All That Is Lost Between Us (12 page)

Eventually, he had re-started the car and changed direction, determined to traverse a fell that day, hoping that somewhere amid a panoramic view he might find a clearer perspective on things. He needed a challenge, a sense of accomplishment, and there was only one place for it: Bowfell.

He was grateful he kept boots and jacket in the car for rescues, so he didn't have to go home. After a quick supermarket stop it took about twenty minutes to reach the car park at Dungeon Ghyll, which was more than half full despite the early hour. It was a good sign. Bowfell wasn't for the inexperienced or inattentive rambler; it was one of the longest fell walks in the Lakes, so important to set off early. Callum had lost count of the number of rescue team call-outs from people who hadn't managed to navigate off the crags before nightfall. Challenging enough by day, the rocky outcrops and steep scree slopes were highly dangerous in poor visibility.

He looked up at Crinkle Crags in the distance, the mini rollercoaster of peaks that marked the way to the Bowfell summit. It was one of those early spring days, the sky a promising backdrop of cornflower blue, but the sun still too insipid to warm the air. From this distance, the view was a picture postcard, but in a few hours he would be up there, and those sleek-looking crags would have transformed into a complex scramble of rocky inclines and gullies, while the place he stood now, with the hotel and fields close by, would all be recast in miniature.

As Callum set off, his breath formed mist clouds that floated and fell along with the rhythm of his feet on the gravel track. With each exhale he felt his head clearing, his body relaxing, the cares of the day drifting away. The fells had always had this effect on him. He had lived his whole life close to these perennial peaks and valleys, and long felt that strange, perpetual pull they demanded of man, to conquer the breadth and width of them with nothing more than singular strength, stamina and resourcefulness. Their presence could ease his soul beyond the limits of his skin, gathering him into the landscape. A few hours into a climb and Callum always reached a place beyond the realm of time, where there was just the pumping rush of oxygen, the next handhold, the next footfall.

He couldn't wait to get going. He strode easily along the first long section of the track, surefooted and determined. Across the gentle green ascent, the path meandered ever upwards, disappearing towards the summit. In the distance, beyond the crags, he could just see the broad shoulders of Bowfell. The view hadn't changed in his lifetime, making it easy to remember coming here as a child, still young enough to ride on his father's shoulders.

Callum's father had introduced his sons to Wainwright's definitive books on fell-walking early in their lives, and Callum appreciated Wainwright's encouragement for the solitary walker. On this walk it was soon clear he was in the minority, for he began to overtake small groups marching confidently along the flat paths towards the first slopes, and saw one much larger walking party in the distance. You had to go off the beaten track nowadays to find a truly solitary spot. The sheer scope of the Lake District, the steadfast backdrop of soaring peaks, hid myriad small changes among its slopes and valleys. The influx of tourists, the erosion, the problems with phosphates and algae, the mining waste, they were all playing their part in changing the landscape. The mere mention of fracking – despite political promises of ‘exceptional circumstances only' – was terrifying. Change was inevitable, and Callum only hoped it wouldn't be in his lifetime. These pristine panoramas might suggest that some things could defy time, but even the mighty fells couldn't avoid it forever.

Amid these sobering thoughts, Callum was vaguely aware of other voices fading in and out, but for the most part only the spirit of his father kept him company. Although he and Liam had often grumbled and bickered their way to Lakeland summits as teenagers, ultimately their father had bequeathed his love of the fells to them both. It was one of those precious gifts that was only recognised in hindsight.

Was he passing on his passions to his own children, Callum wondered. He hoped Georgia would keep up with her running, but she seemed determined to go to a big, dirty city university. And Zac was besotted by flashing screens in darkened rooms, which Callum found hard to bear. In truth, nowadays he felt like a spare part within the family. His attempts at being useful only irritated his wife, and his voice was as interesting to his kids as static noise. It was far better to be at the rescue station, where he was so obviously needed.

He wasn't just struggling at home. It was getting increasingly difficult to spend time dealing with cranky clients in an office that was either freezing or overheated thanks to the temperature zealots among the staff. He would breathe in recycled air and dream of the outdoors.

He thought Anya would back him if he wanted to take a risk – her work would cover the mortgage, and there was enough money left in her inheritance to pay for the kids' schooling. Still, he struggled with the idea of his wife supporting the family while he dithered on a career change. He could already hear Liam's jokes about him being a ‘kept man'. Besides, the most satisfying thing he did was his work with the rescue unit, and those positions were a hundred per cent volunteer.

No answers came to him, and yet the air seemed to get easier to breathe as he steadily climbed higher. It took two hours to reach the beginning of the ridge walk, and from that point his experience meant he began to catch up and pass more and more groups, often leaving them with a few words of advice about the route, particularly negotiating the perilous rock formations of the step and the slab. The rock-strewn ridges were a challenge for the inexperienced, but Callum made it past all five of the crinkle crags in a couple of hours – resting by the three tarns and watching the clouds' reflections rolling across their languid waters, before he turned his attention to the summit of Bowfell.

He was making his way along the section known as Climber's Traverse when he heard a shout. He had been treading confidently, despite the fact this stretch of track pinioned walkers to the hillside with a steep slope that dropped off immediately from the narrow footpath's outer edge into a deep and rocky ravine.

He stopped and listened. There was another short cry for help, a high note of anguish that urged Callum into a jog.

He expected to find the caller beyond a dip in the path, and was surprised when no one was there. ‘Hello?' he called to the empty panorama, his voice a lingering echo across the void.

‘Over here, quickly, please . . .' came a man's voice, surprisingly close. Callum got down on his hands and knees and crawled to the edge, aware that if someone had already fallen, then the ground might be loose. Peering down, he found himself staring at a stricken face a few metres below him. The man was perched precariously on a boulder that formed a small ledge, and had found handholds among a few patches of heather.

‘My son, my son.' The man was desperately trying to catch his breath. ‘He slipped and disappeared, and I can't find a way down to him. I've been calling but there's no response. Oh God, please help me.'

Callum quickly suppressed his fear – there wasn't time. The man was visibly distraught, his own situation now as precarious as his son's. Callum got to his knees and pulled his phone from his pocket, praying there would be coverage here. When he saw one bar on the screen he breathed a sigh of relief. He dialled Les Pickering, cutting off Les's greeting.

‘Les, I'm on Climber's Traverse near the scarp of Bowfell, in view of the buttress. I have a distressed father here whose son has fallen from the path. The boy isn't visible. The dad has tried to climb down and now he's stuck on a ledge. We need immediate assistance.'

‘I'm on it, Cal – I'll get your position from your phone.' There was no need to say more, they both knew the drill.

‘What's your name?' Callum asked quickly, searching around for anything that might help the man get off the ledge.

‘Mike – Mike McCallister.' The man's teeth were chattering. ‘Please, find my son.'

‘Help is on the way, Mike. Now I need to make sure you're safe.'

‘No, please, I can wait – find Hugh—'

‘Mike, if you fall from there you'll be no help to Hugh at all.'

A middle-aged couple came into view, picking their way across the rocks. Callum rushed to meet them. ‘Do you have a rope?' he asked, knowing the answer before they shook their heads. ‘Then, can I borrow your jackets? There's a bloke in trouble over there.' They immediately stripped off their coats. Callum grabbed them and said, ‘Follow me.'

‘How are you doing, Mike?' he called as he got back.

‘I don't know how much longer I can hold on.' Mike's voice was faint.

Callum took off his own jacket and then knelt on the ground. He was trying to figure out how to tie the clothing together when two more figures appeared, running along the path. Callum's spirits rose as they neared and he saw what they were holding.

‘We were about to start climbing the buttress,' the first man said, holding out the rope. ‘We heard a cry, so we hurried back.'

Each man had a rope. Callum tied the first one around himself and abseiled down next to Mike as the other men worked as a team to steady him. Then he secured the second rope to Mike, and watched as they pulled him up.

By the time they had winched Callum back to the footpath, Mike had scrabbled forward on all fours and was peering over the edge, yelling his son's name. Callum held on tightly to the rope that was still around Mike's waist, in case he took another plunge. He could feel his own throat swell at the panic and despair in Mike's voice.

When Mike stopped for a moment, Callum took a chance and knelt beside him, putting his arms around the man's shoulders. ‘Listen,' he insisted.

In the distance they could hear the chugging sounds of whirring rotor blades, closing fast. The Air Ambulance flew low over their heads, dipping into the valley, circling around and coming to hover close enough that most of the group kept their hands over their ears.

The helicopter was motionless for an unbearably long time as a team member was lowered alongside a stretcher. When they were winched back up, Callum watched Mike raise his head as his gaze followed the helicopter higher and higher, shading his eyes to see.

‘How do we know if he's okay?' he asked, dazed, once the helicopter was out of sight.

‘Come on,' Callum said, coaxing him along the narrow path. ‘We need to go now.' They said hasty goodbyes to the pale, shocked members of the rescue party and began to pick their way over the rocky terrain. When his mobile rang, Callum answered with his heart pounding. ‘Les, what do you know?'

‘The boy is alive, but badly injured.'

‘He's alive,' Callum said to Mike. ‘But he's been hurt. Let's get you back down as quickly as we can, and take you to your son.'

They had descended the fastest way Callum knew, to the closest spot accessible by four-wheel drive. For the final section of the journey they were joined by some of Callum's colleagues from the rescue team, who escorted them to a vehicle. Callum had eventually left Mike in the emergency department of the Royal Lancaster, coming to terms with the news of his son's multiple fractures. He hadn't thought he would see Mike McCallister again, let alone that this man would be one of the catalysts that would lead him into this perilous situation with Danielle. But now, as he enters the same hospital in search of his niece, Callum wonders if his life would have been any different today if he had played no part in the rescue of Mike and Hugh McCallister.

T
here is a steady routine in counselling that never succumbs to monotony. I have four or five sessions a day with students who either request to see me or who have been referred by teachers. Some only come for a week or two. Once they have got whatever it is off their chest they are able to forget about it and move on. Others stay for longer, or may dip in and out of my professional life.

Initial sessions are always full of conversation – the general impression of teenagers as monosyllabic grouches is largely unfair. Nine times out of ten they are eager to talk, open to understanding and considering the world around them, and, most of all, anxious to fit in, to find a place in their school or home life where they feel comfortable and accepted. The first sessions are often the easiest, as we identify and discuss the problems to hand. Where we go from there gets more complicated. I am constantly reassessing the impact of my methods as I try to help students address problems without unwittingly interfering. Some of them lay issues at my feet like offerings, as though I am some eastern deity who might vouchsafe their future protection if they are humble and beseeching enough. They tend to go through a period of disappointment when they realise that counselling is not direct intervention – and while some of them leave disgruntled and don't return, I always follow up. Generally I find that this realisation gave them the kick-start they needed to work on their own ways of dealing with things. Others continue to explore their problems with me, and it isn't always easy to predict who will make great strides forward and who will stagnate.

By lunchtime I've completed three scheduled appointments, continually reining in my frustration when all anyone wants to talk about is last night's hit-and-run. It's understandable – I can't stop thinking about it either – but by the time I have fielded umpteen questions about Sophia and Georgia and exactly what happened, it becomes a struggle to focus these kids back on their own problems. My mind is determined to drift today, and I have found myself reliving snapshots of the past twenty-four hours, analysing everything.

As usual, Georgia had told me very little as she headed out last night. Should I have questioned her in greater detail about where she was going and with whom? Then there was the way that boy, Danny, had held her so tenderly after the accident. Something is going on between them, surely.