Roofworld

by Christopher Fowler

  Which was exactly the reason why Rose could be found attempting to scale a padlocked fire escape door at the back of one of its buildings. The building in question was called Fordham House, a five-storey office block at the Piccadilly end of the street, and Rose had not expected to find the bottom of its stairway bolted and locked. She had intended to set her tripod up on the roof and take some photographs of the curving terrace in the moonlight, but two things were preventing her from doing so. First of all there didn’t seem to be any moonlight at present and secondly there was the small matter of an eight-foot-high iron grille which surrounded the base of the escapeway steps. Rose lowered her camera bag to the pavement and began pacing back and forth along the length of the grille. There had to be a way of gaining access to the top of the building.

  Last year she had briefly worked inside one of its offices as a secretary and while sunbathing on the roof in her lunch hour had been amazed by the panoramic view of London that it afforded. Now she found it offering the perfect location from which to commence her new-found hobby. She could see it now: CITYS-CAPE—An Exhibition of Photographs Exploring Our Urban Environment, by Rose Leonard. Swinging the camera bag onto her back, she placed one sneakered foot against the base of the grille and hoisted herself up.

  She was sure that René Burri had never had this trouble when scouting locations for his magnificent city landscapes. He’d certainly never had to worry about finding the cash to get his pictures developed at Fotomat, either. Rose was sure that she would graduate to developing her own photographs, providing she didn’t lose interest in this particular project as she had with the weight training and the kinetic sculptures earlier in the year.

  The top of the grille was covered in black grease to facilitate its opening and shutting. Her hand slipped, the weight of the bag shifted onto her shoulder and she tumbled back to the pavement. Nothing made Rose more determined to try harder than the placing of an obstacle in her path, although right now she knew that anyone passing by would be bound to think that she was a burglar. In addition, the police tended to accuse unaccompanied black girls of being hookers. Presumably they’d been watching too many cop shows.

  The rain had finally stopped, but the street was still wet. As she brushed off her jeans she noticed a pair of drunken soldiers weaving their way towards her.

  ‘You need a leg up, love?’ The taller of them stepped forward. He had a cheeky gap-toothed smile and eyes which seemed more interested in exploring the denim-clad region of her thighs.

  ‘I’ve locked meself out,’ she said, laughing. Could they really be so drunk as to believe her? They could and did. After a few painful minutes of conversation peppered with sexual innuendo, she managed to convince them to give her an unsteady lift over the grille and onto the fire escape.

  The main part of the roof was as she’d remembered, flat, tarred and gravelled, with grimy glass canopies rising at the front and back. Five floors below, the traffic stopped and started around the curving base of the street. With the exception of the connecting roads, the rooftops ahead lay unbroken for half a mile, unchanged since the terrace was first completed.

  As she unpacked her tripod and extended it Rose noticed that the street sloped upwards toward the north, where the taller buildings of Oxford Street cut across its path. Below she could see the open area of Piccadilly Circus, a perpetual tangle of scaffolding and construction work, while further beyond the stately buildings of Pall Mall shielded the fountains of St James’s Park. She turned around, threading a roll of film into her camera, the chill wind ruffling her hair. Behind Regent Street was the edge of Soho, a maze of jumbled chimneys, turrets and sheds, rooftops sloping and flat, gabled and angled in every direction, finished in every building material imaginable. But where she stood the rooftops were broad and stately and uniform, a multi-plane landscape waiting to be captured on film.

  For the first half hour Rose moved from one end of the roof to the other, testing out different set-ups and shutter speeds; then she noticed the low stone ledge of the neighbouring building. In the centre of it an art deco moulding depicted what she took to be an interpretation of the three Graces, or possibly the Nereids, rising from a sea of stone. Why place such a beautiful sculpture here, where it could barely be seen from the ground, she wondered. Perhaps there were others further down.

  The two buildings were gapped by a distance of approximately three feet, the intervening space serving no purpose other than that of detaching the properties. Leaning over and looking down into the five-storey brick canyon made Rose feel disoriented and faint. She believed in confronting each of her fears with a positive action and this seemed as good a time as any to remove any lingering doubts she had about heights. Telescoping the tripod shut she threw her bag over first, then jumped across the gap.

  The exhilaration which followed her safe landing on the opposite roof beat any pleasure she had derived so far from photographing it. Dusting herself down, she stood and looked around. It seemed as if no one had been up here for years. Filthy piles of building materials lay strewn about everywhere. There were rotting slates, stacks of bricks and dried-up cans of paint, rusted wire bales and steel rods, as if construction work had long ago been planned and suddenly abandoned. There was even an old corrugated-iron workman’s shed with a padlock on the door.

  Rose looked down over the side of the building and noticed that the top floor windows were covered in dirt and gave into empty rooms. She started to take pictures of the moulding. Glancing at her watch she noted that it had just turned midnight.

  The night was clear and cool and Rose was alone on the rooftops of London. It seemed peaceful to be above the city and yet still be a part of it. Carefully, she lined her camera up to the ledge along the building and looked through the viewfinder once more. But this time, instead of seeing an empty roofscape of the city, she saw the strangest thing. Running figures, some loping, some as if swinging on invisible ropes, bounding and leaping across the angled rooftops on the other side of the street. There were perhaps fifteen of them, young, old, men or women, it was difficult to tell. There was even a dog of some kind, darting silently between their feet.

  Quickly she unclipped the camera lens and replaced it with a 100–300mm zoom lens. It proved difficult keeping them in the camera’s line of vision. They would get to the edge of a building and suddenly they would be across to the next, as if they had just leapt or flown the entire distance. But on the other side of the road the buildings were much more widely spaced. It was impossible for them to have jumped. In a minute she had used up a 36-exposure roll of film, but there was no time to fit another. At first it seemed as if the group was coming nearer. Then she realized that they must be heading up towards Oxford Street, bouncing and hopping from roof to roof in a semi-human, almost simian manner.

  When for a moment she thought that they were getting closer after all, she became scared of being seen and crouched down low behind the wall. There was a sound that carried on the breeze as they passed—a cadence of half-notes seemingly played on a woodwind instrument which formed a bizarre pavane to accompany their flight through the soft city darkness. As the sound faded, she arose from her hiding place to find that they had vanished as suddenly as they had appeared and once again there was just the noise of the traffic in the street below, a distant car alarm seesawing through the night air and the murmur of the wind slapping rain-soaked newspapers across the rooftops.

  Rose threw her equipment back into her camera bag and leapt across the roof once more. As she clattered down the fire escape she prayed that the sale-priced film stock she had been using was not so out of date that her photographs would fail to print up. Scaling the fire escape door from the inside proved to be much easier than she imagined it would be, as she was able to gain a foothold from the stairs behind her. Back on the other side of the grille, she took a glance down at her sweater and jeans. Her clothes were covered in fine black grime. She dug into her bag and pulled out a small make-up mirror. Although her sk
in was like polished mahogany she could see the soot streaking her face and neck. She set off for the bus stop, suddenly feeling very tired, longing to be home and able to sink into a steaming hot bath.

  On the graffiti-smothered upper deck of the night bus she began to wonder whether she had imagined the entire episode. It had frightened and intrigued her more than she cared to admit. She could not imagine what anyone else would be doing in such an alien and inhospitable place. The incident had driven from her mind the thought of taking any further pictures that night. Carefully unclipping the roll of film and pushing it deep into her jacket pocket, she wondered if the computer-controlled camera had been able to pick up any details of the extraordinary group that were not detectable to her own fallibly human eye. But finding that out could happily wait until the morning.

  Chapter 6

  The Toad

  Even in this day and age, London remains a city that tailors its behaviour to the hours of the day and the days of the week. The parliament of England lies in the shadow of a vast clock tower, as if to remind those within of the power of those ever-circling hands. For whatever you may be told, London is not a twenty-four-hour city. It rises at seven and sleeps after midnight. It stays up late on Saturday and sleeps in on Sunday. And by 1.00 a.m. on a cold Monday night in December, only strangers remain on its streets.

  The starless night, hanging so thickly over the damp outer parklands of the city, was forced back here into a bluish-grey haze. Sodium-yellow ribbons of streetlight held the darkness at bay in the empty alleyways behind the Victoria Embankment. From the roof of the Playhouse theatre one could have watched the cars of the city’s last revellers racing home from Blackfriars Bridge, past the Houses of Parliament to Chelsea and Battersea beyond. But no one was interested in ground-level activities up here, for there were events to consider of a far more serious nature. On this night, the second in a series that would herald the start of a terrible new era, the one they called the Toad was about to receive his sentence.

  ‘You, the jury, have reached the verdict of Guilty and it is for me to decide what penance Brother Toad must make to redeem himself in the eyes of this court.’

  The summing up, transmitted in a deep monotone, reached to the four corners of the theatre roof. The Toad sat cross-legged at the foot of a vast square chimneystack. His plump, soot-smeared body was tied tightly with baling wire. He had not looked up since the speeches commenced. Even when the jurors announced their verdict he failed to raise his head, but emitted instead a single stifled sob. Despite the chill of the night, sweat dripped steadily into his eyes.

  Around and above him stood the rest of the court, familiar once-friendly faces now hidden by the shapeless black satin masks which were the symbols of judicial office. The voice now reaching the Toad’s grubby ears belonged to the tallest figure of all, the only one to be clothed in a gown of flowing black linen. It stood unflanked and austere among the chimneypots of the Playhouse. Occasionally, a glittering steel hand appeared from within the folds of its cloak to gesture at the frightened boy.

  Arms reached in and hoisted the Toad into a semi-standing position. He did not resist, but fell back against the rough brickwork of the stack as soon as the support was removed. The wire which bound his hands and feet prevented him from easily maintaining his balance. Finally, he raised his eyes listlessly in the direction of the judge’s voice.

  ‘Toad, you must realize that you have been found guilty of an extremely serious crime. You have acted with treacherous intent. The information you supplied could have curtailed our future plans and jeopardized our very existence….’ The voice grew cold. On the ledge above, a momentary breeze lifted the figure’s linen cloak and slowly dropped it with a spectral sigh.

  ‘Even now we are forced to live here, beyond our true territory, as a breed apart. And what is this but a direct result of the looseness of your sinful tongue.’

  Toad fidgeted nervously as, somewhere in the distance, the forlorn bray of a barge horn sounded.

  ‘But you are about to discover, Brother…’ the voice softened slightly now, ‘that even I can be forgiving.’

  The eyes of all turned to the billowing figure on the ledge. Even the Toad tried, vainly, to hoist himself to attention.

  ‘What you did was wrong, of course. But I believe that it was done in good faith, no matter how misguided your intent. It is for this reason that I find myself moving to leniency. You have been with us since the very beginning, rising through the ranks, helping to continue the task which was begun for us by the enemies Apollo and Diana.’

  The Toad’s face reflected a desperate, anxious thankfulness. Tears rolled down his chubby filth-streaked face. He raised his head still further as the hands which had helped him to his feet now loosened the bindings at his wrists and ankles.

  ‘In the light of your crime you cannot, however, expect to retain your favoured position in our krewe. I am therefore granting your wish to return to the Insects this very night.’

  Suspicion flicked across the Toad’s face. He rubbed his chafed wrists as a broad-shouldered young man stepped alongside him and gently grasped his arm.

  ‘Brother Samuel will put you back among the people to whom you so strongly desire to return. Cast out the scorner, and contention shall go out; yea, strife and reproach shall cease. We wish you happiness in your new life, Brother Toad. Now go in peace.’

  The Toad released an involuntary sob. He was to be set free after all. He turned to the others. It was impossible to read the faces of those who remained about him.

  ‘However…’

  The single word cut the air. The Toad’s heart missed a beat.

  ‘You must take with you the symbol of this second night. In the name of the Lord of the Universe and of the Fratres of the order of Isis go; for here the putrefaction of matter gives way to the soul.’

  Two shavenheaded men stepped forward from the gathered ranks. One of them was wearing a single black leather motorcycle gauntlet. Between them they carried a large brass cage. After setting it down on the roof they stood to attention once more. Within the cage a creature of black iridescence rustled and hopped. With this, the tall figure on the ledge spun on its heel and marched away across the angles of slate and stone, to be lost in an outline of dark chimneystacks.

  ‘It’s all right. Relax, Toad, for God’s sake. I’ve just been instructed to see you as far as Trafalgar Square.’

  Brother Samuel’s words offered scant comfort when matched to the power of his grip upon the Toad’s arm. The jurors had now broken their circle and were departing in their various directions. Behind Samuel and the Toad, the two men with shaved heads hoisted up the brass cage and, carrying it between them, followed on at a discreet distance. The Toad’s nervous waddle was thrown into a hasty canter as Brother Samuel strode ahead across the roof. For a minute they moved on in silence, their footsteps accompanied only by the sound of the river breeze lifting gently over the copings of the embankment buildings.

  ‘Do we have to go this way, Sammy?’ asked the Toad. ‘Can’t you just let me go down at the railway station?’

  ‘No, Toad. There are too many Insects beneath Charing Cross Bridge. They might see you. You know better than that.’

  If there was one thing the Toad knew, it was that the shelterers beneath the bridge were homeless tramps and alcoholics, camping down for the night in cardboard boxes, and that a colliery band could be marched before them without causing a disturbance. But he knew better than to draw attention to the point.

  ‘Well, Toad, this is as far as I can take you.’

  The two of them had reached the far upper edge of the roof to the back of the theatre. Standing side by side they made a ridiculous pair.

  ‘But I thought you were taking me to Trafalgar Square, Sammy.’ Barely controlled hysteria broke through in the Toad’s voice.

  ‘I’m afraid not, Brother Toad. His orders, you understand. If I had my way, things would be different….’

  A few yards a
way, the two shavenheaded men came to a stop. The one in the motorcycle gauntlet bent down and unclipped the door of the cage, then cautiously reached inside it. There was a chattering series of shrieks as he struggled to extract an enormous raven from within. Holding it at arm’s length, he pulled the cord which bound its feet a little tighter. The bird flew at him, batting its broad muscular wings, but he managed to hold it off as the other untangled the length of cord around its legs and approached the Toad.

  ‘No!’ The Toad pulled and twisted desperately in Brother Samuel’s grip.

  ‘He’s watching us from the next roof,’ hissed Samuel. ‘It has to end this way, don’t you see? One look from him and we’ll all be killed!’

  The two shavenheaded men stepped quickly forward and tied the other end of the cord around the Toad’s neck. Then they began to pull it tight, so that eventually the raven was tied directly in front of the Toad’s horrified eyes. The bird screamed and clawed at the boy’s plump cheeks in an effort to escape, tearing his face into crimson strips. He brought up his hands to fight the bird off, but with its wings wrapped tightly around the Toad’s head it drove its beak forward again and again, pecking at his eyes until it penetrated to the back of each socket. Its claws dug into the Toad’s neck as it turned its attention to his thick white throat. Falling to his knees the boy twisted madly, trying to escape the onslaught of the screaming creature, his voice a guttural rhythm of ragged screams and gasps. Finally Samuel could not bear to see the boy suffer any longer. In another moment he was behind the Toad, his muscular arms hoisting boy and bird high over the concrete lip of the roof.