by Jon McGregor
She runs past a rain-jewelled spider’s web laid out like lace across a pile of coat-hangers in a front garden.
She runs past a pigeon in a puddle, beating water across its wings.
She runs past number eighteen and she sees the boy who lives there talking to the girl from two doors down, she has short hair and glasses and she is smiling politely and he is blinking a lot and not quite looking at her as he says so you’re moving out then, and the armful of air between them is heavy and thick and impenetrable.
She runs past the old man from the next house along, he is standing in his front garden and the sound of his breathing is as though someone were forcing air through a cracked harmonica.
She runs past the young man scrubbing his trainers, he still can’t get them clean and he slams his hand into the water in frustration, the bubbles lifting up into the air and drifting down like diamond confetti.
She runs across the road, towards a woman leaning out of an attic window, hanging out a red blanket, shaking it like an air-traffic signal, she runs past the man at number twenty-five, he is back up his ladder, retouching the paint where the rain has streaked through it, a twirl of movement catches his eye and he turns to look through the open window of next-door’s bedroom, he sees a boy and a girl, the boy is sleeping, they are both naked and tangled up in each other, the light in the room is clean and golden and happiness is seeping out through the window, the girl looks at him and smiles and whispers good afternoon.
And the young girl runs to the end of the street and she still can’t see her friend with the ribbon anywhere, she looks up and she sees a crane arching over the rooftops.
Nearby, a few streets away and a hundred feet up in the air, the man with the carefully trimmed moustache stands motionless and blind. When he opens his eyes he can see the city spread out beneath his feet, the rooftops of the terraces stretched out across the side of the valley, attic windows flashing in the afternoon sun, traffic circling the roundabout, people stretched out in the park, pinned to the ground like collected butterflies. He can see all of this, and the whole city is shimmering and shining so much that it feels as though he’s standing on a diving board over a swimming pool, waiting to somersault and twist into clear blue water. But when he looks below him he doesn’t see the refracted image of swimming-pool tiles, he sees only the cracked tarmac of the club carpark, stony ground surrounded by a small crowd of people with their faces all turned towards him.
The young man behind him says okay sir, when you’re ready, just relax and let yourself fall forward. He likes this young man, very polite, very trustworthy. He says to him, and you’re certain everything is ready, everything is okay, yes? and the young man doesn’t hesitate, he says absolutely sir it’s all been checked and doublechecked.
Okay then he says, the man with the carefully trimmed moustache and the perfectly straight bow-tie, okay then I will trust you. He swallows, thickly. I will just enjoy the view first okay? he says and the young man says that’s fine sir you just take your time. It’s a nice view isn’t it says the man, it’s a beautiful day for this, and the young man agrees quietly, it’s a lovely day he says.
He looks at his street, the man, he can see a young girl at this end, he can see the boys playing cricket, he can see a man up a ladder and people sitting on doorsteps. He can see a car just around the corner, and he can’t quite tell if it’s moving or not.
Okay then he says, and he shuffles a little closer to the edge, okay. The young man behind him says alright then sir, just relax and let yourself fall forward. And keep your eyes open he says, you don’t want to miss anything.
And the man with the carefully trimmed moustache and the thinning hair nods, looking straight ahead, leaning forward, dropping away from the platform, soundlessly falling like an empty bottle, like the first weighted raindrop of a storm, turning and accelerating towards the ground.
He should be here by now.
I look out of the window, I look at the clock, I look out of the window again and he is none of the people in the street.
My mother says I was in town today I went into a clothes shop, I bought one of those babygro whatsits, a white one, ever so small it was she says.
It took me a while to choose she says, there’s an awful lot of variety these days, there were three or four I couldn’t decide between she says.
I press the phone against my ear, I want to hear her better.
She says it’s a kind of fleece-type material, it looks ever so snug, it’s got a hood with a pair of teddybear ears on it, I thought you might like it.
I say I don’t know mum, it sounds like it might be a bit small for me, and she doesn’t laugh, she pauses and she says yes well I just thought you might appreciate it.
I say no sorry oh I do appreciate it mum, sorry, I say it sounds lovely mum, thank you.
Her voice lightens, she says I got it in white because you don’t know yet, do you?
He should be here by now.
He said seven o’clock, about, and it’s nearly eight and he’s not here, it’s raining and he’s not got his car and it’s getting dark.
She says so when will you find out, is it soon, it should be, they can do all sorts of things now can’t they?
She says not like when I had you.
I tell her I’ve got an appointment soon, I hear a noise in the carpark at the back and I say hold on a minute, excuse me.
I open the door and look, but it’s not him, he’s not there.
I pick up the phone again and she says what sort of appointment, a scan I say, they’re going to check everything’s okay, they’re going to find out if it’s a boy or a girl.
As I say the words, I picture a boy or a girl inside of me, half the size of my thumb, I picture each of its limbs, its fingers, the faint imprint of freshly forming fingernails, each nail smaller than a pinprick, I picture myself a year, two years, three years from now, a child on my lap, saying hold still, carefully trimming those same fingernails.
She says oh a boy would be nice I’ve always wanted a boy.
He should be here by now.
He doesn’t seem like someone who’d be late, not normally, not unless there was a problem.
Maybe he’s got lost, in the dark, in the rain.
Maybe he’s trying to phone and he can’t get through.
I say mum, look, sorry, I should go, I’m expecting someone, they might be trying to call.
She says oh, okay, oh, who are you expecting?
It’s no one I say, it’s a friend, and I say it’s someone I know from work because I don’t want to try and explain.
She says, oh, okay, I’d better let you go then, and she sounds disappointed but somehow she also sounds relieved.
I say thanks for phoning mum, I appreciate it, I really, and she’s already putting the phone down.
I look out of the window, I open the door, I check the time.
I think of all the things that can happen to a person when they’re trying to reach you.
Cars skidding in wet conditions.
Men falling out of pub doorways with tempers raised.
Boys with needle-thin arms asking for money, a flash of silver in their hands.
I think of him being lost in this weather, the rain heaving down out of the dark sky, I think of him soaked through and shivering, blinking anxiously, looking for streetnames, road-signs, familiar buildings.
I put a towel on the radiator to warm up, I put the kettle on to boil, I look out into the thick veil of rain and I wait for him.
And I wonder how this has happened, already, why I can be so worried for someone I’ve so recently met.
And I know why it is, and I don’t want it to be like that.
The kettle boils, clicks off, quietens.
I hear a siren from a few streets away and my heart clenches inside me, I rush to look outside but there’s nothing to see.
I feel like flinging open the window and calling his name.
I realise that if s
omething were to happen to him now, if that siren was chasing to the place where he is lying in the rain, that no one would tell me.
That they would find his parents, and let them know, and ask them to come quickly, find his brother, wherever he is, and tell him, and ask him to get on the next available flight.
But that they wouldn’t find me and tell me, there is no reason why they would, and I would never know and this all seems wrong.
I put the kettle on again, I turn the towel over so that both sides are warm, I open the door and look into the night.
I see him running across the carpark, his hand held over his head like a tiny umbrella, his face looking up at me.
He runs up the steps, he says sorry I’m late, sorry, I got lost, and he stands in the doorway.
I say are you alright you’re soaked, I say come in come in, come here, and I take hold of the sleeve of his coat and pull him towards me and I close the door.
His arms, his whole body is shaking, water quivering and falling from his clothes like rain from a shaken washing line.
His teeth, when he talks, his teeth rattle like polished bones in a box, he says I got lost I tried I couldn’t it was I got lost and I say shush don’t worry it’s okay it’s okay.
I say you’re soaked, you should, I’ll get you something to wear, I’ll get you a towel, and I fetch a V-necked jumper from my room, the towel from the radiator.
I hand him the towel and I stand in front of him, holding out the jumper like a shop assistant.
He starts to dry his hair, I say no take your top off first, get something dry on first, and he says oh right, okay, and he hands me the towel and I stand and look at him.
We are both breathing as though we’ve been running in a rainstorm.
He takes his coat off, he pulls his top off, it gets stuck around his head and he wriggles for a moment, blinded, arms held up, and I look at his smooth wet chest, his nipples, his bare shoulders, the thin drift of hair below his belly-button.
He gets the top over his head, he drops it to the floor, I drop the jumper and I push the towel towards him.
I push the towel up against his chest, and I feel a sudden warmth, I say you need to get dry.
I spread my hands out, holding the towel up against him, holding one hand still, moving the other in a slow arc, my little finger tracing a line around the curve of his shoulder, down the side of his chest.
My thumb, like a compass point, pressed onto his nipple.
But I am not touching him, not really, I am not touching his skin.
It’s as though the towel is a pair of gloves that makes what I’m doing okay, innocent.
I look at him, his eyes are closed, tightly closed, his bottom lip is taut and colourless.
I carry on, I sweep the towel down across his stomach, around his waist, up each side of his chest.
I bring the towel up, slowly, softly, draping it from shoulder to shoulder, my hands holding it in place, my fingers curling across the ridges of his collarbones.
And even through the damp cloth of the towel I can feel his heart, beating quickly against the heel of my right hand.
I look up at him, at his closed face.
I say is that better, I say it quietly and I move closer to him as I say it.
He opens his eyes, he opens his mouth to speak, and as he opens his mouth there is a half-kiss of sound, a sound I recognise.
He says yes, thankyou, and I move closer still, as if to hear the words.
I look at him, I lift my face and he lowers his.
He looks at me, he moves a breath closer, I feel his hands hovering around the sides of my face.
Our mouths are as close as the closed wings of a butterfly. We each move closer, and the distance between us thins further, a veil of silk, a breath. Everything has stopped.
I close my eyes, I breathe in the sweetness of the hesitation.
He moves away, a sudden release of breath gasping out of him, he pulls back and the towel falls to the floor, he turns away and he lowers his head and he puts his hands into his hair.
He says, I’m sorry, I can’t.
He says, my brother.
He picks my jumper off the floor and puts it on, it’s too small for him and when he picks the towel up to dry his hair the sleeves only just come past his elbows.
The neckline of the jumper leaves a pale triangle of skin, it flushes pink as I look at it.
He says, I’m sorry, my brother.
I don’t say anything, I look at him, he looks at me, he looks away, he looks at me, he says I have to go I’m sorry, he picks up his coat and then he is gone.
On the floor, a puddle of water and a crumpled t-shirt, wet footprints, a towel.
Chapter 30
The boy with the pierced eyebrow sees the man with the carefully trimmed moustache making his momentous fall over at the club. He doesn’t realise who it is, or what he is seeing, all he sees is a figure falling from the crane, falling through the air and disappearing behind a row of houses.
For a very short moment there is a lump of shock in his mouth, his concentration sucked into the panel of sky the man is falling through; and in that moment, in the time it takes for the orange juice from the carton at his mouth to gush down and fall from his chin, to turn in the air and catch the light and splash into his lap, in that moment his bloodstream is infused with a damburst of adrenalin and his eyes widen and his fingers twitch with the energy of it.
But then he sees the trail of cord hanging loose in the sky, an umbilical from the falling man to the crane above, and he smiles as he sees the cord tighten and recoil, pulling the figure back up, slackening like a question mark against the brightness of the sky.
He puts down the juice carton and watches the man falling again as the adrenalin fades away, breaking down and dispelling itself like a sigh. He wonders what it might feel like, that moment before the cord tightens and recoils, how strong the doubt in your mind would be, if there would be time to imagine the possibilities. He wonders if the relief would be stronger than the fear. And he remembers a man he heard about on the news, a man whose parachute didn’t open when he did a jump for charity, he wonders what that might be like, those two or three minutes, that freefall, the roar of the wind and the delirious bellow of death calling in your ears. And the landscape laid out beneath you like a vision, fields and trees and rivers like a picturebook, cars moving slowly along threadlike roads and you wondering if they can see you rushing to meet them. He wonders what he would do, if he would panic, fight it, tread air like a canyon-bound cartoon character. If he would spreadeagle, lie flat to the air to slow his descent, or draw himself in, point arrowlike to the ground, hands pressed together, eyes closed, mumbling come on come on and wanting to get it over with.
He thinks about it, wondering what he would do, wondering if he would be ready, wondering if he would be as lucky as the man on the news who fell into trees and broke branches and bones but didn’t die.
He sits on his step, he drinks more juice with the sun on his face, and he wonders how that would feel, how it would be, to know that your own existence is a miracle.
A young man in a car sees the figure falling from the sky, a man in a car coming around the corner at the far end of the street.
Coming around the corner a little too quickly they will say, we noticed.
He comes round the corner and he sees a figure falling through the air, he doesn’t see the elastic trailing out behind, he sees four limbs flung out, he is astounded and he stares up and follows the fall.
He is not looking at the road, not at this particular instant, and he is not looking at the child in front of him.
He wasn’t looking where he was going they will say, you could tell, it was obvious.
The child looks up. He has been concentrating on the tennis ball, arranging his fingers along the seam in a hopeful parody of his cricketing heroes, and he is just about to turn into his run-up when he lifts his head and sees the car. It’s a white car, a smal
l white Fiat, and it’s facing towards him. It’s moving towards him, but in the time it takes to reach him his perception of distance and movement will falter, become unable to register this fact. The car is facing him is all he can see.
The headlight on the left is cracked, and dirt has squeezed into the crack so that it stands out against the clear plastic casing like a fork of black lightning. The numberplate is printed in glossy italicised lettering, not the usual bold black capitals, he has time to notice this but not to read the letters. The car is clean, very clean, waxed and polished and shining in the sun. He can see the driver’s face, he is wearing sunglasses and his face is half hidden by the shimmer of sun across the windscreen but he can still see his face and it’s a face he knows, the boy from number twelve who played with them this morning, before he went out with his friends to spend carefully earned money on a car.
The child looks up, and he sees the car, and he sees the driver.
He doesn’t move.
Later, when people talk about this moment, they will disagree about why this was. He had time to move, some will say, he could have jumped out of the way, run out of the way, moved just a few feet to the right or the left. Others will say he had no time, that he barely had a chance to see the car before it reached him, that perhaps he didn’t see the car at all. Some, perhaps the ones who find themselves unable even to open their mouths when it happens, they will say that the boy had time to move but was unable to, that he was held static for that all-important moment between the seeing and the happening.
He looks up, he sees the car, and he doesn’t move.
He can see the road stretching out behind the car, the still-wet surface gleaming darkly, he can see the houses on either side, magnified and distorted in his panic-struck vision so that they loom up like monsters, window-eyes leering, door-mouths snarling. He can see people in the street looking at him, the girl whose daddy has funny hands standing on one leg, and behind her in his garden her daddy with his hands held out, beginning to stand now but so far away, he can see the funny man at number eighteen, the one who can’t catch the ball, he is jumping towards him and his whole body seems to be in the air, and he can see the people sitting outside the house next to his, the noisy people, they have all turned suddenly and are reaching their hands out towards him, he can see the small boy on his tricycle, further up the street, heading towards him, feet pumping away as furiously as ever, and he can see somebody on the flat roof of the shop, there are two people, one of them has their hands pressed to the sides of their head, their arms stretched out against the sky like a big O and he can see the sky, the blue sky, it is split from left to right by a tight white vapour trail but the aeroplane is too small to see, there are clouds, only a few, only thin ones, the sun is bright and splayed across a whole corner of the sky, there is a bird stretching out its wings to steady itself on a high branch of the tree outside the old couple’s house, there’s a cat rolling in the dust outside his own house, a white cat, there are wildflowers growing in the mulch of a blocked gutter on the roof of number fifteen, overflowing and hanging down across the brickwork, tiny white flowers in a spray, larger yellow ones, poppies.