There was only one way to find out.

Max realised the others were all looking at him. ‘Where did he fall?’

Suze pointed. Max nodded. ‘I need the rope,’ he said. ‘All of it.’

‘Max,’ Mickey called weakly, ‘don’t go over the edge. Get to the bottom of the mountain. Call for help then.’

But Max shook his head. ‘That could take hours. If Jordan is still alive, he needs help now.’

‘What do you care?’ Suze asked. ‘He was so mean to you.’

‘I’m not saying we’re going to be best friends,’ Max replied. ‘Where’s that rope?’

They had five loops. Max gathered them up and tied them end to end using secure reef knots. He found a protruding rock near where Jordan had fallen and looped the midpoint of his rope around it. He shouted Jordan’s name again. There was no response. With his back to the slope and clutching the double length of rope, he passed it between his legs and round one hip. He then passed it up across his front and over his left shoulder, then round his neck and along his right arm. This was the Dülfersitz abseil position. He’d read about it in books and online. There was just one problem: he’d never done it before.

‘First time for everything,’ he said under his breath.

‘What?’ Suze shouted at him.

‘Nothing.’ He threw the leading end of the rope down the slope with his right hand, and held the anchored end with his left. He let the rope take the weight of his body, then carefully stepped backwards down the slope.

It was steeper than the opposite side. Or maybe it just seemed that way. Max felt as if he’d left his stomach on the top of the ridge. He gradually let out a little of the rope in his right hand and descended a couple of metres. The rain beat hard against his face and the rope dug painfully into his body. Already the top of the ridge was obscured by mist. And there was no way back up. The only way now was down.

Max tried to shut out the fear, and continued his descent.

A minute passed. There was another crack of thunder. A flash of lightning, uncomfortably close. He called for Jordan. Nothing.

Two minutes.

Three.

He had no way of judging how far he’d descended because he couldn’t see more than a few metres in any direction. All he could do was focus on his rhythm: small steps backwards, gently easing out the rope that burned through his wet hands.