Chapter Text
In 1991, renowned climber and mountain guide Francis Crozier spoke to The Mountaineer’s Magazine about the 1990 Everest disaster of which he was a survivor. This interview would be his only public statement on the events.
Excerpt from an interview by Anthony Machin. Published in The Mountaineer’s Magazine on June 19th 1991:
MACHIN:
In a recent radio interview, John Franklin spoke about the disaster. Although he wasn't on the mountain in 1990, he argued that the deaths could be attributed to human error and an excess of climbers with insufficient experience. What do you think of Franklin’s statements? Have you tried to place blame since you returned?CROZIER:
No amount of skill can protect you from being battered by a storm up there. No one saw it coming, not the Sherpas, not the guides, and none of the other climbers near the summit that day. Did individual choices impact who died? Yes. But I’m not interested in putting anybody on trial for it. If I did, I’d start with myself, and there’s no joy in a man self-flagellating in the media. I’ll lay my blame in private and I’ll pay for that storm until the day I drop dead.MACHIN:
Perhaps one of the things that captured people's attention the most in the weeks that followed the disaster was the bear. Some have decried it as sensationalist rumours, but several climbers on the mountain that season reported it independently of each other. Did you ever see it yourself?CROZIER:
People want to make this into a story, some grand tale. But there’s no story here, Anthony. There was no bear. We were trapped, oxygen-starved and desperate. Up there, at those altitudes, your brain will grasp at anything to make sense of a senseless situation. There was no f***ing bear. There was a mountain and a storm the scale of which you can't comprehend until you're in it, and by then it's too late. Some of us lived and the best of us died. People will keep climbing Everest for as long as it’s there and they’ll keep dying for that long, too, and I’ve nothing else to say.
Tuesday 20th March 1990, Kathmandu, Nepal
During his first night in Kathmandu, Francis slept uneasily, stuttering awake every hour or so because of some noise he could not place when he looked around the room. It had been a cold night and he’d slept in his baselayers, but the sunrise brought with it an unreasonable heat, so at 7am he struggled out of his sweat-drenched shirt and lay awake for another hour, watching shadows shift on the ceiling.
He faxed two letters from the hotel lobby that morning; one to James Ross and one to Sophia, driven by a punishing need to be seen by her even from 4,500 miles away.
My dear James,
I made it to Kathmandu in one piece altho the Air India staff tried to take me out with some horrible food & I spent my first hour at Tribhuvan airport retching in the bathroom nevertheless I’m here now for better or for worse and I’m preparing for my clients’ arrival in three days. I spoke to the husband on the phone last week and I’m already tired of him he sounded so American and so far away — I can’t currently imagine spending 9 weeks with him in close quarters at extreme altitudes no less. I’m sure he won’t get any better the more brain cells he loses. I’ve not spoken to the wife so won’t judge her for her choice of husband until I meet her and figure out if it is for money or love. Apologies James I’m being horrible to these poor people (haha, rich in fact, too rich to have any sense) but you know better than anyone how I feel about this undertaking and I’m wondering if I’m not a complete idiot for coming here in the first place.
I wish you were here and we could haul the Americans up the mountain together I know I’d feel much better with you by my side but I understand no friendship or summit could drag you away from lovely Ann now. If I had a wife half as great as her at home I’d never risk my life on some damn rock halfway across the world again so don’t feel guilty about turning me down tho I hope all three of us can climb together in the summer when I’m back. Let me know what you and Ann think about attempting the Breithorn Half Traverse — it was a perfect sunny climb in ‘86 and I think Ann would like it a lot.
All my love and friendship,
FRMC
Dear Sophy,
I arrived in Kathmandu yesterday afternoon and have spent a mostly sleepless night now at Garuda Hotel thinking about how strange it’ll be to climb Everest with people I don’t know or trust at all. I know you’ll understand what I mean by that — I don’t want to be harsh on these people since they’re paying my wages but mountaineering is getting watered down into nothing but a hobby sport for rich Americans. And you’ll say I’m now an accomplice in that but then so is your uncle — does he still intend to guide on Everest this year? You haven’t mentioned it to me but I heard from James Ross that Sir John might be leading the Fitzjames expedition. Good Christ I don’t know what would possess him to do this but I hope they are not pushing for the summit at the same time as us. I don’t want to spend a minute above 26,000 feet in the company of James Fitzjames he is unbearable enough at sea level.
It would be good to hear from you if nothing else then at least we could discuss your uncle’s plans — the hotel doesn’t charge too much for international calls so I thought I could call you tomorrow. When are you leaving for Switzerland? If I don’t hear from you and you don’t pick up tomorrow then good luck on Eiger. It's a stunning mountain and I often think back to climbing it with you in ‘87. It was a beautiful trip even if it ended poorly for us.
With love,
Francis
***
He spent the morning walking around Thamel, wishing he had booked a room away from the hectic tourist district, and returned to the hotel at midday to see if a reply had arrived from home.
“No messages yet, Mr Crozier,” said Namrata, the woman at the front desk who had faxed his letters for him earlier. “I’m sorry.”
Embarrassed by her genuine pity, Francis retreated to his room and spent the next hours poring over his supply lists, logistic plans and itinerary as if he didn’t already know every line and every figure by heart.
A knock at his door shook him out of his reverie just before 5pm. His knees protested as he unfolded himself from his cross-legged position on the bed, and his spine was similarly unhappy with him.
He poked his head out of the door to find Namrata waiting there, holding a sheet of paper.
“Fax for you, Mr Crozier,” she said and handed it over. “From Mr Ross.”
There was a framed photo of James Clark Ross in the stairwell leading up to Francis’ room, among a dozen other photos of mountaineers who had stayed at the hotel over the years. Francis had taken a picture of it with his camera when he arrived late the previous night, so they could laugh about it when he returned to England.
“Thank you, Namrata.”
“Can I bring you tea?”
“No need, thank you.”
She disappeared down the stairs, past the framed photo of Ross. Francis watched her go, then shut the door and sat on the bed to read his letter:
My dear Francis,
I’m sorry to hear about the attempt on your life by Air India, but better to get it out of the way now than to spend your trek to BC throwing up in various bushes. I’m sure you won’t be spared completely but take it as a good sign.
You’ve stomached worse than some bad food and a couple of poncy, loud Americans. And I can read between the lines and see that you think you’re not up for the job anymore, but you’re still the same man who laid the ropes up the Southwest Face in ‘75, even if your hairline isn’t what it was. I have full faith in your ability to haul your clients up to the summit by yourself. You don’t need me nearly as much as you think you do.
Ann says Breithorn sounds lovely and she’s spent the morning looking at the photos we have of your ‘86 trip there, so I don’t think I have a choice in the matter. June or September would be the best months for it but you shouldn’t overdo it so soon after Everest, so let’s say September if it suits you.
Have you seen your protégés yet? Last I heard they were meant to arrive a few days before you. Get out there and mingle, old man. I can’t stand the thought of you holed up in your room feeling sorry for yourself just because you think the world doesn’t want to know you.
Please don’t write to me until you’ve seen Tom and Ned unless you have a really great excuse (by that I mean if you’re not near death I don’t want to hear it).
Ann sends her love. She wants to remind you she expects a postcard or three.
Yours,
James
Thomas Jopson and Edward Little were indeed in Kathmandu. They had arrived on the 18th and Tom, loyal Tom, had sent their itinerary and hotel details to Francis weeks ago. He hadn’t asked outright but the implication was clear. They would be flying to Lukla on the 22nd, so if Francis wanted to see them in civilisation, he would need to get over himself and find them.
He folded up the letter from James and put it on his nightstand. Then he went to get a comb to sort out his frightful appearance.
***
“We’ll have Tenzing Tsheri Sherpa and his nephew Tendi with us until our last camp,” said Tom. There was a map laid out on the table between them with his and Edward’s planned route sketched out. He tapped his finger on the marker for their highest camp and Francis’s gaze tracked the route upwards. “From there it’s just us to the summit. We’ll start early and descend via the standard South Col route.”
Tom looked at Francis with a bright, searching smile. His eyes were wide, as were his hands now splayed out on the map.
They were crowded around a small table on the rooftop of Thorong Peak Guest House. The sun had set an hour ago when they had finished their dinner, so the space was lit up by rows of lanterns. Francis had draped his fleece over his shoulders as the air grew colder.
“Good,” Francis nodded, answering the question Tom hadn’t asked. “We scouted the western side of the Face in ‘75. It’s an ambitious route but we thought it was possible then.”
Next to Tom, Edward sat a little straighter and said, “We based a lot of it on your reports.”
Francis smiled at that and took a sip of his tea.
In the spring season of ‘83, Tom, Edward, and Francis had made the first ever ascent of the South-West Summit of Mount Shivling — their first major expedition together, and Tom and Edward’s first climb in the Himalayas. Though the trip had been largely reported as a success, during the descent Tom had become suddenly disoriented and nauseous. Francis, who had lost two climbing partners to high-altitude cerebral edemas in his career and felt sick at the first slurred words out of Tom’s mouth, had anchored himself to Tom’s back and abseiled down 1,240 metres of harsh, vertical cliffs while Tom became increasingly delirious in his lap. Edward, tender-hearted Edward, had cried most of the way down, seven awful hours no one could stomach talking about for weeks after.
Tom had recovered at base camp and by September he was climbing the Eiger in Switzerland. Still, when James had suggested Tom and Edward for an attempt at a new route on K2 the following year, Francis had twitched with a sharp fear he couldn’t shake even as he agreed. It was one type of grief to lose friends on the mountain; it was another entirely to lose boys who looked to him for answers up there.
It felt strange now to see them preparing for a dangerous climb on their own — this new generation of mountaineers. They would chart new routes, develop new techniques and write books about brushes with death, while Francis stood at base camp with binoculars and watched them push upwards along steep faces, towards an eternal, unforgiving summit.
“Oh,” Tom said and nodded at someone over Francis’ shoulder, “Fitzjames is back.”
Francis froze as he watched Edward raise a hand in greeting.
“No,” he said sharply when Edward’s wave hello started to resemble a wave over. “Don’t.”
“Sorry, sir,” Tom mumbled with a genuinely apologetic look from below his fringe. “I forgot to mention he’s staying here.”
“Oh, hello, Edward, Thomas,” said a loud voice from behind him, like a military ambush. “Francis?”
Francis stared down into his tea and pretended he had forgotten his own name.
But Fitzjames was already rounding on them. He dragged over a spare chair from a nearby table and sat down.
“I didn’t know you were staying here,” he said, and Francis had no choice but to look at him. “When did you get in?”
Despite the early season, Fitzjames had tanned a smooth shade of brown, with just a hint of faded sunburn on the high points of his cheeks, and his sun-cracked lips shone with chapstick. In his most recent article, published on the 14th of March in Outdoors UK, he had written about organising an impromptu avalanche rescue while on a skiing trip in the Swiss Alps. Beneath the article heading was a photo of Fitzjames, wearing a red, fur-lined The North Face jacket that he had recently modelled for one of their promotional campaigns. He had his arm around a bedraggled but beaming little girl who he had rescued from the avalanche. His hair, even damp from snow, still curled beautifully around his face.
For Fitzjames, even saving a life was a publicity stunt.
“I’m not staying here,” Francis replied. “Isn’t this a bit shabby for you, Fitzjames? Slumming it with the common folks?”
Edward gave a startled, nervous laugh that landed on the table like a bird that had been shot out of the sky.
“Very funny,” Fitzjames said and unclenched his jaw to smile graciously. “But since we’re all about to spend two months showering very little and most likely vomiting by our tents, I’m not sure you can call Thorong Peak ‘slumming it’.”
Tom intervened. “We were just showing our proposed route to Francis.” He turned the map so it was facing Fitzjames and ran his finger along the drawn lines. “We’ll be attempting this way up the Southwest Face and descending via the South Col.”
Fitzjames leaned over the map and studied it with gravitas, nodding to show them all how hard he was thinking about what was in front of him.
“It’s ambitious like all great climbs. It nearly intersects with your ‘75 route here, Francis,” he said and pointed to the top section where they would come to straddle the West Ridge.
Francis replied, “We never went up on the Ridge.”
“Yes,” Fitzjames agreed. “As I said, nearly.”
Edward pushed the bowl of peanuts he had been hoarding over to Fitzjames, who took a few. “You’re both taking the standard South Col route, right?” asked Edward.
“Of course,” Fitzjames said after swallowing his peanuts. “With this kind of group, anything else would be insanity.”
Francis topped up Edward and Tom’s tea. Fitzjames had no cup since he had sat at a table that he wasn’t invited to.
Fitzjames continued, “Sir John is arriving on Thursday, and the clients on Saturday. So that’ll give us a day to organise the last steps.”
“And do you have a summit window in mind?” asked Tom.
Fitzjames raised his hands in an elaborate shrug that projected an air of irreverence. “We’ve pencilled the 11th of May in, but we’ve prepared for two weeks of weather fluctuations in the schedule. We’ll make our assault when the window presents itself. Sir John has an extraordinary gift for predicting weather patterns.”
Francis, who had pencilled the 10th of May on his own itinerary and thought Sir John was an old fool, developed an agitated twitch in his right eyelid.
Fitzjames turned to him bodily and rested his chin in his hand. “What about you, Francis?”
“10th of May,” he grunted and took some peanuts. “Weather permitting.”
“We’ll be neck and neck then,” Fitzjames said with an irritating smile. “A friendly race, if you will.”
“I’ll not compete with you.” Francis swallowed his peanuts. “If we go ahead of you, we’ll be at Camp III by the time you make your attempt. If we go after you, I just hope you’ll not be in trouble and stumbling around in front. There’s only three of us — and you’re dragging a whole herd of amateurs with you.”
“Francis,” Edward said sharply and even Tom looked a little pained, though he normally enjoyed seeing Francis irritate people.
Fitzjames just gave him a slightly pitying look. “Never mind mine, I don’t know how you expect to get your amateurs up there with this kind of talk, Francis. Have some faith.”
“Faith shouldn’t outrank skill.”
“It doesn’t hurt to have both, I’ve found.”
“Ah, have you really?”
Tom folded up their map noisily and kicked Francis’ shoe under the table.
Francis slumped back in his chair. He must have sat forward at some point to lean closer to Fitzjames, but he couldn’t remember doing it.
“I’ll get going,” he said with a pointed look at Tom, and he stood. “I’m sure I’ll see you on the trek out of Lukla, Fitzjames.”
“Yes, it seems we’re on a similar schedule.” Fitzjames rose from his chair and held out his hand. “Cheer up, Francis, we’re climbing Everest.”
Christ alive.
“No one since Mallory has found that a cheerful idea,” Francis said and shook Fitzjames’ hand, which was warm and slender and startlingly soft. “And look where he ended up.”
***
There was something stuck beneath Francis’ sternum, a tense knot, a heaviness that he couldn’t shift. That night, he slept in fitful bouts, sweating into the sheets, feeling constantly as though he had forgotten something important and if he could only wake up, he would remember and set it right.
So when someone knocked on his door at an ungodly hour, he was already awake, having just dragged himself out of another strange dream that clung to his bones. He stared towards the door, barely able to make out its shape in the darkness.
After a long pause, there was another knock, sharp but polite. Francis pushed back the covers, stepped into his slippers, and pulled on his fleece.
In the dark corridor outside his door stood Mahesh, one of Namrata’s sons, who covered the front desk at night. He was holding the phone in his hand, its display glowing green with an ongoing call.
“For you, Mr Crozier,” said Mahesh and took a step backwards, sheepish at the sight of him. “Important call. I am sorry to wake you.”
The knot beneath Francis’ sternum opened up into a yawning pit of dread. He took the phone from Mahesh.
“Hello?”
On the other end of the line, distant and crackling, came an American drawl: “Crozier, you’re gonna hate me for this.”
In the hallway, Mahesh stared at him with wide eyes, so Francis retreated and turned away towards the window.
“Lawrence?”
Lawrence McBride was an insurance broker from Arizona. In his spare time, of which he had too much, he was an avid adventure tourist — desert trekking in Jordan’s Wadi Rum, whitewater rafting in Alaska, camping in Abisko, throwing money at anyone who would take him to some remote spot to do something he could tell his friends about on the golf course.
He was also the man paying Francis $110,000 to take him and his wife to the summit of Mount Everest.
Lawrence said, “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”
“It’s 4am,” Francis muttered, pressing the receiver close.
“Aw hell, my bad.” There was a brief, staticky pause. “Listen, Frank.”
Francis was listening. He was, in fact, listening so intently he thought any sudden noise would make him shoot out of his skin.
“Felicity’s got cold feet.”
Francis exhaled sharply.
“And she said to me, last year before we got in touch with you, she said, ‘Larry, I wanna do this. I do. But I need an out, I need a promise, if I change my mind, we’ll call the whole thing off. Even if it’s the night before we fly out. Even if it’s in damn Kathmandu.’”
With stiff knees, Francis started pacing the length of his room.
“And so I said to her: Lissi, if you don’t want to do it, I won’t make you.”
Lawrence paused here, whether for dramatic effect or because he was genuinely hesitant to say the next part out loud, Francis couldn’t tell.
“So she wants out, and I’m not gonna make her. She thinks something bad is gonna happen. She’s been having bad dreams, she thinks they’re omens, you know? It’s a shame but there’s always another season, yeah? Maybe you and me can try next year.”
Francis stopped pacing and stood still, looking out of the window at the houses opposite, cast in stark blue moonlight.
“I can’t refund any of the money,” he replied after a minute spent grasping for something to say. Most of it was gone. He had already paid for the permits, the supplies, the gear, and the logistics. He’d have to pay the Sherpas’ wages even if they all stayed down. And he was already here.
“Yeah, I know that, Frank. Don’t sweat it.”
“Right,” said Francis. “Will you fax me an official cancellation notice?”
“Sure thing.” Lawrence cleared his throat and then laughed, a brittle, loud sound over the line. “This is a bummer, huh? I can’t believe it’s 4am over there. Who was that kid I spoke to? What’s he doing up?”
“He’s called Mahesh,” Francis said stiffly. “I should get back to bed.”
“Alright, no problem, Frank.” Lawrence laughed again. “Told you you’d hate me for this.”
“Right. Maybe next year.” Francis had lost all patience for the conversation. He said, “Goodnight, Lawrence,” and hung up halfway through the answer.
When he turned, Mahesh was still standing just outside of the open door and shifting nervously from one foot to the other.
Francis crossed the room and leaned heavily on the doorframe. He handed back the phone. “Thank you.”
Mahesh nodded, held the phone to his chest and hurried down the stairs, leaving Francis to stare at the wall of framed photographs opposite. James Ross smiled back at him from his place among the greats.
***
At sunrise, Francis gave up on sleep and went for a run. It was a colder day than the last and the streets of Thamel were largely deserted, quiet save for a few locals setting up market stalls and some street dogs slouching through alleyways.
You couldn’t feel it in Thamel that morning, but there was a fervent push for change shaking the bones of the country, and Francis was an outsider to it. There had been protests in Patan and Kathmandu the night before — a revolution in the countryside rolling into the city, where students now marched in their thousands and were beaten down by riot police. He was a visitor to a revolution, here to climb a mountain while people rallied for real change.
He sometimes wondered who he might have become if he hadn’t shaped his life around climbing, but in none of the lives he imagined was he ever a revolutionary. A radical, maybe, but he would always be too comfortable in his little miseries to have that kind of fire.
As Francis ran towards the Bagmati River, his heart hammered beneath his ribs, hectic but alive. Four years ago he had spent a sickly month holed up in his flat, fussed over by Tom, who slept on his sofa while Francis was resurrected. He had sweated booze and heartbreak and grim self-hatred out of every pore until he had nothing left in him but an aching sense of loss. Though James had urged him to go to rehab and do it properly, Francis had always been good at punishing himself, so that awful month in his flat was all the grace he had granted himself.
There had been a moment, a week before he stopped drinking, when his bones were so heavy he couldn’t imagine ever moving again. He had considered accepting it. Sinking into the earth, drawn in by the gravitational pull and the loving call of the soil. But who would he be if his body failed? He knew then, and had perhaps always known, that he would either die climbing or die miserable. It was never a choice between one addiction and another, only a decision to stop killing himself so he could let the mountains do it for him.
Francis didn’t slow his pace until he reached the river. He stopped at the bridge that stretched across it, red iron on either side, and he bent over, breathing hard. His face was warm and slick with sweat. He could taste salt, a hint of iron, and the pulsing beat of blood rushing through him.
The sun crested over the mountains on the horizon, far from the city yet, but close enough that it felt as though God was cradling this place of change in the palm of his hand.
Even on Francis’ darkest days, there was an animal instinct that kept him sucking air into his lungs and putting one foot in front of the other, his heart pumping blood despite it all. To him, it would always feel strange to be a creature that wanted to live.
***
Sophia picked up on the fourth ring: “Francis?”
She sounded hassled and distant, as though she was on another planet.
“Sophy,” Francis said, cradling the receiver closer to his cheek. He walked away from the front desk where Namrata was checking a guest in and stepped into the empty stairwell. “Is this a bad time?”
“A little bit, yes,” Sophia sighed, her breath like a wave of static rushing over him. “Can we talk later?”
“What’s the matter?”
There was a pause so long that Francis thought she might have disconnected the call without responding. He imagined her in her small kitchen with the eggshell blue walls, leaning against the counter, clutching at a notepad or a letter or something else that had bothered her, something he could never read. Then he imagined that she had folded up his fax from the previous morning and tucked it into her pocket to remind herself to respond, and was now smoothing her hand over that pocket as she thought of him.
He had always been good at fooling himself when it came to Sophia.
“Oh God, it’s a mess,” she finally said, having come to some decision. “I just got off the phone with Auntie Jane. Fuck. It’s such a mess.”
“What is?”
“Uncle John is in the hospital.”
Francis blinked, startled. “Sir John?”
“He’s meant to be getting on a flight to Delhi in two hours.”
The image of her leaning against her kitchen counter transformed into one of her standing very still at the centre of her living room. When Sophia was stressed, she retreated in on herself, her body shrink-wrapped into inactivity. Francis, who tended to move in quick bursts when agitated, had always found it disconcerting.
“But they’re saying he’ll need surgery.”
“Oh,” Francis replied unhelpfully and then cast about for a better answer. There wasn’t one. “What happened?”
“I couldn’t really make it out. You know how Jane is, she gets clipped when she panics. I think he fell, it’s something with his leg. Maybe a tendon or a bone. Both?”
“That’s terrible.”
Sophia sighed again. “Jane wants me to call James. He needs to know as soon as possible he’ll be without a lead guide. Poor guy.”
“James… Fitzjames?”
“Yes. I thought you knew. You said in your message—”
“I’d heard. But I wasn’t sure.”
“Right, yeah. Can you call back later? Or I’ll write. I need to speak to James.”
Francis hesitated. He had called to tell her about the cancellation, but he wondered if he wasn’t about to open a door that was better left locked, and iced over for good measure.
“Okay.” He nodded, for his own sake, not hers. “Only, I wanted to tell you— my clients cancelled last night. The Americans.”
“Oh my God. Weren’t they flying out today?”
“Yes. That’s why he called at 4 o’clock in the morning,” Francis grunted. “Ridiculous. Wife got cold feet.”
On the other end of the line — somewhere in her living room in Holland Park, or perhaps her kitchen, or somewhere else entirely, maybe she was staying with a new lover — Sophia started to laugh. The phone crackled with it, and Francis had to press the receiver even closer yet to let the sound travel through him.
“Oh, Francis,” she said breathlessly. “That’s awful. There is no refund clause, is there?”
“No, the money’s paid.”
“Good, that’s good.” She still sounded amused. “But that means—”
There was the door, shaking on its hinges.
She said, “James will need an experienced guide with him. He can’t handle ten clients by himself.”
“Jesus Christ,” Francis muttered. “Ten?!”
“Yes, ten.” She waited for a brief moment, then slammed the door wide open. “You should lead his expedition.”
Francis sat down heavily on the bottom step of the stairs. He was silent for so long that Sophia spoke again: “Francis? I know you don't love the man but Fitzjames respects you. And you’re in Kathmandu with no clients.”
In his life, Francis had not had the opportunity to turn down many people — he had always tended to pursue rather than be pursued. He had certainly never had the opportunity to turn down Sophia Cracroft and James Fitzjames along with her.
So he couldn’t help the near manic glee that shivered through him when he said: “No. Not on your life, Sophy, and not on mine either.”
***
My dear James,
You’ll be pleased to hear I saw my “protégés” yesterday and they’re both very well. I’m sure they showed you when you saw them last but in case they didn’t – they’re attempting a new route up the Southwest Face it looks ambitious but sensible and nearly intersects with our ‘75 route near the summit.
It will also amuse you to hear that I saw Fitzjames too and he’s as ridiculous as ever. He accosted us after dinner and talked a great deal about nothing just like you know and love him but let me put aside my irritation with the man to tell you with some small amount of pity that he’s fucked and so are his clients. Sir John is in hospital, he has done something or other to his leg, which means Fitzjames has to shepherd TEN (!!!) clients to the summit himself. I don’t know who they’ve hired as a climbing Sirdar but unless it’s God himself I don’t foresee any of them making it to the top alive.
I would laugh at him on any other day but the American called me last night at arse o’clock to cancel on me – his wife has cold feet or at least that’s what he says I haven’t spoken to her so maybe he’s only blaming her for his own fear. I’m at a loss as to what I should do with myself now I thought about asking Tom and Edward if they want me along for their first three camps but it would only sound patronising and I’m sure they’re more than sick of me by now. I’ll probably still make the journey and make a summit bid alone. It would be a waste not to.
Give my love to Ann.
Yours always,
FRMC
***
Francis went out for tea. He ate mutton dhal bat at a small, homely café tucked away in a quieter corner of Thamel and did a crossword puzzle he’d brought with him, feeling every year of his life keenly now that he was, apparently, an old man. He could have visited Tom and Edward again — no doubt they would have sat with him even when they had better things to do on their last night before their flight to Lukla. They were both too indulgent for their own good. It often seemed as though they felt somehow indebted to him, which was precisely why Francis didn’t go to see them again that night.
After dinner, he returned to his hotel, where he found James Fitzjames by the front desk, leaning against the counter with his long limbs all over the place, telling Namrata some grand story that apparently required his whole body to tell.
Francis stopped still in the doorway and watched him.
“I threw myself into the fray, obviously,” James was saying and made an absurd gesture with his hand. He turned to Namrata like he was about to involve her in the charade. “Now I’m not one for shyness, but the man was naked, for God’s sake, so we made a very silly tableau, I’ll tell you that much. But I wrested the knife out of his hands after a mad scuffle and I even managed to keep my clothes on throughout the whole thing.”
Namrata laughed, but Francis didn’t blame her for it much — she and the whole world. And Francis was always standing in damned doorways, looking in.
“Fitzjames,” he said loudly and stepped into the lobby. “Go on, tell her about birdshit island, that’s a good one.”
Fitzjames stopped slouching gracefully against the counter and pulled his shoulders back, standing tall. His voice was buttery smooth when he said, “Francis. I was hoping to catch you.”
“Evening, Namrata.” Francis leaned against the counter next to Fitzjames, but did not look at him. “Any calls while I was out?”
“Mr James Ross tried to reach you, Mr Crozier.” She picked up a note and handed it to him. “Message from him.”
In neat, small handwriting, she had written:
Francis — I will be home again at 6pm which should be nearly midnight for you. Please call me then if you are still awake.
He tucked the note into his pocket and nodded at her with a small, grateful smile. “I’ll be down later.”
Then he fixed Fitzjames with an even look. “What do you want?”
Less buttery smooth now, having not been looked at for thirty seconds, Fitzjames ran a hand through his sleek hair and twitched through an anxious smile.
“I came to— Ah, can we— Could I speak to you? In private?”
Francis, who had never heard Fitzjames stutter before, found it less hilarious than he expected. Mostly, it unsettled him. It didn’t help that he knew what the question would be and now, face to face with this nervous version of the man he had not known existed, the idea of turning him down suddenly felt more shameful than it did thrilling.
“Come on then,” he said, and went for the stairs. “Goodnight, Namrata.”
He heard James say his polite goodbyes to her and didn’t turn back to see him follow.
Francis kicked the socks he hadn’t tidied away that morning underneath the bed while Fitzjames had his back turned. Then he wished he was a better man, a more steadfast man, someone who didn’t care if James Fitzjames saw his dirty socks or the haphazardly scattered paperwork on his desk.
“Sorry to barge in on you like this,” said Fitzjames and turned to face him. He stood by the door, somehow taller here than he had seemed at Thorong Peak last night, but lankier, too. Younger, though Francis already saw him as that. A different kind of young then, one rendered by insecurity rather than unearned bravado.
Francis should have switched on the overhead lights instead of just the floor lamp by the desk. The low, warm light made the room feel cramped with both of them in it.
Fitzjames took off his jacket and hung it over his arm.
Christ. Why had he brought Fitzjames to his room? They could have talked downstairs.
Francis switched on the ceiling fan to get some air circulating. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and gestured towards the desk, towards the only chair in the room.
Fitzjames crossed the space and sat down, his long legs tucked underneath, and his hands splayed awkwardly across the armrests.
He tapped his fingers on the dark wood and Francis tracked the movement. Above them, the ceiling fan creaked.
“Sir John is in the hospital,” Fitzjames finally said, after hesitating for so long Francis had begun to twitch. “In London, not Nepal. He’s torn his patellar ligament and fractured his leg.”
Francis just nodded.
“You've heard, then,” Fitzjames said. He sank in on himself, weighed down by the news. “I talked to Sophia this afternoon, I assume she called you first.”
Sophia hadn’t called Francis in a long time. If they spoke, it was always Francis — Francis who sent the letters, who left a message, who announced that he would call and hoped she’d pick up.
“Yes, she called. Terrible news about John.”
“Truly awful,” James agreed and with feeling. He was suffering for the old man. Even in the low light, his eyes shone damp, and Francis didn’t know what to do with that at all. “He won’t make it to Everest this season, obviously. He’ll need surgery, extensive physical therapy. At his age, there’s no guarantee he’ll get back to the mountains after an injury like that.”
Francis snorted unkindly. “He’s only a few years older than me.”
“A few? Eight years.” For a moment, Fitzjames looked sour instead of defeated, and it suited him much better. “That makes a difference in this sport.”
“Profession,” Francis snapped. “It’s only a sport for you.”
He watched Fitzjames bite the inside of his cheek, his jaw and the lines of his body tight. Like he was going to spring up from the chair and launch himself at Francis like the world’s poshest attack dog.
But he gave no clever retort and he didn’t jump up. Instead, he eased backwards and forced a smile. “Yes, well,” he hummed. “Yet here we both are, getting paid for the same thing. Let’s not argue about semantics, Francis, please.”
There, now Francis found the idea of turning him down thrilling again. He’d left his pity downstairs with Namrata, or perhaps in the hallway with the framed photographs.
“Better yet, I’ll not argue with you at all,” he replied and then hurried things along. “Why are you here?”
“After I found out the news, I was devastated, of course, and I spent the afternoon at a complete loss for what to do with myself and my clients without Sir John. Then your friend James Ross called me.”
Oh, the bastard. All this because Francis had stayed out a little too late for dinner, had pored over his crossword for too long? If he’d been home to take the call, he could have talked James out of it.
“And he told me your clients cancelled, so you’re at a loose end.”
“I’m not,” Francis grunted. “I’m all tied up.”
“Doesn’t this feel like a sparkling sign from the universe? You can’t deny that, surely.” Fitzjames leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs, and he looked at Francis from beneath his lashes.
Christ. Had that ever worked on anyone?
The mattress dipped beneath Francis as he leaned forward to study Fitzjames in turn, and he thought, with a red-hot lick of fear down his spine, that it probably had. But he wasn’t about to become a victim of James Fitzjames’ fucking eyeballs. And he certainly wouldn’t risk his career for them.
“Will you ask the question or will you just sit here and talk about fate?”
Fitzjames kept up the coquettish nonsense and folded his hands to show he was being so very serious. He said, “Please join my expedition as lead guide, Francis. It would be an honour to have your expertise and skill with us on Everest.”
For the second time that day, Francis felt the unfamiliar, feverish pleasure of being wanted and not wanting in return. He bit down on the tip of his tongue and smiled.
Fitzjames smiled back brightly.
“No,” Francis said, and watched that boyish expression slip.
“No?”
“Ah. No, thanks.”
“You can’t be serious,” Fitzjames snapped. All of a sudden he looked like a grown-up again. “Francis. Listen to me. £25,000. I’ll pay you £25,000.”
“Not for any money in the world, lad.”
“The logistics are all in place — you don't even have to do anything. You just have to help me get these people up and down alive.”
“No,” Francis said again and it felt good on his tongue.
Fitzjames stared at him. There was that expression again, like he was biting the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something terrible. This would feel better if he just said it. They could have it out right here in this cramped room — they could tear into each other and speak every mean, biting thing that sat between them.
The knot in Francis’ chest had been steadily expanding into the far reaches of his lungs, threatening to push up through his windpipe. A harsh enough argument might get him to spit it out, and rid himself of it for the time being.
Fitzjames sunk heavily into the chair, just like before when the weight of Sir John’s injury had pressed down on him. He said, “I don’t understand you,” and he sounded distressed by it.
Francis replied, “Thank Christ for that.”
“So what, you’ll just fly home? Waste the journey out here?”
“No, I’ll climb it on my own.”
“My God, Francis.” Fitzjames stared at him like he wanted to crack him open and see what was inside. “Then why not take the extra money? Why not work with me?”
“I don’t trust Sir John’s planning and I trust you even less,” said Francis. “I’ll not die up there because you want to play at being a mountain guide.”
In the silence, Francis found that the knot had only wound tighter. Fitzjames looked at him, his lips slightly parted and his face gone ashen beneath his tan, beneath the hint of sunburn.
Francis had to look away.
He stood up. “Is that all?”
“Yeah.”
Fitzjames rose, too.
He crossed the room, but Francis didn’t watch him. At the door, Fitzjames stopped and looked back.
“Night, Francis,” he said.
Francis met his gaze again. He could do that. Shame curled in his gut, but when didn’t it?
“Good night,” Francis said.
Fitzjames left.
***
The first time Francis had met James Fitzjames, he’d already decided he couldn’t stand him. His articles were inescapable, his media presence a farce, and his seven summit bid as an amateur made a mockery of mountaineering. Back then, the only people who had made an attempt at Everest had been highly skilled mountaineers with years of high-altitude experience; whether they were Sherpas or Brits or Japanese, what mattered was that they knew what they were doing. In 1985, James Fitzjames had taken the stage and told the world it didn’t matter if you got to the top on your own merits or if you had to be dragged there by guides, a summit was a summit. And everyone had lapped it up.
They had first met at a charity gala organised by Sir John Barrow of the British Mountaineering Council, which was less glamorous than it sounded, but exactly as grating. Since the start of his career, Francis had to be forcibly dragged to these events by James, Blanky, or Sophia, and later Tom and Edward when they started trying to secure expedition sponsorship with him. You had to show your face or risk the tide turning, sweeping funding away with it.
So it had been December 1985 in a stuffy hotel lobby near Charing Cross, and Blanky had introduced Francis to James Fitzjames, and then dipped out of the conversation in a move that he would later describe as ‘hysterical’, and Francis would later describe as ‘psychological warfare.’
Francis had taken to Fitzjames like oil to water. As Fitzjames regaled him with heroic tales of his seven summit climbs, rehashed from articles Francis had already read and scoffed at a hundred times before, Francis had drunk a rim-full glass of whiskey and grown more and more irritated, which was tough when his starting level was already astronomical.
Finally, he’d taken Fitzjames by the shoulder, looked him in the eye and said: “You should’ve stayed in the Navy, Fitzjames. The Mountaineering Council doesn’t give out medals for following orders.”
Fitzjames had floundered. “Sorry?”
“You’ll have to actually get yourself to a summit sometime,” Francis had squeezed Fitzjames’ shoulder, felt bone and sinew through the fine cashmere of his jumper, “if you want to claim these stories.”
And Fitzjames had made that face, the one Francis now knew, biting back anger and standing perfectly still. They’d stared at each other for some long, drawn-out seconds until Francis slid his hand down Fitzjames’ arm and then dropped it.
“You reek of booze,” Fitzjames told him.
Francis nodded. “That’ll be the booze.”
Then he’d excused himself and managed to avoid the man for a year and a half after.
***
“You didn’t have to get his hopes up,” said Francis. “Could have waited until I called you back at least, spared us both the trouble.”
On the other end of the line, James was pissed off with him. That didn’t happen often, so when it did it carried weight. Francis felt his spine crumble dangerously beneath it.
“You’re impossible to please,” James said. “I won’t tell you what to do with your time, but your opinion of the guy really isn’t justified.”
Francis was perched on the edge of the bed, cradling the phone between his cheek and shoulder while he used both his hands to mend a hole he’d discovered in one of his favourite trekking socks. He had pulled the floor lamp closer so he could see what he was doing, but the rest of the room was dark.
“It sounds like you are telling me what to do with my time, James,” he muttered. He pulled the needle through the knitted loops to create a neat stitch, careful not to disturb the existing structures. “I’ve known Fitzjames for five years, that’s plenty of time to judge him by.”
“You’ve never climbed with him,” James said tersely. “Never even held a conversation without arguing.”
“I spent four weeks with him at Cho Oyu base camp.”
“That’s a stretch. Glared at him from across the campsite, maybe. Rolled your eyes at his stories at dinner, badmouthed him to us, grouched about his sponsorship. I wouldn’t call that ‘time spent’ with him.”
Francis scowled at his sock and the needle between his fingers. “You’ve not climbed with him either.”
“But I know plenty of people who have,” James said. “Edward, Lance, Keebs, Charlie, even Karina. All people you respect, people you trust. All with nothing but good things to say about James Fitzjames.”
“Of course they’ll say that, they want his sponsorship money.”
“Maybe that's true, but they've said these things in private.”
“He’s an amateur,” Francis spat and jammed the needle into the pad of his thumb. “Fuck!”
He licked the bead of blood off and put down his sock so he could hold the phone with one hand.
“You don't even believe in what you’re saying here, Francis,” James shot back. “We were all amateurs once. Just because he hasn’t been climbing since the bloody Scouts doesn’t mean he can’t become a pro.”
“He’s a glorified advert.”
“Most of us are.”
“I’m not.”
“I said most, didn’t I?” James waited a beat before landing the death blow. “And if the rest of us didn't play that game, you wouldn’t have a career.”
Francis scrubbed his face with his free hand and slumped backwards until he lay flat on the bed. The phone dropped onto the mattress, but he picked it up again after some rustling.
“So you think I need to attach myself to this godforsaken expedition to— to prove something, become a better man.” He stared at the ceiling. In the dark, it wasn’t so different from the roof of a tent, just further away. He imagined he was lying next to James, both of them bundled into their sleeping bags, their breath white in the cold. They had spent more nights like that than he could count. “To spare Fitzjames’ feelings?”
“No,” James sighed. “I think you should join him because if it was anyone else asking, you would. You want to solo Everest just to spite him? You hate climbing alone.”
Francis chewed on that for a while, grateful that James let him. Finally, he said: “He offered me £25,000.”
James started laughing, and again it was like he was just next to Francis, cracking up about something late at night when they couldn’t sleep, their fingers and toes too cold even underneath all their layers.
“No way,” said James, still laughing, “You must really hate the guy. Twenty-five grand…”
“I think I can get him up to £30,000,” Francis said. “If I play my cards right.”
“So you’ll do it?”
Would he? Francis tongued at the question bitterly. If he hadn’t outright rejected Fitzjames tonight, perhaps the answer would have come easy. But to crawl back now? To have to explain himself?
The thing is, Fitzjames, I thought I hated you too much to join your ridiculous expedition, but then my closest friend held a mirror up to my face and I hated what I saw even more. So how about we call it thirty grand and get going?
“I’ll sleep on it,” Francis offers.
“Oh God, that’s right. What time is it?”
“It’s gone one.”
“I’ll let you go then.”
“It’s alright.” Francis rolled over onto his side, the phone tucked between his ear and the bedsheets. “I’ve not been sleeping well.”
“No? Is it nerves?”
“Just been thinking too much,” Francis murmured. He thought of the inside of a tent. He thought of Sophia tucked against him on K2, warming her hands in his armpits. He thought of James in Patagonia, how he had reached out in the dark and touched Francis’ cracked lips. Twenty years ago or two, the ache never left him. Francis held these things tightly in his fists — proof that he had been wanted.
“Don’t worry,” he said before James could fill the silence. “The next two months will do me good. I’ll have logistics and supplies to think of, weather readings, survival. It’ll knock me out of this— this— damn mood.”
“Ah, Francis.” He could hear James’ smile in his voice. “You know I’d love to be there with you.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Francis huffed. “You love to be home with Ann in the safety of your back garden.”
“Hm, well, I do miss you, man. Breithorn will be a nice reminder.”
Francis smiled wryly. “It’s not quite bivouacking together in an eleven-day storm but I guess the Half Traverse will do.”
James laughed again, said, “That’s not what I want to be reminded of.”
“No,” Francis nodded to himself. “Suppose not.”
He thought of the inside of a tent.
The pads of James’ thumb against his chapped lips.
Sophia’s cold hands against his ribs.
***
Francis found Fitzjames having breakfast on the roof of Thorong Peak Guest House.
He sat at a table tucked in a corner, sipping tea and picking at some bread. Spread out in front of him was a map and a ring binder, which he was flicking through.
It was a startlingly clear day. The sun had risen an hour ago, and now crawled upwards until it illuminated the peaks of Langtang National Park and Ganesh Himal to the north. Beyond the strings of fairy lights, Francis could see the mountains reaching high above the horizon. From where he was standing, the peaks of Ganesh Himal sat like a crown on top of Fitzjames’ head.
Francis worried at the bannister at the top of the stairs, pressing his fingernails into the dark wood of it. All he had to do was go over there and say good morning. Pretend like there was nothing strange about him being here, pretend that he had already agreed last night and it was his first day on the job.
Or he could leave. James was right — he hated climbing alone. So he would fly home. Use his freed-up spring to go climbing in Scotland or take a trip to the Alps. Sophy was climbing Eiger. He could join her, make a week of it.
(She would push him off the top if he did.)
What really waited for him back home? An empty flat in Bermondsey. A few dinners with James and Ann. A weekend hike with Blanky. And then nothing, nothing, nothing at all.
Francis crossed the roof, past groups of guests scattered around tables, some of them climbers judging by the uneven tans and deep lines set in their faces.
“Morning,” he said when he reached Fitzjames’ table, and he sat down across from him without ceremony.
Fitzjames looked up from his papers and blinked at him. His warm eyes were wide and sharp.
“Francis.” He set down the cup of tea he had been holding to his chest. “Good morning?”
Francis rapped his knuckles on the table. He swallowed and found his throat dry and raw.
“£30,000.” To his surprise, his voice didn’t crack. “I want to see the full itinerary, supply lists, gear, employee roster and client records. There’s ten of them, hm?”
Like a stage actor who had been thrown the wrong line, Fitzjames struggled for something to say.
He sat still, his hands flat on the folder in front of him.
Then he gathered up the papers, slotted them into his ring binder and pushed it across the table to Francis.
“Here.” He folded the map up and slid it over to him as well. “So you’ll join me?”
“I’ll let you know once I’ve read this.”
“Will you have breakfast?”
“Just coffee, thanks.”
Francis opened the folder, flicked through to the itinerary, and began to read.
***
They spent two hours on the roof. In the end, Francis did eat breakfast, but only because Fitzjames ordered gwaramari and a platter of fruit, and would not stop pushing it towards Francis. He drank so much coffee he felt jittery and he read every last scrap of paper in Fitzjames’ folder until he was certain he had the full picture.
Only then did he close the folder. He settled his hand on top, curled in a loose fist.
“I’ll do it,” said Francis. “If you want me to.”
Fitzjames gave him a broad smile that deepened the bizarre dimples that ran down his cheeks like scars. “You’re on,” he said. He nodded at his folder. “There’s nothing in there you take issue with?”
“No, there’s plenty.” Francis took his hand off the front cover, picked it up and handed it back to Fitzjames across their half-eaten fruit platter. “But we’ll go through that properly.”
“Alright.” Fitzjames was still smiling. He looked too pleased, almost smug. “I expected as much when I invited you. People always say you run a tight ship, and you’ve got the success to show for it.”
“Spare me the flattery,” Francis huffed, feeling distinctly mocked. “But I put safety above all else. When we’re up there, there’ll be a chain of command. If I make a call, you listen and you don’t argue.”
Fitzjames’ smile melted into a pinched, stiff expression. Francis straightened himself up for an argument, but it didn’t come.
For once, Fitzjames said nothing and simply nodded.
“You can disagree with me in private, once everyone is safe back at camp,” Francis continued, “if you really can’t help yourself. But never in front of the group. I mean that.”
There was a crackle of petulance in Fitzjames’ voice when he replied: “Fine.”
Francis nodded, satisfied. But it couldn’t last, of course.
“Only—” Fitzjames started and Francis sighed. “I concede to your impressive experience, of course, but I’ve been in plenty of dangerous situations and lived to tell the tale.”
“And tell it you have,” Francis muttered.
Fitzjames powered through: “And I know what the altitude can do to our minds. I’ve seen it first hand myself on Everest, as a matter of fact, when Dundy became so hypoxic he thought he saw—”
“A vulture pecking through his boots, yes, I know. I’ve read the damn articles, Fitzjames.”
For some reason, Fitzjames smiled at that.
“Well, then you know where I’m coming from. So if your brain turns on you up there and you start ordering people to descend into Tibet, do you expect me to stand by and watch as they all fall to their deaths down an unfamiliar rock face? Because of some… pecking order?”
Francis balled his fists below the table and looked to the sky for strength.
“Right,” he said after a long pause. “Well. If I’m so unwell that I’ve lost my mind, I expect you to jam a dose of Dex into my thigh and instruct everybody to stay put until I’m back on my feet.”
He looked back to Fitzjames and they stared each other down. The silence between them was cut through by the lively chatter around them, by cutlery clinking against plates, the sound of the breeze rustling the lights.
Francis ran a hand across his chest, stopping to form a fist against his stomach.
Fitzjames followed the movement with his gaze, then flicked it back to Francis’ face. And he grinned another easy, false grin.
“Fine,” he said and picked up his teacup. “Captain Crozier.”
Behind him, the mountain range cut jagged shapes into the bright sky.