Page 3 of The Vanishing Place

Isle of Skye, Scotland

“This is beyond humiliating,” Effie shouted as she struggled to stand in the gale-force winds. She pulled at the hood of her jacket, trying to shield her face, but the rain stung her cheeks.

“No,” Blair shouted back, their bodies huddled together. “What would be humiliating would be dying on the side of this bloody mountain because you’re too stubborn to ask for help.”

“We can get down ourselves. You can lean on me.”

“No! We absolutely cannot.” Blair dug her fingers into Effie’s arm, clinging to her, as a gust of wind threatened to topple them. “There’s no way I’m walking out on this ankle. The rocks are like ice, and it’s going to start getting bloody cold and dark.”

“I can get—”

“We need to call mountain rescue.”

“I am mountain rescue,” yelled Effie, her words diluted to a whisper by the elements.

“Right now…” Blair said as she lowered them to a crouched position on the wet ground, “what you are is a stubborn idiot who’s about to watch her best friend freeze to death with a sprained ankle.

Or, quite possibly, get blown down the Dubh Slabs to end up as a puddle of flesh and bones at the bottom. ”

“I would never let that—”

“Then phone them.”

Blair gestured with her gloved hand, and the small plastic buckle caught the side of Effie’s eye. The tender area of cold skin screamed on impact, but she blinked it away.

“I can’t.” She glanced down as water dripped from her hair. “I’d never live it down. Keith would rib me about it forever and—”

“For Christ’s sake, Effie. Listen to yourself.” Blair rubbed furiously at her arms. “We could die. This isn’t some game. This is our fucking lives.”

“Greg will be on call,” Effie murmured, without meeting her friend’s eyes.

“So?” Blair’s mascara had started to leak down her face. “That’s great.”

“We broke up last night.”

Blair shuffled across the wet rocky ground, guarding her left foot, until they were snuggled together. Then she put a drenched arm around Effie.

“You need to phone them,” she said again, but her voice was softer.

Effie looked out at where the Cuillin Ridge should have been.

But there was nothing to see but gray and cloud and lashing rain.

On a good day, she could have named every point from Loch Coruisk to the end of the curved mountain range—a route she’d completed a number of times.

She’d once run the Black Cuillin stretch—all twenty-two summits and eleven Munros of it—in just four hours and three minutes, barely an hour off the world record.

“I know,” said Effie.

“Oh, thank god.” Blair exhaled. Then she buried her face into Effie’s chest. “Cos there’s no way I’d have the energy to fight you on it.”

“Well…” Effie managed a smile. “I’m fully intending to tell Keith that you did—that you resorted to blackmail and forced my hand.”

“Whatever gets me into a helicopter and off this fucking mountain with my fingers and toes still attached.”

Effie sat for a moment, feeling the weight of her friend against her, then she pulled her phone from her pocket and cocooned it between her ear and hood.

“It was just bad luck, you know.” Blair reached out and took Effie’s hand. “Bad luck and shitty Scottish weather.”

“Thanks, Bee.”

Effie closed her eyes and held 2 for the mountain rescue team, a team she’d been a part of for eight years.

As it rang, she prayed it wouldn’t be Greg who picked up.

The last thing he’d said to her, as she’d stormed from his flat, was that she’d end up dying alone on the side of some mountain.

And as she’d slammed the door, she hadn’t hated the idea.

“I know this shouldn’t be in the least bit funny,” said Blair, unable to keep the amusement from her quivering lips as Effie got off the phone with Keith. He’d promised to have a team deployed as soon as possible.

“It’s not.” Effie groaned and reached into her rucksack.

“But…” Blair smiled. “Come on, it’s going to make for a great story.”

“It’s not.”

It would take a while for the helicopter to fly in, and the wait would be more pleasant without the elements trying to drown them.

Effie pulled out the storm shelter, wrestling against the wind, then she and Blair stood nose to nose, chest to chest, torso to torso, under the fluorescent-orange sheet.

The waterproof fabric came down to just below their bottoms, leaving their legs exposed to the downpour.

“Right,” said Effie, their faces just inches apart, “on three, we sit.”

“Got it.” Blair giggled.

“And,” Effie continued, “remember to pull the seating panel underneath you so the water stays out.”

“Loud and clear.” Blair suppressed a laugh as a gust of wind thrust her forward and their cheeks smooshed together.

“One…” Effie started, ignoring Blair’s snorts. “Two. Three.”

As they lowered to the ground, the material formed a protective tent around them, their world reduced to a billowing orange bubble.

“This isn’t so bad,” Blair shouted over the flapping fabric. “Romantic, even.”

Effie rolled her eyes. “Christ.” She rubbed a hand across her face. “Seriously, even now?”

“Now what?”

“I don’t know.” Effie couldn’t help but smile. “I thought that maybe, just maybe, the threat of death might have dampened your…your…”

“My what?”

“Your infuriatingly persistent enthusiasm.”

“Aw, come on.” Blair nudged Effie’s leg with her foot. “You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“And I tolerate you nearly letting us die on our girls’ day out.” Blair smirked. “So we’re even.”

Effie smiled back, and for the next few minutes, they sat in a comfortable silence as the orange nylon flapped around them and the rain pummeled the two circular windows.

The natural light had all but vanished from the evening sky, swallowed up by October’s bleakness, and they were relying on two head-torches.

One remained off, safe in Effie’s pocket, while the other was around her hat.

Half an hour later, when the phone buzzed twice in her pocket—two texts coming through at once—Effie knew something was wrong.

Removing her gloves, she opened the messages. The first from Keith. Then Greg.

“What is it?” asked Blair.

Effie looked at her phone, then back at her friend. “The chopper from Stornoway had to turn around…because of the severe winds.”

“So”—Blair took a breath—“no helicopter?”

Effie shook her head.

“No cozy airlift out?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Effie.

“What happens now?”

“Keith said they’ve already prepped a team to head out on foot.”

Blair’s eyes widened. “In this?”

“Yeah.” The muscles in Effie’s stomach tightened. “They know what they’re doing, Bee.”

“Fuck.” She glanced down at the flooded ground. “So did we.”

The shelter muted the outside storm, creating an eerie quiet. But after a minute’s silence, Blair looked up. “How long will it take them?”

“Five to six hours,” said Effie. “Maybe longer. The conditions are—”

“Less than ideal,” finished Blair.

Effie actually laughed. “Yes. They are definitely less than ideal.”

“And this plastic bag of yours,” said Blair, gesturing at the emergency shelter. “It can hold its own?”

“You, my friend,” said Effie, “are sitting within 275 grams of mountaineering gold. I can personally guarantee you an almost warm, almost dry, mostly bearable night.”

“Excellent. It already sounds better than night shift at the hospital.”

“Fewer intoxicated patients. Less assistance with toileting.”

“God, I hope so.” Blair grimaced. “Neither of us is peeing until I can urinate without fear of it blowing in my face.”

“I’m sorry,” Effie muttered. “Again. For getting us into this situation.”

“We just got caught out, Effie. The weather turned and conditions changed.” Blair sighed. “Then I did my bloody ankle. Shit happens, and sometimes there’s nothing we can do about it.”

Effie squeezed Blair’s hand.

“So,” said Blair, “what happened with Greg?”

“I’m not sure this—”

“This is exactly the time.” She grinned. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere. So spill. You owe me some gossip at least.”

“You’re awful. You know that, right?”

“Yes, I do.”

“It was nothing. Nothing new, anyway.” Effie fiddled with her zip. “The same hashed-out argument.”

“You being an irrational commitment-phobe?”

“Yeah.”

“Couldn’t you just get a set of keys cut for the poor man? He’s at your place half the time anyway. Then maybe, down the line, you might feel differently.”

“No.” The word came out harsher than Effie intended. “Sorry. It’s just…it all feels too hard. Greg, he’s…”

He’s not him .

“I’m not ready,” said Effie. “Besides, the whole commitment thing looks better on you.”

“I do make it look exceptionally good.” Blair placed a hand on Effie’s leg. “Bloody hard work though. Ewan required some serious pre-wedding training.”

Effie looked at her friend. “I said things, Bee. It wasn’t good. I think it might really be over this time.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“I almost did.” Effie offered a half smile, knowing she didn’t need to say anything else.

“So…” said Blair, “just so I know where we’re at—tomorrow, once we’re off this sodding mountain, will I be taking you for a massage and a sauna, or for beer and chicken wings?”

“Beer.” Effie forced a smile. “A lot of beer.”

“Well, that I can—” Blair swore suddenly as a rock thumped into the tent a few centimeters from her head, and she lurched to the side.

“You okay?” Effie leaned forward.

“Yeah. Shit.” Blair patted her chest. “Just caught me by surprise. Jeez, that wind’s strong.”

Effie peered through the small plastic window, but visibility was down to a few meters and the sheets of rain blurred even the closest patches of heather and rock.

“It’s going to be a long night,” said Blair.

“Perhaps not long enough.” Effie buried her face in her palms. “I can already imagine the headlines.” She peered through her fingers. “?‘Local police officer saved by her own rescue team. Cold and wet cop grateful to be alive.’?”

“?‘Incompetent police officer endangered beloved best friend.’?”

Effie raised an eyebrow as a puddle of water leaked in around her right foot.

“Come on,” said Blair. “No one reads the paper anymore.”

“Keith does.”

“Yeah, Keith definitely does,” said Blair, feigning concern. “He’ll probably frame them and mount them somewhere prominent in the station.”

“You’re awful.”

Effie shivered, the waterproofing on her jacket long since defeated, then blew warm air down her collar.

Her fleece was sodden too. The color had drained from Blair’s face, her eyes darkened by smeared makeup and exhaustion, and each time she coughed, the guilt twisted Effie’s insides.

People were stupid to trust her, to think she would do anything other than fail them.

Effie tucked her knees into her chest as the shame pulled her mind back.

No matter what she did, the past was always there, lapping at her shins.

It was like standing at the edge of a vast ocean, the water sucking at her feet as she tried to wade back to the shallows.

He was always there, floating just beneath the surface, his fingers clawing at her ankles and pulling her farther out to sea.

One day he would eventually drown her. And as the water poured down her throat and her arms and legs gave up, Effie would apologize to him over and over.

I’m sorry .

The howl of the wind pierced through her, louder than her thoughts, and Effie bolted upright, her body disorientated and cold.

Blair was staring at her, her skin white and her eyes wide—her expression one of terror.

Effie’s chest tightened as her brain fired and realization poured through her.

It wasn’t the wind; it was Blair who had screamed.

Effie followed the direction of Blair’s eyes, and she froze, her blood running cold.

There, in the small circular window, was a face.

A stranger. His left eye filled with blood.