Chapter One
The only sound was her panting breath and the squeak of the snow under her skis. Almost two metres of fresh snow had fallen overnight, and although more was promised, Roz was enjoying the break in the weather.
She paused on a flat area of piste and gazed down at Zermatt, tiny and perfect, below her. In a brief gleam of sunlight, she could make out her hotel. She turned to point it out, and remembered she was alone. The man beside her was a stranger, a photographer whose telephoto lens swept from the Matterhorn down to the resort.
Roz sighed. Zermatt was a romantic jewel, not a place to be alone.
She adjusted her goggles to ski on when a loud whooping caught her attention. Three skiers were taking advantage of the deep fresh snow to try their hand at off-piste on the steep mountain above.
One of them slipped, and as he tumbled, an entire sheet of snow loosened and slid, slowly and inexorably, towards her.
Roz barely had time to scream before she was enveloped by the avalanche. She was tossed over and over in an icy white blanket until something hit her on the head and the world went black.
Measureless time later, the sound of voices reached her and she forced open her eyes to dim white. She was twisted in an impossible position and she had no idea which direction was up.
She moaned with pain, and a voice yelled, “Ecouter, il y a quelqu’un.”
Roz tried to respond but pain made the world fade again.
She roused when she was being strapped to a stretcher. The rescue workers were brisk and careful, and assured her in English that they would look after her. One tightened straps across her body before the other man pulled an orange cover over her, raising a hood which obscured her view of the dark clouds overhead. Her skis were fastened on beside her.
She had a semi-hysterical thought that the cover matched her hair.
The rescue worker clicked into his skis. “All right? We are going down,” he called, before the stretcher shifted and she found herself sliding head first down the mountain.
She resisted the instinctive urge to grab a strap to prevent herself from slipping out of the stretcher. She was secure, if not comfortable. Every moment increased the pain in her head. The hiss of the stretcher’s runners on the snow was loud enough to hide any sounds she made so, alone in her orange cocoon, she gave herself up to pain.
Her tears ran unchecked into her hair, but she discovered that her nose was blocked. Almost upside down as the mountain rescue worker skied straight down the steepest, most direct slope back, her nose could not run.
She had no idea of how long it was before they slowed and came to a stop and the cover was pulled back. There were several bumps as the stretcher was attached to a noisy little skidoo and dragged along the flat to the medical centre.
Dimly, Roz noticed that the snow was falling again, giant flakes landing on her stretcher. By the time the skidoo stopped at a large building, it was covered with white. Two paramedics came to help her onto a hospital trolley.
Once inside in the warmth, she was checked over by a nurse who helped her remove her ski jacket and boots. Nothing was broken but the pain in her head was becoming unbearable.
“What’s your name?” the nurse asked in perfect English.
That was easy. “Roz Spring.”
“Date of birth?”
She had to struggle to make her tongue form the words. “June 28, 1985.”
“And where are you staying in Zermatt?”
Roz groped for the answer, but her mind was blank. “I don’t know.”
“Are you staying in Zermatt?” the nurse asked, pen poised over a form.
Roz closed her eyes, trying to fit a picture to the words, but nothing formed. “Is that where we are? I can’t remember.”
“I’ll alert the doctor to check you for head injuries,” the nurse said, helping Roz to lie back down on the trolley. “You may have a touch of amnesia. Don’t worry, I’m sure it will only be temporary.”
How can I
The only sound was her panting breath and the squeak of the snow under her skis. Almost two metres of fresh snow had fallen overnight, and although more was promised, Roz was enjoying the break in the weather.
She paused on a flat area of piste and gazed down at Zermatt, tiny and perfect, below her. In a brief gleam of sunlight, she could make out her hotel. She turned to point it out, and remembered she was alone. The man beside her was a stranger, a photographer whose telephoto lens swept from the Matterhorn down to the resort.
Roz sighed. Zermatt was a romantic jewel, not a place to be alone.
She adjusted her goggles to ski on when a loud whooping caught her attention. Three skiers were taking advantage of the deep fresh snow to try their hand at off-piste on the steep mountain above.
One of them slipped, and as he tumbled, an entire sheet of snow loosened and slid, slowly and inexorably, towards her.
Roz barely had time to scream before she was enveloped by the avalanche. She was tossed over and over in an icy white blanket until something hit her on the head and the world went black.
Measureless time later, the sound of voices reached her and she forced open her eyes to dim white. She was twisted in an impossible position and she had no idea which direction was up.
She moaned with pain, and a voice yelled, “Ecouter, il y a quelqu’un.”
Roz tried to respond but pain made the world fade again.
She roused when she was being strapped to a stretcher. The rescue workers were brisk and careful, and assured her in English that they would look after her. One tightened straps across her body before the other man pulled an orange cover over her, raising a hood which obscured her view of the dark clouds overhead. Her skis were fastened on beside her.
She had a semi-hysterical thought that the cover matched her hair.
The rescue worker clicked into his skis. “All right? We are going down,” he called, before the stretcher shifted and she found herself sliding head first down the mountain.
She resisted the instinctive urge to grab a strap to prevent herself from slipping out of the stretcher. She was secure, if not comfortable. Every moment increased the pain in her head. The hiss of the stretcher’s runners on the snow was loud enough to hide any sounds she made so, alone in her orange cocoon, she gave herself up to pain.
Her tears ran unchecked into her hair, but she discovered that her nose was blocked. Almost upside down as the mountain rescue worker skied straight down the steepest, most direct slope back, her nose could not run.
She had no idea of how long it was before they slowed and came to a stop and the cover was pulled back. There were several bumps as the stretcher was attached to a noisy little skidoo and dragged along the flat to the medical centre.
Dimly, Roz noticed that the snow was falling again, giant flakes landing on her stretcher. By the time the skidoo stopped at a large building, it was covered with white. Two paramedics came to help her onto a hospital trolley.
Once inside in the warmth, she was checked over by a nurse who helped her remove her ski jacket and boots. Nothing was broken but the pain in her head was becoming unbearable.
“What’s your name?” the nurse asked in perfect English.
That was easy. “Roz Spring.”
“Date of birth?”
She had to struggle to make her tongue form the words. “June 28, 1985.”
“And where are you staying in Zermatt?”
Roz groped for the answer, but her mind was blank. “I don’t know.”
“Are you staying in Zermatt?” the nurse asked, pen poised over a form.
Roz closed her eyes, trying to fit a picture to the words, but nothing formed. “Is that where we are? I can’t remember.”
“I’ll alert the doctor to check you for head injuries,” the nurse said, helping Roz to lie back down on the trolley. “You may have a touch of amnesia. Don’t worry, I’m sure it will only be temporary.”
How can I
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