Chapter 1

Sunday

An early start was never a good idea. Peter Walker was a teenager, he liked to sleep late. His sister was the same. So they sat in the back and moaned quietly. Helen had been known to come back from parties later than this!

“At least there isn’t much traffic.” said their dad to which the obvious reply was that a) therefore they could have left later and b) there would be a longer wait at the airport before the flight.

There were some minor advantages: they checked in virtually as the desk opened, there was no queue as the staff checked the interminable pieces of paper needed to get on a plane – passport, pre-checked in boarding pass (they were only dropping off luggage), Covid test results, vaccination status, inside leg measurement, bra size (Helen added them in her complaints with Peter). Helen was convinced by the latest twitter suggestions that this was all a way of putting people off travelling. She liked conspiracies.

In the departures space, they found a good spot and set up camp. Each took it in turns to go for a walk, have a wee, check out the duty frees. Peter was of the opinion that since duty didn’t apply, they must be beyond the UK laws and therefore he should be able to buy alcohol; he was assured it wouldn’t happen.

The flight was as unpleasant as all short haul flights in Europe have become. No tea and coffee unless you buy it, overpriced snacks available. Peter’s dad didn’t approve and said so, he wouldn’t fund the rip-off that was now airline flights. His mother rolled her eyes and just murmured ‘cheapskate’ to everybody’s amusement (including, in fairness, Peter’s Dad).

They collected a car from EuroPlus, a budget car hire company; the car had a small dent or two, but that was why they were cheap (well, cheaper). The good thing was size. “Because size matters, doesn’t it Mum?” Helen said. The two women laughed. Peter reflected that if he’d said something like that, he’d have been told off as sexist or something. But yes, it was a good sized family car, not a Fiat 500 where everybody had to sit with their luggage on their laps.

Peter, sixteen, six feet and one inch tall – the result of having two tall parents. Good looking, with longer than fashionable hair, that he combed back. His father had had similar hair, but couldn’t comb it back since his forehead now started several inches higher. Peter had been skiing since he was five, he was good, for a British person. One week a year wasn’t really enough to become brilliant, that’s what he told himself; but his father was on the same regime, and he was definitely much better. Peter loved skiing, it was so ... liberating; to float down a hill like that. He had dreams at night of floating down and then going out over the mountain, unwilling to drop to the ground so soon. It was probably his age and current lack of sex.