Shame

I’m eight years old, my life is a simple cycle of eating, sleeping, playing and state enforced learning. These activities all take place within the protective cocoon of a small village on the Welsh border. Little concerns me; I’m a poor loser but given that there are only four boys in my year at school and I am the don, this doesn’t happen with any great regularity. My mind is free of troubles, to use the early eighties vernacular, my life is skill!

On any given day my unfettered joy can consist of football, cycling and tree climbing but without fail there must always be a large dose torment dished out to my sisters. One older, one younger. The older one’s feeling towards me oscillate regularly between antipathy and abhorrence. The younger one blindly adores me. To me this matters not one whit; I will inflict irritation on whichever one is nearest. They are both ticklish so a swift grab of an unguarded foot can be hugely satisfying for me and distressing for whichever sister is on the receiving end. At this stage in my life I am unfamiliar with karma.

It’s Sunday morning and having eaten all that I can reach in the kitchen, I wait impatiently for the remainder of the family to wake up. Finally mum appears and makes a pot of tea to take upstairs. This indicates the start of the ten minute notice period before we can all go and pile into their bed. At last having watched the minutes slowly pass we’re in the bed. The older sister has long eschewed this family fun and as I’m not yet bold enough to torment my parents, annoying my younger sister is the only option. Like a cat sizing up prey I wait for the perfect moment. I strike for the foot, the foot feels strange and my dad has just leapt like a salmon, spilling his and everyone else’s tea.

After the commotion subsides my parents don’t make a big deal of it and all my younger sister knows is that I missed her foot. I will carry this burden of shame with me for the rest of my life, I touched a man’s penis and not just any man’s, my dad’s! I am now familiar with karma.

Tim McB

Tourists versus Travellers

Or rather, me versus travellers. You’re on holiday, I’m on holiday. You might not like your sojourn being reduced to the same level as mine but its an inescapable truth.

Let us begin with some simple definitions:

holiday n time spent away from home for rest or recreation; day or other period of rest from work or studies

tourist n person travelling for pleasure

travel v to go from one place to another, as by car, train, plane, or ship

traveller n person who travels

As you can see, the above definitions apply to both groups yet they, or we, consider one another with contempt.

There was a time when travel was the preserve of the wealthy and adventurous, the children of industrialists with ready made careers and fortunes ahead of them. It is now available to us all and we have become rather tribal about the whole thing.

We no longer set off with great fanfare at The Royal Geographical Society, you can of course but it is much easier embarking from one of a number of provincial airports which are allied to larger towns and cities with little or no discernible link. At least Leeds and Bradford are relatively close but London Luton?

You sneer at my holiday just because I’m choosing comfort, comfort is hugely underrated. It would take a lot of persuading for me to consider swapping a fortnight of comfort for six months in something lifted from the set of Tenko. If you want an authentic experience living like the natives try it in some of the shit holes the UK has to offer, I’m sure there are many people in Merthyr Tydfil, Hull and Salford for example who would happily take your money and let you share their squalor - Britain could well be your oyster.

If you’re so enamoured of travel for the sake of it I can heartily recommend the Circle line and to give it a Bangkok flavour just try it on any weekday at 8.30am with a couple of wheeled cases and a rucksack. No one will speak to you, you’ll feel distinctly alien and sweat will actually spray rather than seep from you.

At the airport you take up too much space in check-in, creating a sort of mini walled city out of luggage whilst sleeping on the floor. This might be acceptable during an eight hour stopover in Accra but it seems a little unnecessary having just been dropped off by parents at Stansted. Once aboard the plane you get on with your traveller's checklist; talk loudly about travel experiences, go to great lengths to ignore flight attendants and safety instructions and swaddle yourself in blankets to illustrate warm climes being your natural environment.

Travelling seems to bring about the desire to sport badges of honour. Much better to get yourself tattooed with a crusty stick in a festering sewer in Vientiane, and if it isn’t Lao for twat it might as well be because that is how I’ll read it when you get back to sign on. Maybe it’s just more exciting getting it done on your travels in much the same way that the fun never ends when contracting HIV or hepatitis C abroad as opposed to back in Blighty. Très exotique!

I’m not suggesting that you are the worst of our exports, a trip to the Spanish Costas will soon find you amongst many Brits of whom we should be all be ashamed - the ignorati. Quite often these are the same folks who bemoan immigrants, the ghettos they create and their failure/refusal to learn the language and integrate. No obvious parallels.

You are infinitely preferable to the ignorati but puzzling nonetheless. Why are you always adorned with string? Wrists, ankles, neck, string everywhere. Is it to signify your individuality or to help me identify you and thus give you a wide berth. Maybe my resentment stems from the acknowledgement of a long faded youth but let's not stop sneering and sniping at each other, I enjoy it and you’re positively dripping with superiority.

Tim McB

Waiting For Jojo

When the family dog went missing, no one slept that night. The kids were running round the streets, shouting, "Jojo! Come home!" in their pitiful voices. 

Their parents neglected the fact that it was a school night.

As the weeks went on, Jojo's face appeared on posters around the neighbourhood, above the brightly crayoned letters: 

"HAVE YOU SEEN JOJO?" The desperate family knocked on doors after school and work, and every dog that had even the faintest resemblance to Jojo was chased down the street, until the distance between the children and the dog was closed enough so they could see that no matter how many dogs they saw that looked like Jojo, none would replace him.

Then came the dreams.

In the early hours of the morning, the youngest crawled into his mother's bed, whispering, "I dreamed that we had Jojo again." His mother sighed. "We all want Jojo back."

Months passed, and the crayon posters warped in the rain, sliding hopelessly down the power poles and lampposts they were taped to. The crayon colours faded and became waxy memories, ground desperately into the miserable notepaper and attached to a once bright photo.

The sheer love of Jojo led the family to find themselves outside a news station. "You have to help us find Jojo, it's the only choice we have left!" pleaded the mother. "Please, Mr man, please help us find our doggie," said the youngest. "Just one show," added the middle daughter. "It's our only hope," finished the oldest. The presenter sighed. If they were going to make so much of a drama about it, well, they may as well do the presenting themselves.

A few nights later, an advertisement flashed on an old couple's television set. A family of five stood and reminisced about Jojo - a beloved family pet who was lost a year to this day, and if anyone had found a dog like theirs, call them on this number. 

The dog they had picked up from the streets a long time ago padded into the room, looking for comfort and perhaps a biscuit. "Oh, Muggins, you cheeky boy!" - he had evidently tried to open the back flywire door, and unsuccessfully at that. The old woman did a double take - Muggins looked so much like that dog on the telly - what was his name, Jojo? 

No, Muggins wasn't the dog the family described...but they were so similar...

She pushed the thought out of her head and answered her husband's request for a hammer, nails and a cup of tea.

Natasha Gill

The Mysterious House

In our street lives an elderly man in old dilapidated house. Every year on Halloween he does not sleep well. When the fog descends, he hears strange noises coming from the timbers of the house. Chains seem to be dragged and clanged against the walls. Marbles seem to be dropped and rolled across the floor. Last year on Halloween the elderly man decided to take walk in the fog. He carried an old Polaroid camera with him. The further he walked the louder noise of the chains and marbles became.  He turned back to look a look at his house. The house looked no different, but he still decided to take a photo of it. As he clicked the shutter of the camera a chill went down his spine and what little hair he had on his head stood on end. He shuffled as fast as he could back into his house. As he sat in his armchair he watched the Polaroid photo develop under his reading lamp. To his horror, instead of the house being in the photo, there was a ghastly face and two ghostly figures staring back at him. The poor old man now spends his days in an old age home. He still clings to the Polaroid photo, showing it to anyone who is willing to listen to his story. All see a house surrounded by fog. Only the old man still sees the ghastly face and two ghostly figures. This year on Halloween he still did not sleep well.

Wei Song

Gone Too Soon

The bedsheet. The sofa. The tray. The television. The trees. The walls.

Everything seemed so dull at that moment. It was as if colour ceased existing altogether.

I rested my hands on my stomach. Felt the flatness of it under my palms. As if it had always stayed that way.

As if it hadn’t once ballooned into a humongous thing, protruding out of my body, an obstacle which latched itself to me everywhere I went.

As if there had never been life in it before. A tiny human being kicking and squirming when I least expected it.

And now.

What’s left of it is a layer of over-stretched skin and…

Nothingness.

Wrenched away from me faster than I could blink. Leaving me dumbstruck, lost, speechless. Empty.

A careless trip on the stairs. That was all that I could remember. The rest was a blur.

I stared blankly into the distance. Thinking that nothing could compare to the guilt I was feeling.

For being so careless. For losing him.

I might as well have murdered him with my very own hands.

I glanced forlornly towards my stomach, where he should have been kicking, squirming, doing anything to show that he’s alive.

Slowly, tears trickled down my face. I made no move to wipe them away, allowing them to flow towards my mouth until I could taste the saltiness on my tongue.

“Sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

And broke down sobbing.

Samantha Sim

The Final Goodbye - Prequel

'Riley, you gotta help me.' I said to Riley as I got in touch with her after so many attempts trying to find her. I was at her house, finally able to find her after a week of MIA.

Riley is my best friend who is also a witch.

'You know you can't interfere with Fate. I can't help you.' She said with sorrow in her voice, obviously sad about James dying.

'There's a way. You know there's a way.'

'There is but it's too dangerous for me to do it. It'll also bring harm to you.' As Riley said those words, I knew there was something bitter about them. Maybe she has experience, although she never mentioned any of this to me.

'I don't care. I just want James back.' I let out a bitter cry. I loves James. If it weren't not for me, James would still be alive now. If it weren't not for me, James wouldn't be in the accident in the first place.

James was involved in a car accident when trying to get me the dress at the boutique - the dress i desperately needed to wear for the gala the following day. If I hadn't asked him to pick it up, he wouldn't have been in an accident.

'Are you sure, Alex? You know you could die If i do it, are you willing to leave James?'

'It's better than him leaving me. I can't stand the idea of losing him.'

'Alright, if you say so.'

'Come in, follow me, if you want to do it. I need to gather some stuff for this.' Riley brought me to her living room while she grabbed the things she needed to perform the spell.

'Alright, I'm ready, let's get started.' She began the spell and moments later i collapsed. Riley looked exhausted when I awoke.

'Is it done? Am I a ghost now?' The answer was obvious as I could see my body looking so peaceful and serene laid on the couch of her living room.

'Can I visit James for a second before he wakes up? I know that it takes some times for him to regain his consciousness, let me visit him in his dream. This is my last wish then I will rest peacefully on the other side'.

'I can arrange that.' Riley said above her weariness.

'Oh, Riley! Can I ask you another favour? I want you to tell my family that you found me on your doorstep this morning already cold and tell them how much i love them'.

Nadratul S

The Great Tower Heist Part Two: The Great Jail Break

Every evening throughout the British summer of 1964, the routine on the ground floor of Block B in Newgate Prison had been invariable. Gordon, in cell 7, would take off his blue uniform, fold it neatly and put outside the door. Then the door would be locked by a warder who would after that peer in every 15 minutes, for Gordon was a maximum security prisoner. Meanwhile, Gordon would stretch his 32-years-old, six-foot, sinewy frame on the berth, run his hand through his wavy brown hair and gaze at the ceiling, as if engaged in some marvellous reverie.

Gordon’s routine was interrupted in the early hours of August 12. That night he reduced his 30 years sentence by 29 years and eight months. Shortly after 3am, three men scaled the prison‘s 6m wall with ladders and, with duplicates of two master keys, made their way into Gordon’s corridor and cell. When Gordon’s warder appeared on schedule they smashed him into unconsciousness. They provided the prisoner with civilian clothes and left the way that they had entered with Gordon. And the Great Tower Heist, already a British legend, fascinated Englishmen even more now that the gang had managed the Great Jail Break.

The break added one puzzle to another, for little is known about the heist itself. It was said that more than a year or so later, the police were still putting the pieces together.

Silvers Rayleigh

The Final Goodbye

I watch him from behind. His presence is so serene, like there is no care in this world. How I will live without him. He must’ve sensed me because he turns to look at his visitor. His feature is so composed but his eyes betray him. They show great sorrow.

‘Is it time already? I feel like only yesterday we’ve met and now...’ James’s remark saddens me but there is nothing I can do to fight destiny.

‘I have to go. I can’t live here. My soul doesn’t belong here. Not anymore. You, of all people should know that. If there’s something I could do to change our fate and destiny, I would. Unfortunately there isn’t.’

‘Bear it in mind that you have my heart. A heart is a hard thing to live without. I love you, Alex. I don’t think I will love someone ever again. Not like the way I love you.’

‘And you have mine. Never forget that. But I don’t want you to be lonely. My leaving is no excuse for you to close your heart from all the possibilities of loving someone else. I want you to be happy, even after I’ve gone.’

‘Goodbye, James. My love for you is eternal.’

I kiss him on the cheek with tears in my eyes and holes in my heart. I know I will never love anybody again.

With that, I reluctantly cross the line that separates my life and James’s eternally. I am dead and he is alive. Those two cannot mix, EVER.

Nadratul S

The Great Tower Heist

All through the trial Gordon wore his ironic smile. While being sentenced to thirty years behind bars, he stood ramrod straight, not batting an eyelid, and when he turned to go off with the guard, he shot one last fleeting glance behind him, looking out past the silent audience in the direction of the door. Somewhere, out past the door, either buried in plastic, garbage bags or stashed in false walls or hidden in cellars, there was over $75 million. Until that was found, Gordon knew, the police could never say that they had completely solved the Great Tower Heist.

Silvers Rayleigh

Bananas

I used to drive a truck for a local builder’s merchants, little seven and a half tonner, all you needed was a car license. I had gaffer who used to get Gross and net mixed up. I often drove over loaded. I lived quite close to the yard, a five minute jog (did it often enough) yet I was always late. My gaffer would rail on at me about how Simon lived a 45 minute drive away but was always on time. My explanation that if Simon was 5 minutes late getting up he had a chance to shave a few minutes of the commute whereas if I woke up 5 minutes late I was late. Nothing I could do. Quite rightly, he told me to fuck off!

I used to love the tarmac run. Bit of an early start but I could take the truck home empty the night before then be down at the tarmac place first thing, line up with the real trucks sniffing in that seductive smell. I used to lay down on the path by fresh tarmac as a kid sniffing it in. I still like the smell though I’m told it’s not healthy for you.

I used to love the brick yard run for the special order pallets of obscure bricks some cock sure DIYer would request too. Picking up a pallet or two involved a cross town ride that went almost past the bottom of my granddad’s street. That’s a lie. Every time I went to the brick yard I called in on the old boy. We weren’t real close but I loved him dearly, he’d been great with me when I was younger but a fight at my sister’s Christening split that side of the family in two.

He was a bit of a card. The bath always seemed full of home brew; he had 23 clocks in his living room; he had twice as many pocket watches. At own dad’s funeral he gave me a pocket watch, tears in his eyes, and said, ‘It was going to be your dad’s. It’s yours now’. It had a swastika engraved on the back which is fucking odd when you consider he was reserved occupation and spent the war years in Northern Ireland! He cut the cuffs off all his shirts yet, like a lot of his generation, always wore a suit, even when we took him to the coast. He set fire to his hedge rather than trim it causing his neighbours to call the fire brigade in an attempt to save their own hedge.

This particular afternoon he knew I was coming and he’d set up camp under the apple tree in his back yard, two chairs and an upturned bucket with two pots of tea balanced on top. I parked up up front and walked through to the back. Despite the schism in our family our love was apparent but his pride and my loyalty to my own dad, his eldest son (who’d knocked fuck out of his brother on our lawn at the fateful christening after my uncle slapped his Mrs for telling us he’d bought a new suit for the occasion – despite been on the dole) meant things went unsaid and visit were infrequent save for these stolen moments on the clock. I loved him and I still do and I’d change everything if I had the chance to but there you go. Time goes forward and we all make mistakes and pride is unhealthy at times. I’ll never buy a suit for a christening I can tell you. I’ll never slap my Mrs either but that’s another story.

He called me up the garden, said ‘How do,’ and then motioned for me to sit. He always looked me up and down. I guess when you see a six footer and recall feeding him a bottle as a baby you do things like that. He handed me my tea then whispered to me, ‘Ask for a banana.’

‘Eh?’

‘Ask for a banana son.’

He sat back in his chair and, at the top of his voice asked, ‘You want an apple lad?’ He pulled a face as if to say, go on.

‘I’d rather have a banana.’

‘What’s that lad?’

“I’d rather have a banana.’

With that he stood up, reached into the apple tree where I spotted two bananas balanced over a branch and said, ‘Well I guess I’ll have one too, ‘ and made a great show of taking the two bananas down. I was a bit puzzled to say the least.

As we ate our bananas and drank our tea a beautiful smile appeared on his face, I can see him now, short back and sides, the look of my old man, of me, but tougher than the two of us, younger, easier lives (he was one of 12 or 13, I forget), a hard face but criss-crossed with laughter lines, you might call them wrinkles but all the men in our family, as dysfunctional as we are have laughed loads, and a spark of light dancing in his old watery blue grey eyes.

‘I hate that nosey bitch next door, ‘ he whispered through gritted teeth.

Johnny L

The Button

I didn’t ever explain it to him.  He wondered for years afterward, why after ending up in that hotel room, together, nothing had happened. 

Up to the last minute before I going down to reception I’d decided on the A line dress.  

We, he and I, had made a show of inviting his wife, but we had a pretty good idea she wouldn’t show.  They’d had marital problems for years and were, then, going through one of their stickiest patches.  She’d not have given a second thought to his meeting me alone because I was, after all, the wife of his best friend.  I’d never had any marital problems myself, but notwithstanding that even I had to admit the man was as fit as a butcher’s dog and so it was quite possible that he could cause me some problems along those lines in the not too distant future.

My God did I look good in that A line dress.  Then not knowing whether his wife [a jeans and track pants specialist] would be joining us I decided on a last minute change so as not to upstage her.  In a rush I pulled on the pants of a jeans suit combination and when fastening them, to my absolute horror, the button flew off.  Where it landed I could not tell.  All I knew is that I didn’t have time to find it.  Instead, away from home, and without my usual access to needle and cotton and with no time to effect repairs, I had to make do with a safety pin.  The safety pin was hidden by the slenderest of black leather belts and with that I walked quickly down to reception to meet them. Except she wasn’t there.  They’d argued, yet again, and she’d sent some shabby apology.

As he stood at the bar ordering drinks I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. After a lovely evening of drinks, idle chatter, and insufficient food, I invited him up for a hot beverage.  We flirted unashamedly and I could see he was searching for that look so he’d know it was safe to make his move.  Lack of marital problems or not I was about to give him that look, that all too well known signal, when I remembered the button, or rather the lack thereof. I had a momentary visual of him undressing me and then…  He thought me a “classy bird” to use his vernacular and so it just wouldn’t do.

So, I never did explain it to him and I never did find that flipping button.

JMC

The Van MEER Diamonds Part II

I am still aboard the old banana boat MV FFYEES and my new MI5 employers have gone ashore at the last port of call. Obeying my instructing to stay on board I looked around the cabin and was surprised to see that the small square parcel heavily wrapped was still sitting on the desk but now alongside it the fat envelope was open and stuffed with Dutch Guilders and a note telling me to go to112 Proveniersstraat and to be there at 2.30 pm. but under no circumstances to open the parcel. The boat arrived at Rotterdam and never having been before I obtained a map and cycled off to find my destination. 112 Proveniersstraat was a long street with old terraced Victorian type houses beside a canal. I located 112 but as it was only 2 pm. did not enter. Having had nothing to eat I made my way to a café on the other side of the canal and sat down outside. Looking across I had a good view of 112. About 2.15 a black car arrived and a tall man went up the 5 or 6 steps into the building. As it was getting near to 2.30 I finished my meal ready to cross the canal when I saw the same man hurry down the steps and was driven away. Parking my bike I went up the steps the door was open and as no one answered my call in I went  To my surprise sitting behind the desk was my employer but this time with a bullet hole in his head and the office had been turned upside down.

C G G

The Van MEER Diamonds

It was 1964 the year of the Beatles and I had just returned from an Art & cycle weekend in Amsterdam. The postman delivered a parcel and as I was not expecting any post I carefully checked the name and address, and saw it had been posted in Holland. This must be the parcel the proprietor of one of the Art Galleries had asked me to post but I had forgotten to bring it back with me. Inside were three items, two envelopes one thin the other fat, with a small square parcel heavily wrapped. I checked the outside wrapping again, name correct, address correct. Looking more carefully at the contents again, I saw written on the parcel do not open under any circumstance and on the fat envelope, only to be opened after further instruction. Turning to the thin envelope, inside I found instructions to go my with Passport for identification to the old docks. Intrigued by now I saw the address was MV FFYEES dock 2 and gathering up the other two items I left to cross London on my bicycle. Arriving at the docks I was directed to a small banana boat tied up at the end of the jetty where a man dressed in a heavy duffle coat was standing by the gangway. On my approach and offering him the parcel he said in an accent hard to understand lets see your Passport. A quick look and he then directed me up the gangway with my bicycle. At the top of the gangway stood another man a clone of the one at the bottom who on being offered the parcel directed me towards the stern muttering cabin 8. As I made my way, out of the corner of my eye I noticed the gangway being raised but not giving any more thought to it continued towards cabin 8. The door was open and a voice called out in a thick European accent come. On entering the cabin I was surprised to see an ordinary bloke in a suit sitting behind a desk with a secretary waiting to take notes. After I had sat down he shook hands and said in perfect English sorry about the cloak and dagger stuff. We have been testing you and would like to offer you a job.

That is how I came to work for MI5.

C G G

Bad Day at the Office

It was the day from hell.

At work I’d been given a load more responsibility with absolutely no more money for my hassles, and at home I’d come home to find my wife was leaving me for another man. Is it any wonder I lost my rag?! I know, I didn’t need to try and smash in the windscreen, but it helped work some of the stress of the situation out of my body. And there’s no doubting I felt a lot better afterwards, bruised and bloody knuckles apart.

I proceeded to get totally drunk that night, and was late for work the next morning; in fact I was still a little drunk. I sat at my desk, tapping away at the keyboard importantly. If anyone asked, I told them I was writing my report for the big meeting tomorrow – but if they’d bothered to look at the screen, all they would have seen was:

Fucking bitch.

Fucking fucking bitch.

Total bitch.

I’ll fucking kill her.

Wekewtpoe ke0tietsg;dskg reop gie[poe[ oe[were wroew p r]h 

And that’s the truth. Once I’d worked out my anger, I made a proper start on the report, only to be distracted by the new girl in the office. I couldn’t help it – she had a skirt up to her armpits, and a blouse open virtually to her belly button. I could see myself bending her over the desk and giving her one. It would be the perfect way to get over my bitch of a soon-to-be-ex-wife. There she would be with her ugly bastard new bloke, and me with a hot young woman. Then we’d see who was better off.

I did finally finish what I was supposed to be doing and plonked the ten page report on the boss’ desk well before 5 o’clock. Then I went over to the new girl and asked her out for a drink. She turned me down.

You can’t have everything though, can you?

Jonathan M

Malcolm Bonnington-Fiennes: Mountain Man

Early 1980s poor family, too many children, carless, no passports, seeks fun, fulfilling, family holiday for the price of a pack of firelighters. Replies on a postcard to Malcolm Bonnington-Fiennes, base camp SY22.

Our airmiles were rather paltry, our landmiles would have made Alan Wells look like a distance runner. Options were limited but my ever resourceful parents hit upon the holiday to end all holidays; it came in under budget and would only take a few days.

We were getting back to nature, we hadn’t actually left it as it was all we could afford. A few days enjoying simple pleasures, reconnecting with the environment, honing our survival skills is what the family required. We’d cook on a fire, sleep under canvas, whittle even.

I was sold on the idea immediately, Sarah, my older sister less so and younger sister Laura was still grappling with speech so her opinions could be a little difficult to read. Sarah was swiftly dispatched to a friend’s house as her tendency to cry before falling highlighted the fact that she hadn’t the mettle for this expedition and we didn’t need passengers in the badlands. It would just be the four of us, a good even number, watching each other's back, all pulling in the same direction.

Day One. Base camp was about eighteen miles from home, an inhospitable mountain with a huge waterfall. Imagine the Eiger with Niagara falling off the side. We enlisted the help of a native Sherpa called Gill to take us there and, having overloaded her aging Renault five with us and our gear, embarked. Always quick to grasp the concept, Laura initiated her perfunctory self-cleansing mechanism; a quick spew over us and our belongings would soon have us blending in with the smells of our surroundings. Genius. On reaching base camp we waved goodbye to the friendly native knowing that this was it, us against nature. Tents were erected with minimal fuss, after all we’d left Sarah behind.

Mountain man and I did a quick recce, gathered wood and located the toilets on the campsite.. sorry, dug a rudimentary latrine. After devouring our rations we came under attack, the natives had it in for us and were showing their displeasure with each bite. Luckily mountain woman had packed some insect repellant. This siege mentality brought us closer, a common enemy to fight against.

Day Two. Having weighed up the terrain, wind speed, precipitation and mars bar supply mountain man and I decided this was the time to push for the summit, any later and we would be staring disaster in the face. We couldn’t risk mountain woman and child eating before we got back so we looked at our compasses, because we had compasses, and off we went. After a gruelling six or seven minutes I was cruelly struck down, I pleaded with mountain man to go on without me. My toe was agonisingly painful, it had to be frostbite. Mountain man approached me with his Swiss Army knife, the toe was clearly going to be removed, maybe I could find some wood to bite down on. After gently removing my plimsole.. sorry Brasher walking boot, he shook the offending pebble out of the end and we thanked the gods for smiling upon us.

After climbing for maybe an hour we happened upon a crystal clear mountain stream, this is as pure as water gets and mountain man was straight in, gulping down all he could and filling his canteen. Aware of the dangers a mountain can hold I decided to forgo quenching my biting thirst and make sure we were safe. Mountain man ridiculed me for my safety first approach, he had a cruel streak but that single mindedness has made him one of the top mountaineers in our household. I could only dream that one day the ways of the mountain would be passed on to me, I imagined that on his deathbed something would seep from him and then I would know that I was now mountain man. We passed a sheep circling in a pool further upstream, the serenity of the animal was beguiling as if something spiritual was taking place. Mountain man wasn’t keen to look at it, a clash of energies maybe.

We made it to the summit under his guidance and with astonishing haste we headed back to base camp. Barely a word was spoken during the descent, the mark of a true mountaineer, overcome by the conquest he was struggling to keep his emotions in check. How I admired him.

Back at base camp I began to truly appreciate what this meant to mountain man; so overwhelmed he could take no part in our petty banter and silently refused food. This must have put him on a higher plain somehow and at one with the mountain.

Day Three. The agony of having conquered the mountain was now evident in every move of mountain man, he clutched his sides and roared at the latrine whilst dancing shamanically. We had to get back home, take him away from his nemesis to find peace. Mountain woman and child set off for the comms centre, a red rectangular box some miles away, from where she hoped Sherpa Gill could be summoned. I was left with strict instructions to ‘keep an eye on your dad’, mountain speak for ‘don’t let him out of your sight, he’s battling demons!’

As mountain man elect I stuck to the task, I could see what the future held for me. The pain etched on mountain man’s face was clear, i followed him, no easy task given his animal side seemed to have taken over. I could feel that something huge was happening, I was covering ground easily, keeping up with him, and then as I was perched high up on a rock I spotted him padding around in some bracken and clinging to an indistinct, white idol. Was he on his deathbed? Something was certainly seeping from him, roaring out of him to be precise.

We don’t talk of this. The power of the mountains is greater than us.

T McB