“I’ll pull you up. Have you ever abseiled?”
“Once,” she said, her voice hoarse with tension.
She couldn’t admit that it had been in the controlled environment of an indoor climbing school, the distance similar but considerably less terrifying.
At the same time she guessed he’d summed up the terror in her eyes.
“Okay. I’ll go first. I’ll tie your bag to the end. When you see the line drop down, loop it around your waist and put your arms through like this.”
He demonstrated briefly.
“Brace your feet against the rock as if you were abseiling. Yank three times – hard – and I’ll bring you up.”
He didn’t wait to see if she’d understood his instructions.
Paralysed, she watched him tie the rope through the handles of her grab bag and begin to scale the cliff. He climbed effortlessly, his hands and feet finding invisible holds, muscles working easily. He was soon out of sight, merging into the rocks. All she could hear was the sudden cascade of grit as his fingers dislodged pebbles.
She felt utterly alone.
Helene’s senses, frozen with cold, gradually began to unthaw and she looked around her. She knew they’d headed west because she’d seen the flare of lights from Penzance on her right. In the distance she could see a lighthouse blinking. She guessed it was the Longships Lighthouse which meant they must be near Land’s End. In which case this was probably one of several smugglers’ coves on this stretch of coast: easy to access from the sea, with a sandy, softly shelving beach and any number of caves in which loot could be stored. The only access from land was by rope. And now the RIB was history, her only escape was above.
At length she heard the nylon line snaking softly down the cliff and felt hugely relieved despite her fear of the climb ahead. With trembling, uncooperative fingers, she passed the knots around her waist as he’d shown her and tugged hard three times. Leaning backwards she tried to breathe deeply, quelling the terror that welled up.
She felt the rope tighten suddenly and slowly she began to rise up the cliff, her dead weight hanging in his hands. The rock was greasy with spume and moss beneath her feet and her wet trainers slipped repeatedly. A sharp piece of granite jabbed her shoulder and she grazed her hands trying to steady herself. She tasted blood as she bit the inside of her lip.
He continued to pull steadily. The rope bit through the thin cotton of her jacket, rubbing raw a patch of skin behind each arm. Soon it was agony and perspiration began to run down her face. She didn’t dare take a hand off the rope again, so the sweat stung her eyes.
When she saw the lip of the cliff silhouetted against the lighter night sky, she hooked a leg up as high as she could and clawed her way onto a smooth, grassy bank. She lay gasping like a landed fish. Seconds passed before she could squeeze open an eye: he was looking down at her, smiling slightly.
Every muscle ached: her hip and back were protesting at the rough usage and Helene felt every one of her fifty-plus years – more, if the truth be told. She knew from bitter experience that she’d be stiff as a post by morning.
She didn’t allow for the fact that most people, when faced with a midnight race, sea race and cliff climb, would be equally if not more fatigued. Helene had never been able to help but whip herself with a caustic sense of her own inferiority.
“Are you okay to move?”
What a stupid question. She doubted she’d ever be able to move again.
“Time to go.”
He loped off with her grab bag and she had no choice but to force herself to her knees and crawl after him.
Dear God, she thought, as she clawed her way across the tussocky grass; if I ever get through this alive I shall never bitch about my Pilates class ever again.
She raised herself painfully to a standing position and stumbled clumsily, trying to avoid any rabbit holes. If she broke an ankle now he’d probably toss her back
“Once,” she said, her voice hoarse with tension.
She couldn’t admit that it had been in the controlled environment of an indoor climbing school, the distance similar but considerably less terrifying.
At the same time she guessed he’d summed up the terror in her eyes.
“Okay. I’ll go first. I’ll tie your bag to the end. When you see the line drop down, loop it around your waist and put your arms through like this.”
He demonstrated briefly.
“Brace your feet against the rock as if you were abseiling. Yank three times – hard – and I’ll bring you up.”
He didn’t wait to see if she’d understood his instructions.
Paralysed, she watched him tie the rope through the handles of her grab bag and begin to scale the cliff. He climbed effortlessly, his hands and feet finding invisible holds, muscles working easily. He was soon out of sight, merging into the rocks. All she could hear was the sudden cascade of grit as his fingers dislodged pebbles.
She felt utterly alone.
Helene’s senses, frozen with cold, gradually began to unthaw and she looked around her. She knew they’d headed west because she’d seen the flare of lights from Penzance on her right. In the distance she could see a lighthouse blinking. She guessed it was the Longships Lighthouse which meant they must be near Land’s End. In which case this was probably one of several smugglers’ coves on this stretch of coast: easy to access from the sea, with a sandy, softly shelving beach and any number of caves in which loot could be stored. The only access from land was by rope. And now the RIB was history, her only escape was above.
At length she heard the nylon line snaking softly down the cliff and felt hugely relieved despite her fear of the climb ahead. With trembling, uncooperative fingers, she passed the knots around her waist as he’d shown her and tugged hard three times. Leaning backwards she tried to breathe deeply, quelling the terror that welled up.
She felt the rope tighten suddenly and slowly she began to rise up the cliff, her dead weight hanging in his hands. The rock was greasy with spume and moss beneath her feet and her wet trainers slipped repeatedly. A sharp piece of granite jabbed her shoulder and she grazed her hands trying to steady herself. She tasted blood as she bit the inside of her lip.
He continued to pull steadily. The rope bit through the thin cotton of her jacket, rubbing raw a patch of skin behind each arm. Soon it was agony and perspiration began to run down her face. She didn’t dare take a hand off the rope again, so the sweat stung her eyes.
When she saw the lip of the cliff silhouetted against the lighter night sky, she hooked a leg up as high as she could and clawed her way onto a smooth, grassy bank. She lay gasping like a landed fish. Seconds passed before she could squeeze open an eye: he was looking down at her, smiling slightly.
Every muscle ached: her hip and back were protesting at the rough usage and Helene felt every one of her fifty-plus years – more, if the truth be told. She knew from bitter experience that she’d be stiff as a post by morning.
She didn’t allow for the fact that most people, when faced with a midnight race, sea race and cliff climb, would be equally if not more fatigued. Helene had never been able to help but whip herself with a caustic sense of her own inferiority.
“Are you okay to move?”
What a stupid question. She doubted she’d ever be able to move again.
“Time to go.”
He loped off with her grab bag and she had no choice but to force herself to her knees and crawl after him.
Dear God, she thought, as she clawed her way across the tussocky grass; if I ever get through this alive I shall never bitch about my Pilates class ever again.
She raised herself painfully to a standing position and stumbled clumsily, trying to avoid any rabbit holes. If she broke an ankle now he’d probably toss her back
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