chapter THIRTY-TWO
It wasn’t pitch-black in the church. Streetlights from outside filtered in through the stained-glass windows. Once your eyes adjusted, you could see the shape of things: pews, statues, pillars, all in shades of gray. I knew the doors at the far end and at the side led outdoors, but I didn’t want to leave — I was pretty sure I’d have more negotiating power while I stayed inside the church. But I did want to explore. I picked a door in the corner, to one side of the altar, and started trying all the keys.
The third one worked. I opened the door, which led through to a little room full of junk — well, at least it looked like junk: bits of old stone and wood. It was darker in here, but I could just make out another door on the far side. Again, I had the key to this one. It was darker still inside there, the light just picking out the bottom of some stone steps twisting up ’round a central pillar. I hesitated for a minute. This was starting to creep me out. I didn’t think I could go up there in the dark. I stepped inside and rested my hand on the cold stone wall. There was something knobbly there, too, a switch. I flicked it on and the staircase was lit up, disappearing up and ’round.
“Come on,” I said, trying to psyche myself up. My words bounced off the stone. It’s bad at the best of times, isn’t it, talking to yourself? Sounds even crazier in a church.
I started up the stairs. My legs were pretty wobbly, my knee still not very good, but I took it steady, just one step after the other. You could only see a few steps ahead, and once you lost sight of the bottom, it felt like it could go on forever. Everything about it was cold: the stone through my socks, the walls, even the air was colder here. I was starting to think I should go back for my sneakers and my coat, or just go back, period, when I got to the top. The stairs just ended, a blank wall in front of me, but there was a door to the side. Again, the keys did the job. I swung the door open and was met with a blast of cold air. I stepped through and smiled, couldn’t help myself: I was on the roof.
I’m alright with heights — lucky, that — but as I stepped out onto the roof, a wave of sickness swept over me and I felt lightheaded, dizzy. I was breathing hard from the climb. I sat down and hung my head forward. The sharp air hurt my lungs. I tried breathing in through my nose, to warm up the air as it went inside. That helped a bit. Slowly, slowly, I got back to normal. A little stone wall ran down each side of the roof. Like everything else ’round here, it was carved into a pattern, big holes in it. Even sitting down, I could see through to the rooftops all ’round me. Holding on to the stone, I pulled myself up.
God, it was beautiful, even I could see that. A different kind of city. From up here, you couldn’t see the street-level grime; it was all roofs and chimneys, spires, squares, and arches. The orange streetlights made the pale stone look warm: The buildings were almost glowing, even though it was freezing outside, and you could see strings of lights crisscrossing the little streets. In the yard next to the abbey, there was quite a crowd, some of them sitting down on benches or the ground, others gathered near the tree, with policemen dotted among them. Amazing how stupid tourists can be, hanging around outside on a night like this.
The tower rose up from the other side of the roof. Keeping my head lowered, I scuttled along until I reached another door. Again, my keys didn’t let me down, and I was through, fumbling for the light switch. Another staircase, but this time with rooms leading off it. The first one I came to was full of ropes hanging down from the ceiling. The ends were all tied up on one side of the room, and I didn’t twig what they were until I saw a photo on the wall labeled ABBEY BELL — RINGERS 1954. They were bell ropes, and my fingers twitched at the thought of untying them, giving one of them a good yank.
There were more doors leading off this room.
I chose one with another staircase. Up and up, trying each door as I went. One room was different from the others. There was a wooden walkway across, suspended above a stone floor that dropped away on both sides, with odd ridges sticking up. Took me a while to realize why it looked like the negative of the roof downstairs. That’s exactly what it was — the other side of the fan shapes in the abbey ceiling. The hairs on the back of my neck were standing up — I felt like I was in a secret world.
Another door at the end of the walkway. This one revealed a tiny room, a dead end. The far wall contained a big, round white disc, lit up by the soft streetlight. There were markings ’round the edge and two sticks — a clock’s hands. I was behind the clock on the abbey tower. There were stone ledges running along either sidewall. I sat down on one, keeping my face turned to the clock — it made me smile; I’ve never been anywhere so weird. It was like sitting inside the moon. Then one of the metal rods feeding into it clicked, and the minute hand shifted forward. Another minute gone, and, with a wrench to my guts, Spider was back in my head.
All over the world, clocks were marking each second, minute, and hour. On and on. Thousands, maybe millions of clocks. If I’d had a brick in hand, I’d have launched it right through the round white clock face, sending the glass spraying out into the night. I’d smash every watch, every clock in the world. But would it do any good? Don’t shoot the messenger, that’s what they say, isn’t it?
And sitting there, it came to me: I was blaming the wrong thing. I was looking outside, when anyone could see that there was someone at the middle of all this. Me. I was the only one to see the numbers. I saw something that no one else saw. My eyes, my mind, me. Whether they were real or imagined, the numbers were me and I was them.
Without me, would they even exist?
The lever running along the wall gave another lurch and the minute hand thunked forward again. Suddenly, I had to get out of there. The room would suffocate me if I stayed a minute longer. I sprang up and started running, across the walkway, back to the stairs, and then on and up, blindly, to the top.
Although it was cold on the staircase, the iciness of the open air was a shock again. There was nothing up there, just a flat roof and an empty flagpole. Another stone wall ran ’round the edge. The view was even better up here — the orange lights of the town sprawling up into hills all around. There was a swimming pool on one of the roofs, turquoise water lit from below. And immediately below me, another pool, square and green, with statues ’round the edge and steam gently rising up from it. From here, it felt like you could dive off the tower right into it. You could dive down and wipe it all away: the memories, the pain, the guilt. All you’d need to do was climb up on the little wall and jump….
From far down below, a voice drifted up to me. “There she is!”
In the abbey yard, floodlit faces were turned upward now. This far away, they all looked the same, a crowd of puppets. And it struck me, they weren’t tourists down there, they were actually waiting to see me.
Someone screamed, their terror drifting up to me a split second after it had left them, infecting me, suddenly making me afraid. The ground below seemed to be moving, the people merging into a random pattern, swimming and shifting in front of my eyes.
My legs gave way and I sank down. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t jump off there — my strength and my nerve had gone. My legs were so wobbly now, I couldn’t even manage the stairs. So I bumped down them on my butt, one at a time. I’ve no idea how long it took — I didn’t lock the door behind me, just bumped and crawled my way all the way down into the abbey and then across the cold floor into the vestry.
I curled up in my makeshift bed, next to Karen, and shut my eyes tightly, but the numbers were still there: Mum’s, Karen’s, the old tramp’s, the bomb victims’.
And Spider’s.