Num8ers

by Rachel Ward

  “That what you’ve been doing?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “Well, you get some kip now, and tomorrow we’ll talk more about you coming home and having a proper night’s sleep in a real bed.” Her duvet rustled as she shifted about. “Honestly, Jem, you’re quite right, I don’t think I could sleep more than one night here — the floor’s so hard….” But no more than five minutes after that, she was gently snoring. She was well out of it.

  Perhaps I would have slept on my own, but the steady noise of her rumbling breaths in and out seemed to fill the room. It was irritating beyond belief. I was jealous, too. How could this woman just drift off so quickly like that? My head was full of the last few days, racing ahead to the next few days. After half an hour or so, I knew I’d have to get up or kill her where she lay. Even to me, the murder option seemed a bit extreme, so slowly I peeled down my duvet and stood up.

  I remembered Simon’s whispered words to Karen before he left, and tiptoed over to the table, quietly easing out one of drawers. The keys were in there sure enough, a big, thick bunch. As I went to pick them up, they moved against each other, a metallic, oily noise. I stretched the bottom of my hoodie out and wrapped them up, smothering their telltale sound. Then I padded out of the vestry, into the dark cavern of the abbey.

  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 i
t 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.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “It’s all right, Jem. It’s only us. Simon and me.”

  I swam up to the surface again, through the green, green water of sleep toward the light. A woman’s voice was speaking to me, and from somewhere a long way away my memory started to put the pieces back together. I sat up, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, swallowing back the sour stuff at the back of my throat. Anne was over by the table, and Karen was already up.

  “I’ve brought some juice,” said Anne. “Shall I put on the kettle as well? You and Karen can have a cup of tea. Simon, would you like one?”

  There was a shakiness in her voice that I couldn’t put my finger on. She was trying to sound normal, say normal things, but the tremor in her voice made her sound afraid. What was she afraid of?

  I felt embarrassed, these people seeing me in bed, at a disadvantage. I swung my legs out onto the floor and heaved myself to my feet. Just for a moment, it went red and then black behind my eyes, and I clutched the edge of the table to stop myself from falling.

  “Stood up a bit quickly?” Anne had her arm half around me, supporting me, although she held me away from her body. I got the feeling that if she could have used tongs, she would have. “Sit down here, that’s it. You don’t look like you’ve been eating much. Try a bit of toast. Here.” She unwrapped a foil parcel.

  There was a little pile of toast inside, cut into triangles. I couldn’t do it, couldn’t eat any — it actually turned my stomach to look at it. I’d only just woken up. I brought the edges of the foil together, hiding its contents away again.

  “Um, I’m not hungry yet. Maybe in a bit.”

  “Have some tea, then. Here we are.” She put four mugs down on the table and joined Karen and me.

  Simon stayed standing. He was paler than ever, and seemed intent on hovering there. He kept licking his lips, frowning. Finally, he came out with it.

  “You were seen last night, Jem. On the tower.”

  “You what?” spluttered Karen.

  “Jem was out there on the roof, on top of the tower. She must have taken the keys. It was a very dangerous thing to do — to go up there on your own. Questions are being asked. Stephen will be in shortly.”

  “When was this?” Karen asked.

  I sighed. “When you’d gone to sleep. I couldn’t get comfortable. Too many things to think about, so I took a look around. Haven’t you ever wandered about here on your own?” This to Simon.

  “Yes, of course,” he said, “but that’s different. You’re still a child, and I’m an adult, I’m…responsible.” Standing there, shifting his weight from foot to foot and wringing his hands, it was difficult to imagine anyone his age looking more innocent or vulnerable.

  I liked him, I really did, but there was something about that word — responsible. I burst out laughing.

  His pale blue eyes widened with the shock of being laughed at and then brimmed with tears. What was I doing? This was the guy who rescued me, the one who gave me sanctuary just in the nick of time.

  “Sorry,” I said quickly, “I didn’t mean to laugh. And I shouldn’t have used those keys. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.” He was watching me carefully, blinking back the hurt I’d caused. “Simon, you’ve been really kind to me. I’d be completely in the shit without you.” He winced, but kept looking. “I couldn’t help exploring last night. It’s an amazing place.”

  His face softened. “Yes,” he said. “It is.” He picked up the keys, which were lying on the table. “I’ll go and check that everything’s locked up and get things ready.” He scuttled out, while Anne poured more tea.

  “The police will be back soon,” she said. “You should eat something….”

  I stayed quiet, folding the top of the foil over, sealing the parcel of toast. I wanted to tell her to leave me alone, I’d eat if I felt like it, but a little voice inside me was telling me to shut up, that she was trying to be kind. So I said nothing, which for me was a big deal. Anne probably just thought I was rude. I glanced up at her, and she was standing there, looking hurt, too, like I’d rejected her or something. For Christ’s sake, it was only a piece of toast.

  There was something else, though. It was the first time our eyes had actually met, and though I tried to ignore it, there it was, plain as day. Her number. 06082011. Less than a year to go. And suddenly her nervousness started to make sense. At some level, whether she understood why or not, she was scared of what I knew. She looked at me, a rabbit caught in the headlights, then swallowed hard and turned away.

  Sure enough, the police came back, and the social worker, Imogen. There were other people, too: men in dark suits, who sat at the back of the room, listening. Karen sat in on the questioning, as the police went over and over the same ground as the day before. I stalled them for a bit while I tried to figure out what they really wanted to know; yes, there were questions about the day at the London Eye, and about Spider, but there was other stuff, too. Someone had obviously told them about the numbers. At this point, the police took a step back and the men in suits came and sat at the table.

  “We’ve been hearing stuff about you, Jem. Interesting stuff. Like the reason why you ran from the Embankment. They’re saying you can predict the future? You can tell when people are going to die. That right?”

  I looked down, saying nothing. One of them produced a set of photographs from his briefcase.

  “Look at these photos and tell me what you see. How long has this one got? Or this one? Can you tell me?”

  They went on and on, until I was hearing that edge of stress and frustration in their voices again.

  Then I spoke.

  “I can tell you. I can tell you everything you want to know.”

  They sat up then, looked quickly at each other — little triumphant glances — and then back at me.

  “Yes, I was there at the London Eye, and I’m pretty sure I saw the bloke who was carrying the bomb. I even spoke to him. I can give you a description. I can tell you about the guy with the tattoos and why he was chasing us. I can even tell you about these pictures.” They were excited now, almost drooling. “I could tell you, and I will, if you bring my mate, Spider, here. I’ll make a full statement, and then we want a car, and some money, a thousand should do it, and we want you to leave us alone and let us get out of here.”

  The guy in the suit leaned forward. “I don’t think you realize what trouble you and your mate are in. You’re looking at some serious charges here. You’re not in a position to negotiate.”

  He didn’t faze me at all. I’d thought this all through — they needed me to talk. “Actually, I think I am. I know you want to solve the bombing, don’t you? And you’d love to know whether your prime minister’s got a future, wouldn’t you? Is he here for the next ten years or going to be taken out by a sniper’s bullet? Does that interest you?”

  “We’ll need to talk about this.” He scraped his chair back and went outside with the others. Karen stayed behind.

  “What are you doing?” she asked. “What are you saying?”

  “I told you yesterday. You
just didn’t believe me.”

  “Jem, this has got to stop. These tall tales — it’s gone far enough now, Jem. Stop saying these things. Let me take you home and look after you.”

  “No! It’s not gonna happen. I need them to bring Spider here, and I’m not budging until they do.”

  She sighed, and I could tell she was about to launch into another weary lecture, when the door opened again. The men in suits were back.

  “OK,” one of them said, “it’s a deal.”

  My stomach flipped over. I couldn’t believe it — I’d won.

  “You’ll bring Spider here?”

  He nodded. “After you’ve given us a full statement.”

  “And you’ll provide us with a car and some money like I said?”

  He nodded again, but there was something in the way that the two policemen behind him looked at each other that made me suspicious.

  “I want it all in writing,” I said quickly. “I want you to sign it. A legal agreement.”

  And that’s what I got, there in black and white. I would tell the police what they wanted to know, and they would bring Spider to me before the fifteenth of December and provide us with safe passage out of the abbey. Not being great at reading, I took my time, but it seemed OK. I asked Karen to check it, too, but she refused.

  “This is stupid, Jem. I don’t want anything to do with it.” She watched while I signed the paper and then announced, “I’m going to get back to the boys now. They need me, too. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  She gave me a big hug before she left. “Imogen and Anne will be here with you. And you’re to ring if you need anything.”

  “OK,” I said. To be honest, I felt a little twinge as she left. We didn’t exactly see eye to eye — perhaps we never would — but she meant well, I could see that now. But I had to stay focused — everything was going according to plan. All I had to do was tell them what they wanted to know, and then they’d have to keep their side of the bargain.