The Lonely Skier (2 page)

As with Eric Ambler before him, Innes took immense trouble to get his technical details right. In his own foreword to
The Blue Ice
, set largely in Norway, he tells us that ‘it was necessary for me to go over the entire ground including the long trek from Aurland to Finse over the Sankt Paal glacier'. For the same book he took a job in a vilely smelly whale-meat factory and completed his first serious trip in an ocean racer. In
The Lonely Skier
the skiing sequences are very clearly based on his personal experience both of the terrain and of the finer arts of the sport, learned on an army skiing course he took shortly before writing the book. He applies his knowledge to building the tension towards a murderous and eminently plausible climax, and to expressing the fear of death, taking the reader with him all the way in a vivid description of the accident that ends a tremendously fast descent down a steep mountainside.

The snow slope beyond flung itself at me. A cold, wet world closed about me in an icy smother . . . I sobbed for the air I needed . . . Then the grey light of the sky showed through a hole in the snow . . . The truth dawned on me slowly as I lay there in the snow. [He]
had meant this to happen.

Similarly Innes studied official procedures very closely, as demonstrated in his mastery of the court scene in
Mary Deare
and of maritime insurance procedures for his later books, and he is scrupulously fair to the officials involved. This care to get atmosphere and background right is his great strength, lending conviction to his narratives, a trait which he shares with contemporaries such as Fleming, later with le Carré, and which culminates in Frederick Forsyth – the latter, like Fleming and Innes, a journalist by training.

Innes is always readable and his earlier books rank very high as taut, fast-moving, page-turning tales of adventure, marked by strong elements of inevitability and self-compulsion. But he is more than just a thriller writer; he is essentially a moralist. Human motives and relationships matter more to him than individual personalities or even situations. For him, villainy begins with egotism and takes the form of cruelty and greed. The concerns and fears for the planet which he developed later in his life and his scepticism about the motives of business and governments spring from the same idea. Though he wrote of heroes and lived his own life on a heroic scale, he understood that heroism can be a form of egotism and serve evil as well as good. In
The Lonely Skier
, one of the more intelligent of the assorted bunch of villains in the rifugio says to Engels, ‘We should help each other . . . these [other] people . . . are only interested for themselves . . . Whereas you and I, we have a mission.' The words, spoken by a crook, contain a warning. Heroism has two sides and only one of them is good.

Stella Rimington, 2013

I HAD SEEN
all the rushes of the film, but it was the first time I had sat through the full cut version. The rushes had been pure routine, short slashes of film to be viewed critically for alterations and cuts. They had meant no more to me than pages torn at random from a manuscript. They were strips of celluloid to be cold-bloodedly hammered into shape.

But this was different—to sit there in the dark of the Studios' theatre and have the whole grim story retold on the screen. It wasn't, of course, exactly the way it had happened. It couldn't be. No audience would have stood for it told that way. We had twisted it about a good deal to make a straight story of it. But it was all there, so that, with a bag of sticky sweets and hot hands clasped in the dark, any one with a couple of bob to spare could lose themselves for an hour and twenty-three minutes and live in the atmosphere of tension and fear in which we had lived in that chalet in the heart of the Dolomites.

The film opened with an approaching shot of the chalet from the
slittovia
, just as I had seen it that first time. And as the cable sleigh neared the chalet, I lost all critical sense in my absorption in the story. For I knew what the inside of the hut would look like before the camera planed in through the window. I knew who would be there and what they would be saying. I sat and lived the story all over again.

You may say—how could I help knowing who would be there and what they would be saying since I had written the script? That is true. But it is one thing to make up a story; quite another to have written of things that actually happened—written with the dead, so to speak, looking over my shoulder. It was Engles' idea—to film a thriller that had really happened. He it was who had introduced me to the characters, helped to set the stage and had had a large part in directing the events of the story. He had even given me the title—typed it out in black and white with fingers already grown stiff and cold. The fact that I had written the script and another man had directed the film did not prevent it from seeming somehow entirely his work.

Thus, to me, the final version had something of a nightmare quality. And as the story I knew so well unfolded, each character on the screen transformed itself in the sockets of my brain and took on new features—features I had known. It was not the actors playing their parts that I saw, but the real people as they had once been. It was like a parade of ghosts. So many of them were dead. And I had come so near to death myself out there on the cold snow slopes below Monte Cristallo.

The story was so vivid in my mind. I did not need thousands of feet of film made at a cost of over £100,000 to recall it. Let the dead lie buried, not march like pale spectres out of a strip of celluloid, mouthing words they had once uttered when they were flesh and blood. It was unnatural and somehow rather horrible to sit there in a comfortable seat and see the whole thing neatly tied up with box office ticket ribbons ready for sale to the public.

This must sound a pretty strange opening to a story that has nothing of ghosts in it, but which tells of an ill-assorted group of people, of greed and violence in a strange setting. If I have begun at the wrong end, it is because it was after seeing the neat little parcel we had made of the film that I had the urge to tell the story exactly as it happened to me. I don't want to see the film again—ever. However big a success it is—and it has all the ingredients of success—I have seen all I want to see of it. Now I'll tell the story once and for all just as it happened. Then perhaps my mind will be exhausted with the telling of it and I shall be able to forget all about it.

Like most of the more startling events in life, I stumbled into it quite by chance. It was the First of December—a grey, wet day that fitted my mood—and it was in a chemist's shop of all places. Derek Engles was standing at the dispensing counter, drinking a dark fizzy pick-me-up out of a beaker. He caught my eye over the rim of it and frowned. He always liked people to believe that drink had no effect on his constitution. He took liquor like most people take food. His brain worked best that way. Everything he did and said had to be whipped up, and drink was the stimulant. He never ate breakfast and cured his hangovers by secretly consuming aspirin, which he always carried about with him.

I don't know why he was in Shaftesbury Avenue that morning. It was just one of those things that happen. Sometimes Fate puts on a kindly mask and shakes up the pieces so that the right ones meet at the right moment. This was one of those occasions.

They say that things always work out for the best. But people who make that statement are always lapped in smug security at the time. I agree that life is cumulative and that the threads of each defined period of a man's life are woven into the pattern. But it is not always possible to pick up the right thread just at the moment when you need it most. And I was feeling pretty desperate when I met Engles.

Before the war I had had a nice little family business—a local paper in Wiltshire. But that went under and when I had been overseas three years and became due for release, I found I had no job to go back to. I was longing to get back to Peggy and the kid, but we agreed there was nothing for it but to sign on for another year. Then a friend of mine suggested starting up a publishing business in Exeter. He asked me to join him in the venture. When I came out we put all we had into it. It lasted six months—the paper shortage and lack of capital were too much for us.

I wrote to everyone I knew—people I had known before the war and contacts I had made in the Army. I combed the ‘Situations Vacant' columns of the papers. But there were too many of us in the same boat. I sent Peggy and Michael back to our cottage in Wiltshire and here I was in London in search of a job.

It was five years since I had seen London, and in the meantime I had been halfway round the world. I had run big towns in Italy and Austria. I had lived in the best hotels in Europe. I had had servants and transport. And that morning I stood in the rain in Piccadilly Circus, an unimportant molecule in the great flood of London, feeling alone and a little lost. I was excited and at the same time depressed. Excited, because London is an exciting place. From Westminster to the City you can climb dingy stairs to offices whose ramifications cover the entire living globe. Anything is possible in London. The whole world seems to be under your hand. If you have the right contact and are the right man for the job, London holds the key to every country in the world. But I was also depressed, for there is no city in which you can feel so small and lonely and lost as London, especially if you have no job.

But because I needed some toothpaste as well as a job, I strolled up Shaftesbury Avenue and walked into the first chemist's I saw. And there was Engles.

I had been his Battery Captain back in 1942. We had gone overseas together. But after Alamein, he had transferred to the Intelligence and I had taken the Battery into Italy and had finished up as a Town Major. He had been an exacting Battery Commander. He had broken my two predecessors and everyone had said that I wouldn't last six weeks. But I had. I had even enjoyed working with him. He had been brilliant, moody and erratic. But he had an exciting personality and terrific drive and energy when things were difficult. Now he was back in films and, according to the papers, his directing of K. M. Studios' latest production,
The Three Tombstones
, had put him right at the top.

He nodded casually at my greeting, put the empty beaker down on the counter and looked hard at me for a moment as I made my purchase.

‘What are you doing now, Neil?' he asked at length. He had a quick abrupt way of speaking as though his tongue worked too slowly for his mind.

‘I haven't been back very long,' I told him. I had heard him sneer at failure too often to let him know the truth.

‘Demobilised?'

‘Yes.'

‘You've been in a long time, haven't you?'

‘Yes. I signed on for an extra year.'

‘A good-time Charlie, eh?' he jeered.

‘I don't get you,' I said. But I knew what he meant. Living conditions had been pretty good at the end—much better than at home.

He gave a harsh laugh. ‘You know very well what I mean. All the bright boys were getting out when I left nearly eighteen months ago. The only ones staying on, apart from the regulars, were the duds and the adventurers—and the good-time Charlies. That's what is wrong with our European administration. There's no real future in the job, so it doesn't appeal to the sort of men we ought to have out there. Well, which category do you put yourself in?'

‘Of the three categories you mention,' I replied, ‘I think I'd prefer to be classed among the adventurers.' My voice sounded sullen. I couldn't help it. I was angry. I wasn't going to tell him how I had hated signing on for that extra year, when I had seen so little of Peggy since we had been married and had barely seen the kid since he had been born. And I felt uncomfortable, too. In the old days I had managed to stand up to Engles; not because my personality was as strong as his, but because I knew my job. But to face up to his volatile and domineering personality now, when things were going badly, was too much. I wanted to rush out of that shop before he pried too deeply into my circumstances.

‘And now you're back,' he said. ‘Still running that tupenny ha'penny little rag down in Wiltshire?'

‘No, that went smash,' I told him.

His dark eyes were watching me closely. ‘Then what are you doing now?'

‘I started a small publishing house with a friend,' I replied. ‘What about you—are you working on another film now?'

But he wasn't to be put off so easily. ‘It needs a lot of money to start up in publishing these days,' he said, still watching me. ‘A whole crop of them sprang up like mushrooms soon after the war. They're mostly in difficulties now.' He hesitated. Then suddenly he gave me a queer puckish smile. He could be charming. He could turn it on like a tap. He could also be a cruel, sneering devil. But suddenly, there was the well-remembered smile and I felt a great relief as I realised that, despite his hangover, it was to be charm this morning. ‘I think you need a drink,' he said. ‘I know I do after that filthy stuff.' And he took my arm and led me out of the shop. As we crossed the road, he said, ‘Done any more writing, Neil? Those two one-act plays of yours I produced on the ship going out—they weren't bad, you know.'

‘I wrote a play whilst I was in Austria,' I told him. ‘But you know what the theatre has been like—nothing but musicals and revivals. Even established playwrights can't get a theatre. And anyway, I doubt if it was good enough.'

‘You sound as miserable as hell,' he said. ‘Life is fun. Don't take it so seriously. Something always turns up at the last moment. Do you want a job?'

I stopped then. I could have hit him. His unfailing instinct for a man's weakness had told him I hadn't got a job and he was going to enjoy my discomfort. He was ruthless, unscrupulous. How he hated failure! How he revelled in attacking any man at his weakest point! It was incredible how that Welsh intuition of his smelled out a man's weakness. ‘Life may be fun,' I said angrily. ‘But it isn't as funny as all that.'