by Damien Love
“Just have to bend your knees slowly and take my hand, son,” the old man said, voice gentle on the whistle of the wind. “Think you can manage that?”
Alex turned back to the wall, closed his eyes, and swallowed, trying to push down the nausea climbing from his stomach.
“I think I’ll just stay here for a while,” he managed. It was very cold.
“Not such a good idea, old chap. Come on, now.”
Alex swallowed again, forced his eyes open. Gingerly, he began bending, felt himself swaying out, lurched desperately against the wall.
“Almost there, old chap.”
He bent farther, toward his grandfather’s hand, reached out his own, felt strong fingers close around it.
“Excellent work. Now just step your right foot down onto the railing here, and then it’s just a little push forward.”
Alex looked at the railing, about two hundred miles away. With strange clarity, he could see his grandfather’s shoeprint in the soft snow piled up on the black iron. He stretched his foot out— He stretched his foot out— He stretched his foot out— And he slipped and fell.
His grandfather held him caught by one arm.
Hanging there, Alex thought that this would be a good time to look down. It was very odd. There was just nothing beneath his feet for a long, long way. Down there, a thousand miles below, a few funny little people were walking through the pretty snow. He found the word dangling floating into his mind. His feet were dangling. He was dangling. Dangle.
“Just give me up your other hand, Alex.”
His grandfather sounded worried. Why was he worried? The whole world was soft and dreamy. Little robots were on the prowl with bits of people in them. Beckman must have cut those little wounds in his neck to feed the little robots. That seemed obvious now. Single donor. The little robots in his bedroom, maybe they had little bits of little Beckman in them. Dangle, dangle.
“Give me your other hand.”
Kenzie Mitchell was going to kill him. Not actually kill him, just beat him up. The little flying thing, that might have killed him. Really killed him. He wondered what his mother was doing. This was another thing he would probably never tell her about. What time was it, anyway? Men were making snowballs out of salt. Men were making men out of clay hundreds of years ago. It was funny when you thought about it. Dangle is a funny word. Maybe he should start laughing.
“Alex. Hand.”
He looked up. Robots. Clay men. Snowmen. Salt. There was his grandfather, reaching out for his hand, snow falling around his head from the deep blue night. He should give him his hand up. But then he might have to stop dangling, dangling over all the snow and all the funny little people. And it was so peaceful.
“Alex.”
Alex reached up.
His grandfather heaved him roughly over the railing. They collapsed together onto the balcony. Alex pulled himself into a sitting position, feeling snow seeping into his trousers, but also feeling the firmness of the balcony beneath. He started laughing, a high, loud laugh that stopped as his grandfather clamped a hand over his mouth.
“Shhhh.” The old man nodded toward the new balcony doors. Thin white curtains were drawn. There was a light on in there. A droning TV. The silhouette of a figure in a chair. Just someone living a normal life.
“Don’t want them calling the management.”
“Won’t they hear all the crashing at our door?” Alex whispered.
“Let’s hope not, for them.”
“What do we do now?”
“Ah. Well.”
His grandfather lifted his cane, pointed toward the far end of the balcony, then off at the next balcony along, just visible through the quickening, thickening snow.
“If you’re feeling up to it, we do it again.”
Alex closed his eyes, opened them. His head was pounding, but his shock was melting. He swallowed hard, nodded.
They did it again.
IX.
THE ROOFTOPS OF PARIS
THE NEXT BALCONY, when Alex tumbled onto it, was dark. The curtains in the doors were open, no sign of life in the room beyond.
“Empty room,” the old man said. “Or they’re out. Or they’re in bed. Or they’re sitting there in the dark, watching us. Although, that would be odd. Well, anyway.”
He produced a small leather bundle, which he unrolled on the snowy balcony floor. A row of thin, sharp metal rods glinted. Alex was reminded of instruments his dentist used for scraping and picking.
His grandfather’s hand hovered above them, fingers wiggling. Finally, he selected two, one needle sharp, the other with a tiny hook. He began working at the door.
“You pick locks.”
“Much-maligned art,” the old man grunted, holding one pick still while twisting the other. “Handy skill to have. Never worry about losing your house key again. Ah.”
He turned the handle. The door opened.
“Quiet now,” he said. He bundled up his picks, and they went inside.
The dark room was very like the suite they had just left, except all the furniture was still in its proper place. Alex’s grandfather stood with his ear to the main door, listening intently. Finger to his lips, he opened it slowly, enough to poke his head around. He pulled back quickly, closing the door.
“Still crashing about down there,” he said, gesturing in the direction of their room. “They’ll be through in a minute. Now, we’re right at the corner where the corridor turns. The corridor to the elevator and the stairs leads off straight in front of us. Time it right, and we can just sneak out and away.” He pressed his ear back to the door. After a minute, he eased it open again, glanced out.
“Right. I’ll go first. Ready?”
Alex nodded.
“When I give the signal. Straight ahead. Quick and quiet.”
He slipped out. Alex watched him cross the corridor in three stork-like steps. Once across, his grandfather flattened himself against the wall and looked back around the corner, toward their room. He held up a finger, brought it down sharply.
“Now.”
Alex ran. Halfway across, he couldn’t stop himself from looking toward their door. There was a great mess. Sheets of what looked like tinfoil had been laid over the salted carpet. As he looked, the little girl came out into the hallway. Her large eyes rounded, then narrowed. She raised her arm and pointed.
“Get.”
Four small things came shooting from the room, trundling fiercely over the floor toward him.
His grandfather peered around the corner. His eyes widened. He dragged Alex into a sprint. As they reached the elevator, he stabbed furiously at buttons, almost without breaking his stride, then pulled Alex along again.
“No use. It’s on the ground floor. Need to take the stairs.”
The stairs were straight ahead, beyond double doors at the end of the corridor. They ran on.
Alex looked back. The four things were hurtling after them. They were mostly a mottled silver in color, each roughly the size and shape of a model train engine. They lined up in formation, two in front, two behind. The front pair had round, smiling blue faces and flat backs. The two behind had no faces, simply ended in savagely sharp points, like vicious metal stakes. They were gaining rapidly.
Alex and his grandfather were almost at the doors.
With a sudden loud clicking, the two machines at Alex’s heels stopped dead. Their flat backs snapped up, forming ramps. The two behind came racing on, hitting the ramps at furious speed.
“Down!” his grandfather yelled, diving forward, pulling Alex with him.
They hit the floor hard. Alex felt carpet burn his nose, sensed something shooting over him. Lifting his head, he saw the two metal stakes impaled deep in the doors ahead. He calculated the one on his side would have hit him in the spine at the small of his back.
As he watched, thin metal arms popped out from their sides. They began struggling to pull themselves free from the doors. Behind him, the little machines with the ramps were churning their wheels in the carpet, almost in frustration. Back behind them stood the small girl, stamping furiously with a heavy black boot, actually shaking her fist. Beyond her, the bald men and the tall man were rounding the corner. As they passed her, the girl shook open her coat. Two fliers darted from inside and took up formation, hovering close around the tall man’s hat.
“Come on.” His grandfather was on his feet. Alex needed no encouragement.
Through the doors, into the stairwell. His grandfather stooped, urgently wrapping wire tight around the handles. Starting down the stairs, the old man suddenly stopped.
Turning onto the landing below came the tall, broad figure of a man wearing a long black coat and large black hat. When he lifted his face to them, Alex, struck numb with horror, saw it was made of dull metal. Painted eyes. A wire grid for a mouth. It began climbing the stairs.
“Life-sizer,” his grandfather grunted, turning back up.
There was only one more flight of stairs. It led up to a small, bare half-landing, containing a cupboard door and an iron ladder bolted to the wall, beneath a ceiling hatch. His grandfather was up and through it in a flash of gray, hauling Alex after him.
A huge attic, old and dark, musty and empty. They crouched under high slanting roof beams while his grandfather worked with another spool of wire, tying the hatch shut as best he could. He twisted on his heels, searching the dim space around them.
“Nothing to block it with,” the old man muttered, running a hand over his brow. He took Beckman’s little gun from his pocket, weighed it for a second, then threw it far off into the shadows.
“What are you doing?” Alex gasped. “We need that!”
“Never liked guns. C’mon: onward and upward. This way.”
Alex already knew where they were headed. Halfway along the attic, a single skylight glowed dimly, just low enough to reach. Just big enough to fit through.
Snow was falling steadily as they climbed out onto the enormous roof.
His grandfather made him go first, crawling away from the window up the steep slope. The cold black tiles were slippery under Alex’s feet. There was little to get a grip on. But, clawing and scraping, sliding back then scrabbling on, they made it to the pitch of the roof, where they stopped, sitting facing each other on the peak, breath misting the sharp air. A frail full moon pushed through the wisping clouds, staining the rooftop silver.
Freed from concentrating on the climb, drawing breath, Alex’s mind flooded with panic, then a stunning sense of disbelief. He became aware of the raw ache in his throat, his shaking limbs. The sky was enormous above him.
“What did I tell you?” his grandfather said. He was pointing off behind Alex’s shoulder.
Turning his head, across the stretching roofscape Alex saw the Eiffel Tower, not far away, strangely clear, lit up gold and black, its blue searchlight strafing the swollen cloudbanks.
He turned back. The scream he felt building came out as a sigh. He sagged.
“Yes. That’s very pretty. Tell you what, shall I get my phone out and you can take a picture with it behind me? We could send it to Mum. That would be a nice surprise for her.”
“That’s the spirit. Have to keep your sense of humor about you. Now.” The old man dug in his coat pocket. “Sweet?” He held out the open tin.
“Well, why not. We’re on holiday. Thanks.”
“Sugar’ll do you good. Much-maligned stuff, sugar.” His grandfather squinted, tilting the tin in the weak blue light. “Bit of a Russian Roulette, taking a hard candy in the dark. Can’t see what you’re going to get. Ah well, nothing ventured.”
He popped one in his mouth and rattled it around his teeth. “Black currant again! Must be my lucky night. What did you get?”
“Lime,” Alex said. It tasted surprisingly good.
They sat there in silence, sucking candies on the high snowy roof in the Paris night, smiling stupidly at each other.
“So, now,” his grandfather said. “I should probably tell you the plan, give you something to look forward to.”
“Oh, do we have a plan?”
“Of course! Now, listen, Alex. Once we get away from here, we’re aiming to get to Harry’s place, okay? Harry lives just outside Fontainebleau. Can you remember that? Just outside Fontainebleau, there’s a little town called Barbizon. A beautiful little village. Barbizon. Got that? And Harry’s place is just outside that. House called Dunroamin’. Harry has a terrible sense of humor, but it’s an easy name to remember. Okay? Now, you tell me.”
“Just outside Fontainebleau, just outside Barbizon, a house called Dunroamin’. And, um, how do we get off this roof again?”
His grandfather pointed. “If we go along behind you, then slide down toward that corner, I can see a ladder. Leads down to a flat section, like a catwalk. Once we get there, it should be easy living.”
Alex said nothing. In the fragile light, the arm of his grandfather’s coat was heavily stained, soaked through. A trickle of blood ran from beneath the sleeve, shining blackly on his hand.
“You’re hurt.”
“Hmm? Oh, that’s nothing. That cut has opened up, that’s all. Looks worse than it is. This coat is past saving, though. Now.” The old man nodded back the way they had come. “Probably an idea to get moving.”
Following his glance, Alex stiffened. The bald men and the tall man were out of the skylight already and coming at them. The tall man led, looking like some terrible long insect crawling over the roof tiles in the moonlight.
His grandfather helped Alex into a crouching stance.
“Don’t try and run, just walk fast. Bend forward, keep your balance. Make sure one foot has a grip before you lift the other. Watch out for the snow. Go.”
Powered by desperation, Alex went as fast as he could. Below him to his left, though, he could see one of the bald men had almost drawn even with him and was now beginning to move stealthily upward in a diagonal, aiming to cut him off ahead.
“Almost there, old chap,” his grandfather said reassuringly in his ear. “Now, can you see the ladder?”
Alex peered down. He could just see it, poking up at the edge of the roof.
“Uh-huh.”
“Good man. Now, start making your way down there. I’ll be right behind you. Remember. Dunroamin’. Where wonderful food awaits.”
Alex crouched, grabbed at the peak of the roof, and started lowering himself slowly down the other side on his stomach, crawling backward toward the gutter. He had a glimpse of his grandfather’s shining black boot, stepping after him, pausing.
The going was very slippery. He decided it would be better if he turned over, sat facing up. At least he could see where he was going. Gingerly pushing himself up, he flipped carefully onto his back.
As he completed the maneuver, he realized what a mistake it was. His feet gave way, and he was sliding fast. Clawing uselessly at the tiles, he craned his neck to see the edge of the roof beyond his feet rushing to meet him, the hungry void beyond.
Blue-black sky went shooting over his head, streaked with white. It was just as if, he thought with a strange pang, he was back playing on the big slide in the park where his mother and grandfather used to take him when he was small, some crisp night before Christmas, coming home from the doctor’s. He hadn’t thought of that park in years.
The memory triggered another: standing small and half-asleep in pajamas outside the half-closed living room door after another hospital visit back then, a conversation half-caught, half-understood.
His mother’s voice: “. . . know there’s something wrong.”
His grandfather, trying to sound reassuring: “Anne. He’ll be fine. Children grow at different speeds. You’d never have known, b
ut his father was much the same.”
“I just . . . If there’s something wrong with him . . . I don’t think I could stand to lose them both. I don’t . . .”
A harsh breath. A sound of sobbing.
“Sorry, Mum,” Alex whispered now as his heels were about to hit the flimsy gutter. He stopped hard. His grandfather had caught him, he thought. But when he twisted his neck to grin up at him, there was no one there.
He lay very still, staring up at the slow clouds, trying to work out what had stopped him, trying to make sure he didn’t stop it stopping him. The night seemed oddly silent, then he realized: all he could hear was his own ragged breathing and rapid pulse, hammering in his head.
Gaining a purchase with his feet, he began pushing back, away from the roof edge. Grunting, he worked his way upward, until he saw his savior: a small iron pipe, sticking out between tiles. It had snagged on his rucksack. He looked from it to the roof’s edge, not far beyond, began laughing, then stopped himself.
The ladder was close. Carefully, he pushed over to it. Very, very carefully, he turned onto his stomach and lowered one foot then the other onto the top rung, the most beautifully solid thing he had ever stood on.
He took several steps down, then turned to look beneath him. There was the catwalk his grandfather had promised, leading to a section of flat roof. He turned back to see where his grandfather was.
The sight chilled him. The pulsing between his ears froze.
The old man was still far away up there, still on the peak of the roof, a shadow fighting shadows under the pale moon. From one side, he was being attacked by both bald men, knives slashing amid snowflakes. From the other, he was under harder assault from the tall man. He had a cane like his grandad’s, and they were fencing savagely. As the wind shifted, the clacking noise came drifting down on the night.
Alex’s grandfather was leaping from one attacker to another, coat swirling. Alex saw him raise an arm and twirl it around his head, almost as if he were dancing. Then he realized: he was flinging salt desperately at the air. The smudges of two fliers swarmed around his head, nipping in nastily to sting. Farther along the rooftop, the girl lurked among chimney pots, gesturing in their direction like a conductor.
