The Hike(35)

‘You really are a heartless prick.’

Tristan stood up to face Paul. He could see the fight was going out of him. He knew Paul was struggling with what had happened, and he wasn’t getting the reactions he’d expected. Even Cat wasn’t too bothered anymore. She had stopped crying, but she was still looking at him and Paul, waiting to see what was going to happen next. Paul had probably expected Tristan to care a bit more about his wife, but the truth was, he hadn’t cared much about Ginny for years. Possibly ever. He’d done his best at playing the ‘decent husband’, but it didn’t come easily, and when pushed to extremes today, it seemed like his carefully constructed mask had slipped. It was unfortunate, but couldn’t be helped. Cat had always been the better prospect. He should’ve dumped Ginny and moved on to Cat the moment they’d met, instead of inflicting snivelling Paul on her.

Tristan glanced down, and realised that he hadn’t unclipped the rope from his belt. Jesus, what a rookie mistake. He hadn’t wound the rope up yet either, and if it slid for any reason, he’d be pulled off the side with it. He eyed Paul, seeing if he’d noticed. He wouldn’t put it past him to toss the rope off the side. Paul might pretend to be a good guy too – maybe he was one, deep down – but there was something more to him. Something that he was doing his best to conceal. Tristan didn’t buy his burnout story for a minute, which is why he kept bringing it up. Something else had definitely happened to make Paul leave that six-figure job with crazy perks and bonuses. Maybe Cat would tell him later. Once this was all over.

Or maybe he needed to ask himself why he even cared?

He held out a hand to Cat. ‘We need to get going, Cat.’ He glanced around, taking in the trees to one side, the sheer drop to the other. ‘Come on.’ He saw Paul out of the corner of his eye, fiddling with the pocket of his shorts. He hoped there wasn’t anything in there that was going to cause them any problems. He had a feeling that Paul was about to lose it.

Cat stood up. She took a couple of steps, glanced at Tristan, then stood next to Paul. She looked nervous, but her eyes were shining with excitement.

Paul turned into one of those Eagle Eye Action Man dolls, with the little button at the back that made them look side to side. Him. Cat. Him. Cat.

Cat looked at her feet. ‘Ginny . . .’ Another small sob escaped her.

He wanted to shake her. Tell her to get a grip. But there would be plenty of time for that later. She threw him a look from under her lashes. A smirk. Jesus, she was faking. Tristan felt the first stirrings of a hard-on.

Paul was oblivious. Kept his gaze fixed on Tristan. ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’

Tristan deflated. Paul was so fucking tedious. ‘Is what true?’

‘The conference in Ascot. Cat’s conference.’

‘God, this is boring. Can we just get going please? Or we might as well all throw ourselves off this fucking mountain.’

Paul moved away from Cat, who was looking at her feet again, shoulders moving gently as she cried. Jesus, would she ever stop crying? Or maybe she was laughing. Christ, Tristan couldn’t wait for this to be over so he could be alone with her.

‘You were there, weren’t you?’

Tristan said nothing. He unclipped the rope from his belt. But not the usual way. The usual way would be to unclip the carabiner from the belay device, then take the belay device off the belt. Then pack them back in the rucksack with the neatly coiled rope.

Paul spoke louder, as if that would help him get the answer he wanted. ‘You were there, Tristan. Weren’t you?’ He turned to Cat. ‘He was, wasn’t he?’

Cat lifted her head at last. She was doing a good impression of looking distraught. Tristan caught her eye, and hoped she understood.

‘I’m sorry, Paul,’ she said, her voice hard as stone. She stepped away from him, crouched back down at the mountainside, as far from the edge as she could. She dropped her head, and hugged her knees again. But she wasn’t crying now.

‘What the—’ Paul started, but he didn’t finish. He turned back to face Tristan, just as Tristan swung the rope, with the heavy steel belay device attached, catching Paul hard on the side of the head. There was a soft, meaty crunch as the metal slid through flesh and connected with his skull.

Tristan wiped away a piece of something warm and wet from his cheek. Paul was still looking at him as he toppled to the side, landing with a thud at Cat’s feet.

‘Tristan . . .’ he tried, still staring up at him. His eyes were full of confusion. One side of his head was matted with hair and blood.

Cat flinched, but she kept watching, and a slow smile spread across her face. Tristan licked his lips. And with a grunt of exertion, he bent down low, put his hands on Paul’s chest, and rolled him right over the side of the mountain.





Twenty-Nine

SUNDAY AFTERNOON

Thierry leans back in his seat. The infernal football is still roaring out of the TV, because now it seems the volume button is stuck. Séb makes to pull the plug out of the wall, but Thierry holds up a hand to stop him.

‘It’s still better to keep it on. So, tell me what your friend Albert had to say . . . Wait’ – he sits forward – ‘is he that one you had to arrest for drunk driving last summer? After that crazy barbecue?’

Séb shakes his head. ‘Non.’ He laughs. ‘That was Adrien. And I didn’t actually arrest him. I just had to stop him from driving down the mountain to find more beer at 2 a.m. You know he’s not normally like that, don’t you? He’d been having a tough time—’