The Loner, page 28
Meeting someone like Mark Flitley was therefore a strange experience. Here was someone who belonged to the despised soft academic class, who wanted to share in the excitement of a sport which was certainly not suitable for the fainthearted. Unfortunately, Mark could never accept the inevitable failures as anything more than temporary disappointments, however much he persisted. It was true Mark had surprised him on some occasions. His swim across Lake Ullswater was an example. But such examples were rare. There had been caving meets – simple easy caves – where, quite frankly, Mark had achieved nothing except to make a fool of himself.
If there was any category of person who Pablo detested, it was anyone who would not even try. Mark clearly did not fall into this class. If anything, he tried too hard. So Pablo had encouraged Mark to get fit by doing some regular cross-city running and had even given Mark some practice in rock climbing, and Mark had not responded badly. The rock climbing practice ought to have helped him with ladders, and he had shown some signs of improvement. He could now climb down a long ladder, and up short ladders, but he seemed to give up too easily when faced with a long ladder climb. The consequence was that Mark rarely failed to bottom a cave these days, but then the problem arose of getting him out of it. That did not matter on a typical club meet, where the caves did not fall within the severe classification; it even presented a challenge. But, on a hard trip, Mark became an unnecessary burden. Fortunately Mark volunteered for few of the hard trips, but when he had made up his mind, there was no stopping him.
Pablo did not despise Mark. To a limited extent, he even admired the way his enthusiasm had so often won against his obvious personal terrors, but the terror remained, and so did the prospect of Mark’s presence spoiling the trip. Rift Pot was one of those caves which just did not suit Mark. It was all ladders. He just wished Mark had not been there.
“All right, Mark?” Pablo asked, as he found a secure place for lifelining Mark, who was standing on the top rungs of the entrance pitch.
Mark nodded. His face was white. “Climbing!” he called, and began to step down into the shaft, which was a hundred and ten foot deep.
Pablo held the rope tightly, sensing every movement of the climber through the taut rope, concentrating on every pause and hesitation. At last, he heard Mark’s distant voice call: “Down!” followed by the words: “Rope free.” Pablo pulled up the rope, and followed Mark down, lifelined by Bob.
Mark was waiting at the bottom, uncertain where to go, looking no less white than before. Pablo led Mark up a pile of boulders. At the top, there was a hole, and a belay wire, clearly marking the way forwards, or rather downwards.
“There’s no rope,” Mark said, eyeing the ladder with suspicion.
“No need,” Pablo replied impatiently. “It’s only a twenty-five. Don’t worry; you can have a lifeline on the way back. Come on, Mark, get a move on. I’m getting cold!”
He watched Mark reach the bottom and then followed. When he reached the bottom, Mark was standing very still, and Pablo began to worry if he were ill or paralysed.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Matter? Nothing. I was just admiring the view.”
Pablo had to agree it was a truly magnificent view. In front of them, there was a huge open rift. The roof and far walls blended into the darkness, so far away that their lights could not reach them. Huge boulders were trapped between the walls of the great rift, bridging the gap, sometimes in clusters. Mud and stones had accumulated on these and formed false floors. Pablo knew the route to the bottom was a series of short pitches, from one false floor to the next, until the final big pitch.
As they went down, Pablo was aware of a pattering sound. It was like the sound of water dripping from the porous rock, but more sinister. Mud, earth, and loose stones were continuously falling from the rocks, ledges and false floors – not just from the pitches, where climbing cavers were unable to avoid dislodging them; the pattering noise came from all directions,
“I’m not sure I like this!” Pablo said, as he joined Mark at the bottom of the third short pitch.
“Nor I,” Mark replied, his face whiter than ever, but his determination undiminished.
And then the final pitch.
“How deep is it?” Mark asked. His voice trembled, as he tied a bowline onto the lifeline.
“Oh, only about eighty foot – not far really. Pablo knew this was a lie. In fact it was a hundred and twenty foot deep. But he felt some sympathy for the student, and it would be a pity if he failed to reach the bottom, after coming so far. Some encouragement was needed!
Mark smiled, for the first time during the descent. “I don’t believe you,” he said.
“That’s what the book says. Hurry up, Mark; I’m getting cold again!”
And with that comment ringing in his ears, Mark began the climb.
The bottom of the rift was impressive – an enormous space with walls rising upwards into an impenetrable darkness. A waterfall entered from high up at the opposite end of the rift, and there was a short length of passage with a stream leading to the inevitable sump.
Then, upwards and back the way they had come. Pablo was one of the first to climb the bottom pitch. As he got ready to lifeline the next man, he wondered if Mark had found out the true height of the pitch, and whether it would make any difference if he had. He heard the muffled command to take in the slack rope, and drew it in until it was taught. The distant voice was difficult to identify and hear against the background roar of the waterfall. He cursed the rest of the team for coming without whistles; there was no mistaking whistle signals. Now the man was climbing. Pablo stretched his legs against the rock, to strengthen his position, and took in the rope with enthusiasm. The climber was slowing as he approached the top – as they all did. There were frequent rests, and then a face suddenly appeared over the lip of the pitch. Pablo blinked. He was so surprised he almost let go of the rope. It was Mark.
“Well done!” he said, as he recovered from the shock.
Mark was not so proud of his achievement. “Nice pitch,” he said, as he collapsed in a heap. “Plenty of places to rest. Good thing it was only an eighty!’
Pablo was in no hurry to disillusion him. He helped Mark to untie the lifeline and then coiled and hurled the rope down the pitch. “Have a rest,” he said. “Then climb the next ladder. The sooner we’re out of here, the quicker we’ll get t’pub!”
Pablo was already life-lining the next caver, when Mark started up the next pitch. It was only a short twenty; so it did not worry Pablo that Mark was climbing without a rope. The bottom of this ladder was almost on the lip of the bottom pitch, making an almost uninterrupted descent of a hundred and forty foot, but, thought Pablo, if Mark could climb the bottom pitch, the risk of an accident was minimal.
Mark was two thirds of the way up when he suddenly called down: “Pablo, my arms are giving way.”
Pablo’s heart missed a beat, but he kept calm. “You’re almost there, Mark,” he said. “Just keep going.”
“I can’t.” There was the familiar note of panic in his voice.
“Come back down then,”
“I can’t. My strength is ebbing away.”
Pablo tried to get his companion to look at the problem logically. “Look Mark,” he said, “You can’t stay where you are. You’ll get even more tired if you stay hanging there. I can’t help you. Even if I could, I can’t drop this rope, while someone is on the other end of it. So, either go up, or go down, and for God’s sake, do it quickly!”
Mark started climbing down. He looked down and saw the big pitch open out below him. Pablo could see the terror in his eyes. He jumped the last few steps, but thankfully he landed on his feet with his hands still holding on to the ladder. Pablo, the man with the open tee shirt, realised he was sweating profusely. He heaved a huge sigh of relief.
So, when Mark had had more time to rest, they gave him a lifeline. Pablo noticed how Mark seemed to climb the three short pitches with remarkable confidence, now that he had the use of a lifeline.
And so the party arrived at the bottom of the entrance shaft. Pablo was glad Mark was putting himself at the end of the queue. Soon, he and four others were back on the surface, and it was Mark’s turn next. Pablo turned to the others and said: “Right lads, Mark’s tired. So let’s give him a really good line.”
Down at the bottom, Mark tied onto the lifeline, and started climbing. Night had fallen outside, and the dim light of the stars seemed far away. He had not climbed more than a few feet when his strength began to evaporate. His confidence collapsed, and he began to despair. He shouted loudly for help, and begged his friends, in ecstatic language, to pull on the rope. They did as he asked, and suddenly he found he was being dragged out of the cave, like a fish at the end of a line. Then he began to feel a sense of shame and remorse.
Pablo shook his head sympathetically, as he watched Mark untie the rope, his face hanging in its usual despairing attitude of defeat. He felt sorry for him. “Cheer up, Mark,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” Mark replied.
“So am I,” Pablo rejoined.
“What?”
“It’s time you got fit, Mark. If you did that, you’d find caving much easier.”
CHAPTER 19
The Tamborine Man
“But I would not feel so all alone:
Everybody must get stoned.”
Bob Dylan
Fiona was relaxing in the relative luxury of her flat and feeling rather guilty. She was reclining sleepily on the cushions of the common sitting room couch, with her shoes cast off on the ground. She had a copy of Moll Flanders in one hand, and her fascination with this outrageous novel was clearly evident from the look of intense concentration in her eyes. Yet, she knew she was doing wrong. It was not so much the morality, or rather the lack of morality, in the story which was disturbing her conscience, as the sense of imminent peril as the examinations were due in less than four weeks time. It was time she started doing some really serious swotting, but somehow the fine sunny Spring weather had delayed the commencement of this irksome task.
She heard footsteps on the stairs. She quickly swung her legs onto the floor and slipped her feet into her shoes. She tried to arrange her hair, so that it looked less untidy and dishevelled. The door opened, and in came Sue, accompanied by yet another of the variety of men friends who had taken Bob’s place. Fiona did not exactly disapprove of her friend’s amatory behaviour or taste, but it made her feel envious, when she considered her love for her one and only, and the sacrifices she was already making for him.
Sue introduced the friend. “Hello, Fiona. Meet John. John is spending a few weeks in Liverpool, before he goes to College in the States.”
Fiona rose and greeted him, and he replied warmly: “Hi! I’m glad to meet you. It’s not often you find a pad with such pretty gals.”
The compliments over, Fiona studied her friend’s new companion. He clearly regarded himself as one of the trendy elite. His dark hair was long, but neatly cut just below the shoulders. Otherwise he was clean-shaven. His clothes were casual, but too well made to pass for the attire of a typical student. His jeans were grey and flared at the bottom; they were neatly creased. In spite of his youth, there was an air of confidence about him, which gave the impression of greater maturity. He had a distinctive American accent, but this was neither broad nor pronounced, and she guessed he did not belong to the lowest stratum of American society.
“What brings you here?” Fiona asked.
“I’m going to Yale University next year,” the other replied. “You see, I’ve travelled all over the world, but I’ve never seen England before. So I thought I’d spend a few months over here before term starts. I’ve always wanted to see the city where the Beatles come from.”
“We met in the pub where I usually go for lunch,” Susan explained. “We’re going to a party later on. John has just finished his service in Vietnam and is due to start university next term. So he’s come over here to see the Old World, before he goes back to the New. He’s hitch-hiking and youth-hostelling. I’ve said he can sleep on the floor here tonight. You don’t mind, do you, Fiona?”
Fiona made no objection. She smiled cynically. She had heard of Susan’s good intentions many times before, and wondered how long the American would stay on the floor.
Just then the door bell rang. Fiona said she would see to it, and a few moments later, came back with Mark. She introduced him to the American.
“This is my friend Mark. He’s studying Law.” She stressed the subject of his studies in a disapproving way, and continued, “And, Mark, this is Sue’s friend, John. He’s from America. He’s about to start college next year – a bit late really, but he hasn’t been able to start sooner because he’s had to fight as a soldier in Vietnam.”
Mark noticed, from the way Fiona spoke, that however much she disapproved of war and fighting, she had no shortage of respect for a soldier.
Mark was interested in the stranger, and promptly lost interest in his hostess. “What’s it like in Vietnam?” he asked suddenly.
“Terrible!” replied the American.
“What are the communists like?”
“The VC are good soldiers.”
There was a moment’s pause, while Mark worked out who the VC were. The thought that communists could be good soldiers had never occurred to Mark. He twitched self-consciously. Fiona could almost see Mark’s rosy picture of soldier-heroes fighting bravely and keenly for their country disintegrate into a picture of fear, demoralisation, and mutiny, with a triumphant Vietcong army everywhere.
Mark decided not to pursue the subject of the war.
Instead, he asked a question about another topic which had been interesting him lately. “Is it true there are a lot of drugs in the American army in Vietnam?” he asked.
“It sure is. Everything you can think of – pot, acid, horse...”
“Horse?”
“Yeah, heroin.”
“Isn’t that a killer?”
“Yeah! Why not? If you’re going out into the jungle on patrol, and you know you’ve got a good chance of coming back with a knife in your back, why not get high on heroin? Life’s short. So, why not enjoy it to the full while you can?”
“Were you sent out into the jungle?”
“No. I was at base most of the time. I was one of the lucky ones.”
“But where do they get their drugs from?”
“Oh, drugs were everywhere. You bought them, and you sold them. I used to sell them myself.”
Mark listened to these confessions with startled eyes and wide-open mouth. The casual way the American spoke alarmed him. Each new statement produced a fresh shock. He found it hard to believe that someone, as educated and intelligent as the American clearly was, could openly flout the Law in a matter that was like the sale of death. So he had to seek clarification.
“D-did you sell heroin?” he asked falteringly.
“Yeah. I sure did,” replied the American in the same casual way.
“But, i-isn’t heroin poisonous?”
“No. Not at all. Horse is like any other drug. You can get hooked on other things just as easily, but you don’t have to get hooked. Besides, if a man’s going to die of heroin addiction, you won’t stop him dying by keeping drugs from him. If a man’s decided to kill himself, and he can’t do it with drugs, he’ll sure find another way of dying. So, why not treat drugs like any other commodity? Why keep them from people who want them? If you make drugs unlawful, you sure won’t stop people taking them – you’ll just drive them underground.”
“But drugs are illegal,” Mark protested with a frown.
Fiona had listened to this conversation long enough. She was annoyed with Mark for embarrassing her friend. It was time to repair the impression she feared had been made, that the residents shared Mark’s legal scruples, as well as to correct some of Mark’s basic misconceptions.
“Listen, Mark,” she said sharply. “Do you think everything against the Law is wrong?”
Mark would not answer that question. He knew, from previous discussions with the girl, that there was no answer. That did not stop him from arguing the case from another angle.
“Don’t they say pot leads to more dangerous drugs which will kill you if you become addicted to them?” he asked.
“That’s nonsense,” Fiona replied, wishing he would shut up. “I’ve tried pot.” She lit a cigarette, as if to emphasise the point by drawing attention to another drug. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t like it, but pot hasn’t led me to anything else. Why should it?”
“It’s natural.”
The girl opened her eyes wide in amazement, threw back her head, and puffed a vertical column of smoke towards the ceiling.
“Why is it natural? Take tobacco. That’s got nicotine, and that’s a drug too. If I smoke, am I bound to be led on to other drugs?”
“Well, it’s just like potholing,” Mark rejoined to smiles all round. “If you do easy caves, you want to do harder and harder ones. In the same way, if you start taking soft drugs, you’ll want to try harder drugs.”
Fiona could not understand the connection between pot and potholing, nor could she accept a statement which flatly contradicted her own experience. She smiled benignly. It was typical Mark Flitley again: public school prejudices, an archaic way of thinking based on an unquestioning respect for the Law, whatever its absurdity or injustice; a naive way of expressing himself, and a way of putting forward his beliefs without paying any attention to their presentation.
“You’re not with it, are you Mark?” she said with a smile. “Listen, I know plenty of students in this city who smoke pot, but I only know of five, who actually take heroin – and they’re not addicts. So, how can you say that pot leads to heroin?”
