9.

  That evening I took my time writing another message to Armfield. Whichever way I phrased the request – for him to allow Amelia and Xander to come on the trip – seemed destined to fail. Reading my penultimate attempt back to myself, I realised that my politeness – all proper punctuation, capital letters, and even an ‘I await your considered response’ sign-off – made me sound like a stiff, desperate idiot.

  So I deleted it. I typed Long shot, but can I bring three friends? we’re making a film – i can explain – then pressed send straight away. Sometimes it’s best to shoot from the hip. At least that was honest and sounded like me.

  ‘Three’ wasn’t a typo. As well as Amelia and Xander, I wanted my cousin, Caleb, on this trip. I hadn’t seen him since our disastrous time in the Democratic Republic of Congo. He’d been his usual cocky self when we left for that trip, and to start with I’d have done pretty much anything to get shot of him. But he’d changed. When push came to shove, he’d put himself on the line for us, even standing up to his bully of a father – my Uncle Langdon – on our behalf.

  Without Caleb’s help we’d never have been able to escape from Langdon’s tantalum mine, Canonhead. Caleb had fought his father hand to hand to help us get away, and taken a physical beating for his trouble; what punishment Langdon had inflicted on him since I didn’t like to imagine. I’d been looking for a way of making it up to my cousin. It had occurred to me that this might be it.

  Within minutes my phone vibrated with an incoming call. It was Armfield. I let the phone pulse three times before answering. Given the speed at which he’d answered, I half-expected the sort of exasperated ‘Don’t push your luck’ ‘Dad’ would no doubt have dished out. But instead, without wasting time on pleasantries, Armfield said, ‘Explain the film project to me.’

  I did, making Mum’s involvement in the On the Brink project clear. Although I didn’t know – or want to know – how close they were, I was sure they’d been in touch since we got back from East Africa. He probably knew all about the initiatives she was working on anyway.

  I’d got up from the sofa when I answered the phone, and I was pacing up and down the hall. There’s a red rug with a pattern on it in the middle of the black-wood floorboards in the hall. I stared at it as I paced, my voice low and – hopefully – persuasive. The rug is old and pretty threadbare, and I’d never before realised that the repeating stylised pattern on it was of archers taking aim at a stag.

  When I finished, he said, ‘There’s a bit of fieldwork on this trip, but you realise much of it is just meetings in cities, negotiations in offices, which you guys can’t attend?’

  I liked that he’d said ‘you guys’; it made me feel hopeful.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, and played the only card I had. ‘But if you’re taking the Polar Flow up towards the ice pack, or even into it, I’m sure we could get some amazing footage then.’

  ‘The Polar Flow.’ He didn’t sound angry that I knew about the ship, more bemused. ‘How on earth do you know about her?’

  ‘Between the three of us, we’re pretty good at working things out,’ I said.

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘We’ll still have a proper opportunity to talk,’ I said, meaning him and me. ‘And Xander, Amelia, Caleb and I might get something worthwhile done when you’re tied up with the other stuff.’ I upped the ante with a twisted half-truth. ‘Mum’s pretty keen on us contributing to the whole On the Brink project.’

  ‘You’re asking a lot here, Jack,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ I replied, and left it at that.

  There was a pause. Maybe what I was asking was impossible, or more likely he just didn’t want to do it. I stared at my bare feet. They looked pale against the rich red rug spread out beneath them. None of the archers had hit the stag yet, I noticed. In each repeating pattern sequence the tiny fleck of an arrow was suspended, mid-air, sailing towards its frozen target. I cast about for something persuasive to add, but could come up with nothing. Hope fizzled out and a hollowness spread through my chest. I was surprised when he eventually said, ‘Let me get back to you. I’ll see what I can do.’

  It sounded like he meant it.

  10.

  I heard nothing for two days. My optimism faded. I hardly knew Armfield and certainly didn’t trust him, but I’d seen enough of him in Somalia to know that he wasn’t the sort to mess about. He’d said he would see what he could do; it seemed he’d had time to think and had decided that the answer was ‘nothing’. I’d probably ruined my own chance of going with him on this trip by pushing him to include the others. What an idiot.

  I hate waiting for things to happen. I’m rubbish at it: impatience is one of my worst traits. But I knew there was no point hassling the guy. Rather than just sit at home staring at my phone, I took our dog, Chester, out biking to distract myself. He knows the trails as well as I do, so I wasn’t that worried when I pulled up at the bottom of Barry Knows Best, a trail he’s followed me down a thousand times, to find that he wasn’t with me. He’s eight now, not as quick – or as nuts – as he used to be, and I’d hit Barry Knows Best pretty hard.

  While I was waiting for Chester to catch up, I cleaned the mud from my goggles and stretched my back. Above me the bare branches were still against the white sky. I called Chester’s name and was just about to take my gloves off, stick my fingers in my mouth and give him a proper get-here-now whistle when my phone went off in my backpack.

  Armfield launched right in as soon as I pressed answer.

  ‘Right then,’ he began. ‘I have a proposal for you. You want two things. First, for me to prove I’m on the side of the good guys. Second, a chance for you and your friends to film in the wilderness for your mum’s On the Brink project. I’ve consulted GreenSword. Unsurprisingly, they’re not prepared to let you attend sensitive negotiations. But they are happy for me to introduce you to their team on the trip and they’ll answer your questions. So, prepare some good ones.’

  ‘I will,’ I said.

  ‘What’s more, they want to help fund your film. I’m not that surprised. Supporting a worthy cause makes them look good. Creative kids combatting climate change: it’s a winner for them. You just have to give them a credit.’

  ‘That’s amazing,’ I said.

  ‘It gets better. We’ve put together an itinerary for you. Up north. It involves dog-sledding, ice fishing, snowshoeing, cross-country skiing and snowmobiling. You’ll even get to build an igloo and sleep in it. Sound good?’

  I swear Chester reappeared as Armfield said ‘dog-sledding’. He padded over and rubbed himself against my knee. This was incredible news. There had to be a catch. I slipped my fingers into the warmth of Chester’s neck fur, waiting for it to come.

  ‘Speechless, eh?’ Armfield said. ‘Well, you should be. But it won’t be a complete picnic, trust me. You’ll be put through your paces.’

  Was there a hint of a threat in this, or a challenge at least? Either way, I’d meet it.

  ‘I’ll email you the details – timings, kit list, et cetera. Get yourselves equipped and be ready to board a six a.m. flight on Monday from Heathrow. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I managed to say. ‘Thank you.’

  With that, the phone went dead. The woods felt eerily quiet. There was just the sound of Chester panting beside me. He’d evidently exerted himself. Maybe he’d scented a deer and run off in search of it. Either way, he’d come back eventually, and was now looking up at me expectantly.

  ‘What do you make of that?’ I asked him. I didn’t quite know myself. On the one hand I couldn’t help feeling excited, but something was dampening my mood. Perhaps Xander or Amelia would be able to put a finger on it. I clipped on Chester’s lead – he’s pretty good at running next to the bike untethered, but if there were deer about I didn’t quite trust him – shouldered my backpack and cruised home.

  I didn’t clean my bike or shower before getting hold of Xander and Amelia online. She immediately pointed that out. ‘You claimed you’d be revising today, but the mud on your chin suggests you’ve done no such thing.’

  It was true that we all had end-of-year exams coming up, and I had mentioned something about using the downtime to prepare for them, but as usual I had more important things on my mind. Amelia never revises: if she’s looked at something once, she doesn’t have to look at it again to remember it. I ignored her and ran them through what Armfield had told me.

  ‘That’s incredible news,’ said Xander.

  ‘It’s almost as if he has something to prove,’ added Amelia.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. She was right, of course: although Armfield’s offer was incredibly generous, it somehow felt like a gauntlet thrown down for me.

  11.

  Now that I had a real offer to put to him, I called Caleb. It turned out that his father, Langdon, had disowned Caleb for standing up to him at Canonhead. I wasn’t surprised. My uncle is as crooked and unfeeling as his brother, the man I used to call Dad.

  ‘When you say “disowned”, what do you mean exactly?’ I asked him over the phone

  ‘He left me at Canonhead when he returned to Kinshasa, as you know. Literally had me sent down a mine. I had to bribe my way out.’

  Either the line was bad or Caleb’s voice had lost its force since I saw him last. He went on slowly. ‘When I finally got back to the capital, he wouldn’t let me through the front door. If it hadn’t been for my mother, I’d probably still be stuck on the street out there. She sided with him, of course. But she got me back to London to finish school.’

  I’d assumed he was still overseas. He certainly sounded far away. It came as a shock to learn that he was just up the road. I kicked myself for not having made contact earlier. If it hadn’t been for me, he’d never have crossed his father in the first place.

  ‘Look, Caleb, I’m sorry –’ I began.

  He interrupted me: ‘No, no. After what our family put you through, it’s me who should apologise. I’d have made contact myself, but from the radio silence I thought you probably didn’t want to have anything more to do with any of us. Who could blame you? I’m just pleased if I was wrong. It’s good of you to call.’

  He sounded so unlike himself. I knew our time in the Democratic Republic of Congo had softened his arrogant edges, but what had happened since seemed to have hollowed him out entirely.

  ‘If you’re back in London it must be your Easter holidays,’ I said.

  With a sigh, he confirmed that it was.

  ‘So, what are you doing?’

  ‘Staring out of the window talking to you.’

  ‘No, in general. Over the next couple of weeks.’

  ‘I’ll be stacking supermarket shelves half the time and staring out of the window some more for the rest of it, I guess.’

  ‘Guess again,’ I said, and filled him in on our trip to Finland. I explained about the film, but left out my deeper motive for going. Apart from a polite ‘hmm’ and an ‘uh huh’, he said nothing. I had to add a ‘So, what do you think?’ to get a response out of him.

  ‘Sounds great. I’m sure you’ll have a good time.’

  ‘No – I mean, do you want to come?’

  ‘Me?’ he asked, incredulous.

  ‘Yeah.’

  It sounded like he had a lump in his throat when he replied. ‘I’d love to, Jack. But –’

  ‘No buts,’ I said.

  ‘There is one though. Money. Dad has obviously cut me off and Mum’s not about to fork out for a holiday. I’m working part-time stacking shelves at Tesco but I’ve got no savings, no way to pay the airfare myself.’

  ‘You won’t have to,’ I explained. ‘GreenSword are footing the bill. It’ll be good to see you, Caleb. I owe you.’

  ‘You don’t, but thanks.’

  I ended the call and stood up from the kitchen table to see Mum in the doorway. How much she’d overheard I had no idea, but when I said I’d been speaking to Caleb she seemed pleased.

  Later that day an email landed in my inbox with a description of what we’d be doing on the trip, and of all the stuff we’d need to take. I wasn’t surprised by the military thoroughness of Armfield’s preparation, but I hadn’t expected his postscript, which read: Remember – keep receipts for any kit the four of you buy: GreenSword to reimburse. It seemed they were taking the whole backing-a-kids’-expedition-film thing seriously. I forwarded the email to Amelia, Xander and Caleb, and over the course of the next half hour they all replied.

  Xander was first, with a gleeful Get in there!

  Caleb’s response came next: Thanks for including me, guys. I won’t let you down.

  And Amelia followed up with: You’ve already demonstrated that, Caleb. As for GreenSword picking up the kit cost too: suspiciously generous?

  I knew what she was getting at: there’s no such thing as a free lunch. But this was an international investment fund we were talking about. A few hundred pounds on warm clothes was nothing to them, and the publicity our film could generate was obviously valuable. I messaged back saying that.

  Since time was tight, getting hold of the kit meant visiting an outdoor pursuits shop – the sort that sells climbing ropes and crampons, skis and ski boots, tents and stoves and GPSs – that day. I didn’t need any of that, but I did come away with a new rucksack containing, among other things, a pair of snow boots, some thermal leggings, a rechargeable head torch and a four-season sleeping bag.

  Sunday blurred past. I checked my cameras and made sure Xander did the same with his equipment, including the drone.

  ‘Relax,’ he replied.

  Before I knew it, I was saying goodbye to Mum outside Heathrow’s Terminal 2. She’d been pretty quiet over the last couple of days and looked a bit low now, about to wave me off.

  ‘You’re behind me on this, aren’t you?’ I asked.

  ‘Definitely. I am,’ she said.

  Her brittle nodding undermined her words. I raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you sure?’

  She tried again. ‘I’m pleased, yes, that you want to do your bit for On the Brink, and that you’re reaching out to Jonny like this.’

  ‘Good,’ I said, giving her a hug.

  She gripped my elbows, held on to me for a second, and said, ‘Just –’

  ‘I know. Be careful. I promise I will,’ I said.

  With that I headed across the concourse. Prolonged goodbyes are not a good thing. I knew Mum would perk up once she’d got into the swing of her day. She’s a doer, like me, happier when she’s busy, making a difference.

  Amelia was already at the departure gate, as was Caleb. I did a double take when I saw him. He used to be much bigger than me, bulky with gym-built muscle. And the last time I’d seen him he had a crewcut. Now his hair was shaggy and he’d lost weight from his face, chest, shoulders – everywhere. He looked gaunt.

  Had he been ill? Or was this simply what eight months of worry had done to him? I thought back to the kid so cocky he’d encouraged a gorilla to charge at us, with disastrous consequences. And I remembered him strong enough to fight his father, Langdon, a big, burly man. Caleb was wiry at best now, and there was a wariness about him.

  I tried to put him at ease with a smile and a fist-bump.

  ‘Technically we’re supposed to check in a full two hours ahead of the flight,’ Amelia said, looking at her phone. ‘Meaning everyone else is late.’

  This was true, and quite like Xander. He takes being laid back seriously. He strolled up with an hour to go today, looking relaxed and, though it was five in the morning, well slept. His black hair was still wet from the shower, I noticed. From his house to the airport was little more than a fifteen-minute trip on the Heathrow Express.

  He dumped his bag at our feet and nodded at Caleb as if he’d last seen him a day ago.

  Minutes later, Armfield showed up in the distance. He strode towards us with the air of a man arriving at exactly the right time. I didn’t realise until the last minute that the bearded man walking beside him wasn’t just in step with him accidentally. Armfield had come accompanied. He nodded from his companion to me. ‘Jack Courtney, meet Finn Macmillan, founding partner of GreenSword Investments.’

  12.

  I watched Finn Macmillan as we made our way onto the plane and took our seats. He had blond surfer hair and a beard. When I thought of city types, bloated grey men came to mind. Finn Macmillan was as skinny as Caleb and dressed in a checked shirt, faded jeans and Puma trainers. He didn’t look much older than Sylvan, our ski guide in the Alps – early thirties at most. The only hint that he had money was his watch, a Rolex diver’s model, that flashed from under his cuff as he fastened his seatbelt next to me. When he linked his hands and rested them in his lap it was still visible, the measured sweep of its second hand – no jerky ticking – as calm as he seemed to be.

  I’m a pretty good judge of character; Finn Macmillan set me on edge instantly.

  ‘So, Jack,’ he drawled after the safety briefing had finished, ‘Jonny’s told me all about the film idea. Very cool. You’re the director, right?’

  We hadn’t really assigned ourselves roles. If anything, Xander came up with ideas for what we actually filmed. But I said, ‘I suppose so,’ anyway.

  ‘Very cool,’ he repeated, looking out of the porthole window. ‘We’re super-happy to help.’

  This was my cue to acknowledge GreenSword’s investment in us. I managed to say, ‘Yeah, and we’re very grateful,’ but for some reason it didn’t sound that sincere.

  Macmillan had the window seat. I was next to him, and Amelia was fiddling with her phone on my other side. Caleb was across the aisle, with Xander and Armfield beyond him. A bit of help from Xander – who finds it easy to talk to just about anyone, and make that person feel good about themselves at the same time – would have been handy just then. I was tongue-tied. Macmillan was still turned away from me, apparently watching the runway rumble by, unconcerned. Without looking at me, he said, ‘Jonny says you have some questions for us. Are they, like, for on camera, or are you thinking more of an informal chat?’