Part 18 (1/2)

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.