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`Big breeding grounds, these cliffs. Everything's up there at nesting time : all the gulls, gannets, razor bills, guillemots. Fulmars too. Just be thankful there are no fulmars.'

`Why?'

`They spit at you if you disturb them. Oil from their throats. It stinks, enough to knock you down. You can never get the smell off your clothes. Be thankful, man.'

I dutifully tried to be thankful, but it was difficult. Lincoln's apt phrase, a hole into hell, kept coming back to me and the more my mind repeated it the truer it seemed. We came nosing into the black gap between the Holm and the island, engine slowed just a little, Anderson handling the boat with high skill where the water pounded between the huge walls.

I buckled the belt, then crept forward, boathook in one hand, torch in the other, looking for the rope.

`Just . . . a bit more . . .' Anderson was looking upward for the dangling rope. 'There!'

I hooked it in and passed the soaking end through my belt loop, then fastened the Jumar clips in position, one above the other. From each clip a stirrup dangled on its web strap. I put my foot in one stirrup and tried my weight on it experimentally, but there was a quick movement beneath me and the boat was gone, carried away on a swift surge of water!

Anderson shouted, 'Don't panic. Other foot!'

Scared daft, I clung to the rope tightly while I felt with my foot for the other stirrup. It seemed for long moments that I'd never find it, but then my toe slid into the swinging metal loop and at least I could get myself into some sort of balance. I stood for a moment then and looked up at the silhouette sixty feet above me where a massive overhang bellied out against the sky. The sea hissed and swirled beneath me, almost drowning Anderson's shouted instruction to get going.

I still didn't believe it would work. Two metal clips and a pair of stirrups to conquer this awesome combination of height and space? It was so patently absurd!

`Get on man!' Anderson shouted again.

I swallowed and took hold of the first Jumar and tried to slide it up the rope. It wouldn't budge. I pushed and sweated, beginning to panic, before the pressure of the stirrup under my instep told me what was wrong. I raised my foot and tried again. This time the Jumar clip slipped easily upward. But was it secure? Carefully I let my weight move from one stirrup to the other. The clip held, gripping tight as my weight forced its sprung jaws against the rope. All right, now the next,! I moved the second clip up until it touched the first, transferred my weight, and felt it grip. The two clips were one under the other; I couldn't move the second past the first. I moved the top clip again, pushed down hard on the stirrup, and went up another eighteen inches. Now again, left foot this time. Okay. At least it worked. As a system, it worked. I let out a deep breath of near relief that became a gasp as the rope pivoted suddenly. Vomit rose in my throat. I glanced down at the water. I'd climbed perhaps five feet; nothing against the task that remained. And I saw something else too. Anderson was leaving; already his boat was backing off at the entrance to the gorge. Why? I forced the question from my mind. He'd have a reason, even if I couldn't see it. I forced myself to climb. The strain on my legs was murderous and the pressure on my feet was just where it hurt most under the instep. It was probably correct technique to take the weight on the ball of the foot; I understood that, but couldn't make myself do it. The further my foot went through the stirrups, the safer I felt and to hell with the pain!

Slide the Jumar up, step after it, slide again. I was beginning to get the hang of it. But it remained difficult, each step upward an effort in concentration. Each movement of hand and leg must be co-ordinated, and it was impossible to achieve any kind of rhythm. So every step was a new operation, begun and considered and executed with desperate care. I fought my way slowly upward, nearing the overhang that seemed increasingly to press its weight down towards me. He shall not pass! I looked up at it, grimly. I bloody well had to pass.

, All the while the rope twirled slowly and I made myself concentrate on the rope itself, trying to ignore the cliffs as they swung past, first one way then the other. Up with Jumar and foot together. Check the clip. Transfer weight. Steady myself. Now the next clip, the next foot . . .

Then I was at the overhang. I slipped the top Jumar clip up until it actually scraped on rock, then raised myself and tried to work out how to get past. I could see only one way. I'd have to push myself and the rope clear of the rock by sheer strength, hand flat against the rock-face, then slip

the clip past. I brought up the under clip and secured it, balanced myself, and tried . . . A puff of wind ruined it. Just one puff that spun me out of control, trapped my fingers between rope and rock and cracked my head blindingly against the cliff face. For a moment I hung dazed, my weight on belt and stirrup, held upright only by my own trapped hand, now being ground agonizingly against the stone. I struggled frantically to release it, but only' succeeded in hurting myself more. With my teeth gritted against the pain I forced myself to think. But there was no other way. I'd have to repeat what I'd done before : push against the cliff to force the rope out a little, then pull my hand away. It meant I'd have no handgrip on the rope at all.

But there wasn't time to look for subtleties, even if they existed. The pressure of the rope on my trapped hand was crushing. I gave a sudden angry push, snatched my hand clear and, clouted my head again. I hung there dizzily, turning slowly in the air sixty feet above the swirling water. It was impossible. There must be another way. Elbows? What if I pushed with my elbows, still holding the rope? The first try failed, but the second worked and I slid the Jumar triumphantly over the rock edge. Now she other. Got it! I waited for a moment, nursing my hand, till the pain faded a little, before forcing myself up again. The going was, desperately difficult now, the rope taut against a long vertical section of the rock face. I had to strain my body away from it with the toe of one boot just to make space for the' Jumars to slide. But the system still worked. I fought for height and height was slowly being won. I was more than halfway, aching from the strain, but confident now in the equipment. And at least, pinned as I was to the face, that awful vertigo-inducing pivoting had stopped.

A few more feet and I gave myself a rest, equalizing the clips, letting my weight fall evenly on to the two stirrups. I counted slowly to sixty and started again. But by now it was grindingly hard going. My strength was diminishing; each upward thrust was a greater effort than the one

before. For a while I know I even ceased to think with any clarity; at any rate, I have no memory of the next part of the climb after that brief rest. I was within ten feet of the top when something thrust itself into my consciousness and for a moment I failed to recognize what it was. I think I must have been reliving what had happened here the night before, confusing one day with another, because at first the light meant nothing.

Suddenly, I was trembling awake again, staring in horror towards the entrance to the foaming channel beneath. A big fishing boat had appeared there. A boat with a searchlight. The nightmare was repeating itself! I was held in the bright beam like a fly on a wall!

Terrified now, I forced myself upward. Only half a dozen steps more. Only five. A bullet whanged off the rock close to ine and fizzed off into the darkness. I flattened myself as close as I could to the rock and managed another upward thrust. Then another. There was a shallow cleft in the rock to my left and I forced myself into its sparse shelter as below me somebody opened up with an automatic weapon and bullets smacked in dozens against the rock and sang away. Another step. Cautious as hell, trying to stay within the crack. The firing had stopped. Empty magazine? Pause to reload? I took a chance and made another two feet. The cliff edge was close above me now, less than three feet or so from my hands. Still no firing. I got foot and hand in position and thrust quickly and suddenly and was cowering in the cleft as the next bullets cracked against the rock. One more. Just one. One more thrust and a quick wriggle and I'd be in cover. The searchlight was unwavering, my shelter desperately inadequate. I waited . . . and realized they were waiting, too. When I moved they'd fire.