anywhere without my library card. It gives you access to a surprising number of places.”
We started with the filing cabinets but found nothing that was even remotely interesting.
But when we turned to the shelves my eyes fell on a big brown hardback book with an embossed design on the spine. My mum had something similar at home.
It was Mike’s scrapbook.
A load of newspaper cuttings were stuffed between the pages. When I pulled it from the shelf they fell out all over the floor.
The very first one I picked up was about Steve Harris: a short account of his accident. Graham read it over my shoulder.
It seemed that Steve had got stuck in a shower at the gym when the thermostat broke. Boiling water had poured down on him.
“You wouldn’t have thought that would kill anyone,” I said.
“He’d have suffered third-degree burns,” Graham informed me. “If more than a certain proportion of the total body surface is affected – fifty per cent, I think – there’s very little anyone can do. And it looks like he was burnt all over.”
“Euw!” I winced. “That would be it then. How horrible!”
The next cutting had a bit more information:
Steve Harris was a passionate climber, outdoor sports enthusiast and founder member of his university’s expeditionary society. After graduating, he took part in many field trips to remote regions of the world to research the impact of climate change. Two years ago he led a team of friends on an expedition to South America to study the effects of global warming on the glaciers of the Andes. The expedition ended in tragedy when one of the team members, Richard Robertson, died in a climbing accident.
“That must be the Richard Isabella mentioned!” I said. “We’ve found him.”
Graham was already unfolding another bit of newspaper. This one was yellowing at the edges and gave an account of the South American accident.
The group had been climbing above a glacier when a landslide had started.
“‘Richard Robertson was fatally struck on the head,’” I read out. “What does that mean exactly?”
“He was killed by a falling rock,” replied Graham.
I read the next line, took a sharp, shocked breath and clutched Graham’s arm. “Look what it says! I don’t believe it! He was roped to Mike!
Our
Mike!
This
Mike! And … oh my God!” My stomach gave a sickening squeeze. “Mike cut his rope!”
Graham continued reading. “He had to,” he said. “Look – it says, ‘Climbing conditions had deteriorated so rapidly that the rest of the party were in danger of falling’. Richard was dead already. Mike had no choice but to cut him loose to save the others.”
“The others…” I frowned. “Who else was there? What were their names? It doesn’t say.”
Graham unfolded the next cutting, which had a photograph of the expedition team before they set off. I recognized Mike and Donald. The caption said Steve Harris was the man standing behind them. But what was really odd was the smiling woman at the centre of the photo. Right beside the ill-fated Richard Robertson, her arm tightly around his waist, and smiling up at him with a look of purest devotion, was Isabella.
Things crashed inside my head like a small avalanche. Pacing up and down, I whispered my thoughts aloud, trying them out on Graham as they took shape.
“OK. So maybe Isabella was
Richard’s
girlfriend back then…”
“Richard’s girlfriend?” Graham said, blinking. “So why did she marry Mike?”
I thought of what had happened to my mum’s best friend after her husband had left her. There’d been a whole line of what Mum had called “unsuitable boyfriends”. Mum had said, “She’s on the rebound. People do strange things when they’re unhappy.” Had it been like that for Isabella?
“Well…” I said slowly. “Suppose Mike and Isabella were both really miserable after Richard died? Maybe they ended up sort of hanging onto each other for comfort – I don’t know. But I reckon
We started with the filing cabinets but found nothing that was even remotely interesting.
But when we turned to the shelves my eyes fell on a big brown hardback book with an embossed design on the spine. My mum had something similar at home.
It was Mike’s scrapbook.
A load of newspaper cuttings were stuffed between the pages. When I pulled it from the shelf they fell out all over the floor.
The very first one I picked up was about Steve Harris: a short account of his accident. Graham read it over my shoulder.
It seemed that Steve had got stuck in a shower at the gym when the thermostat broke. Boiling water had poured down on him.
“You wouldn’t have thought that would kill anyone,” I said.
“He’d have suffered third-degree burns,” Graham informed me. “If more than a certain proportion of the total body surface is affected – fifty per cent, I think – there’s very little anyone can do. And it looks like he was burnt all over.”
“Euw!” I winced. “That would be it then. How horrible!”
The next cutting had a bit more information:
Steve Harris was a passionate climber, outdoor sports enthusiast and founder member of his university’s expeditionary society. After graduating, he took part in many field trips to remote regions of the world to research the impact of climate change. Two years ago he led a team of friends on an expedition to South America to study the effects of global warming on the glaciers of the Andes. The expedition ended in tragedy when one of the team members, Richard Robertson, died in a climbing accident.
“That must be the Richard Isabella mentioned!” I said. “We’ve found him.”
Graham was already unfolding another bit of newspaper. This one was yellowing at the edges and gave an account of the South American accident.
The group had been climbing above a glacier when a landslide had started.
“‘Richard Robertson was fatally struck on the head,’” I read out. “What does that mean exactly?”
“He was killed by a falling rock,” replied Graham.
I read the next line, took a sharp, shocked breath and clutched Graham’s arm. “Look what it says! I don’t believe it! He was roped to Mike!
Our
Mike!
This
Mike! And … oh my God!” My stomach gave a sickening squeeze. “Mike cut his rope!”
Graham continued reading. “He had to,” he said. “Look – it says, ‘Climbing conditions had deteriorated so rapidly that the rest of the party were in danger of falling’. Richard was dead already. Mike had no choice but to cut him loose to save the others.”
“The others…” I frowned. “Who else was there? What were their names? It doesn’t say.”
Graham unfolded the next cutting, which had a photograph of the expedition team before they set off. I recognized Mike and Donald. The caption said Steve Harris was the man standing behind them. But what was really odd was the smiling woman at the centre of the photo. Right beside the ill-fated Richard Robertson, her arm tightly around his waist, and smiling up at him with a look of purest devotion, was Isabella.
Things crashed inside my head like a small avalanche. Pacing up and down, I whispered my thoughts aloud, trying them out on Graham as they took shape.
“OK. So maybe Isabella was
Richard’s
girlfriend back then…”
“Richard’s girlfriend?” Graham said, blinking. “So why did she marry Mike?”
I thought of what had happened to my mum’s best friend after her husband had left her. There’d been a whole line of what Mum had called “unsuitable boyfriends”. Mum had said, “She’s on the rebound. People do strange things when they’re unhappy.” Had it been like that for Isabella?
“Well…” I said slowly. “Suppose Mike and Isabella were both really miserable after Richard died? Maybe they ended up sort of hanging onto each other for comfort – I don’t know. But I reckon
Similar Books
