The Search (16 page)

Seconds later he heard someone go into the recess from which he had just emerged. He tried to imagine the man’s movements, pictured him looking at the sun-filled doorway, guessing that
Walker had moved out on to the ledge but hesitating for one, two, three seconds before stepping out after him.

Walker, too, hesitated for crucial seconds and then stepped quietly down and back into the recess. There was no one there: he had moved out on to the ledge. Immediately, the figure appeared back
in the doorway, black against the red sun. They saw each other at the same moment. Walker ran towards him. Crouching awkwardly, the silhouette braced himself and kicked out. A foot caught Walker on
the side of the head but he shoved through the flailing arms and feet until they were both on the far side of the shattered door. He continued shoving at the figure who was pounding at him with one
hand and grabbing on to the rusted hinge, trying to anchor himself, with the other. Walker wrenched a hand free and shoved him back towards the edge. He had lost his balance but was grabbing at
Walker’s lapels, dragging him as he stumbled out on to the ledge. They were both about to go over. Walker pushed once more, shrugged his shoulders and pulled back so that his jacket came over
his shoulders and off. His assailant stumbled back, one step, two, clutching the jacket as if a flapping bird were attacking him. The next second there was nothing there except the sun’s
vacant redness.

Walker moved up again. His legs burned with the strain of running, air scorched his throat. The steps led eventually to a locked door that he couldn’t budge. He moved back down until he
came to a narrow paneless window. Leaning out he saw a ledge, just wide enough to enable him to move along to a decorative stone tendril running up to the roof of the tower.

Hearing footsteps below he squeezed through the vaulted window and on to the ledge. From here the whole city appeared to have congregated around the cathedral. In the distance the foil flatness
of the river glinted orange-pink. Gazing down, the sky seemed to have been stitched into the fabric of the building, into the narrow windows and flying buttresses. Everything was vertical except
the distant curve of the horizon. It was not just the fact of his being pursued: something inherent in the cathedral itself drove him upwards.

The ledge was barely wide enough for his feet but there were sufficient handholds above his head to enable him to steady himself and move along slowly. He felt the wind plucking his clothes. A
storm was blowing in over the city. He shuffled further and felt the ledge crumbling beneath his foot. Taking as much of his weight as possible on his hands he tentatively moved his foot, but the
ledge was too worn to support him. It was impossible to go any further. He began to move back the way he had come.

Still three feet from the window, he saw Carver. He had climbed halfway through the window. One arm was curled round the central pillar of the window, in the other he held a rusted crowbar.
There was nothing Walker could do: in one direction Carver was barring his retreat, in the other the ledge was unable to support his weight.

Carver was speaking but the wind snatched away his words. Then Walker heard him say, ‘So this is it. The choice is yours. Either you hand over the envelope – or I pick it out of
whatever’s left of you when you hit the floor.’

The sky was growing dark. Oil-spill clouds rolled over the city.

‘So which is it to be?’

Every moment was like every other. Walker said nothing.

‘I almost forgot,’ Carver said. ‘I’ve got something for you. You left it in the hotel.’ He put down the crowbar and reached into his pocket. Tossed a silver chain
towards Walker. It landed on the ledge, close to his feet, slithered out of sight.

When he looked up again Carver had picked up the crowbar. He leaned out further from the window and swiped at Walker, catching him on the elbow. Sparks of pain shot up his arm. He inched his way
along the ledge, digging his fingers into the old stones. He stretched his right foot a few inches further and felt the ledge start to flake away. This was it: he could not go even an inch further.
Carver swiped at him again, smashing the knuckles of his left hand. His fingers slid from the wall, numbed by the blow. Still anchored by his right hand, he swung out in a short arc, left foot
slipping clear of the ledge. Now he was facing out from the wall, scrabbling to find a purchase for his left heel, waiting for the life to return to his hand. He glimpsed the remains of the egg,
smeared over the toe of his shoe like a smashed body seen from high above.

Thunder rumbled over the houses beyond the river. An army of clouds moved across the sky.

Walker glanced across at the cathedral’s twin tower, gargoyles jutting out from it. In the distance, a thin jerk of lightning. Carver swung at him again, missed. The swish of air had been
almost enough to swat him from the wall. He saw Carver lean out still further, so far that he had to clutch the edge of the window with his hand to support himself, preparing to strike. The seconds
grew enormous, vast as lifetimes. Carver was drawing back his arm. Walker looked out across to the other tower.

He bent his knees and sprang out, diving for the opposite tower. The sky gasped. Air rushed around him. He fell through the net of sky.

His hands clamped around a gargoyle, ripping muscles in both shoulders. The impact was so sudden his right hand slipped clear. Before he had time to reach up again and steady himself his left
hand, swollen, unable to take the weight, slipped free and he was falling again – until the fingers of his right hand hooked around the teeth of the gargoyle: hanging by one arm from the
mouth of a monster, stone teeth biting into his hand.

The first sigh of rain. He threw his other arm up over the ridged back of the gargoyle. As he did so the whole of its lower jaw gave way in his hand, embedding in his fingers for a second and
then disappearing before that arm curled around the gargoyle’s neck too. His shoulders were on fire but he was able to swing his legs up, locking them around the gargoyle’s back so that
he was embracing it, his face inches from the leer of its shattered mouth.

Thunder boomed. The sky was full of rain, the gargoyle was spitting water in his face. He hung there, regaining his strength. Then began pulling and twisting himself around and on top of the
gargoyle, one knee crooked over its spine, the other swinging clear. Grabbing its ear and using it as a belay point he hauled himself up and around until he was straddling the gargoyle like a
wounded man, slumped over a stone pony in the drenching rain.

He vomited into the darkness. Lightning lashed the city. He looked across at the other tower but could see no sign of Carver.

Using the wall for balance, he shifted his position and began to move his feet on to the back of the gargoyle. The effort made him giddy but once he had steadied himself he began pushing
upwards, his back and arms flattened against the wall until he was standing upright. His feet wobbled and shook on the narrow spine as he turned half around, looking for handholds, for a way of
pulling himself on to the roof of the tower. At full stretch he hooked his fingers around a ridge of stone, greasy with rain. He paused, waiting for the giddiness to fade. Blood rushed to his head,
nausea was welling up in him again. When it had passed he hauled himself up, scrabbling with his feet until he found a foothold. Knowing he would never make it if he waited, he pushed with his legs
and pulled with one arm, the fingers of the other groping blindly and then curling over the edge of the roof. Taking his weight on that hand he reached up with the other. Then, knowing that only
one final exertion was needed, he hauled himself up until his shoulders were level with the roof. He locked one arm over the low parapet and dragged himself up. Collapsed on to the roof.

Blood thundered in his head. Dark lightning. Rain jabbing him awake. His head was in a puddle of black water. He raised himself on one elbow, pain wincing through his shoulder. Dragged himself
to a sitting position.

The puddles all around were silvered by lightning. When he looked up he saw Carver shivering towards him through the rain.

He watched Carver draw closer, so exhausted that even the reflex of fear barely worked, too weak and full of pain to move. He started to speak but his voice was drenched by thunder exploding all
around. By the time the noise echoed away, even the impulse to speak had left him. He squinted up through the rain stinging his face. Carver loomed over him, raising the crowbar like an axe.

Walker stared up. Waiting for everything to be over with as the sky split in two around Carver. Lightning leapt down the crowbar, igniting the figure holding it. Flames licked his head and body.
The moment held like a vast camera flash. Then he toppled forward in the darkness. The smell of burning, the blackened shape steaming in the rain.

Walker lay where he was, rain lashing his face, his eyes scarred with the image of Carver blasted by lightning, arm and crowbar raised triumphantly as if he had summoned the power that consumed
him. Walker looked across at the cathedral’s twin tower, ghastly through the rain.

Lightning shuddered over the city.

Thunder like a huge groan.

It was mid-morning, buildings were taking in their awnings of shadow. Walker’s train did not leave for an hour and he made his way to the station, limping slightly. His
body ached everywhere. His left arm was strapped across his chest but any sudden movement made his shoulder flinch with pain.

Blue sky fitted snugly over the city. Jutting above the cramped buildings he saw the twin towers of the cathedral. At a café he ordered an espresso and sat watching people pass by,
wondering what he had learnt from the events of the last months. Maybe he would feel differently in the future but, for the moment, the more he thought about it the less sure he became. It had not
made him sadder or wiser. All he could say for sure was that he had applied himself to something and could now head home and feel content for a while. Walk down to the beach and watch the ocean
heaving in. Sleep in the same bed, see the same things day after day. Like someone coming to the end of a shift at a factory, he could go home and put his feet up. The longer the search had gone on
the more he had hoped for some ultimate revelation – but such expectations already seemed ludicrous. The best you could hope for was to be free from the itch of restlessness, for a while at
least. To put your feet up. For nothing to happen.

He took out the photo of Rachel, looked at it closely for several minutes and folded it away again. It looked like a picture from a dream, proving nothing, promising everything. He sat for a
while longer, paid for his coffee and got up to leave, careful not to jar his arm.

He walked down Via Dante until he came to the river. A film of algae concealed the movement of the water, making the river look like a green sponge, thick enough to walk on. Halfway across the
ornate bridge he picked up a stone and tossed it into the river. There was a slight plop and a tiny rip appeared in the green film. A few moments later the rip had vanished and the green sponge was
intact again. His eyes followed the river curving into the distance. Shuttered houses, a few gulls.

On the other side of the bridge was a pay-phone. He dialled Rachel’s number but there was no answer. From a window nearby – he looked around but couldn’t locate it exactly
– he heard a phone ringing: someone else who wasn’t there. He let the phone ring twice more and then hung up. Perhaps it was just as well: if he was dreaming he did not want to be woken
up, not yet. He wanted to speak to her but had no idea what to say. Maybe in the course of the journey home he would know. Or perhaps not then, not until he saw her. Perhaps not even then. Home:
the familiar shape the word formed in his mouth.

The phone he had heard earlier was still ringing but it seemed fainter now, as if whoever was calling had almost given up hope. Walker picked up the receiver again and called Marek, who answered
immediately.

‘Hi, it’s Walker.’

‘Walker. Shit! Where are you?’

‘I’m in town. On my way to the station.’

‘But, I mean, what happened to you? Where have you been? Where are you going?’

Smiling, Walker said, ‘If I remember rightly, there’s a painting by Cézanne called something like that.’ He listened to Marek laughing into the phone.

‘It’s Gauguin actually.’

‘Gauguin. OK. Anyway, how you doing?’

‘Fine, but what about you? Where are you going?’

‘Home. My train leaves in half an hour. I was calling to say goodbye – and good luck with the film.’

‘What happened, though? You found Malory?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Well . . . Like I said, it means I’m heading home,’ he said, glad of the chance to say the word again.

There was a pause and then Marek said, ‘Hey, listen, we found some more film. Super 8.’

Walker looked back across the bridge: people flowing over it, carrying bags of shopping, holding hands, wearing sunglasses and hats, tourists with their cameras.

‘Walker? You still there?’

‘Yes. What does it show?’

‘You don’t want to see it?’

‘No.’

‘You want me to tell you what’s on it?’

‘No. Yes.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes. Sorry. Go on.’

‘I think it must have been taken the day after, or sometime later anyway.’

Out of the corner of his eye Walker saw a bird swoop down and glide low over the river.

‘Go on,’ he said.

‘It shows him on Via Dante, near the river. He walks over the bridge and stops in the middle. On the other side he . . .’

Walker opened his hand and let the receiver drop. It jerked and dangled, moving slightly in the breeze.

Walker limped away but for a few steps he could hear Marek’s voice, growing fainter by the word, explaining how he had walked from the phone and across Via San Marco, leaving the river
behind. Glancing back just once before disappearing into the crowds on Via San Lorenzo.