‘They’re saying he’s dead.’ He shrugged. ‘I mean, I dunno though. Nothing’s confirmed yet. That’s just the buzz.’

Clover realized she was standing; that at some point during his words, her body had moved of its own accord, pushing her away from such a diabolical lie. She felt her breath catch in her windpipe and just hold there, neither in nor out.

Mikey? . . . No . . . There was no way . . . He couldn’t be . . . She’d only just seen him . . . She was supposed to see him in Switzerland . . . No . . . No . . .

‘Hey lady, you okay?’ the boarder asked her as she stepped back further. She stumbled against something and fell. The tripod. The camera stood inert and inactive, trained on the empty halfpipe, her skis on the snow. ‘. . . Did you know him?’

This wasn’t right. It wasn’t true. There was no way . . . he was twenty-five years old . . .

She got to her feet again, her limbs feeling strangely disconnected from her body. She looked around for Johnny. Where was Johnny? He’d tell her the truth. He’d tell her it was a vicious lie . . .

Coffee. It came to her, a distant bugle. She had to get down to the Ice Camp. It would be all right once she was there . . .

Blindly, she clipped into her skis, her hands shaking as she grabbed the poles, not bothering with the wrist straps. She had to get to Johnny.

She turned her skis down the slope, sliding down the back of the pipe, coming out along the bottom and not seeing another skier coming down from the far side until they almost collided. There wasn’t even time for her to scream and she fell awkwardly, crossing her tips as the other skier executed a sharp turn that covered her in snow.

‘Fucking moron!’ the skier yelled, continuing on.

She lay there, panting, realizing why she couldn’t see properly . . . tears were stinging her eyes. Skiers and boarders zipped past her, telling her to get out of the way—

‘Clover!’

Johnny? She looked up but she couldn’t see anything clearly. Everything was a blur. She struggled to get up again, pushing up on her poles and just letting the skis run. Her heart was beating too hard; she knew she was panicking. Shocked.

‘Clover!’

She just had to get to the Ice Camp and tell Johnny. He would know the truth. He would tell her it wasn’t real, just a vicious, wicked rumour, someone’s idea of a sick joke . . .

Mikey was not dead. No way. No.

Left, right, left . . . She let the skis traverse the piste in long meanders, not seeing beyond her own tips, barely seeing those. She was skiing badly, turning at the wrong points, going too fast.