‘Put your feet on the sill,’ Lockwood said, ‘reach out and swing yourself up. Quick now.’
It was another of those occasions when if you think too hard, you’re lost. So I didn’t look at the gulf below or at the glinting river, or at the great expanse of moonlit sky that threatened to tilt and tumble before my dizzy eyes. I just stood on the sill, pulled myself out and threw myself against the pipe, clutching it, dropping only a little way before my feet found purchase, and I was clinging safely to it. At once I began to climb.
In two ways this second ascent of the drainpipe was easier than the first. I was climbing for my life, so I didn’t care so much about the wind, the flaking paint, or even the drop below me. Also it was shorter – I only had the equivalent of one floor to climb before I reached a rusty ledge of black guttering, and found myself clambering over it onto a flat expanse of leaded roof. In all, the whole thing probably took me just over a minute. I’d paused a single time, when I thought I heard a shrill shout of anger (or perhaps pain) somewhere below. But I could not bear to look down; I could only pray that Lockwood was close behind. And sure enough, almost immediately I heard a scratching noise below the gutter, and saw him haul himself up beside me.
‘Are you all right?’ I said. ‘I thought I heard . . .’
Lockwood pulled off his balaclava and smoothed his hair back. He had a small cut on the side of one cheek, and was breathing heavily. ‘Yes. I don’t know who he was, but I expect he deserved it. Unfortunately, when he fell out of the window, I lost my nice new Italian rapier.’
We knelt side by side on the roof for a time, until our breathing slowed.
‘The only good thing about being up here,’ Lockwood said finally, ‘is that I can’t see Winkman clambering up after us. Aside from that . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Well, let’s see what our options are.’
Our options, in short, were limited. We were on a long stretch of flat roof above the swollen Thames. To one side rose a sheer brick wall – belonging to a rooftop structure that had probably once enclosed the warehouse’s power units. It ran across the width of the roof, and we could not easily scale it. On the other side of us was the river. Far below us, moonlight glinted on water lapping at the joists and girders. It seemed a long way down.
I looked, but I couldn’t see Flo or George, or their little rowing boat, at all.
‘Good,’ Lockwood said. ‘That means they’ve hightailed it. Or sunk to the bottom, of course. Either way, the bone glass is out of Winkman’s hands.’
I nodded. ‘Nice view up here. The city looks quite pretty when you can’t see all the ghosts.’ I glanced at him. ‘So . . .’
He grinned at me. ‘So . . .’
There was a scrabbling at the far end of the roof. Lockwood jammed his mask back over his face. Hands appeared on the parapet; a figure pulled itself swiftly up and into view. It was the blond-haired young man. His brown coat was missing, and his black dinner jacket was lightly flecked with ectoplasm stains. Other than that, he seemed in fair condition. Like us, he had clambered up the pipe from the window below.
He got lithely to his feet and dusted himself off. Then he unclipped his sword-stick from his belt. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘You’ve performed extremely well. That was an excellent chase – I haven’t had so much fun in ages. You know, I think your last spot of Greek Fire almost knocked Winkman right through the wall – which, believe you me, is no bad thing. But this looks like the end of the line. May I have my seeing-glass now?’
‘It’s not yours,’ Lockwood said firmly.
The young man frowned. ‘Sorry? Didn’t quite catch that.’
I gave Lockwood a tactful nudge. ‘Your balaclava.’
‘Oh yes.’ Lockwood pulled up the bottom of the wool. ‘Sorry. I was saying that, strictly speaking, it isn’t your glass. You haven’t yet paid, or even bid for it.’
The young man chuckled. He had very blue eyes and a pleasantly open countenance. ‘I appreciate the point, but Julius Winkman is raving and roaring down below. I believe he would tear you apart with his bare hands if he could. I am not nearly so crude; in fact, I see an opportunity that would be to both our advantages. Give me the glass now, and I promise to let you both go. I’ll say you escaped with it. Then both of us win. You live, and I keep the glass, without having to pay that revolting troll Winkman.’
‘It’s a good offer,’ Lockwood said. ‘And very amusing. I almost wish we could agree. Sadly, I don’t have the glass.’
‘Why not? Where is it?’
‘I threw it in the Thames.’
‘Oh,’ the young man said. ‘Then I really will have to kill you.’
‘You could let us go anyway, in a spirit of good sportsmanship,’ Lockwood suggested.
The young man laughed. ‘Sportsmanship only goes so far. That spirit-glass is something special, and I had my heart set on it. Anyway, I don’t believe you have thrown the thing away. Maybe I’ll kill you and get the girl to tell me where it is.’
‘Hey,’ I said, ‘I still have my rapier.’
‘However we do it,’ the young man said, ‘let’s get this done.’
He walked swiftly towards us along the roof. We looked at one another.
‘One of us could fight him,’ Lockwood said, ‘but then we’d still be in the same position.’ He looked over at the river. ‘Whereas . . .’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘But Lockwood, I really can’t.’
‘It’ll be all right. Flo’s flaky, but we can trust her about some things. Water depth is one of them.’
‘We make such a habit of doing this,’ I said.
‘I know. But it’s the last time.’
‘Promise?’
But we were already running across the bumpy lead, building up as much speed as we could. Then we jumped out together, hand in hand.
Somewhere during the next six seconds I let go of Lockwood. Somewhere amid the screaming, rushing plunge, I let the rapier spin away. At the moment of jumping I had my eyes tight closed, so I didn’t see the stars take flight, or the city leap to meet us, as Lockwood afterwards said he had. Only later, much later, maybe four or five seconds in, when I couldn’t believe I wasn’t already dead, and opened my eyes just to prove it, did I see the brightly sparkling waters of the Thames spread out in silent greeting beneath my rushing boots. I was in the process of remembering the rules about hitting the surface like an arrow so you didn’t break all your bones when, with a whip-crack and a roaring, I was ten foot under in a cone of bubbles, and still going down.
At some point I hit equilibrium: I slowed, slowed . . . and hung suspended in the blackness, without thought, without emotion, without much attachment to life or living things. Then the current tore me up and sideways, and in a flurry of panic I recalled my life and name. I struggled, thrashed, and swallowed half the river – at which point it vomited me out.
I was whirling on an oily swell somewhere in the middle of the Thames. I lay back, coughing, gasping. Lockwood was at my side; he grasped my hand. Staring up towards the moon, I had a final glimpse of a slim figure standing silhouetted on a far-off rooftop, before the black waters swept us both away.
VI
Through the Looking Glass
25
‘Well,’ Lockwood said, ‘if you judge success by the number of enemies you make, that was a highly successful evening.’