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Thomas has it all: nobility, money, the girl, and a position waiting for him at the family business. But when he thinks about the life ahead of him, he can't breathe. So he takes a gap year backpacking.
Nadia...
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The Andes, somewhere between Ayacucho and Cusco.
Things were done for a reason in South America — even if at first glance they seemed irrational and random. Thomas was coming to learn this the hard way. He swore to himself that he would not only remember this new-found piece of wisdom, but he would hold the knowledge close to his heart. After all, it might save him from a future coronary — likely inflicted by another one of Nadia's damned subterfuges.
He had been disappointed by the appearance of yet another ancient bus. Had furrowed his brow when a man walked up and down the aisle, a camcorder in hand, the lens making a grinding sound as it zoomed in, first on Nadia and then himself. Why bother? he had thought, laughing on the inside.
Hah! Sometimes you're as pompous a prig as your father, Waterhouse.
Now, hours later, he understood the reason. If he had been less arrogant, taken a moment to gather the evidence about him and think, he would have dragged Nadia off — kicking and screaming if necessary.
Of course, it made sense to identify passengers before they set off at night, in an old rust bucket, on a long ride through the Andean mountains.
In a fucking storm!
But no, he would follow her through Hell or high water. Well, he was in Hell and surrounded by water. Tonnes of the stuff. Torrents pounded against the metal frame like gravel thrown against a tin shed. He could smell it — pungent over the scent of diesel and packed bodies.
Lightning flashed. The bolts lit their surrounds in terrifying brilliance, highlighting the reality he tried to deny. They moved along a narrow road, cut into the mountains, in places just broad enough for all four wheels to fit. To the right was a sheer rock face, mud and a few twisted and tenacious trees; to the left, beneath his window, a dizzying blackness. A nothingness which reached out for him like a spectre of death and had his guts griping.
Why did I not research this first? he wondered for the hundredth time. Although not religious, he found himself imploring God they would not encounter anyone heading in the opposite direction to Ayacucho. Would this count as suicide if they died — given they had willingly chosen to board the dratted thing? The way he saw things, death was a possibility. If Hell did exist, would it be fire and brimstone, or a muddy quagmire? Right then, he suspected the latter.
When he had said as much, she had laughed, tucked her hair behind one ear and nuzzled against a rolled-up sweater. Ensconced in an apparent cocoon of ease, she pointed out that the danger of the ride was the attraction.
"This is a life-affirming, once-in-a-lifetime experience, Thomas," she had said.
And yet they were the only gringos aboard. Where were the others?
"Probably on the train, or plane," was her answer.
Furious, he had pressed his lips shut. Unable to trust himself to speak.
