by George Mann
Newbury scanned the surrounding rooftops. In the hazy light it was like a rich landscape, punctuated by innumerable chimneys, belching dark, foggy clouds into the sky. The horizon was like a microcosm of all of London: industrial buildings, terraces, slums and large mansions, all clustered together in an unlikely arrangement. Then, about two hundred yards away, on another, lower rooftop, Newbury saw his prey. Or rather, he saw two glowing, red pinpricks of light, emanating from where Ashford's eyes had once been. They were staring out — unwavering — from behind a large terracotta chimney pot. They were unmistakable, even in the fog and the gloom. The rest of the man was obscured by the shadows. "There he is!" Newbury exclaimed, pointing across to where the rogue agent was lurking.
Purefoy couldn't see. "What! Where?"
But Newbury wasn't waiting. He rushed to the edge of the terrace, looking across at the intervening gap between Arbury House and the building behind it. There was a gap of around six feet between the two rooftops, with no clear run-up, and only a small ledge on the other side of the iron railings from which to make the jump. Below, there was only darkness and swirling fog. If he missed his footing and pitched into that... all that awaited him below was death, dashed across the uneven cobbles and lost amongst scattered piles of refuse and human waste.
He glanced back at the bizarre, red eyes of his enemy. They seemed to bore into him, urging him on. He had no time to consider. Grasping hold of the top of the railing, he swung one leg over, trying to avoid impaling himself on the rusty fleur-de-lys that crested the ironwork. He climbed down cautiously onto the ledge on the other side. There was little room to move, and his left foot slipped, causing him to grasp hold of the railing once again to maintain his balance. Crumbling brickwork shimmered down into the grey darkness. He didn't hear it strike the ground. His heart was hammering hard in his chest. He was sweating, too, feeling an intense, burning desire for the narcotic that sustained him. He gripped the railing, fighting the urge to climb back onto the relative safety of the roof behind him.
He heard Purefoy run over to stand beside him, on the other side of the railing. "Sir Maurice! You're not going to..."
Newbury paid him no heed. If he thought too long about what he was about to do, he simply wouldn't do it. Keeping his head up, to avoid looking down at the sheer drop beneath him, Newbury examined the other rooftop. There was a small, decorative stone lip that ran around the edge of the roof. At least, he mused, if he misjudged the jump, he'd have something to attempt to catch hold of. He had no idea how Ashford had got across the gap, or, indeed, why the man was still lurking in the shadows when it was clear that he had been spotted. Perhaps he didn't expect Newbury to successfully leap across the two rooftops to confront him. Whatever the case, this was the best opportunity Newbury had yet encountered to bring the man to justice, and he planned to do it before any more people died. Assuming, of course, that he wasn't about to kill himself.
Coiling like a spring to get as much power into his legs as possible, Newbury pounced. He flung his arms out as he sailed across the alleyway, keeping his eyes fixed on the point where he intended to land. He almost made it, but a trailing foot caught the stone lip and sent him sprawling. He slammed down hard onto the other roof, only just managing to get his arms up in time to protect his head. His elbows smarted from the blow, and he'd knocked the wind out of himself. He lay on his front for a moment, breathless, before rolling onto his back and sitting up. He took a moment to regain his composure. Then, not wanting to provide Ashford with a chance of escape, he clambered to his hands and knees, and then to his feet, gasping as he finally managed to pull the cold, damp air down into his lungs. He turned, fully expecting Ashford to be rushing him across the terrace. But he was still there in the shadows, still watching. Newbury could make no sense of the man's motivations.
He heard a crash beside him, and, surprised, turned to see Purefoy landing neatly on his haunches and breaking into a forward roll to cushion his landing. He came up standing beside Newbury, a wide grin on his face. They looked at each other, something wordless passing between them. An understanding. And then Newbury set off, bolting across the rooftop towards the glowing lights that represented his murderous prey. Purefoy's footsteps fell in behind him.
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 propelled 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 called 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 fall 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 pull 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 collapsed 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.
Newbury patted him on the shoulder. "You need to thank your tailor, dear boy." He wheezed as he tried to regain his breath. "That's an excellent jacket you have there."
They both laughed out loud, relieved, as they rubbed their aching joints. After a few moments, still gasping, Purefoy turned to Newbury. "Ashford?"
Newbury shrugged. "I'm in no doubt that he got away. Once I've regained my strength I'll head up there to take a look, see if here are any other clues that may help us to pick up his trail."
Purefoy looked sheepish. "I..."
Newbury interjected. "Best left unsaid. It's not necessary. Not at all."
Purefoy nodded gratefully.
After a moment, Newbury, who had been slumped on the platform, his back to the railing, climbed to his feet and regarded the building before him. Here, the metal stairs became a short ladder that terminated just below the lip of the roof. He shook his head, cursing that he hadn't noticed the ladder from above. Taking hold of the rungs, he levered himself up, leaving Purefoy where he was, still panting and nursing his sore arms on the platform below. It was a short climb to the roof, and he was soon able to pull himself over again. He made a mental note of where the ladder was, scuffing the gravel with the edge of his shoe in case he needed to find it again in the fog.
Newbury looked around for signs of Ashford. The fog was thickening, but even so, he was shocked to see, a little further along the rooftop, the familiar red eyes of the augmented man staring back at him. Newbury could barely believe it. Why had he waited? Perhaps he wanted to be sure that Newbury and Purefoy were gone? Perhaps Purefoy had been right, and he intended to head back to Blake's apartment before Newbury was able to alert the police? Regardless, he couldn't waste the opportunity.
"Ashford!" The other man's head turned, and Newbury could no longer see his face beneath the darkness of his cowl. "Ashford, we must talk." Newbury rushed forward, and as he drew closer, the situation became quickly apparent. Ashford was perched on the corner of the building, his heavy cloak draped over his shoulders, giving him an ethereal, formless appearance in the foggy darkness. Across from him, the buildings to the side and rear were both taller — at least a storey higher than the factory on which they were standing — and the leap across to either was impossible, even for an augmented giant such as Ashford. Newbury smiled. He had him. He knew, this time, he had him. Digging deep for every last reserve of his strength, he thundered forward towards his quarry.
Ashford seemed to respond to this with an air of calm acceptance. He turned away from the approaching Newbury, stepping up carefully onto the raised lip of the roof. He seemed to be judging the distance to the bottom of the alleyway, far below, but Newbury knew there would be nothing to see but a thick river of fog. Ashford inched closer to the edge.
Suddenly, Newbury got a measure of the man's intention. Ashford meant to jump. He bellowed across the roof. "No! Don't do it, man! You'll fall to your death!"
Ashford, however, seemed not to hear him. With one last glance over his shoulder, the rogue agent leapt suddenly into the air.
Newbury darted towards the edge of the building, in time to see Ashford's black, fluttering cloak billow out like some obscene wing, as the man soared out into the gap between the two buildings, plummeting down into the milky abyss. Surely the drop would kill him?
Newbury gave an involuntary wince at the sound of Ashford impacting against the cobbles below. There was a sickening crunch — as of metal striking stone — a cry of pain, and then silence. Newbury sighed. It was over.
Newbury turned back towards Purefoy and the metal stairwell. He'd have to recover Ashford's body, first to verify his death, then to keep the matter out of the papers and the police reports. He kicked at the gravel, frustrated. He wanted to know why. What had driven this man — this former agent —to such murderous lengths? Had he really believed the secrets of Khemosiri would have granted him a new life? Newbury doubted that very much. But desperate men are often driven to desperate measures. He hopped down from the lip at the corner of the factory roof. Then, to Newbury's amazement, he heard the sounds of someone shifting around in the alleyway below. There was a groan, followed by the ringing of tentative footsteps as Ashford, unseen due to the thick shroud of vapour, evidently climbed to his feet and continued on his way.
"Oh no, you don't!"
Newbury rushed along the edge of the building, looking for some means by which he could quickly descend to ground level and continue his pursuit. If he lost Ashford now, he knew he risked losing him forever.
Below, bolted to the side of the building, Newbury spotted the top of an iron ladder, similar to the one he had ascended a few minutes earlier, and smiled with grim satisfaction. Another stairwell. The platform would be fixed to the wall, a storey below. He glanced behind him. Purefoy was watching him from across the rooftop, nursing his bloodied hands where they had been torn clinging to the iron railing. Newbury weighed up his options. Did he risk the jump? Or did he waste valuable time on the ladder? He knew, with steady resolve, that there was only one answer to that question. He didn't look back to see if Purefoy would follow. Hopping up onto the stone lip, Newbury casually stepped off the side of the building, his body tautening as he prepared for the drop to the platform below.
This time, Newbury was ready for the impact and did not lose his footing, instead using his shoulder to take the brunt of his fall. It smarted painfully where it smashed against the hard railing, but he used the momentum to fling himself forward, tumbling down the first flight of stairs. He knew he would be black and blue with bruises by the morning, but he barely registered the knocks and scrapes as he dived headlong down flight after flight of metal steps towards the ground. His hands rasped on the worn metal as he slid from one storey to the other, his chest burning with the exertion.
All the while, the prickly need for opium was like a constant pull. He could feel his body craving the stuff. Once this was over, he promised himself, once he'd brought Ashford to justice; then he would attend to his own needs. For now, the needs of the Empire were far greater than his own.
In a matter of moments Newbury hit the ground, breaking into a roll to cushion his fall. Climbing to his feet, he glanced up at the side of the building to see if Purefoy had followed, but everything above was veiled in dense mist. Here, at ground level, it was beginning to pool, pulling a thick, yellow curtain across the city, but it was still wispy enough to allow Newbury to get his bearings. He took in his surroundings. The alleyway stank of raw sewage and rotting food. It was filthy, strewn with detritus, and outlet pipes gushed steam and dirty water onto the cobbles, drawn from the innards of the surrounding buildings. A feral cat was mewling loudly, somewhere out of sight. Newbury attempted to dust himself down, to little avail. His suit was covered in a layer of grime from the chase across the rooftops and his roll across the greasy cobbles. Mrs. Bradshaw would be delighted.
