The Snow Tiger. Desmond Bagley

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СКАЧАТЬ alongside he said enthusiastically, ‘That was great! Let’s do it again.’

      McGill laughed and pointed. ‘We have a way to go to get back to the chair-lift; it’s around the spur of the mountain. Maybe we’ll have another crack at it this afternoon.’

      At about three in the afternoon they arrived at the top of the chosen slope and McGill pointed to the two sets of tracks. ‘There’s been no one here but us chickens. That’s what I like about this – it’s not as crowded as the piste.’ He handed an Oertel cord to Ballard. ‘You go first this time; I want to watch your technique on the way down.’

      As he knotted the cord he studied the slope. The late afternoon winter’s sun was already sending long shadows creeping across the snow. McGill said, ‘Keep to the centre of the slope in the sunlight; don’t go into the shadowed areas.’

      As he spoke Ballard took off, and McGill followed leisurely, keeping an eye on the less experienced skier and noting any faults for future instruction. All went well until he noted that Ballard was swinging to the left and towards slightly steeper ground where shadows lay. He increased speed, calling out as he did so, ‘Keep to the right, Ian. Keep to the main slope.’

      Even as he shouted he saw Ballard apparently trip, a slight hesitation in the smooth downward movement. Then the whole slope started to slide taking Ballard with it. McGill skidded to a halt, his face pale, and kept his eyes on Ballard who was now plunging out of control. He saw him throw away his right stick and then Ballard was hidden in a swirl of powder snow. A rumble filled the air with the noise of soft thunder.

      Ballard had got rid of his sticks but found himself in a world of mad instability. He managed to release his right ski but then found himself upside down and rotating violently. He struck out vigorously with his arms, sternly repressing the rising tide of panic within him, and tried to remember McGill’s instructions. Suddenly he felt an excruciating pain in his left thigh; his foot was being twisted outwards inexorably until it felt as though his leg was being unscrewed from the hip.

      He nearly passed out from the pain but, after a sharp intensification, the pain eased a little. The tumbling motion ceased and he remembered what McGill had said about making an air space about his mouth, so he brought up his left hand across his face. Then all motion stopped and Ballard was unconscious.

      All that had taken a little over ten seconds and Ballard had been carried not much over a hundred feet.

      McGill waited until there was no further snow movement and then skied to the edge of the disturbed scar of tumbled snow. He scanned it quickly then, jabbing his sticks into the snow, he removed his skis. Carrying one stick and one ski he walked carefully into the avalanche area and began to quarter it. He knew from experience that now time was of the utmost importance; in his mind he could see the graph he had been shown a few days earlier at the local Parsenndienst Station – the length of time buried plotted against the chance of survival.

      It took him half an hour to explore the area and he found nothing but snow. If he did not find Ballard he would have to begin probing with little chance of success. One man could not probe that area in the time available and the best bet was to go to find expert help – including an avalanche dog.

      He reached the lower edge of the slide and looked up indecisively, then he squared his shoulders and began to climb upwards again through the centre of the slide. He would make one quick five-minute pass and if he did not find anything by the time he reached the top he would head back to the ski lodge.

      He went upwards slowly, his eyes flickering from side to side, and then he saw it – a tiny fleck of blood red in the shadow of a clod of snow. It was less than the size of his little fingernail but it was enough. He dropped on one knee and scrabbled at the snow and came up with a length of red cord in his hand. He hauled on one end which came free, so he tackled the other.

      The cord, tearing free from the snow, led him twenty feet down the slope until, when he pulled, he came up against resistance and the cord was vertical. He started to dig with his hands. The snow was soft and powdery and was easy to clear, and he came across Ballard at a little more than three feet deep.

      Carefully he cleared the snow from around Ballard’s head, making sure first that he was breathing and second that he could continue to breathe. He was pleased to see that Ballard had followed instructions and had his arm across his face. When he cleared the lower half of Ballard’s body he knew that the leg, from its impossible position, was broken – and he knew why. Ballard had not been able to release his left ski and, by the churning action of the snow, the leverage of the ski had twisted Ballard’s leg broken.

      He decided against trying to move Ballard, judging that he might do more harm than good, so he took off his anorak and tucked it closely around Ballard’s body to keep him warm. Then he retrieved his skis and set off down to the road below where he was lucky enough to stop a passing car.

      Less than two hours later Ballard was in hospital.

      Six weeks later Ballard was still bed-ridden and bored. His broken leg was a long time in healing, not so much because of the broken bone but because the muscles had been torn and needed time to knit together. He had been flown to London on a stretcher, whereupon his mother had swooped on him and carried him to her home. Normally, when in London, he lived in his own small mews flat, but even he saw the force of her arguments and succumbed to her ministrations. So he was bedridden and bored in his mother’s house and hating every minute of it.

      One morning, after a gloom-laden visit from his doctor who prophesied further weeks of bed-rest, he heard voices raised in argument coming from the floor below. The lighter tones were those of his mother but he could not identify the deeper voice. The distant voices rose and fell in cadences of antagonism, continuing for a quarter of an hour, and then became louder as the running fight ascended the stairs.

      The door opened and his mother came into the room, lips pursed and stormy in the brow. ‘Your grandfather insists on seeing you,’ she said curtly. ‘I told him you’re not well but he still insists – he’s as unreasonable as ever. My advice is not to listen to him, Ian. But, of course, it’s up to you – you’ve always done as you pleased.’

      ‘There’s nothing wrong with me besides a bad leg.’ He regarded his mother and wished, not for the first time, that she would show more sign of dress sense and not be so dowdy. ‘Does he give me any option?’

      ‘He says if you don’t want to see him he’ll go away.’

      ‘Does he, by God? He must have been touched by an angel’s wing. I’m almost inclined to test this improbability.’ Sending Ben Ballard from a closed door was fit for inclusion in the Guinness Book of Records. Ian sighed. ‘You’d better show him in.’

      ‘I wish you wouldn’t.’

      ‘Bring him in, Mother; there’s nothing wrong with me.’

      ‘You’re as pig-headed as he is,’ she grumbled, but went to the door.

      Ian had not seen old Ben for a year and a half and he was shocked at the transformation in the man. His grandfather had always been dynamic and bristling with energy but now he looked every day of his eighty-seven years. He came into the room slowly, leaning heavily upon a blackthorn stick; his cheeks were hollow and his eyes sunk deep into his head so that his normally saturnine expression was rendered skull-like. But there was still a faint crackle of authority as he turned his head and said snappily, ‘Get me a chair, Harriet.’

      A small snort escaped her but she placed a chair next to the bed and stood by it. Ben lowered himself into СКАЧАТЬ