The Blame Game. C.J. Cooke

you were gone for ages. I was out of my mind … I was absolutely beside myself, Michael. Did you catch up with him?’

      He rubbed his eyes, stifled a yawn. ‘I followed him into the trees and then I turned back. I got a bit lost, though. Luckily I saw the lights from the bay through the trees and followed them home.’

      I gasped. ‘You were in the rainforest?’

      He was tired, keen to shrug off the memory of it. ‘It was pitch black. Couldn’t see a thing. One minute I was on the road and the next I was surrounded by trees and frigging monkeys.’

      I studied his face. He looked amused by the memory of being surrounded by monkeys, not bothered at all by the fact that he went racing out after a suspected intruder.

      ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, deciding that I had somehow got it all wrong. I’d let my paranoia get to me. ‘But … you really didn’t see who it was?’

      He gulped back a glass of water. ‘That’s what I said.’

      ‘But who could it have been?’ I said. ‘Why would someone have been outside?’

      ‘Are you sure it was someone?’ Michael said, and I did a double take.

      ‘You saw him, Michael. You went after him …’

      ‘I was half asleep. I spent an hour walking in circles in the bloody jungle.’

      And there it was again, the edge of guilt against my skin. I looked down, ashamed. ‘Sorry. I think we were both possibly being paranoid.’

      ‘Both of us?’ he sniped back.

      I fell silent. I had been absolutely sure that I had seen a dark figure, a man moving through the garden and up the bank, but just then doubt slipped in, like a lie sliding inside a truth.

      ‘Let’s just go to bed,’ he said, rubbing his face. ‘We’ve got a long drive back to the airport tomorrow.’

      No one is happy when we shut the door on the beach hut for the last time. Reuben has his headphones on but is clicking his fingers and stamping his feet in the way he does when he’s particularly stressed. Saskia is long-faced and holds Jack-Jack extra tight.

      ‘Maybe we can come back next year,’ Michael says cheerily, though I catch his eye and give a small shake of my head as if to say, let’s not make promises we can’t keep. I have no idea how we’ve afforded this trip, never mind how we could possibly afford round two in a year’s time. We’re still paying off Reuben’s iPad, for crying out loud.

      We spend the first hour of the drive to the airport in a gloomy silence. In reflection of our mood it starts to rain, and before long it’s coming down in great sweeping chains. The air feels cooler, which is no bad thing. Grey cloud spreads out across the sky. It’s been blue skies and belting heat for six weeks straight. Saskia decides she needs to wee every four minutes, so we pull over for the dozenth time and let her go at the side of the road.

      ‘I’ll drive for a bit,’ I tell Michael as he heads back to the driver’s side. ‘You have a nap.’ I’m not completely comfortable driving on the wrong side of the road but I feel guilty at the dark circles under his eyes.

      The kids settle down in the backseat, Saskia holding Jack-Jack tightly and looking mournfully out the window, Reuben plugged into his iPad. Michael folds his arms and leans his head against the window. I find a British radio channel and turn the volume just enough to hear. Enjoy the lack of traffic, I tell myself, forcing optimism. It’ll be bumper-to-bumper when you get back home.

      About an hour into the journey a white van appears as we approach a bend, moving at high speed along the road towards us. Instinctively I press the brake as I reach the curve of the road. The van draws closer. It appears to be speeding up. Odd, I think. And dangerous. Why speed up on a bend, especially when the road is wet?

      At the very last moment, the van veers sharply into our lane, two tyres lifting off the tarmac as it swerves and plunges straight into us.

      There is no time to react.

      An explosion of metal slamming into metal, the sound of tyres screeching like a wounded animal, the air slashed by screams. An airbag explodes in my face and the car careens wildly, glass shards whipping through the air.

       5

       Michael

      14th June 1995

      The minute I finish my exams I get the cheapest flight I can out of Heathrow. Luke and Theo are already gone – their parents got them first class tickets. I buy the most sophisticated climbing equipment I can squeeze into my tatty rucksack: shorts, T-shirt, hiking pants, sleeping bag and dry bag, tent and stakes, crampons, stove, towel, light, cutlery, thermometer, thermos, Swiss Army knife, rain gear, balaclava, goggles, sandals, granola bars, noodle packets, Chapstick, headlamp, first aid kit, ice axe, carabiners, prusiks, harnesses, rope, flask, and my lucky bear claw.

      I expected Chamonix to be a campsite. Instead the bus pulls up to a charming Alpine village with hotels, B&Bs, shops, restaurants with verandas and parasols, right in the crease of a mountain range. It’s pretty mind-blowing here, like being on another planet. All around me are unimaginably tall, jagged peaks, like the spine of a massive dinosaur. I stand in the middle of the street looking up at them, awe-struck. They’re so tall I suddenly feel scared. Ben Nevis didn’t look this big. That’s because it isn’t, you moron, I tell myself. Mont Blanc is fifteen frickin’ thousand feet tall. It takes me a moment to spot her, and then there she is: the almost-perfect triangle at the very top of the massif.

      I dump my bags at the youth hostel and set about scavenging for grub.

      I head into the pub and lo, Luke and Theo are standing right in front of me with a couple of beers. I can tell who’s who by the choice of outfit. Luke’s dressed like the eighties vomited all over him. Neon pink leggings, white leg-warmers, a Bon Jovi T-shirt and blue goggles over a black bandana. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s wearing a leopard-print thong. Theo’s dressed like he’s recruiting for the SAS: khaki everything, even the boots. A girl is with them. She must be Luke’s girlfriend, Helen.

      When Theo catches sight of me he leaves the table and walks quickly towards me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and effectively spinning me the whole way around.

      ‘Hey,’ he says, nudging us to a table on the other side of the pub.

      ‘Theo, can you get off me,’ I say, breaking free. I glance over at Luke who is deliberately avoiding eye contact. ‘What’s all this about?’

      He sighs, puts his hands on his hips. ‘Look, I know you had a problem with Luke’s girlfriend coming on this trip. I just want you to … stay calm, you know?’

      ‘I am calm. I’m as calm as a cucumber patch.’

      He tilts his chin. ‘You being sarcastic?’

      He hates it when I rip the piss out of him. ‘What are you, his bodyguard?’

      I catch Luke glancing over to check out my reaction. Theo takes out a pack of cigarettes.

      ‘Smoke?’

      I shake my head.

      ‘Go on, have one.’

      I relent with a sigh. He lights it for me, sits down and invites me to join him. I won’t, so he stands.

      I met Luke and Theo two years ago, when we starting a degree in Medieval Literature at Oxford University. They’re twins, both six foot two, blonde rugby-playing public schoolboys who scored straight As in their exams. Both on a full-ride scholarship. Not that they need it; their folks made a fortune in the tech boom in France. They’re identical twins but you can tell them apart. Theo wears glasses, has recently grown a Musketeer moustache, and his personal