He’d come down to the lake from the Wasdale Inn, where he’d been staying. He’d enjoyed some fine walks in this most quiet section of the national park. He came every year, and each time he left feeling more positive and recharged. It was a cold day, and the mountains above had been covered with cloud until the last few minutes, when it had cleared to reveal their majesty. That was why he’d been peering up, and seen the snaking line of coloured vests, and remembered that a fell race was on today. Jock, at the inn, had told him.

Up there, everything was silent, apart from what he’d heard just a couple of moments ago, and even that was a mere echo travelling down the mountain path towards him, dissipating as it reached his ears, and further puzzling him as to whether it had actually happened.

The thing was: he knew helicopters.

The one he’d seen hurtling down the lake was a private charter.

It was an AgustaWestland 139, recognisable anywhere in the world, but particularly so in a wilderness like this. They were fucking expensive: 10 million dollars and upward. Sleek, with the nose of a shark, with wide, extravagant windows for passengers to enjoy their surroundings. This one was white with a blue trim, and Lance almost wished he was up there flying the damn thing. He knew instantly that whoever was in it had to be in possession of stacks of cash. They were a dream to fly.

Which was why he questioned, again, if what he had just seen was a dream.

He did calculations in his head and his mind flipped back to weeks in the Apache simulator, showing students how not to fly, and what to do should a catastrophic error occur. Torque forces, yaw axis ratios and air flow indications over the blades all fought in his head, which was full of questions.

He was getting ahead of himself – but then he saw the smoke.

What he’d witnessed was genuine, and the calmness of the last couple of days left his body as he realised that a helicopter had just come down.

The uncontrolled spin was authentic. The debris he’d seen fly off with violence towards the deep lake was real, and in all probability was the tail rotor. The savage revolution that had ensued after the piece of metal had spun off was textbook. One of the most basic elements of helicopter mechanics was the role of the blades. The main rotor spun clockwise, and the tail rotor was designed to offset this power, with its own orbit, thus balancing torque. What he’d just seen was a spectacular failure of this beautiful relationship.