avoid infestation, so he wheechs the zip down and back in less the ten seconds but he still manages to admit a battalion of the little blighters into the inner. He annihilates a few hundred by squashing them with his hands against the nylon side, the rest brush off his skin like scales. The pan of water he places on the gas burner floats black specks of a drowned regiment.

�Extra protein for me today.� Gus announces to the pan, stealing Frank�s corny old expression from a long weary repertoire. While planning his escape, he brews tea with the remaining water in his bottle and chews on the sawdust flavoured muesli bar. His bowels begin to growl now that his metabolism has sensed he�s awake, but he knows there is no way he can expose any parts of his body outside the tent without inciting a serious biting festival. On the map he traces his route for today, the gradual rise of the path, then the steeper hillside further on with a few wiggly bumps shown on the contours.

Gus packs the rucksack and even though the heat inside the tent warns him the sun is burning hot, he pulls on long trousers, a waterproof jacket, gloves and a midge net to cover his head and neck. He knows he looks ridiculous, but there is no one to see him.

After packing everything in the tent�s inner sheaf, Gus takes a deep breath, flips open the zip, jumps out, turns and closes the inner before the second wave can enter. Outside he realises the full extent of the onslaught. The air is thick black with the beasties. The excessive clothing proves prudent but sweaty as Gus struggles to pack up his tent. Even though the net protects him from bites, the black mass that swarms his head hassles him on his way.

He swipes through the frenzy and retraces the line of trodden heather he�d traipsed over the night before. Deluded into believing he was fully protected, Gus feels nibbling where the strap of his walking pole tugs his sleeve, to expose a tiny sliver of white skin. The white skin is soon replaced by a black wrist band of gnawing beasts. Gus brushes them off and secures all the garments. On the path he strides out and soon loses his followers. He is roasting under the jacket and net but decides to keep covered until he stops for water. As shown on the map, a small burn runs over the path a couple of minutes walk up the track, just past his original planned camping spot. Gus stops and takes off his rucksack, but before he has time to pull out his water bottle they�re back.

His bladder and bowels now take violent objection to movement and require attention before continuing. Making his way up hill and off the track, he finds a little knoll that has a semblance of a breeze, his bowels are ready to eject, so he decides to risk it. As he squats and sighs at the instant relief to his bladder, Gus looks around him for the first time that day. The sky is bright blue, streaked with light streams of cloud, chopped through by contrails hanging in the still air. The green and brown mottled mountains hulk around him. To the east he sees the winding track he trudged up last night; a snake of spindly smoke rises from the bothy. The air is sweet and clean as he breathes deeply. Up ahead the track narrows to a path and Gus can just make out the faint trail into the hills and over to the next valley where he's heading. His mind wanders to Frank and how he had obsessed over this area. On the other side of the range�s eastern flanks lay the monstrous pinnacles they traversed one August weekend. He thought of Frank�s quest for an unclimbed cliff face. A quest Gus will continue. They saw their cliff that day, the cliff they tagged Crag X. But his thoughts hammer to a halt as a nipping on his backside reminds him to get a move on. Frank always insisted they burn their toilet paper in the hills, Gus never normally bothered because it was so footery and messy. Frank never guessed but when he wasn't there to check, Gus only kicked up a piece of turf to cover the faeces and paper. Not the best, he knew, but you can't save the planet every day, and at least he used white paper. Today he decides to burn the toilet paper just to try and shift the midges.

Back down from the knoll, Gus chances removing some clothing. Now that his bodily functions have been seen to, he can stride up the hill in comfort and loose the wee bastards in no time.

The path is in good repair and about a kilometre into the glen Gus discovers why. Three men with barrows and picks make good progress on the path�s restoration. Two of the men are covered in head to foot midge protection but the third man, a young lad of around twenty, wears tee shirt and jeans and sports a bandana tied round his head.

'Midges bad today.' Gus comments in passing to the youngster.

'If you work hard enough they don't bother you.' He signals towards the other two. 'Those old gits are just too slow.'

One of the older men hurls a piece of turf at the laughing youth and bends back to his work.

At a kink in the path where Gus plots to peel off and head up the hill, he spots a lone tent pitched in a basin beside a trickle burn. The tent is zipped secure but he knows there is someone inside. Cloaking the tent is the familiar black cloud, stalking their prey, attracted by the carbon dioxide emitting from whoever lies within. At least it takes their attention off me for a while, Gus thinks. Further along the path to the north, the presence of a small tin shack, that isn't marked on the map, confirms that the poor path workers doss here in the hills to avoid a trudge down the valley each night.

Once he starts to climb the heathery slope, Gus's body begins to slip into plod mode. His legs relish the pain of the first hundred metres, with the blood and oxygen rushing through his veins and warming his muscles. He�s not the fittest he�s ever been, but even when he was he�d never managed to match Frank on the hill, no matter how hard he trained. Frank won hands down without trying. Gus stupidly assumed that the younger man had little experience and that he would be able to show him a thing or two. How wrong he had been.

� Moira McPartlin
Reproduced with permission