he dangled
uncontrollably and then, setting up a rhythm, began moving again, hand over hand. Glancing back he saw them standing on the wall, trying to tug the pole sideways, towards the edge. With a final
heave they wrenched it the remaining inch and out over the alley. Walker made a grab for the building. The scaffolding pole whipped past his shoulder, sheered away beneath him. His fingers curled
over the wall. Another crash from the alley below. He scrambled on to the roof and looked back. For a moment the four of them stood there, Walker and his three pursuers, not moving.
‘Listen,’ Carver called, pausing for breath. ‘We should talk. We can help each other.’
Walker gulped in mouthfuls of air. Carver was talking again, silhouetted against a sudden burst of sunlight.
‘We want the same thing. We know where Malory is.’ Walker had got his breath back, was on the brink of listening. He turned and walked along the row of roofs. Carver was calling,
‘Wait. Walker, wait.’
Walker kept moving, heard Carver shouting, ‘This is your last chance, Lancelot. You’re a dead man.’
Walker tried an entrance to the emergency stairs. It was locked but the frame and door were so rotten that one kick smashed a hole. He reached through and unlatched the door, lowered himself on
to the steps. He charged down the stairs and out into the swarm and din of the street. A taxi pulled up nearby. Walker barged past a waiting executive and wrenched the door open, lunged in.
Back at the Grand Central he piled his stuff into a bag. His only concern was to get away from Ascension. Where he went next didn’t matter. But even as he thought this he wondered also if
flight might not be the best form of pursuit, the best way of finding Malory. Malory’s movements were so random that perhaps he too should abandon any plan. He hurried to the station and
bought a ticket to Alemain, the closest town to which he had sent his speculative mail.
He arrived at the station with time to spare: the train did not leave for fifteen minutes and passengers were not yet being allowed on board. He drifted round the concourse, half expecting to
catch a glimpse of Carver. At least half the people here, it seemed, were either following or being followed. Perhaps it was so many people wearing hats that contributed to this impression.
Anywhere else a hat looked like an affectation but here, in a railway station, it was part of the standard luggage of travel, a kind of ancillary ticket. The chance to wear a hat with impunity was
probably one of the things that preserved the romance of train journeys.
As he made his way towards the platform he passed a Photo-Me booth and ducked beneath the curtain. It was as good a place as any to hide from view but, without intending to, he found himself
spinning the stool down as far as it would go and paying in coins, posing for four sudden snaps of the flash. Clambering out of the booth he saw a woman reading a tabloid stroll towards him. An
Asian girl went into the booth. He looked at the clock and at the sign that said ‘Photos Delivered in Four Minutes’. All around this sign were sample photos of smiling couples, smiling
and serious individuals. One strip showed a black and white couple kissing and pulling faces – you could do what you wanted in the relative privacy of the booth; the machine didn’t
care, it recorded but didn’t notice. Ugly or beautiful, tall or short, everyone came out the same way.
After only a couple of minutes the pictures arrived. He moved towards the machine but saw they were of a woman, the woman reading the paper, who reached down and took them.
The developing times were cumulative, so he had another four minutes to wait – more like five probably – and it was now exactly four minutes to. The train’s departure was being
announced. Two minutes clicked by. He looked up at the clock, glanced down at the little metallic cage where the photos arrived and set off for the
uncontrollably and then, setting up a rhythm, began moving again, hand over hand. Glancing back he saw them standing on the wall, trying to tug the pole sideways, towards the edge. With a final
heave they wrenched it the remaining inch and out over the alley. Walker made a grab for the building. The scaffolding pole whipped past his shoulder, sheered away beneath him. His fingers curled
over the wall. Another crash from the alley below. He scrambled on to the roof and looked back. For a moment the four of them stood there, Walker and his three pursuers, not moving.
‘Listen,’ Carver called, pausing for breath. ‘We should talk. We can help each other.’
Walker gulped in mouthfuls of air. Carver was talking again, silhouetted against a sudden burst of sunlight.
‘We want the same thing. We know where Malory is.’ Walker had got his breath back, was on the brink of listening. He turned and walked along the row of roofs. Carver was calling,
‘Wait. Walker, wait.’
Walker kept moving, heard Carver shouting, ‘This is your last chance, Lancelot. You’re a dead man.’
Walker tried an entrance to the emergency stairs. It was locked but the frame and door were so rotten that one kick smashed a hole. He reached through and unlatched the door, lowered himself on
to the steps. He charged down the stairs and out into the swarm and din of the street. A taxi pulled up nearby. Walker barged past a waiting executive and wrenched the door open, lunged in.
Back at the Grand Central he piled his stuff into a bag. His only concern was to get away from Ascension. Where he went next didn’t matter. But even as he thought this he wondered also if
flight might not be the best form of pursuit, the best way of finding Malory. Malory’s movements were so random that perhaps he too should abandon any plan. He hurried to the station and
bought a ticket to Alemain, the closest town to which he had sent his speculative mail.
He arrived at the station with time to spare: the train did not leave for fifteen minutes and passengers were not yet being allowed on board. He drifted round the concourse, half expecting to
catch a glimpse of Carver. At least half the people here, it seemed, were either following or being followed. Perhaps it was so many people wearing hats that contributed to this impression.
Anywhere else a hat looked like an affectation but here, in a railway station, it was part of the standard luggage of travel, a kind of ancillary ticket. The chance to wear a hat with impunity was
probably one of the things that preserved the romance of train journeys.
As he made his way towards the platform he passed a Photo-Me booth and ducked beneath the curtain. It was as good a place as any to hide from view but, without intending to, he found himself
spinning the stool down as far as it would go and paying in coins, posing for four sudden snaps of the flash. Clambering out of the booth he saw a woman reading a tabloid stroll towards him. An
Asian girl went into the booth. He looked at the clock and at the sign that said ‘Photos Delivered in Four Minutes’. All around this sign were sample photos of smiling couples, smiling
and serious individuals. One strip showed a black and white couple kissing and pulling faces – you could do what you wanted in the relative privacy of the booth; the machine didn’t
care, it recorded but didn’t notice. Ugly or beautiful, tall or short, everyone came out the same way.
After only a couple of minutes the pictures arrived. He moved towards the machine but saw they were of a woman, the woman reading the paper, who reached down and took them.
The developing times were cumulative, so he had another four minutes to wait – more like five probably – and it was now exactly four minutes to. The train’s departure was being
announced. Two minutes clicked by. He looked up at the clock, glanced down at the little metallic cage where the photos arrived and set off for the
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