Armwrestling the Dead

twenty-fifth.’

  Yalman sneezed violently.

  Some way into the winding ascent Jakob paused. The others were ahead.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I thought I heard something.’

  ‘Coming behind?’

  ‘Yes; there were footsteps.’

  ‘Echoes,’ Livingstone opined.

  Yalman was heard to fumble for sweets, his pockets rattling with charms and loose change.

  Leapers clattered against teeth. Strawberry, avocado, lemon. They advanced six more flights.

  ‘There, did you hear it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Hamish. ‘I heard it that time.’

  ‘Footsteps?’

  The stairs zig-zagged in close proximity to a long vertical ribbon of glass. Like the banister, left in place. Moss City was visible as a crenellated smudge without. Doorless exits gave onto silent corridors at every level, the spaces beyond void and lonely, offering no clue to past content.

  They reached the roof.

  ‘Spread out,’ ordered Yalman. ‘I hear it now.’

  Ellen? Is it you? Have you come to explain? I found you with your throat cut. Despite the shock, your eyes looked a safe place to hide.

  Jakob had a full view of the landing, sparsely lit. The glass shattered and rang like a million dropped coins, new-minted chimes on the steps. He caught his breath. Hamish fired. Jakob couldn’t see what at as the corporal charged the exit, rifle clicking as he tumbled forward, dry of ammunition. His scream bounced back through the vacant portal.

  Shaking now. Thirteen rounds, one grenade, bayonet.

  He turned but Yalman had disappeared. Jumped? Strange, mused the young private, to feel in company at last, surrounded by so many friends when he was manifestly alone.

  The moon hinted at fullness behind a cloud. Gus’s fur rippled, catching the wan light.

  He counted to ten and walked to the top of the stairs. A glass waterfall splashed with blood descended. Purple. Black. Lighter patches. Darker patches. Showers of raspberry, elderberry and liquorice.

  He clambered out over the banister.

  iv