Contracts Matt Rogers (classic children's novels TXT) 📖

Parker nodded, but seemed to recognise the underlying tension in King’s tone. He turned on his heel and left them to themselves.

Slater muttered, ‘What do you think?’

‘I think he’s fine,’ King said. ‘Just not the sort of person I want to be talking to right now.’

‘Me either.’

‘What’s the time?’

‘Nearly six.’

‘Let’s get moving.’

It should have been more grandiose. It should have been the part where the music swelled at the beginning of their grand adventure, as they slung their packs over their shoulders and took the first step out the door and saw the long and winding road spiralling into the lush green valleys and snow-capped mountains.

But in reality it was the same as it had always been. Nothing magnificent. Nothing idyllic. Nothing romantic. There was the scuff of their boots on the gravel and the sound of measured breathing as they found a solid pace, striding it out at a speed just under a jog. They were out of Phaplu within a couple of minutes, and then there was nothing but the road and the pace and the burn in their legs and the thudding of their hearts in their chests.

They kept it up, and neither of them spoke.

They each sunk into something close to a meditative trance as the scenery enveloped them and they powered through Nepal toward Kharikhola.

28

A few hours later, they were making good time.

Slater grimaced as he picked up too much momentum on the way down the side of a small mountain, and ended up uncontrollably jogging a stretch of the trail. The declines were just as severe as the inclines, and there were no flat stretches in sight. They’d alternated between battling their way up incredible rises, followed swiftly by long downward stretches that ruined any elevation they’d managed to rack up along the way.

Because their destination, Kharikhola, was still low in altitude, resting in the foothills below Lukla and the main trail to Everest and Gokyo Ri.

They wouldn’t be getting to tricky heights for a few days, at least.

Slater stumbled to a halt as the trail levelled out and caught his breath. He wiped sweat off his forehead, sucked greedily at his water bottle packed with branched-chain amino acids, and checked his smartwatch.

Ten miles covered.

He was feeling it in his feet, his ankles, his calves, his knees, his sternum, even his arms. They weren’t running the trail, but even striding it out at a fast pace tested their cardiovascular capacity. When you had to ascend nearly two hundred feet on every incline, it was practically the same as running up a craggy, uneven staircase. They reached the top of every ascent with their heart rate through the roof, and then they had to deal with the pounding impacts of the descent on their knees.

Overall, it was tough, relentless work.

But that was the norm in their profession.

King caught up. He was considerably slower — sure, he had longer legs and could make greater strides, but the extra muscle he was carrying didn’t lend him any favours. He couldn’t maintain the consistent pace that Slater could. He stumbled to the end of the descent, rasping for breath, and checked his watch too.

‘We’re making good time,’ Slater said, echoing his earlier thoughts.

King nodded. Perspiration dripped off his nose. ‘I know.’

‘We’ll get there before dark.’

‘I know.’

‘You okay?’

‘Fine. Just … the pace is high.’

‘You warned me. Should have warned yourself.’

‘I knew you’d be better than me at this. You’re—’

‘Twenty pounds lighter. I know. Is this the part where I puff you up by saying you could probably throw a punch harder than I could?’

King half-smiled, and wiped his face on his shirt. ‘I took out ten men in that village yesterday, remember? You only had to handle four.’

Slater rolled his eyes. ‘I’m sure that’s why you’re slower.’

‘I’ll adapt.’

‘However fast you’re adapting, I am too. My pace is only going to increase. You ready for that?’

‘Shut up and walk.’

Slater set off, his shirt drenched in sweat, his heart throbbing, his legs heavy and burning. But the endorphins were flowing and the sun was shining and the scenery, although unchanging, was spectacular. They were nowhere near the snowy plains of Gokyo — right now they were deep in green valleys, with the dusty ochre trail underfoot and the sun beating down on the backs of their necks without mercy. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

It wasn’t what they’d anticipated from Nepal.

But it made them feel alive all the same.

Hours passed in a blur. Slater gave endless thanks for the efforts he’d put into daily meditation. Physically exert yourself for eleven hours straight and you’re prone to overthink, your brain churning endlessly to come up with any excuse to justify stopping. But if you can shut that voice up and empty everything from your mind and focus entirely on the breath, you’re capable of so much more than you think you are. He’d learned that years ago, and now he put it to use. He put one foot in front of the other and thought about nothing and stared straight ahead and controlled his breathing and extended his stride, and before he knew it they’d arrived in a sweaty heap at the top of a sharp ascent and the town of Kharikhola spilled out before them.

In reality, it was a handful of teahouses skewered into the craggy hillside shoulder to shoulder, but they were relieved to see it all the same.

As long as there was a bed, they’d be happy.

It was five in the evening. They’d stopped once for lunch at a random teahouse, and paused briefly in a couple of villages to refill their water bottles, drop in purification tablets, and mask the acrid taste with more BCAA powder.

So they arrived hydrated, but utterly spent.

King bent over and put his hands on his knees and tried his best to hide a wince.

Slater said, ‘You don’t have to play the tough guy around me. You’ve got nothing to prove.’

So King winced.

‘Christ,’ he said. ‘I’ll be your weight by