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skulls and crucifixes down. Something else that made Luke uneasy. Though he wasn’t sure why.
    He felt the warmth of the whiskey rise from his belly and numb his mind. It was worn out anyway and grateful for this cushion of temporary oblivion, or at least the promise of it.
    In the swimming gloom where the backdrop of ancient blackened timbers disappeared beyond the reassuring glow of the flames, Luke was struck by the wear on the three faces around him, lit up by
the reddish flicker. His own must look the same.
    Patches of Dom’s unshaven jaw shone silver in the glow from the fire. He was going grey. Even his fringe was salt and pepper now. Deep shadows gathered under his eyes too. They looked too
old for his face. He had three kids to look after, and a big mortgage to pay. He’d not mentioned anything in any detail about his current circumstances, but said, ‘Great. Never been
better,’ when Luke asked him ‘How’s things?’ during the small talk of that first evening together in London. But the absence of specifics might be the clue. Other than a
brief conversation about schools he exchanged with Phil on their first afternoon in Stockholm, Dom had not mentioned Gayle, his wife, once: the bone-thin and unhappy woman Luke had met for the
first time at Hutch’s wedding.
    Something was up. He could feel it. Dom had been blind drunk the day Hutch got married, and the night before they left for Sweden, again in Stockholm, and then in Gällivare before the hike.
In fact, at any opportunity he coerced the others to start drinking heavily. Something Luke didn’t have the wallet for in London, let alone Sweden. He barely scraped enough together to cover
his share of the walking holiday, and secretly suspected Hutch suggested camping in the first place so he could be included in the reunion. But despite his bluster and boisterous approach to
everything, Dom was acutely sensitive. Luke wasn’t fooled. He remembered how quickly he fell to pieces after romantic setbacks when they were students. All living together at number 3,
Hazelwell Terrace in Birmingham. The best days of his life. Of all their lives, he liked to think.
    And before this trip, he couldn’t ever remember Phil’s face looking anything other than pink and shiny, like it had just been scrubbed. But his cheeks looked jowly now and his
usually florid face was blackened with dirt. An inflamed scratch arched above an eyebrow. Occasionally Phil would reach up and touch it with a neat fingernail. His white-blond mop of hair had lost
its boyish lustre too. It was still thick, but had plastered itself to his scalp with sweat and rain and not revived itself indoors. Around his mouth and eyes, Luke noted the deep lines that looked
like slices cut into fresh pastry.
    It had taken Phil most of the evening to warm up when they met in London. He’d shown up with a long face and a voice both deep and muttery. He’d hardly spoken until they were all
drunk at around ten. But it had been his girth – the middle-aged spread – that had given Luke a brief shock when seeing him at Hutch’s wedding for the first time in twelve months.
It was something he still had not got used to when they all hooked up in London before the trip. Stretching his blue work shirt taut, Phil’s hairy white stomach had been visible. And his arse
looked bulbous enough to suggest the feminine. They were all supposed to have exercised before the trip. Phil and Dom hadn’t made any effort at all.
    But Phil had really let himself go. Once the biggest peacock of them all, the man’s style had completely gone now. His jeans were pulled far too high these days and his socks were visible
to the anklebone. He didn’t care any more. But why? Phil was loaded. Had made a killing as a property developer in West London. He’d won the career lottery, so why the long face? His
wife, Michelle, that was why. Luke was certain. Michelle was nuts. They all knew it.
    She’d been high-maintenance