‘It saved me, Harry. The morphine. For the first time in weeks, I couldn’t feel any pain. I could think again.’
They watched the canoe drift downstream, sinking lower in the water.
‘They’ve been playing around with my medication as well,’ said Evi. ‘Coming into my house, taking the pills I rely on, replacing them with something else, probably just some sort of placebo. And playing all sorts of weird tricks to freak me out.’
‘The police found surveillance equipment in your house,’ said Harry. ‘And broadcasting stuff too, did you know that?’
‘I guessed,’ said Evi. ‘They’ve been watching me for a while now.’
The cold of the snow was seeping up through the leather Harry wore. The canoe had sunk very low in the river now, had almost vanished in the darkness. Water began to spill over the sides.
‘There I go,’ said Evi. They watched the canoe disappear, then Evi turned to face Harry. He saw her hand move up towards him, felt her finger stroke the skin of his cheek, and then the wind on his damp skin.
‘It’s the cold, pet,’ he said. ‘Makes my eyes water.’
‘We should go inside.’
‘That’d be good.’
Harry got to his feet and lifted Evi. Leaving her stick where it lay in the snow, she took his arm and they walked together, back through the garden, towards the house. The dog ran ahead, pausing only at the end of the lawn to make sure they were following. With a last hurry-up-will-you yip, she ran in through the back door.
‘Is she yours?’ asked Harry.
‘Yes,’ said Evi.
‘How does she get on with cats?’ asked Harry.
Tuesday 22 January (a few minutes before midnight)
JOESBURY FEELS THE cold air at the same moment he spots the door at the top of the tower. He’s outside before he has any idea what he’s going to do if he’s too late and she’s already jumped. Or what the hell he’ll do if she hasn’t.
‘Lacey,’ he yells. ‘No!’
The roof is empty.
From behind comes the sound of footsteps on stone and heavy breathing. Someone else has reached the top of the steps and a second later is outside.
He’ll never know what it would be like, to wake up beside her.
Joesbury sees a man half stop, gasp for breath and then race to the edge of the roof, leaving a wake of footprints in the unblemished carpet of snow. He watches him lean over the parapet, shine a powerful flashlight down, before standing up again and moving round to another side of the roof. Someone else is on the roof now. Both men are moving around, leaning over the parapet, shining torches down, their footprints spreading across the roof like a cobweb. There are people on the ground shouting up at them.
He’ll never see the look on her face when she meets his son for the first time.
There are uniformed police officers on the tower, speaking into radios, asking if there’s any other way off the roof. The mood is urgent, confused. All the snow has been disturbed now. Piles of it collect in corners. It clings to boots. Then a man barks out an order. The sense of urgency increases. Radios crackle. People leave quickly. One by one the tower empties, until only he and one of the porters are left.
‘Guv.’
He’ll never see the tiny lines appear at the corners of her eyes. Never tease her about her first grey hair.
‘Mark!’
Joesbury turns to George, who is ashen in the dim light. ‘Have they found her?’ he asks, and has a moment to hope that her face hasn’t been too badly damaged, that he’ll be able to look at her one last time. At her perfect, unblemished face. And then he realizes that when he opened the door to the roof the snow was complete, unmarked by footprints of any kind.
‘Not here we haven’t,’ says George. ‘That phone call was a hoax. But we do know where she is. Confirmed this time. They’ve put her on a different tower. Great St Mary’s, about half a mile away. Hold it!’
George’s hand has shot up, palm out, holding Joesbury back. ‘She’s hanging over the edge,’ he tells him. ‘Constable in attendance says she looks out of her head on drugs and she’s threatening to jump if anyone goes near her.’
‘Out of my way, George.’
George takes a step forward, to plant himself more firmly in Joesbury’s way. He is holding up a phone and hands it over.
‘PC Leffingham,’ he says. ‘He’s with her on the tower. Good luck, guv.’
A FALCON CAN feel sensation through every one of its thousands of feathers. As it takes to the air, energy will pulse through its wings, stoking its heart; as it glides on thermals, it will feel a soft, buffeting warmth, and when it dives for prey the feathers on its wings and its back will feel as if they are on fire.
I can feel all of that now, here at the tip of the world, with only stars above me.
And stars like I’ve never seen before. Huge, silver dinner-plates, casting out light from one to the next, until the whole night sky looks like a vast, illuminated spider’s web and not a single one of them seems out of reach.
I take a step forward and know I’m weightless. Another step and I almost leave the tower behind. Enough to make you giddy, this sudden knowing; this startling realization that flying is easy. Flying is just a matter of thinking the right thoughts and believing. I can let my mind soar and my body will follow.
I’m up, on the wall, the wind teasing, tugging at me like the hands of a dozen children. Come now, come and play.
Then a voice. Hard and grating. I spin round and snarl. It backs away.
The city looks so beautiful, as though someone has thrown gold dust over a black velvet cloak, and I think I’ll visit it, one last time. I’ll dive down, faster than a falcon, swooping up at the last second to float like a ghost along the streets and over the rooftops.
‘Laura! I’m coming a couple of steps closer. Just so we can talk to each other. No, steady on, love. Look, I’m not moving.’
My name isn’t Laura.
‘Sorry, Lacey. I’ve just been told your name is Lacey. I’m Pete. PC Leffingham. Can I come a bit … OK, OK, I’m staying here.’
Lacey? Is that my name? There is a tree directly below me that still has leaves and I wonder if they’ll tickle, those leaves, when I glide past them.
‘Lacey, I’m talking to a friend of yours. Says his name is Mark. Mark Joesbury.’
Those leaves are dead. They won’t tickle, they’ll tear my flesh open as I hurtle into them. The branches will pull out my hair, stick into my eyes, impale me.
‘He wants to talk to you. Can I just hand over the phone so Mark can talk to you?’
‘Mark Joesbury is dead,’ I tell him.
