White. Rosie Thomas

for two months. ‘You heading up for some climbing?’ he asked the blond in a friendly voice.

      ‘Yeah, man.’

      ‘What’re you planning?’

      ‘The big one. Everest.’

      Sam gave a soundless, admiring whistle. ‘Is that right? I envy you. You all going?’

      ‘It’s a commercial expedition. Six clients, or five if you don’t count the chick medic. Two guides, Ken here and another guy. The boss is out here this trip as Base Camp manager. He’s climbed the hill twice himself. I work for the company, supplies and communications manager, but I’m kind of hoping to get a shot at the summit. Have to see how things pan out, though.’

      ‘Ahuh. Sounds good.’

      ‘You climbing? My name’s Adam Vries, by the way.’

      ‘Sam McGrath. Not this time,’ Sam said cautiously. He didn’t want to exclude himself from the company that included Finch.

      ‘Pity. Want some of this?’ He held up a jug of beer and Sam nudged his glass across. Adam filled it up for him.

      ‘Thanks. So, where’re you from?’

      Adam named a little town in Connecticut but said that he spent most of his teenage years in Geneva. Under the careful pressure of Sam’s questions he hitched his boot on the rung of a chair, locked his hands behind his head and talked about climbing in the Alps. His fine, slightly girlish features lit up with passion as he reminisced about the big faces of the Eiger and Mont Blanc, and Sam found his initial antipathy melting away. Even though he had dismissed Finch as the chick medic, this was a nice guy. For a climber, he was an exceptionally nice guy.

      In turn, Adam extracted from Sam the details of his own mountain history. He shook his head disparagingly. ‘Man, that’s tough. But you can still climb, can’t you? Without your old man, I mean.’

      ‘I suppose I could.’

      He had merged into the group now. The two British expedition members had introduced themselves as Mark Mason and Hugh Rix – ‘Just call me Rix,’ the blunt-faced man insisted – and Ken Kennedy stretched out a hand and shook Sam’s. His grip was like a juice presser.

      The jug of beer was filled and refilled, and the level of noise and laughter rose.

      ‘What are you doing in Kathmandu?’ Rix demanded in his loud voice.

      ‘Just travelling. Taking a break from the world.’

      ‘Sounds like a waste of good climbing time to me.’

      Sam laughed. ‘Could be. Do you reckon you’re going to get to the top?’ With Finch to treat your frostnip and your constipation, and monitor you for oedema on the way, you bullet-headed bastard?

      Rix leaned forward. He was red-faced with beer and the drink made his Yorkshire accent even more pronounced. He put his big, meaty hands flat on the table. ‘Listen up. I know what people say. The old brigade of professional climbers who had bugger all in their back pockets and that mountain in their dreams, who clawed their way to the summit or died in the doing. I know they say the South Col route is a yak track and that any fat fucker with fifty grand to spare can get himself hauled up there if he can be bothered to go to the gym twice a week for a couple of months beforehand. They claim that Everest’s been turned into an adventure playground for software salesmen by the commercial companies dragging along anyone who can pay the money.

      ‘And that may well be true, mate. All I know is that I’ve dreamed of standing on that peak since I was a snotty kid at home in Halifax. I’ve climbed Makalu and Cho Oyu and Aconcagua, and enough peaks in the Alps, and I’m still as hungry for Everest as I was when I was a lad. I was out here this time last year and I got turned back by the weather at 25,000 feet. But I’ve made my money and this is the way I choose to spend it, and no bugger’s going to stop me. I’ll climb the hill. It’s not a question for me.’

      ‘No,’ Sam said thoughtfully.

      Adam was three-quarters drunk now. He propped his blond head against the wall. ‘Rix’s right. I know it. I know that feeling. Ever since I started, from the first climb, it’s what I’ve existed to do. It’s been the focus of my life. Every time I reach the summit of a new mountain I know no one can take that away from me. It’s concrete. Like, there it is. Mine. And you know’ – he waved his hand along the group around the two tables – ‘there’s this family. If you’re some Yank kid lost in a Swiss school where you can’t even talk to the class losers let alone the cool kids, and your old man’s always travelling and your mom goes shopping, you can go climbing and you find people who’ll be with you. You’re in the mountains and you’re not lonely any more. It’s …’ His head rolled and his eyes drifted shut. ‘Hey, I am wasted … it’s everything you need in the world.’

      There was a small silence, then Adam’s eyes snapped open again. ‘You know what I’m saying, man. You climb yourself.’

      Seven pairs of eyes looked at the newcomer.

      ‘Yes,’ Sam said.

      Much later, by the time the bar was closing, everyone except Ken Kennedy was drunk. ‘Come on, the lot of you. Get to your beds,’ he ordered.

      Adam and Sam made their way unsteadily down the stairs together, Adam’s arm looped over Sam’s shoulder.

      When the thick-scented air hit them they staggered a little and Adam coughed with laughter. ‘Need a scotch to settle my gut after all that beer. You coming back to the hotel for one more?’

      Even with his head spinning, and his ears and tongue clogged with the dull wadding of jet lag, Sam was just able to work out that it wouldn’t be clever to present himself at the Buddha’s Garden in this condition and risk bumping into Finch.

      ‘Nope. But I’ll come by tomorrow and see you.’

      ‘Don’t make it too early,’ Adam groaned.

      It was past noon when he strolled back through the leafy garden. The strong sunlight laid wedges of indigo-blue shadow under the trees. Sam had slept for ten hours, then dressed in a clean white shirt and pressed chinos. He was not going anywhere or doing anything else until he had tracked down Finch Buchanan and made her promise to have dinner with him.

      In the lobby Ken Kennedy was sitting under a ceiling fan with a balding man Sam didn’t recognise. They were frowning over a sheaf of papers and Sam passed by without interrupting them. The desk clerk gave Sam Adam’s room number and pointed to the stairs. Sam ran up two shallow flights and found the number he was looking for. He knocked on the door and was greeted by a wordless mumble that he took as an invitation to come in.

      Adam was lying on a disordered bed, naked except for a pair of shorts. One limp arm hung over the mattress edge, the other shaded his eyes from the dim light filtering through the closed shutters. ‘Uh, it’s you.’

      ‘What’s up?’

      ‘God knows. I’ve never puked or shat so much in my life. Can’t just be the beer.’

      ‘That’s rough. Can I get you anything?’

      ‘How about a gun to put to my head? Jesus.’

      Adam hauled himself half upright and vomited a couple of greenish mouthfuls into an enamel basin. Sam grimaced and tried to look in the other direction while Adam spat and then sank back on the pillow. ‘You could go down to the bar and get me a couple of bottles of water. Room service doesn’t do much in this place.’

      ‘Sure,’ Sam said.

      It took ten minutes to locate a barman, pay for the mineral water and make his way back to Adam’s room. This time he opened the door without bothering to knock.

      Finch was standing with her back to him, staring at her watch and holding Adam’s wrist loosely in her hand. After another five seconds she finished counting and turned her head to see the intruder. She was