then my left hand and right foot do, too. I push away from him and hang on the wall like a spider on polished glass — one wrong move and I’ll slide. I press my stomach against the plaster and crane my neck to find the next handhold.
There’s a ledge about a metre above me and only one small protruding brick between it and myself. I remove my left foot from the wall and push my right leg straight, reach to the brick and feel that its upper edge is tilted toward me. That’s one shit handhold if I’ve ever seen one. I look down to find something I can use to support my dangling left foot but see nothing. ‘Runner,’ I grunt. ‘Do you see anything on my left?’
After a short moment he says, ‘No. But slightly to your right is a crack large enough.’
I manoeuvre my left foot to my right, carefully inserting it between my right shin and the wall. I’m kind of awkwardly twisted, but the climbing seems to go forward. I jam the toes into the crack, then let go with my right foot and begin to press myself upwards. That’s when my hand begins to slide off the stupid brick. With merely a second left before I drop off the wall, I tense all muscles and leap the remaining twenty centimetres up to the ledge. My hands are grasping the ledge tightly; my feet are dangling in midair. I allow myself to breathe.
‘If you shift to the right, about two metres, you can put one foot against the wall quite comfortably, then push yourself up,’ he says.
I know. I remember that crack and already start moving. Runner’s whisper is only half audible in my one ear, but clear in my other ear where the earbud is.
I find the foothold and push myself up. I’m glad I’m covered in clay for another reason now — my palms are sweaty and rubbing them across my stomach helps to maintain my grip.
I keep climbing, always focusing solely on what foot- or handhold comes next, ignoring the drop and the too-close trigger of the booby trap the BSA set up.
When I reach the first level, I unwrap the line from my stomach and tie it to the bottom of the flag post. The other end of the line falls down somewhere close to where Runner must be standing. ‘The rope is secure. You can come up,’ I say quietly.
The line tightens at once.
I keep a close eye on the post and the line. Soon, one hand reaches over the ledge, drops the first climbing clip he used to pull himself up the thin steel rope, then the other hand and a clip, and then the whole Runner pushes into view.
‘That was impressive. Where did you learn to climb walls that well?’
‘I grew up in the mountains.’ I shrug, pretending I don’t care that there is one thing I can do better than he. I’m sure I blush scarlet under the white. ‘Your turn, I think.’
Runner pulls the rope in, drops it on the roof’s ledge, and walks the few steps to the satellite dish. The thing is massive — silvery and gleaming, spanning five or six metres across, and standing on a thick foot. Two joints allow it to rotate in any direction. Behind it is a white hemisphere that looks like a humongous wart to me. Runner told me that’s where they used to keep a telescope until a few decades ago when some idiots disassembled it and sold the parts.
He crouches down and finds a hatch, opens it, and squeezes into the room below the dish. I follow. He walks up to a door at the far end and presses his ear against it. I hold my breath. After a long moment, he turns the knob.
‘Interesting,’ Runner says.
‘What?’
‘No stench. They cleaned up and secured it.’ He nods at me. ‘From now on, no talking — no noises, until I tell you it’s okay.’ Then he slips into the dark. I take a deep breath and follow.
I find him standing on the stairs, holding up a hand. He points at me, then at himself, and at our feet. I look down. There are small white crumbs. Shit, the clay has come off faster than I expected. I nod, reach for his stomach and undo the bandage that holds his pistol, careful to not drop
There’s a ledge about a metre above me and only one small protruding brick between it and myself. I remove my left foot from the wall and push my right leg straight, reach to the brick and feel that its upper edge is tilted toward me. That’s one shit handhold if I’ve ever seen one. I look down to find something I can use to support my dangling left foot but see nothing. ‘Runner,’ I grunt. ‘Do you see anything on my left?’
After a short moment he says, ‘No. But slightly to your right is a crack large enough.’
I manoeuvre my left foot to my right, carefully inserting it between my right shin and the wall. I’m kind of awkwardly twisted, but the climbing seems to go forward. I jam the toes into the crack, then let go with my right foot and begin to press myself upwards. That’s when my hand begins to slide off the stupid brick. With merely a second left before I drop off the wall, I tense all muscles and leap the remaining twenty centimetres up to the ledge. My hands are grasping the ledge tightly; my feet are dangling in midair. I allow myself to breathe.
‘If you shift to the right, about two metres, you can put one foot against the wall quite comfortably, then push yourself up,’ he says.
I know. I remember that crack and already start moving. Runner’s whisper is only half audible in my one ear, but clear in my other ear where the earbud is.
I find the foothold and push myself up. I’m glad I’m covered in clay for another reason now — my palms are sweaty and rubbing them across my stomach helps to maintain my grip.
I keep climbing, always focusing solely on what foot- or handhold comes next, ignoring the drop and the too-close trigger of the booby trap the BSA set up.
When I reach the first level, I unwrap the line from my stomach and tie it to the bottom of the flag post. The other end of the line falls down somewhere close to where Runner must be standing. ‘The rope is secure. You can come up,’ I say quietly.
The line tightens at once.
I keep a close eye on the post and the line. Soon, one hand reaches over the ledge, drops the first climbing clip he used to pull himself up the thin steel rope, then the other hand and a clip, and then the whole Runner pushes into view.
‘That was impressive. Where did you learn to climb walls that well?’
‘I grew up in the mountains.’ I shrug, pretending I don’t care that there is one thing I can do better than he. I’m sure I blush scarlet under the white. ‘Your turn, I think.’
Runner pulls the rope in, drops it on the roof’s ledge, and walks the few steps to the satellite dish. The thing is massive — silvery and gleaming, spanning five or six metres across, and standing on a thick foot. Two joints allow it to rotate in any direction. Behind it is a white hemisphere that looks like a humongous wart to me. Runner told me that’s where they used to keep a telescope until a few decades ago when some idiots disassembled it and sold the parts.
He crouches down and finds a hatch, opens it, and squeezes into the room below the dish. I follow. He walks up to a door at the far end and presses his ear against it. I hold my breath. After a long moment, he turns the knob.
‘Interesting,’ Runner says.
‘What?’
‘No stench. They cleaned up and secured it.’ He nods at me. ‘From now on, no talking — no noises, until I tell you it’s okay.’ Then he slips into the dark. I take a deep breath and follow.
I find him standing on the stairs, holding up a hand. He points at me, then at himself, and at our feet. I look down. There are small white crumbs. Shit, the clay has come off faster than I expected. I nod, reach for his stomach and undo the bandage that holds his pistol, careful to not drop
Similar Books
