by Peter Helton
As we turned away from the shore the current swiftly pushed us along into the wet darkness. The engine puttered bravely but at this stage was mainly used to provide steering. Any legitimate night traffic on this stretch of the Avon would run navigation lights of course, unlike us, but there was nobody out on the water. Not running navigation lights was the flotsam: the fallen branches, the wooden crates, the plastic dustbins blown into the river, some of which we bumped into on the dark water. It doesn’t take much to pierce the skin even of a RIB – what can inflate can deflate – but so far we were lucky. The current brought us downriver much faster than I had anticipated. The centre of town with its lights, police patrols and security cameras suddenly reared up out of the dark. If anything, the current speeded up. Now it was possible to see just how much debris the river was carrying downstream with us. The three arches of Pulteney Bridge loomed dark and low above us as we inexorably drifted towards it on the swollen river. The roar of the weir beyond echoed through them. The black water swirled and eddied, producing a wave against the mossy stone of the bridge. Not until it was nearly too late did I see that the right-hand arch for which we were aiming was blocked with a plug of massive branches and an assortment of flotsam.
‘Steer left, quickly, left!’ I shouted to Annis.
‘It’s called port!’ she shouted back irritably as we just missed colliding with the cutwater. We were speeding up alarmingly as the middle arch swallowed us. ‘Grab the chain or we’ll go over the weir, the current’s too strong.’
Leaning as far as I dared over the edge I managed to get my right hand on to one of the chains hanging from the masonry. I gripped one of the handholds on the rib hard as the drift tried to pull me out of the boat. I felt my joints pop but managed to stop us racing ahead.
‘I can’t hold this long,’ I shouted over the roar of the weir. Its thundering mouth seemed to be inches away. A plastic beer crate shot past us and seconds later disappeared into the swirling, sucking waters.
‘Well, you’ll just have to!’ Annis wiped strands of wet hair from her face with a gloved hand. ‘We’re pointing the wrong way, I need to run full throttle against the current to get us across to the other side. I’m not sure we can do it!’
‘I’ll let the boat turn round on the current, get ready for when I let go!’
First slowly, then rapidly as the current caught the starboard side, the boat swung round as I pushed. Annis opened the throttle further and further. ‘Let go!’
We slipped backwards, away from the bridge. As soon as we cleared the cutwater on the downstream side she opened the throttle all the way. The little engine strained and screamed. We were suspended in mid-stream, unmoving despite our bow wave. I refused to turn around and stare into the roaring waters behind us. Then, hardly perceptibly at first, with agonizing slowness, we began to make headway. But after only a few seconds of progress the boat slipped sideways, caught by a different current, and got pushed back several yards before Annis managed to bring it under control. Our engine was battling away, just ten yards or so from our objective, a rusty old landing stage and a set of iron steps that led up to the colonnaded walkway. Normally well above the waterline, it was in danger of becoming swamped.
‘Just aim for the wall, we can pull ourselves along!’ I had spotted a garland of cables running along the base of the walkway, just above the waterline.
Annis did as I asked and the slimy walls seemed to advance on us rapidly. We rammed inelegantly against the side and the manoeuvre had pushed us another few yards back, but with the engine going at full throttle and me pulling hand over fist we reached the landing stage after only a couple of minutes. I hastily tied the painter to the ironwork.
The plan had been for Annis to set me down, retreat and then return at my signal but it was obvious that it took both of us to land the boat. ‘I’ll be here!’ she assured me. ‘Just don’t be bloody ages. It only takes one copper with good eyesight to come along and look over the parapet and we’ve had it.’
She stopped me as I made to climb out, grabbed my face in both hands and kissed me goodbye. I ran up the steps, climbed over the little padlocked gate and moved along swiftly in the deep shadows of the walkway. I reached the slipway’s wrought-iron door and half unslung the rucksack. Subtlety costs time. I’d bought the biggest bolt cutter in the shop and made short work of the padlock. I flung it into the river, stowed the bolt cutter and moved into the slipway. It was dark down here in the narrow canyon into which the jetsam of Garfunkel’s cellars had spilled. Once I had negotiated the gas bottles, kegs and crates I arrived at the elevated end in front of another locked door. This one had its original lock, though well maintained and used, as I discovered when it surrendered to my picklocks after less than a minute.
The car park was cluttered with building materials, mobile toilets, a corrugated metal lockup, a portable shelter for the work gang and heaps of stuff under tarpaulins, all of it only dimly lit by the distant street lamps. I hugged the left side and peered through the porte cochère into Orange Grove. Not a soul to be seen. I hurried across the exposed expanse and gratefully slipped into the shadows at the foot of the scaffold. From the bottom to the top it was covered with pale blue tarpaulin, bleached of colour by the orange glow from the little street lighting that reached into this sea of grey. The scaffolding had swallowed both security cameras that used to cover the car park. Nobody had thought it worthwhile to have them repositioned while work was being carried out. Heads would roll . . .
Some effort had been made to secure access to the bottom of the scaffold by building a twelve foot cage around it, but since it was only as secure as the padlock on the wire door it could only keep out the opportunist climber. I kicked the cut padlock out of sight. From the inside I replaced it with a similar one I had brought by sticking my hands through the wire mesh, just in case someone decided to check while I was up there. I stashed the heavy bolt cutter out of sight. Then it was time.
I took a deep breath and gripped the bottom of the first ladder. My strategy for coping with my fear of heights was to take everything in stages. This was just one ladder. Nothing to it. Nothing. I took it steady and stepped out sideways on to the first of the four levels. It was dark in here but relatively dry under the tarpaulin, which creaked and snapped and dripped with the wind and rain. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I could see that the next ladder was at the opposite end. I traversed the level on the narrow boards, which moved ominously under my weight as I walked on them, by pulling myself from handhold to handhold until I made it to the other side. At the bottom of the next ladder I stopped to collect myself. If I started each climb in a calm frame of mind I would be fine.
Level two. Perhaps I could treat it like a computer game. It occurred to me just how cosy the world of virtual adventure was. It also occurred to me that scaffolders the world over would laugh at my palpitations as I climbed further into the darkness.
Level three. The wind was stronger up here and made me grip my handholds harder each time the tarpaulin filled with air like a giant sail threatening to pull me from the wall. I was sweating with the exertion of the climb and my breathing never seemed to slow down even when I paused. There was definite movement in the structure when the wind freshened and I wished there was someone to ask whether this was normal or not.
Last ladder. There was no longer any point in trying to calm myself, I was panicked and listening to my heart pounding as I stood there didn’t help at all. My legs, unused to climbing, had acquired a slight tremor. I might stand here all night, it wouldn’t get any better. I simply couldn’t turn back. I had to go forward. Last ladder, last ladder. Surely this one was longer than the others. There was more construction above me, looking complicated in the dark as it stretched away towards the cupola of the Guildhall, where the storm damage had occurred, but I knew I was now level with the roof of the covered market to the right of the scaffold. With my pocket knife I simply slashed through the tarp from head height to the bottom and carefu
lly stuck my head through the gash. I was staring into a yawning chasm. I had climbed too high and was an entire level above the market roof. I withdrew my head sharpish and worked my way hand over hand along the side of the building to the ladder and climbed down. I was happy about no longer being so high up – though falling from the third floor wouldn’t be much more fun than from the fourth – but it was merely a cerebral happiness I didn’t feel in my diaphragm, and was very short-lived. I cut a hole into the tarpaulin on level three. I stuck my head through. There was the market roof. And there was the gap. There shouldn’t have been a gap, a four-foot gap between the scaffold and the neighbouring roof, a black gap into which rain and people and darkness fell and disappeared from view for ever. The roof was glistening with wet and might as well have been twenty feet away. I withdrew my head into what suddenly felt like a cosy protective shell, before the view could scare me witless. Calm down, it’s not a big gap. Four feet. Four feet was nothing. It was just . . . the width of a man with a full rucksack.
I fumbled for a cigarette, lit it, sucked on it hard. Sod forensics. There was no chance we’d pull this off and get away with it anyway. Even if I’d ever manage to leave this scaffold. My legs screamed for me to sit down, just for a little while, just for a minute, but I knew it would make it worse. It seemed ages since I’d last eaten and the cigarette made me a little dizzy. In a side pocket of my rucksack were a couple of cereal bars but perhaps Tim was right, this was not the time or place to be picnicking. I teased the glowing tip off my cigarette and stepped on it as it fell and pocketed the fag-end. Time to have another look. Just a look, no obligation. I pulled the flapping tarp aside. I looked at the roof opposite. I looked down. I suddenly slipped, grappled hopelessly for a handhold, fell into the darkness, my head smashing against the boards as I passed on my way into the chasm. I could taste blood in my mouth, my flailing legs grazed the side of the building, the air rushed past and didn’t leave me enough breath to scream before I dashed myself to pieces and crumpled on the tarmac below and died.
Chapter Nineteen
I stepped back and stood, panting, gripping the struts to either side of the loose tarpaulin. Four feet. Four feet was nothing, a long stride, a hop and a skip, a skip and a jump, a jump and a fall. Unenthusiastically I slashed more of the tarpaulin away until I had a clear opening. There were no snags, nothing my rucksack could catch on. Asimple jump. Less, a hop. On the count of three. One, two, three, four, five. Pathetic. Four feet. Nobody needs a running jump for four feet.
I jumped, with three times the necessary force, and hit the roof running. I was free of the scaffold. Crouching down I worked my way forward over the gently curved roof towards the octagonal central structure of the market. I forced myself to admire the cast-iron construction of the lights. Lovely intricate ironwork, needed painting here and there but otherwise, oh, who was I kidding. I felt naked up here, opposite the old Empire Hotel. Row after row of darkened windows faced my way, watching me scuttle like a big black beetle into the darker shadows at the back. A minute to get my breath back. Another minute to get my breath back. A cigarette, I needed another cigarette. They said an enemy bomber could see the glow of your cigarette from fifteen thousand feet. What about enemy insomniacs in the Empire Hotel? No cigarette, then. Go forward. Stage by stage, up a slate incline, down into a leaded trough. I followed its curve, counted off the three sets of skylights above, reached the end. Nearly the end. Climb up before the end. I had memorized every detail from the aerial photographs I’d found in my guide books. The details were all there, yet the scale was so immensely different it was hard to believe the landmarks when I came to them. Up, passing the last skylight on the left, and down again on the other side, sliding on my bum, feet first, until I reached a parapet, a level piece of masonry, a reprieve. I took my time but tried not to check my watch. Every minute I delayed increased the danger of Annis being discovered clinging to the landing stage. Below. Far below.
A dark chasm opened on my left as I followed the curve of the roof space towards a three-storey addition to the back of the museum, lower than the original and stuck on at a curious angle. Deep below, it created the strangest-shaped, darkest canyon into which Private Investigators traditionally threw themselves head first during sudden attacks of vertigo . . .
Despite the tremor in my legs I managed to walk, as far from the edge as possible, never taking my eyes from the wall ahead. When I got there I leant against it. Wet, but solid. Now I had to get up it. It was only two feet or so higher than me and a round metal vent gave me a good foothold. I pulled myself up on to the next flat bit and lay there for a moment. Two tall chimneys reared to my right. The next bit was easy. Here the roof was constructed in giant steps; I climbed up easily. I had reached the corner where the southern cupola of the museum joined the roof over the upper exhibition space, with its pitched, old-fashioned skylights, beloved of burglars. To reach them, I would have to heave myself up to the flat, outer rim of the roof, twelve feet above me, which would have presented me with considerable difficulties had it not been for the tangle of downpipes, aerials and lightning conductors in the corner. I tackled this climbing frame quickly and methodically, spurred on to greater heights by the closeness of the goal, and heaved myself gratefully on to the roof of the gallery, panting and sweating despite the wet and the wind and the cold fear of being blown off it if I moved even one muscle up here. From this vantage point one could see the river Avon wind its way west through the town, or look south and see the entire length of Great Pulteney Street as far as the Holburne Museum and Sydney Gardens, and the dark mass of Bathwick Wood and Bathampton Down beyond; if one dared look, which I didn’t. When I recovered the will to move it was on all fours and as far as the edge of the skylight. This was where all my theories about the quaint old museum and its robb-ability hinged on the yet unanswered question: were these skylights alarmed or not? I fully expected to set off the alarms as soon as I opened any doors inside – the first on the upper floor, the second on the ground floor – but calculated I’d have just enough time to make my escape before it occurred to the police to surround the place. These were not the kind of calculations made with military precision, they were done on my fingers and quite probably contained a large measure of unfounded optimism. They had also been done before I realized how long it would take me to traverse all that roof space just to get here.
There was no point in delaying. There was nothing to be seen through the streaming wet glass as I peered down, but I knew what was there. Three large iron beams braced the roof structure below the skylights. I counted off the right number of panes and knew I was above the first, nearest the door. Then I attached a professional climber’s suction pad left of centre by pulling the little lever in the device, which created a strong vacuum. These panes were large, heavy duty items, and they were ready to tumble into the void as soon as I completed the cut. I had to cut in two stages to be sure I could hold them. After having scored the glass all around I held tight to the suction pad and tapped the glass. Nothing. I tapped harder. Still nothing. I repeated the cut all around, though it was difficult to see where the diamond had scored the surface before, then thumped the glass hard. No alarms, no whistles or bells. It snapped off and hung heavily but the suction cup held. I levered the glass out and released it on to the roof. I stuck my head into the opening. Warm air rose towards me.
The next part of the pane came away more easily and cleanly. I pocketed the suction cup and glass cutter and, thrusting my arm deep into the opening I had created, chanced a flash of my pencil torch. There was the beam, just below me. I killed the light and swung my legs over the edge, braced myself on the frame either side and lowered myself down until my feet made firm contact with the beam. This felt easier. Even though there was a twelve-foot drop below the beam this was inside and inside wasn’t half as scary as outside, don’t ask me why. The beam was broad and felt solid under my feet. I managed to persuade my hands to let go of the skylight and straddled the beam. With
the pencil light in my mouth I removed the first fire escape ladder from my rucksack, hooked it on to the beam and let it go. It rolled out with a high metallic tinkling sound and hit the hardwood floor below with a startling bang.
My legs took some persuading but I managed to get first one foot on to a thin aluminium tread, then the next. The ladder swung inwards, being designed to work against the walls of a house, but it got me down, next to a glass vitrine full of . . . stuff; china and glass and antique knick-knacks. I had no time to browse. If I had set off an alarm already then I had probably three minutes until the first police car came to a screeching halt in front of the main door. I didn’t bother to take the torch from my mouth and crossed to the double doors. The lock was an old-fashioned one. It engaged bolts top, bottom and sides, effectively defending the door against being rammed open, but it wasn’t sophisticated enough to defeat a man with lock-picking skills. Even my laughable skills. Tim would, no doubt, have been on the other side of the door by now, whereas I had three picklocks inserted and tried and jiggled while first long seconds, then an entire minute ticked away. At last the lock snapped open with an echoing din and I pushed through. I had trouble keeping myself from screaming all the way down the stairs to the next door. I’d gone through the first door and the clock was ticking. No alarm bells. That meant a silent alarm had been triggered at Manvers Street station and police were at this very moment pouring out of the doors towards their cars.
I skidded to a halt in the small lobby in front of the next set of doors. The glass panels tempted me with their apparent fragility, yet smashing all the heavy panes and removing enough of the framework to squeeze myself through would take longer than defeating the lock. Quite apart from being a lot noisier. It was a race against time, a contest, police driver against lock breaker. This was an identical lock to the one upstairs. I already had the right picks out and knew in which order to insert them, only my hands were shakier and my nerves thinner. Sweat was running into my eyes as I stood in the little lobby, my back to the entrance door. One moment all I could hear was the metallic clicking of my picks, then suddenly behind me the sound of an engine and the crunch of brakes being applied hard, car doors opening, muted voices. Ignore it.
