But why? Why?
Because none of the therapy had helped. Countless conversations that had served only one purpose: to make sure her therapist could pay the rent. Because yes, Peter’s death was her fault. It was her fault. The Clarks were right, dammit, even if they didn’t know why. The why had begun hours earlier, before that critical moment when Antonia and Peter had decided to go home separately.
Antonia became aware of a pair of feet in sturdy black shoes, planted in front of her own feet, which she was pressing together. There were legs attached to the feet, legs in gray trousers, of the same fabric as the uniform jacket. Cerberus was staring down at her. A short exchange followed: The guard pointed at her watch and held it up for Antonia to see, and Antonia stammered out an answer. Cerberus pointed at the platform and touched Antonia’s arm, and Antonia burst into tears. Never. Niemals. Jamais. Was there any language at all that would soften the heart of this adversary?
As Antonia wiped the smears of mucus from her face, she saw that her hand had become a claw with bloodless yellow knuckles. All that hanging on for dear life had to be paid for — in blood. Ha! Ha ha. Were the condemned always that funny? A figure wearing a sweet perfume squatted next to her. The figure’s high-pitched voice and a third, sonorous voice began to duel with the flat, dead voice of Cerberus. Their bodies swayed back and forth, accommodating the day’s last surge of courageous visitors up the stairs. Allegedly, fear of heights diminished in the dark. Antonia did her best to hold on to that thought, but her body resisted, shaking.
Never. Not even in a formless nothing. Because the formlessness was just to fool the eyes. Her head knew better. A2 plus b2. A hand pulled her up. For the first time, Antonia looked at her new tormenters. They were even smiling soothingly. What now? “We’ll hold on to you?” “We’ll push you?” Just try! I’ll take you all over the edge with me!
The roar in her ears thinned, began to admit other noises. What language did people speak here? She was in England. English. Think, Antonia! Something like “You don’t have to” trickled through to her consciousness. Her eyes followed the couple’s waving, gesturing arms. They were pointing down the spiral staircase. Antonia’s glance sought Cerberus’s, who was looking at her with a mixture of condescension and capitulation. Could it be true? Certainty arrived in the form of gentle urging in the direction of the stairs and a swift glance downward by the man to assure himself that the stream of visitors had stopped. The miracle had happened. She would never have to go out onto the platform again.
What madness! She’d spent hours in deathly fear just because of the smug stubbornness of a security guard. Clack. Clack. Her heels clattered on the metal steps of the spiral staircase, just like in a comic book. Clack. The jerking in her brain had the same noise. What utter madness.
Antonia stepped out onto the wide ring of the Stone Gallery and took a deep breath of the evening air. It was already cooler. The lights of London twinkled in the distance. The view must be impressive, and she could have been enjoying it here, ten feet from the balustrade. But no: Like an idiot she’d had to run after a beret-wearing stranger. Was he French? Antonia giggled, feeling foolish at the way she kept thinking in clichés. The giggling became louder and louder. She held her breath. If she couldn’t stop, the other tourists here on the Stone Gallery would think she really was crazy. But her mouth stretched against her will, wider and wider, and she laughed uncontrollably. An elderly lady coming around a corner stared at her indignantly. Antonia waved her arms in a paroxysm of excuses. The elderly lady appeared to understand her; at least, she smiled reassuringly. Then Antonia understood. The woman was one of the last visitors to the Golden Gallery; she’d witnessed Antonia’s hysteria. The embarrassment of this recognition choked off the laughter. Antonia moved away from the woman, using her flight to inspect the other side of the gallery. On that side was also the door to the exit — to an interior flight of stairs! — because the helpful couple had just come down and was giving her a friendly wave. They tried to start a sensible conversation with her, but Antonia nipped that abruptly in the bud with a cold nod and an even colder smile.
What madness.
She’d made an utter fool of herself over a couple of yards of concrete. She couldn’t let that happen anymore. And she had to get over her obsession with Peter, too. From now on, she’d look at London through her own eyes, not through Peter’s. She straightened her head, and her eyes fell to the floor across from the stairs. Suddenly, everything began to swim. Slowly she dropped, shaking, into a crouch, and put her fists against her eyes, pressing away the tears. The paper from the vitamin candy was green, and the writing on it was familiar. Antonia’s hand trembled its way over to the scrap of paper, the second hand followed the first, and together they smoothed out the paper. It was the same writing. Yes. Really. From the company that made the vitamin candies Peter always ate.
A flood of tears burst from Antonia’s eyes and then stopped just as suddenly as it had started. At the same time, she felt the cold and the trembling creep into her limbs. Still crouching, she began to rock back and forth. Before the roar in her ears crowded out everything else, she heard a woman explain to a man that the figure squatting over there probably first had to get over the shock caused by her fear of heights. The woman spoke German. Tourists. Think, Antonia. There were only tourists here, nothing but tourists. No ex-husbands all shot to pieces. Think. It was a syllogism. Peter was a fan of vitamin candies wrapped in green paper. The vitamin candies came from England. She was in England. So it was nothing more than — indeed, it was almost certainly — coincidence to find green vitamin-candy wrappers in England on the floor of the Stone Gallery in St. Paul’s Cathedral. It was only logical. Period.
Antonia forced her knees to stretch. Felt her way to the protruding base of the stone wall. Using her arms for support and taking what seemed like an eternity, she managed to sit down on it. It was just a candy wrapper, of a sort sold all over England. Nothing else. Nothing more, nothing less. Something utterly, completely normal. But what about the man in the beret? The same blond hair? The figure? The way he walked? The duffle coat? The clump of flesh for a face. The scar. The waiting shadow. His knowledge of her fear of heights. The man’s nonexistence? His funeral. His parents’ grief. Falling into nothing?
Breath got stuck in her chest, couldn’t find its way out. And her heart thudded in her neck, the echo ringing in her ears. Roaring. Taking off. Think, Antonia! Look at yourself. Breathe. Think!
This was madness. A clear sign of clinical insanity. She shouldn’t have quit her therapy, because it definitely wasn’t healthy to be seeing ghosts everywhere. Ha, ha. Antonia’s fingers fumbled for her mobile phone, pressed the speed-dial button for Valentina. It rang only twice, and then the voice of her sister dispelled the hammering noise of her own heart. Antonia’s report on the last few hours came out disjointedly, but her sister understood even the words Antonia didn’t say. She responded with a “Mmmph!”, a familiar, annoyed snort. Antonia felt the world enclose her, take her up in its midst again. And then came the sentences that broke up the frozen brittleness in her body, word for word: Saw body. Funeral. Valentina herself saw body. Just imagination. Silly thing. Other mothers have “wonderful” sons, too. Berets “in” again. And if not, then logically and probably Peter not the only freak on earth. Valentina loves Antonia. Even if she is going around the bend. Laughter. Hugs. Valentina feeling better. Hungry. Antonia come home, time for pub. Nothing but a stupid trauma.