1
Mark Hamilton was lying on his front, snoring into his pillow, one foot hanging over the end of a bed that wasn’t built for a man of six foot four. Stephanie looked at the scar tissue running across his central and lower back. She had scar tissue of her own—on the front and back of her left shoulder—but, unlike Mark’s scars, hers were cosmetic, surgically applied to mimic a bullet’s entry and exit wound.
She glanced at Mark’s bedside clock. Five to six. She tiptoed to the kitchen to make coffee. A bottle of Rioja stood by the sink, two-thirds drunk. Which was how they’d felt by the time they’d returned to Mark’s flat shortly after one. Despite that, he’d opened the Rioja, put on a CD, Ether Song by Turin Brakes, and they’d talked. About nothing in particular. After three weeks, it was enough simply to be together again. Normally her trips abroad only lasted a few days.
When he’d said he was going to bed, just after three, she’d said she wouldn’t be far behind. But she’d waited until he was asleep, even then keeping her T-shirt on as she lay beside him; she was too tired to answer the questions he would inevitably ask when he saw her naked.
Mark owned a place on a corner of Queen’s Gate Mews, off Gloucester Road. The ground floor was a garage, which he used for storage. A steep, narrow staircase led to the first floor, where he lived, and a stepladder that doubled as a fire escape led to the roof, which was flat, and which was where Stephanie took her mug of coffee, having pulled on a pair of ripped jeans.
Above, in a pale pink sky, intercontinental flights lined up for Heathrow. Below, an Alfa Romeo rumbled over cobbles. In the distance, an alarm bell was ringing. She cupped the hot mug with both hands and smiled.
One year to the day.
* * *
She’d gone to the Dolomites to unwind. Stephanie had always found that climbing cleared the mind of clutter. It had become part of her routine after a Magenta House contract: a few days away by herself, the local climbing guides her only source of social interaction. By the time she returned to London, more often than not, she’d rinsed the contract from her system.
Mark was staying at the same hotel in a party of six. She noticed him the first day they arrived, her ear drawn to the group by language; they were the only English in the hotel. Over two days, she crossed them in the dining room, at the bar, in the lobby and outside on the observation deck. He was the tallest and least obviously attractive of them, with a storm of dark hair and a perfect climber’s face: craggy, marked with ledges and ridges.
On the third day Stephanie lost her grip during an afternoon traverse of an uncomplicated face. The rope snagged her, twisting her sharply to the right. Her left toe was still locked into a small hold. She felt a sharp pinch in her left hip and chose to walk back to the hotel to try to work off any stiffness. Later she took a cup of hot chocolate onto the wooden observation deck. Mark was in a deckchair, reading a Robert Wilson paperback.
Not wanting any conversation, Stephanie walked to the far end and leaned on the rail. It had been a hot, sunny day, but late afternoon brought with it the first hint of a sharp chill. She drank the chocolate and the mountain air, and watched shadows creep as the sun slid. When she’d finished, she walked back along the deck. They were still the only people on it and he was looking straight at her. Not at her eyes, but at her body. Without any attempt to disguise it.
Irritated, Stephanie said, sharply, ‘You’re staring.’
‘You’re limping.’
Not the apology she’d anticipated. ‘Hardly.’
‘Does it hurt?’
‘It’s nothing. It’s just my hip.’
‘Actually, it’s your sacroiliac joint.’
‘Sorry?’
‘To you, your lower back.’
‘What are you? An osteopath?’
‘A chiropractor.’
‘And a man with an answer for everything.’
‘Do you want me to prove it to you?’
She tilted her head to one side. ‘Are you for real?’
‘Are you?’
* * *
Half an hour later they were in her bedroom; stained floorboards, thick rugs, ageing cream wallpaper with rural scenes in a pale blue print. She could smell the dried lavender in the frosted glass bowl on the chest of drawers. Beside a lacquered table there was a full-length mirror. Stephanie stood in front of it with Mark behind her. Only now did she appreciate how large he was. He completely framed her in the reflection. She’d pulled off her jersey and shirt, and could see her black bra through the thin cotton of her T-shirt.
Mark reached out and touched her, two fingers pressing softly at the base of her neck. It was barely contact, but it sent a pulse through her. Slowly, he walked the fingers down her spine.
‘Why do you climb?’
‘It’s in my blood,’ Stephanie said, her voice no more than a murmur. ‘My mother was a fantastic climber, more at home in the mountains than at home. What about you?’
‘To relax. And because I have friends who climb.’
‘I don’t have any friends who climb.’
‘Then you’re worse than us. In a monogamous relationship with the rock-face? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anything so self-centred.’
‘You might be right.’
To relax, he’d said. Not for the thrill, or the sense of achievement. That was how she felt. Besides, as Petra, Stephanie found herself in situations where the adrenalin flowed faster than it ever could clinging to the slick underbelly of a precarious overhang.
‘Here we are.’ His fingers stopped, just above the top of her jeans. Very gently, he pressed against a point. Stephanie felt heat bloom beneath. Then he placed a forefinger on either shoulder. ‘Look in the mirror. You’ve dropped a little through the left.’
It was true. She could see a marginal difference.
‘Can you do something about it?’
Mark looked around the room. ‘Well, normally I’d use a bench for something like this, but I’ll see what I can do.’
‘See what you can do?’
He smiled, a fissure forming in the rock-face. ‘I’m joking. You’ll be fine. You don’t have a desk in here, so we’ll use your bed.’
Stephanie felt she ought to say something but couldn’t.
Mark said, ‘Let’s hope it’s not too soft. I’d like you to undo your jeans.’
She raised her eyebrows at him in the mirror.
‘You’re lucky I haven’t asked you to take off your T-shirt.’
She really couldn’t gauge him at all. ‘Do you want me to?’
‘You don’t have to.’
But she did, before undoing her jeans. ‘Is that better?’
‘That’s fine. But you really didn’t have to.’
He moved closer to her and laid a coarse hand on one hip. Then the other hand settled on the other hip. She felt radiated heat on her naked back.
When he manipulated her, the conversation dried up. She let his hands guide her, let him turn her, position her, let him use his weight against her. His fingertips seemed to carry an electrical charge.
Any moment now …
There was no reason for it. It was just a feeling. An assumption. That whatever was happening was mutual. One part of her felt wonderfully relaxed while another part burned in anticipation. But of what, exactly? She closed her eyes and waited. For a kiss, perhaps. Or for a moment when his fingers deviated from the professional to the personal.
Instead, his hands left her body. ‘That’s it. You’re done.’
She opened her eyes. ‘What?’
‘You’ve been manipulated.’
Said with a grin. Stephanie wanted to be annoyed, but wasn’t. ‘Well … thank you, anyway. Do I owe you something?’
He shook his head. ‘There’s no charge.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
He smiled, a little embarrassed, it seemed. ‘I’ll be going.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Stay.’
Mark said nothing.
‘Stay.’
The smile had gone. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Why?’
‘I just want to know the time.’
Stephanie looked at her watch. ‘It’s eight minutes past six.’
The first time they made love it was as though the manipulation had never stopped. More than anything, it was his hands that made love to her. Stephanie was almost entirely passive. There were moments when she didn’t feel she had a choice.
* * *
Two-thirty in the morning. Stephanie ran her fingers over the scars on his back. With scars of her own and a library of scars inflicted upon others, she had to ask.
‘It was eleven years ago on Nanga Parbat, coming down the Diamir Face. With hindsight, we shouldn’t have been there at all. It was a bad team, no cohesion, no leadership. But, being arrogant, we went up anyway. During the descent there was an avalanche. Afterwards we were all over the place. Two of our group died. I would have died too, but I was lucky. Dom stayed with me. He kept me from freezing to death. As for Keller, our team leader, he was close to us but never tried to reach us. He didn’t even attempt to communicate with us. We watched him disappear.’
‘He died?’
‘We assume so. His body was never recovered.’
‘And you?’
‘Again, in a strange way, I was lucky. Broken ribs, crushed discs, two hairline fractures, muscle separation, some nerve damage, but no permanent spinal damage.’
‘That’s a painful kind of luck.’
‘It led me to my career.’
‘I’m not sure I’d have reacted to a back injury in the same way.’
‘A lot of people say that. For me, I think becoming a chiropractor was a Pauline conversion. It’s what I’m supposed to do.’
‘And climbing again—how hard was that?’
Copyright © 2003 by Mark Burnell
