‘What?’

‘They’re with us again.’

‘Sun’s going down. They’re late.’

Silence. Then MacConnachie said,

‘Go to sleep. I’ll wake you when it’s time to move.’

‘Not yet?’

‘Not yet.’

It was cold when MacConnachie woke him, and dark. Night had fallen. MacConnachie pushed something soft and squishy into his hand and said,

‘Eat this.’

‘What is it?’

‘Last of the fruit from the village.’

They spoke in hushed tones, for sound travels far at night. Ansell took a mouthful of the rich flesh and crushed it against his gums to release the juices, which he swallowed, gasping,

‘Phew! That’s fiery stuff.’

‘Saved us a tin of meat.’

‘A man could get drunk on it.’

‘Don’t do that.’

MacConnachie checked the gun in the darkness while Ansell, continuing to eat, said,

‘It’s as good as a drink. We can save water, too.’

‘Tonight we’re having condensed milk.’

‘Oh God, I hate that stuff.’

‘Now the tin’s open, you’ll drink it. I’ve had mine.’

‘You probably like it.’

‘Nothing to do with it.’

‘Not for you.’

When he had finished, Ansell sat very still, but MacConnachie noticed and, taking his hand, clamped it firmly round the tin.

‘Drink!’

Ansell shut his eyes, located one of the holes with his tongue and, tilting back his head, tried to swallow it down, as a child might, without touching the sides. MacConnachie grunted with satisfaction, took back the empty tin and packed it. After a moment, Ansell said,

‘Can we have a little water now?’

‘What for?’

‘Take the taste away.’

‘For God’s sake!’

‘It makes me sick, Mac. It really does.’

‘All right; just a little. Hurry it up!’

Ansell opened the canteen while MacConnachie, muttering, roped up the suitcase. Then Ansell said,

‘Are you going to have some?’

‘No, I’m all right.’

Silence.

‘If you don’t, I can’t.’

‘Christ Almighty!’

The dark shape of MacConnachie loomed up, seized the canteen, drank, and thrust it back into Ansell’s arms.

‘Now drink! And shut up!’

Ansell washed out his mouth and swallowed. He was much recovered from the day’s ordeal and, looking about, he was struck by a sudden feeling of unease: there was something very strange about the texture of the night. Abruptly he said,

‘What time is it?’

MacConnachie, as though he had been waiting for this question, hesitated before he replied.

‘About midnight.’

‘Midnight?’

‘Shut up! What are you trying to do – broadcast our position?’

‘But for God’s sake!’

‘It doesn’t matter!’

‘What do you mean, it…?’

‘Shut up and listen!’

Ansell, shocked by a sense of betrayal, clamped his mouth shut. MacConnachie’s face was close to his, their altercation carried out in fierce whispers. MacConnachie was saying,

‘We needed the rest! They’ve got the same climb we had, but they’ve got to do it by night. And in a minute we’ll be out to the side – they can climb till Kingdom Come, they won’t find us. So don’t panic, we’re all right.’

Without a word, Ansell re-stoppered the canteen, rose, turned away, and hitched the strap over his right shoulder, where it had rubbed all day. The left still burned painfully from the day before. MacConnachie swore, and assumed his own burdens. After a moment or two, Ansell murmured, without looking towards MacConnachie,