As he drew closer, Newbury watched the shape of Ashford resolve in the dim, foggy light. He made no attempt to conceal himself. He was dressed as Purefoy had claimed – as he had been when Newbury had last encountered him – in his flowing black cloak, hulking beside the towering chimney stack. His red eyes seemed to track Newbury's progress across the rooftop. Newbury skidded around a skylight, and then realised, with shock, the reason why Ashford had not yet taken flight. He was rushing headlong towards the lip of another building. Newbury had misjudged the distance in the fog. Ashford was waiting on the next rooftop. It was too late to stop. He was already careening towards the drop, which yawned open before him like an ominous chasm. There was no railing this time, only the same decorative lip that had caused him to trip on the other side. He didn't stop. Reaching the edge of the building he leapt up onto the lip and propel ed himself forward, flinging himself through the air so that he hurtled across the gap and landed at a run, stumbling slightly but managing to maintain his momentum. His arms wheeled as he tried to maintain his balance. He didn't have time to congratulate himself for the manoeuvre, however, as something seemed to change with Ashford. As Newbury darted between the chimney stacks that peppered the roof, Ashford turned and began to flee.
Ashford's legs seemed to drive him forward at a phenomenal speed. He was like a blur, as he shot towards the other end of the building. Newbury's legs pumped hard at the ground as he attempted, ineffectually, to keep up.
There was a terrified cry from somewhere behind him. Newbury, torn, skidded to a halt, glancing back over his shoulder. He realised almost immediately what had happened. Purefoy hadn't seen the gap between the two rooftops until it was too late, and had failed to clear the opening. A lump rose in Newbury's throat. He was labouring for breath, not used to the exertion. Turning, he rushed back towards the alleyway. He knew he was allowing Ashford to get away, but if there was any chance..
Newbury scanned the line of the building as he ran, but everything was shrouded in cloying, yellow fog. He called out. "Purefoy?"
There was no reply.
Newbury came to a halt a few feet from the drop. He searched the terrace around him. Empty.
There was no sign of the young man. The roofline opposite was also clear.
Purefoy, it seemed, was nowhere to be seen. Newbury, drawing ragged breath, could only fear the worst.
Chapter Sixteen
Hesitantly, Newbury approached the lip of the building. He couldn't see any sign of the other man. He called out.
"Purefoy? Purefoy! Are you there?" He was panicking now. He didn't know how he could live with the responsibility if the reporter had fallen to his death.
There was a grunt from down below, somewhere in the fog. Newbury knelt on the edge of the building and leaned over, searching, urgently, for the source of the sound. "Purefoy? Is that you?"
"Here.." The voice trailed off, and Newbury heard the sounds of something soft and heavy banging against metal. There! He leaned over as far as he dared. An iron staircase resolved in the fog. It was an emergency stairwell, attached to the side of the building. And, dangling from it, twisting and turning, clutching on by only one hand, was Purefoy. He seemed dazed, as if he may have caught a blow to the head in the fall. Blood was smeared in a long line across his cheek.
Newbury knew the situation was precarious. One slip and the reporter would be dead. He cal ed out to him.
"Purefoy! Focus. Use your other hand. Hold on!" Purefoy seemed to respond to this. He eased himself around so that he was facing the brickwork, and swung his left arm up, trying to catch hold of the ironwork. His hand, however, did not seem able to find purchase, and he slipped, dangerously, crying out as he lurched awkwardly from side to side. Newbury feared the motion would cause him to lose his grip altogether as he swung wildly over the alleyway below. "Stay there.
I'm coming for you."
Newbury stood, surveying the scene beneath him. The fog was thick here, and it obscured his view. He knew the iron stairwell would have a small platform, just to the right of where Purefoy was hanging, and knew also that it couldn't be far below the lip of the building itself. But it was difficult to see. Past Purefoy, he could make out the indistinct shape of a railing, but little else. He'd have to take it on faith. Edging along the lip of the factory, he drew a deep breath. If he missed, they would likely both wind up dead in the gutter below. He hadn't planned on this when he'd decided to visit Wilfred Blake that morning, and he wondered, absently, what Veronica would say if she could see him now.
Newbury judged he was standing above the metal platform. Purefoy had once again disappeared into the syrupy miasma. Below, all Newbury could see was a swirl of grey. He took a deep breath. He couldn't put it off any longer, and he couldn't let Purefoy fal to his death. He closed his eyes, flexed his shoulders, and jumped into nothing.
His feet clattered against the metal rungs, but the platform was higher than he'd imagined and it was this that nearly toppled him over the side of the railing as he fought to get his balance.
Frantically, he scrabbled to get a grip, grasping hold of the iron bars as he slipped and slid on the slick metal. Finding his feet, he heaved a brief sigh of relief, and then rushed immediately to the left-hand side of the platform and sank to his knees, searching for Purefoy between the metal bars.
The reporter was still there, clinging on for his life. Newbury thrust his arm through the grate, and reached down to grasp Purefoy by the wrist. The reporter's other arm was still dangling uselessly by his side, and he seemed unable to gain enough leverage to swing it up to try for a better hold.
"Here! Use my arm. Pull yourself up."
Purefoy stared back at him with panicked eyes. He was breathing quickly, and the strain was starting to show. Newbury tried to keep him focused on the task at hand. "Don't look down. No!
Purefoy! Keep your eyes on me." Newbury heaved, trying to give the boy a better chance of grabbing hold of the stairwell with his other hand. Purefoy struggled, his feet kicking frantically as they sought something solid upon which to gain purchase. Instead, the result was to pul alarmingly on Newbury's arm as Purefoy swung out wildly, and Newbury felt his shoulder burning as he took the other's weight, his arm fully extended, his face pressed uncomfortably against the hard metal bars.
"Oh God!" Purefoy exclaimed in terror as Newbury's grip slipped and loosened, and he slid a little further towards the alleyway below.
"I have you." Newbury fixed his gaze on the other man. "I have you. Now pay attention. You need to get your other arm up here, right now!" Newbury was gasping for breath and struggling to gain leverage. The instructions registered with the young man, however, and, with Newbury still hanging on to him by his left wrist, he managed to get a grip on the iron frame with his right hand.
"Good. Good! Now, I'm going to let go and reach over to grasp hold of your collar. We'll heave you over the top. Hold on!"
Newbury waited a moment to be sure that Purefoy was not going to fall, and then scrabbled to his feet, leaned over the rail and used both hands to grab fistfuls of the boy's jacket. "On my mark.
One, two, three.. " He grunted as he lifted the reporter up, bodily, by his clothes. Purefoy was quick to get his feet into position, jamming them through the bars of the rail to support himself. A moment later, he swung over the top of the railing and col apsed beside Newbury on the cold platform, both of them struggling for breath. He stared with wide eyes at the drop beneath him. His eyes passed wordless thanks to the Crown investigator.