From Dirt to Diamonds

Her body clinging to his. That wonder and amazement—that ecstasy that she had never dreamt of! It had made a living flame of her body, transporting her to a world, a universe she had never known existed. His arms around her, embracing her, wrapping her to him, folding her to him, holding her, while she cried out in wonder and bliss.

No! She wiped the memory from her mind. That was an illusion—nothing more than that! An illusion he’d wanted her to believe, for how else would he have got his triumph? Proving beyond doubt, beyond all her defiant denial, that she was exactly what he had accused her of being five long bitter years ago! And now all she could do was flee. Flee as fast, as far as she could.

She had survived him before. She would survive him now. She must.

The final knife turned in her, its blade reaching deepest of all. She was going to pay a price she had never known existed. That could never be expunged.

Never.

Bleakly, blindly, she blundered on, desperation in every stumbling step.

She had nearly crested the slope that bulged from the main descent of the mountainside to the road still far below. The pathway was petering out, and she could only tread in what she hoped and prayed was the right direction. She scanned the way ahead, urgency pressing at her. The light was stronger now, sunshine blazing on the upper slopes above the chalet. She dared not look back to see how far she was, knowing how exposed she must be. She had to go on, as fast as possible …

And then, freezing the blood in her veins, she heard a shout behind her.

Like a hunted deer she halted, turned, and terror froze her. It was Angelos, coming down the path towards her. He was still a hundred metres or so above her, but his long stride swallowed up the path, zigzagging down to where she was. Panic seized her. She plunged on, slipping as she did so, grabbing at the grass to steady herself. She heard him shout again, but she only scrambled onwards, heart pounding sickly.

Then, as she looked ahead further at the path, she gave a smothered cry of dismay. Till now the convex slope had concealed what lay ahead. Now, as she finally cleared the curving angle, she saw that the path stopped abruptly, terminating where a sheet of rock and scree dropped sharply away. A landslip had sliced through the rest of the slope, taking the path with it. For a moment she just stood there, swaying. Then, over her head, she heard Angelos’s voice.

‘Kat—stay where you are! Don’t move!’

Her head whipped round. He was only fifty metres above her now, cutting down vertically over the grass. Closing fast. She scrambled onwards, to where the path ended and the sheer rock face started. She heard him call again. Felt panic knife again.

She couldn’t stop! She couldn’t!

Urgency, desperation, drove her onwards. With a ragged breath she dropped to her knees and started to inch out across the bare, steep rock, using her hands and her feet together over the sheer surface. It was wet with condensation from the night air, slippery beneath her fingers and icy cold. Close up, its smoothness was deceptive, with jagged flakes and shallow shelves of scree increasing in the direction she was trying to traverse, across and down. It was madness to attempt it—there was scarcely a foothold or a handhold that she could use properly, and grabbing at one such only resulted in the heel of her hand being cut.

She whimpered in pain. Simultaneously her foot slipped, and her crouching position slid out into an open sprawl across the treacherous surface. She froze, spread-eagled, her toes in agony trying to keep her from sliding further down. She could see blood from her hand seeping on to the rock. The pain made her hand slip, and with the loss of hold she felt her body judder down the rockface further, her feet only encountering scrabbling scree that would not hold her. Desperately she clung on, shoulder sockets in agony, trying to force herself to make her next move. But fear paralysed her. And weakness. She had no strength left—none.

‘Kat!’

The voice was right above her now, and she strained her face upwards. Angelos was on the grass ridge above the rock face, lying face-down, half hanging over. His hand was extended down towards her.

‘Get my hand!’ He strained it further forward—the maximum he could reach without falling himself.

He was nearly touching her. She gazed, blind with panic and dread.

‘Lunge for my hand—I’ll catch you. It’s OK, I can pull you back up. Just do it, Kat—do it!’

He sounded so angry. Furious. His face was dark.

She saw him. Saw him clear, vivid.

Angelos Petrakos. The man who had destroyed her once, five long years ago. Who had taken Giles from her, destroyed all her hopes of that future. And who had now completed her destruction. Her utter destruction.

A destruction from which there could be no return …

‘Kat—take my hand!’

She gazed up at him. Holding out his hand to her.

As if—dear God—Angelos Petrakos were trying to save her …

She wanted to laugh. Laugh with savage self-mockery at the idea that he might be trying to save her. But her lungs were frozen—her body could not laugh.

It could only convulse.

Loosening her frail, exhausted grip.