THE CLIMB

SIMON BESTWICK

There was mist round the hill-crest when Bryan got off the bus, but as he walked up the tiny village’s main street it began to disperse. A brook wound down through the fields and trees, past a row of houses and under the street; a footpath ran up along one bank. He stepped onto it, and started walking towards the hill.

It was always easy at first. The hill itself put Bryan in mind of a frozen wave – it rose high, wide and flat-sided from the landscape, with a crest, a long high escarpment, rather than a summit at the top. The land around it was the gentlest of slopes – at first. Steepening slowly but relentlessly, it wore you down, till finally you reached the hill itself and the real punishment began.

Bryan’s boots squelched in the mud. At one point a foot sank in up to the ankle, and he pulled it free with a curse. Behind him, twigs scratched and rustled in the breeze – only there couldn’t have been a breeze; the air was still. Maybe it was whatever had made that noise – it’d sounded like a giggle, almost, only high and brittle. A bird, perhaps.

Bryan scanned the bushes, trees and high grass, but saw nothing. Not that someone couldn’t hide there if they were small and crouched low enough. Just kids, probably. Larking round. Harmless, he told himself, then turned away and started walking again.

***

This was Bryan’s third try at the hill, and this time he was determined to see it through. Bad weather had forced him – them – back the first time – a brutal, savage storm only a suicide would’ve risked – and on the second he’d had to stop halfway up when the sheer steepness of the face showed him just how out of condition he’d become. He’d let himself get that way of course. After Ann got sick—

Don’t think. Instead he turned and looked back over how far he’d come. Already he could see a long way. The village spread out below him and green hills rose beyond. The land in this part of the county was rugged and wild, high ground scoured by winds and rain.

Bryan went a little further, till at last he decided it was time for a brief rest. He sat on a stile, unzipped his rucksack, fished out a bar of Kendal Mint Cake and a bottle of water.

“Not bad, eh?” he said to himself – said to Ann. It was a habit he hadn’t yet broken himself of, talking to her as if she was still there. You couldn’t stay that close to someone for over a decade and then shrug off the loss. You just couldn’t. They’d always been good together like that; she’d said once that being married to him was the best and longest conversation she’d ever had. She’d said that not long after they’d married, and he’d always treasured that.

And now the conversation was over, broken off, it seemed, without warning. Not that her death had been sudden or unexpected; he’d watched her fight the cancer for almost three years. But no amount of warning was enough, not when you thought you had forever.

The first time he’d come here with Ann; the second he’d been alone, not long before she’d died. As he’d begun to flag on the second attempt, too many takeaways and not enough exercise taking their toll, he’d made one of those pacts with himself, a bet or promise, the kind you make to spur yourself on – or convince yourself you control something. Anything. If I make the top, Ann’ll be okay. That was what he’d told himself. He’d thought it’d be enough, to carry him through. When he’d finally given up, exhaustion and breathlessness finally claiming victory, he’d been embarrassed and ashamed. He’d dismissed it immediately, of course – reaching the top or not would make no difference to Ann. It was just a game with himself. Nothing more.

But even so, she’d died.

She would have anyway, of course. By then it’d been inevitable. He’d already known that. They both had. But still it came back to him in lone, unguarded watches of the night – that insistent itch of guilt that said you killed your wife.

He shoved the Mint Cake into his cagoule pocket, all appetite gone. As he zipped up the rucksack, he heard again the rustle of grass.

When he looked around he saw nothing. The only movement was that of sheep in a nearby field. They were grouped against the drystone wall furthest from his position. One last straggler loped over to the rest. Their faint, querulous bleating drifted over on the cold, still air.

Bryan shrugged the rucksack back on.

***

The wind at last began to rise, dark staining the sky above. But he kept going nonetheless. He wouldn’t turn back now.

Ann had loved hill-walking, especially in this part of Lancashire. But for some reason, though she’d always wanted to, she’d never climbed this hill. The closest she’d come was on that first attempt of his. Of theirs. In all the years that followed, they’d never made it back here. There’d always been a reason – somewhere else to go, something else to do, but then it was too late. All he could do was make the journey on her behalf. Or try, but he hadn’t even managed that, had he? Never mind making bets with himself to save her—

It was getting steeper now, starting to punish Bryan’s legs, the chill dank air making his lungs burn. As ever, he’d underestimated the hill; the climb was taking longer than he’d thought. And even taking the threat of rain into account, the sky was looking dimmer than it should.

Getting dark. The sensible thing would be to turn back. He knew that. Even if he did reach the summit before dark he’d still have to descend the hill in pitch blackness, and most likely pouring rain as well.

But he couldn’t bring himself to care. He kept on going, and if now and then he heard a rustle or scratching that wasn’t wholly ascribable to the wind, it wasn’t important. It would be nice to think that Ann was here, keeping him company on one last climb. And if it wasn’t her, it didn’t matter.

But would he know her anyway? He kept thinking of one of their last conversations, even though he didn’t particularly want to. It’d been only a couple of weeks before she’d died. She’d been in terrible pain, pumped full of morphine to combat it. As a result she’d been rambling somewhat, so he’d struggled to follow her in full, but the gist had been: what – if anything – would be left of her when she died? When the body was gone, what was left? What, really, made you who you were? Was there some essential version of her – at twenty-five, or forty-five – that’d persist? Were you the sum of your memories? Your values? You were always changing, day to day; did that carry on when you died, or were you frozen in the moment of death, trapped in your last emotional state like a fly in amber? And what about the anger and resentment you might feel subconsciously, buried and repressed, maybe even towards those you loved most?

If you died raging, or in agony, did you carry that through eternity? He couldn’t bear the thought; Ann didn’t deserve that – nobody did, but her least of all.

The worst of it – the reason he hated the thought of that discussion – was that he’d told her about the stupid bet he’d made with himself. How he’d turned back. He hadn’t looked at her when he’d said it. He’d felt ashamed, as if he’d failed her. Afterwards he’d hated the weak, reedy chuckle that’d come from his throat, even more than he’d hated knowing that he was trying to make her laugh it off too, tell him it didn’t matter. Trying to make her comfort him, even as she lay dying. Sometimes you saw yourself all too clearly.

But she’d been silent, her face blank, refusing to give the reassurance he’d sought. The silence, before he’d changed the subject and moved on, had been brief but vast. He’d found other things to talk about, made her laugh again, however briefly before the pain took it, and her, took everything away.

But what if she’d died with that in her mind – that her husband, for all his talk, hadn’t even been able to climb a bloody hill to save her? That in itself would be bad enough, but on the heels of that came a worse thought still – what might that anger have made of her in death?

Bryan snorted. Stupid. None of that was true. Ann had been ill, in pain, drugged. Talking nonsense. It’d just been a theory born of her rambling. It was silly, had no basis in fact. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t—

Bryan turned. Behind him, in the fading light, the footpath wound down through the farmlands and drystone walls. In the farmhouses, big sturdy boxes of biscuit-coloured stone, lights had begun to appear in the windows, warm yellow glimmers like thimblefuls of melted butter.

A sheep’s faint, distant bleating drifted up towards him, but all else was silent and still. The wind had suddenly dropped, and the stillness was hungry and expectant. Waiting for something to happen.

Bryan stayed still. He watched the bushes and the long grass, the drystone walls, the distant farmhouses – waiting for something to move, waiting to catch it out. Because there was something out there, he knew. Something, or someone, watching him.

But nothing moved.

He glanced at a tall oak, its branches half-bared by falling leaves, and went still. For a moment he’d thought he’d seen—

No. Nothing. The tree was just a tree, its branches just branches. Stiff and unmoving. But for all that, he went no closer. Didn’t go and look to reassure himself. It was out of his way anyway.

Besides, he was close to the hill now. One last effort, and he’d be there. What came after that didn’t matter. He’d deal with it then.

***

There was a farmhouse, a drystone wall, and a gate; beyond that, the looming bulk of the hill.

The ground steepened sharply as Bryan went through the gate; sloping up to a flight of steps ascending the hillside. There might be an easier way up on the opposite side of the hill, but he knew this was the route he had to take. If he could.

The sky was very dark, almost black now with cloud. The light was rapidly dimming.

Bryan went forward, to the foot of the steps. They were made of the same biscuit-coloured stone as the farmhouses. He took a deep breath and began the last leg of the climb.

The steps had to be at a forty-five degree angle at the least; they felt almost vertical. He’d only managed a few before he had to stop and catch his breath. But then he carried on.

Tiny dots of rain spattered his face. He turned and looked back over the land below. Down in the village, and on the lonely lanes, streetlights were blinking on.

“Nearly there, Ann,” he said, turning back. “Nearly there. I’ll do it this time.”

But it was no easier this time than it’d been the last. Nearly halfway up, he collapsed onto his hands and knees, wheezing desperately for air, heart banging at his chest wall.

“You bastard,” he spat out at the hill. “You rotten bloody bastard. Just have to try and stop me, don’t you? Have to make sure I don’t do it. Well fuck you. I’ll make it. I’ll bloody beat you. I will. If I have to bloody crawl.”

And he had to. He was on his hands and knees but he kept going, not caring about or even noticing the intensifying rain, the thickening dusk, or the white cowl of mist settling over the top of the hill. Not caring what he’d do at the end of his journey, how he’d get down, or if. That didn’t matter now. Only that he made it.

But – he couldn’t. His limbs were shaking, and they buckled, and he slumped down on the steps. He was only fifty, a hundred feet from the top of the hill. A fraction of the distance he’d already gone. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t go any further. A thin, wheezy sob escaped him.

He looked up the slope. A white, fluffy cap of mist had engulfed the top of the hill. It looked soft and fluffy, but when it reached him it would be damp and bitterly cold, leaching what little heat and strength he still possessed.

The world around him greyed as the hidden sun died. The farmhouses’ outlines were crumbling into the gathering dusk; only the glow of their windows stood out.

Sitting up, Bryan looked down the steps; down to the foot of the hill.

And on the churned and sodden turf, something moved.

At first he didn’t believe he saw it. It must be a trick of the light. But no, it was there. Its body was patched and mottled with different colours, greens and browns and greys, so it blended perfectly with the terrain. Had it stayed still, he’d never have known. The thought came to him that it’d let him see it, because it could now, because he had nowhere to go.

When it moved, it scuttled. Though crouched on all fours, its narrow, spindly arms and legs were horribly long, like a spider’s. It moved up the hill with a speed and fluency, despite the brittle rustling and scratching sound it made, that mocked his slow, painful ascent. Its limbs stretched out either side of the steps, poising the swaddled ragged lump of its body directly above them. It seemed to crouch there watching him for a long time, before scuttling forwards again.

This time, Bryan knew, it wouldn’t stop until it reached him. It had dry, matted, colourless hair that fluttered in the breeze like a dead bird’s feathers. He couldn’t make the face below it out in any detail, but as it closed in on him he knew that he would; both before he died, and after.

***

‘The Climb’ is Simon’s fourth appearance in Black Static. He’ll also have a story in the long overdue Crimewave 13, out soon from this publisher. His third novel, Hell’s Ditch, is out in December from Snowbooks. His short stories are collected in A Hazy Shade of Winter, Pictures of the Dark, Let’s Drink to the Dead and The Condemned. He has recently relocated to the Wirral with his better half, the long-suffering Cate Gardner. His current ambition is to avoid having to get a proper job again – all contributions, as ever, gratefully received.