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UK residents, T's and C supply. Please apply. It's June the 24th, 1992, the dead of night.

High in the Indian Himalayas, near the Nepalese border. Darkness cloaks the mountains.

Six thousand meters up, perched atop a glacier, three small tents are buffeted by a freezing wind.

In one of them, 38-year-old Stephen Venables twitches and groans in a fitful sleep.

His broken legs, bandaged and splinted, protrude from his sleeping bag.

Around the dressing on his right knee, the flesh is swollen and mottled with blood.

Another gust claws the fabric of Stephen's tent, and the two empty tents that stand next to his.

Just a few hours ago, they were occupied by his friends,

friends who are now risking their necks to go in search of food.

There was nothing to eat, nothing to drink apart from melted snow after the first day.

And so we were fighting this aching pain and this awful annoying hunger pangs.

By the night of the third day after the accident,

Victor and Dick said, well, we'll go down now, because we can't stay here much longer without food.

All alone Stephen tosses and turns.

In the distance, the rumbles of far-off avalanches.

But then suddenly, the crack and crumpling of countless tons of snow

is much louder and much closer than before.

...