Turbulent Priests Part 18

He eased himself up into a sitting position. Tin cans rolled off him and cracked into the gla.s.s. Still it held. I love gla.s.s now. Some people say it's a pain, but it saved our lives. For the moment.

Bill said, understanding dawning, *The gas canisters . . .'

I rolled my eyes. *You mean we're going to explode as well as . . .'

*No! The caravan . . . connected to half a dozen gas canisters . . . they're hidden in bushes so the tourists don't see them . . . but they're in a metal cage so no one'll steal them . . . they're keeping us up!'

But for how long?

What if whoever had pushed us over knew about them?

How long before they cut the line?

*We have to get out of here,' I said, a statement of such overwhelming obviousness that Bill didn't even acknowledge it.

We began to pull ourselves cautiously up the caravan. The hundreds of cans didn't help. Swinging from side to side didn't help. But the thought of never seeing my wife and child again did. I loved them both dearly and would never be unfaithful again. I would go to church more regularly, though not necessarily on Wrathlin. I would cut down on the drink. I would do good deeds. I said, *Did you ever see The Lost World?' as we moved inch by inch. Bill shook his head. *The sequel to Jura.s.sic Park?'

*Will you just shut up?'

*Sorry. But there's a scene just like this. Caravan over the edge of a cliff, hanging on by a thread.'

Bill cursed as a tin of Heinz Spaghetti and Sausages shot off a shelf and whacked into the back of his head.

*Okay . . . okay . . .! What happens?'

*I can't remember.'

*G.o.d!'

*Sorry . . . sorry . . .' I was moving up behind him. He had reached the door now and was carefully opening it . . . then the wind caught it and ripped it off. It slapped back against the side of the caravan and then disappeared. The whole vehicle s.h.i.+vered, s.h.i.+fted, then dropped several feet. We both let out involuntary shouts and held on for dear life.

It steadied again. *Tell you what,' I gasped, *if we get out of this, we'll rent it out, see what happened.'

Bill was shaking his head. He pulled himself back into the doorway, then peered out. For several moments he crouched there, contemplating, then looked back in at me. *I don't have a b.l.o.o.d.y video player.'

*That's okay,' I said, *you can borrow mine.'

He nodded. Then slowly raised himself to his feet. He reached out of the door and began to feel for something to grip on the outside of the caravan. He didn't need to tell me what he was doing. He had to get onto what was the side, but was now the top of the caravan. Once up there he could s.h.i.+mmy up the gas line to the top of the cliff. Easy-peasy. As he continued to feel for a grip a bird, a guillemot, a razorbill, something, squawked momentarily through the open doorway at me then flew off.

Bill found what he was looking for. He took a deep breath then started to pull himself up. As his legs disappeared I reached the door and peered out and up. The wind was terrifying, and wasn't made any friendlier by the excited calls of the seabirds flapping round us in the dark.

s.h.i.+t!

I hated climbing. You have an apt.i.tude for some things, and climbing wasn't one of mine. I'd hated trees as a kid. Chop 'em down rather than climb up 'em. And this wasn't even a tree. This was a caravan swinging in a gale two hundred feet above razor-sharp rocks.

f.u.c.k!

If it had been an episode of the X-Files I could have whipped out my mobile phone and called for help. But it wasn't and I'd never owned one. Instead I cursed again and hauled myself out of the door, feeling desperately for the grips Bill had found.

It was freezing. My legs were jelly. My arms were jelly. Oh G.o.d . . . wake up . . . wake up! But there was nothing but the wind and the horror.

*There! There . . .!'

I looked up. Bill's head was just visible around the curve of the caravan. He had made it safely onto the *new' roof and was now pointing . . .

I reached hesitantly out. My fingers curled round something, something curved and metallic.

*That's it! Now come on!'

f.u.c.k!

Just take a seat in the caravan. It's relatively warm. There's lots of nice tinned food. Make yourself some supper.

f.u.c.k!

I pulled myself up. There was a narrow ridge around the top of the doorframe on which I could just about support myself on the tips of my toes.

Just about . . .

No!

One foot slipped . . . then the other . . .

f.u.c.k!

I was swinging on my hand grip, my legs whipped out from under me by the wind. I was a flag. A flag of surrender.

My fingers were like ice.

Just let go . . . just let go . . . float . . . float on . . . float on . . .

f.u.c.k! Who sang that?

Float on, float on . . .

It would have to be the f.u.c.king Floaters . . .

I had a big book of hits at home . . .

*Take my hand! Take my hand!'

Bill was reaching down to me.

*I can't!'

*You can! You have to!'

*f.u.c.k!'

I looked up again. Birds were swooping around his head. I'd no choice.

I let go with one hand and stretched, stretched . . . I caught his fingers, but he wasn't interested. He inched on down to my wrist, then started to pull.

*Let go! Let go with the other!'

*But I'll . . .!'

*Let go!'

I let go and he heaved and he hauled me up those few feet to the top of the caravan.

The wind hit me and nearly blew me over. Bill held onto me. We hugged each other for several moments, then the caravan s.h.i.+fted again and we grabbed desperately for the thin rubber pipe which was the only thing keeping us in the air.

We both looked up. It was about thirty feet to the top.

I looked doubtfully at him. *We toss for who goes first, then?'

He shook his head. *I have to go first. This is Royal Society property, I have to report it.'

*Fair enough,' I said.

A black and white bird swooped in at us. I felt its claws in my hair. I nearly lost my footing as I swiped at it.

*Razorbills!' Bill called. *They're getting protective of their nests.'

*Excellent!' I shouted. *That's all we need.'

*It'll be okay. There's no young ones to protect this time of year. No eggs. We'll be fine.'

That was okay. All we had to do was worry about the climb from h.e.l.l.

I looked up again. The gas line was stretched tight. It went straight up for several yards, then curved around an outcrop. We couldn't see beyond that; we could only hope that the line straightened itself out again for the run in to the edge of the cliff.

Bill put both hands around the gas line. He looked at me and gave a little shrug. *Why would anyone want to push my caravan over the edge?' he asked.

I shook my head.

*Vandals,' he said glumly.

*Good luck,' I said, and he pulled himself up. His foot crunched into the side of the cliff for support, dislodging a shower of twigs and moss which was immediately whipped away by the wind. He grinned back at me, then went for it.

It was okay for him.

He probably spent his whole life in the open air. This wasn't bad weather for him. It wasn't even cold for him. He probably felt warm. He was an outdoors man. A rough, tough birdman trained to scale cliffs to rescue injured birds, to fight off international birds'-egg smugglers. Whereas I could type really fast.

f.u.c.k!

I ducked down again as another razorbill dived in at me, then looked back up to Bill.

He was at the base of the outcrop now, the most difficult point of the climb. But he was distracted. The razorbills were swooping in on him as well, but in greater numbers. He was closer to their nests, I supposed. He raised one hand to protect his face, then threw it out at them. The wind was howling, but I was sure I could hear him shouting at them to get away. Spend half your life helping birds, then in your moment of need . . .

And I would have to go up there in a moment.

I peered out over the edge of the caravan at the sea churning below. The rocks were set in a rough semi-circle, a toothy smile with flecks of mad spume.

The only way is up.

Now who sang that?

This time there was a scream from above, no doubt about it.

Bill was enveloped by razorbills. He had one hand over his eyes, but something about the way he was clawing at the birds suggested that he had tried to protect his eyes too late, that one of the birds had flown straight into his face and started pecking. He was holding on with one hand, swinging helplessly in the wind. I couldn't see his face, but I could almost feel his distress; he was beating, beating blindly at them. Then there was another flurry of wings and a wind-suckered shout and suddenly he let go of the rope.

He plummeted.

He was past me in an horrific instant. There wasn't a sound. Just a bulky coat in the dark. No scream. No last shout for help. Just a blur. I screamed after him. But there was nothing. Not even a splash or a thud; the wind was so loud that Bill's death was silent.

Jesus Christ.

Or Christine.

Alone on the roof of a caravan, swinging. Razorbills and an impossible climb above, certain death below.

I'm not afraid to cry. I'm not beyond rolling on the ground and begging for help. I would not stand up under torture because my legs would get tired.

f.u.c.k!

I cursed everything there was to curse, and then looked up the gas line, at the outcrop and the birds, and tightened my hands on the rubber and started to pull myself up. There was no alternative. I had to try. The alternative was suicide.

One hand above the other. Pull.

Foot in the cliff. Push.

Not that far really.

Already my fingers were numb on the rope.

Already the birds were swooping in.

f.u.c.k! Something thudded into me.

I kept my eyes closed and my head down.

Pull.

Push.

Pull.