reaches for her backpack and hauls it back onto her shoulders. “Come on, they’re expecting us.”
Daisy squeals and hurries after her as she makes her way down the track. I wait for Al to catch up. She slips Shankar’s rucksack off her shoulders and hands it to him. He slips it on effortlessly.
“Thank you.” She holds out her right hand. “I couldn’t have made it up here without your help.”
Shankar shakes her hand while simultaneously touching his left hand against his right forearm as a sign of respect. “No problem, miss.”
“For you.” Al reaches into her pocket and pulls out a hundred rupee note. “Please.” She presses it into his hand.
He accepts the money with a smile and tucks it into the little leather wallet attached to his belt, then turns to go back down the mountain.
“You’ll come in?” I say. “The least we can do is offer you a sandwich and a cup of chai. I’m sure the owners won’t mind.”
The smile slips from his face. “No, thank you.”
“Please, you can’t walk all the way back down again without a break. It wouldn’t be right.”
His gaze flicks to the left, to the retreat at the end of the track. “No.” An emotion I can’t read flickers across his face, and then it’s gone.
“But …” The words fall away as Shankar turns on his heel and, without another word, starts back down the mountain.
“Emma, Al, come on!” the girls shout from below us.
A tall man with shoulder-length black hair, wearing cut-off camouflage trousers and a grey long-sleeved T-shirt, is standing beside them, holding the gate open.
“Hi,” the man shouts, raising a hand in greeting. “I’m Isaac.”
Chapter 10
Present Day
Sheila sent me home, no questions asked. She heard me throwing up in the ladies’ loo and immediately diagnosed me as suffering from an upset tummy. She didn’t even give me the opportunity to object.
“I saw you nibbling the corner of that sandwich and I knew something was wrong. It’s not like you not to have an appetite. Get yourself home, Jane. We don’t want to risk you passing it on to everyone else. We’re short-staffed as it is.”
I think she would have driven me home herself if I hadn’t pointed out that I had my bicycle with me. No point driving me home when I only live a five-minute cycle away and it’s all downhill.
That was two hours ago. I’ve spent the last thirty minutes sitting in front of my laptop. I thought it would be harder to find Al. I thought that, after five years, she’d be impossible to track down, but, unlike me, she hasn’t changed her name. She’s even got a Facebook profile. Alexandra Gideon. There were only three listed and two of them live in the States. Her cover image is of Brighton seafront and the profile picture’s a rainbow, and that’s it, that’s all the information I’ve got to go on, but I know it’s her. She always said she wanted to leave London and move to Brighton.
It’s been four years since we last spoke. We kept in touch for the first few months after we got back from Nepal, talking on the phone every day, trying to make sense of what had happened, but then Al sold her story to the press and everything changed. I couldn’t understand why she’d done it. I called her, over and over again, begging her to explain why she’d gone back on what we’d agreed, but she ignored my calls. I don’t know if it was the money or the attention or what, but it was the worst kind of betrayal, especially after everything we’d been through.
I hold down the delete button and the cursor zips from right to left, swallowing the message I’ve been trying to compose for the last half an hour. I start again:
Al, it’s me.
No. I created this Facebook account as Jane Hughes, and she won’t know who that is.
Al, it’s Emma. I know you probably don’t want to talk to me, but I need your help.
I delete the last sentence.
Al, it’s Emma. I think Daisy’s still alive. Please contact me. Here’s my
Daisy squeals and hurries after her as she makes her way down the track. I wait for Al to catch up. She slips Shankar’s rucksack off her shoulders and hands it to him. He slips it on effortlessly.
“Thank you.” She holds out her right hand. “I couldn’t have made it up here without your help.”
Shankar shakes her hand while simultaneously touching his left hand against his right forearm as a sign of respect. “No problem, miss.”
“For you.” Al reaches into her pocket and pulls out a hundred rupee note. “Please.” She presses it into his hand.
He accepts the money with a smile and tucks it into the little leather wallet attached to his belt, then turns to go back down the mountain.
“You’ll come in?” I say. “The least we can do is offer you a sandwich and a cup of chai. I’m sure the owners won’t mind.”
The smile slips from his face. “No, thank you.”
“Please, you can’t walk all the way back down again without a break. It wouldn’t be right.”
His gaze flicks to the left, to the retreat at the end of the track. “No.” An emotion I can’t read flickers across his face, and then it’s gone.
“But …” The words fall away as Shankar turns on his heel and, without another word, starts back down the mountain.
“Emma, Al, come on!” the girls shout from below us.
A tall man with shoulder-length black hair, wearing cut-off camouflage trousers and a grey long-sleeved T-shirt, is standing beside them, holding the gate open.
“Hi,” the man shouts, raising a hand in greeting. “I’m Isaac.”
Chapter 10
Present Day
Sheila sent me home, no questions asked. She heard me throwing up in the ladies’ loo and immediately diagnosed me as suffering from an upset tummy. She didn’t even give me the opportunity to object.
“I saw you nibbling the corner of that sandwich and I knew something was wrong. It’s not like you not to have an appetite. Get yourself home, Jane. We don’t want to risk you passing it on to everyone else. We’re short-staffed as it is.”
I think she would have driven me home herself if I hadn’t pointed out that I had my bicycle with me. No point driving me home when I only live a five-minute cycle away and it’s all downhill.
That was two hours ago. I’ve spent the last thirty minutes sitting in front of my laptop. I thought it would be harder to find Al. I thought that, after five years, she’d be impossible to track down, but, unlike me, she hasn’t changed her name. She’s even got a Facebook profile. Alexandra Gideon. There were only three listed and two of them live in the States. Her cover image is of Brighton seafront and the profile picture’s a rainbow, and that’s it, that’s all the information I’ve got to go on, but I know it’s her. She always said she wanted to leave London and move to Brighton.
It’s been four years since we last spoke. We kept in touch for the first few months after we got back from Nepal, talking on the phone every day, trying to make sense of what had happened, but then Al sold her story to the press and everything changed. I couldn’t understand why she’d done it. I called her, over and over again, begging her to explain why she’d gone back on what we’d agreed, but she ignored my calls. I don’t know if it was the money or the attention or what, but it was the worst kind of betrayal, especially after everything we’d been through.
I hold down the delete button and the cursor zips from right to left, swallowing the message I’ve been trying to compose for the last half an hour. I start again:
Al, it’s me.
No. I created this Facebook account as Jane Hughes, and she won’t know who that is.
Al, it’s Emma. I know you probably don’t want to talk to me, but I need your help.
I delete the last sentence.
Al, it’s Emma. I think Daisy’s still alive. Please contact me. Here’s my
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