Page 18 of The Two of Us at the End of the World

Cat climbs on top of the cable, which is the right way to do this. It’s how we cross the other cable over the canal. But that’s not dangerous. Just a few feet to fall and the worst you can get is wet. This is lethally different. She lies down, crooking one foot over the cable behind her and using it to inch herself forward on her stomach, her other leg hanging down and acting like a counterweight to keep her stable.

As she crawls slowly forwards, her careful movements still sway the cable, and the girl with a broken arm whimpers in pain.

I’m sorry, Cat says. I’m coming.

It’s not easy to start with because the cable is looping downwards and she is trying not to slip forwards on the rain-slick surface. It starts well. But then there’s a crack and a nasty scraping noise as the length of black plastic insulation breaks loose and Cat slides forwards on it as it moves down the cable, becoming a sort of mobile saddle she’s attached to.

Mouse! she shouts, but I’ve seen it. And because I’ve looped the rope once round the tree trunk I use it as a brake to slow her. I know instinctively that if I tug her to a too-sharp halt she’ll fall off, so I try to do it gently but fast, but she still jerks to a stop and the section of broken plastic she was riding keeps going until it falls off and skitters away down into the quarry. Everyone watches it twist and tumble for what feels like a very long time before it smacks into the jumble of rocks below and breaks into three smaller shards. Cat doesn’t move, hanging on, her head pointing downhill.

Maybe this is a bad idea, I say.

Yeah, she says. Pity it’s the only one we’ve got.

I can hear the strain pulling her voice tight. But she punches out a short laugh and cranes her head back to look up at me behind her.

Let’s just get it done, right? she says and moves forwards.

This time I don’t give her any slack on the line. I keep it taut so she has to pull it with her. It’s a bit of resistance, but it means she won’t slide again. It’s when she gets to the girls that things get complicated.

She stops, just out of reach, and I hear her say, Hi, I’m Cat. What are your names?

They don’t answer. The hurt one is whimpering, and the other one just stares at Cat like a wild animal that’s been cornered with nowhere to run. The look in her eye says enough: it says she thinks the only way to survive might be to fight what’s in front of her.

OK, says Cat. We can talk later. After we get you both safe.

Cat, I shout. How are we going to do this?

I see her take a deep breath as she crawls closer to the girls.

Slowly, she says. Very slowly. And very steady.

And that’s what we try to do. But in the end it’s very, very slow. And not at all steady, because the only way Cat can do it is to hang under the cable on her harness. She makes the girls put a foot in the loops her legs are in so they can take the weight off their cuffed wrists. And then Cat lifts all three of them by sort of chinning up on the cable, and I pull them up a foot – or often less – at a time, and then we wait for Cat to move her harness up the cable the next little bit. It seems to take for ever and for the longest while the only sound is the rain falling, Cat grunting and the hurt girl gasping. Even the dog is quiet. It just stands beside me, looking at them getting closer, occasionally lifting his head to stare at me, as if to say, can’t you pull faster?

I promise, I never saw an animal so close to talking.

Slow and steady, I say to it as I take up the next six inches of rope around the tree trunk.

What? grunts Cat. She’s only about twenty feet from me now.

Talking to the dog, I say. It’s…

Then it happens. The loop of rope holding the safety harness round the cable snaps. If Cat hadn’t been hauling up, holding on to the cable itself, they’d all have fallen to their death right then.

We stare at each other in horror. Cat is holding the weight of all three of them with her hands on a slippery cable that had already almost killed her once, with no safety for her if she loses her grip now. And she will. It’s too much weight for her to hold, let alone move with.

Cat, I shout.

She looks sick, jaw clenched, cords standing out on her neck, shaking with the effort of holding on.

Mouse, she rasps through her gritted teeth. You have to get the girls. They won’t fall. The cuffs will hold them. You have to get them.

I’m not looking at her any more. I’m tying off the rope to the tree as fast as I can.

Mouse, she gasps. Listen. I can’t hold on. It’s wet and I’m losing my grip… There’s nothing you can do. After I fall, you have to get the girls to safety.

You’ll be OK, I shout, cinching the knot tight and standing up, light-headed with relief. Even if you fall, I’ve tied you off. You’ll just bang into the side of the quarry and then I’ll pull you up. Protect your head if you do—

It’s not going to be okay, she says. I can see the cliff face. You can’t see from where you are. It’s as dangerous as falling to the bottom. It’s all sharp, broken fence posts and metal. Just make sure you save the girls—