The Power(44)

The scaffold sways as he climbs. It’s not bolted to the walls of this crumbling concrete building. It was lashed with ropes once, but they’ve frayed and rotted, and the strain of his climbing is pulling the fibres apart. Now, this would be a stupid way to die. Not in a riot, not by an army bullet, not by Tatiana Moskalev taking him by the throat. Just falling a dozen feet on to his back on a street in Delhi. He climbs faster, reaching the rough parapet as the whole structure sighs and swings more wildly from side to side. He clings to the parapet with one arm, feeling that splinter working its way into his thumb, kicks off with his legs and manages to jump half on to the roof, so that his right arm and right leg are wrapped around the parapet and his body is swinging above the street. There are screams from further along the street, and pops of gunfire.

He pushes again with his left leg, just giving himself enough momentum to flop backward on to the gravel roof of the building. He lands in a puddle, soaking him through to the skin, but he’s safe. He hears the creak and crack as the whole wooden structure finally gives up and crashes to the ground. That’s it, Tunde, no way back down. On the other hand, no chance of being overwhelmed by crowds escaping the crush up here. Actually, it’s perfect. Like it was meant to work out this way for him. He smiles, breathes out slowly. He can set up his camera here, film the whole thing. He’s not afraid any more, he’s excited. There’s nothing he could do, anyway, no authorities to call and no boss to check in with. Just him, and his cameras, up here out of the way. And something’s going to happen.

He sits up and looks around. And it’s then he sees there’s a woman there, with him, on the rooftop.

She’s in her mid-forties, wiry, with small hands and a long, thick plait like an oiled rope. She’s looking at him. Or not quite at him. She flicks him glances, looks to the side. He smiles. She smiles back. And in that smile he can tell with certainty that there’s something wrong with her. It’s the way she’s holding her head, to the side. The way she’s not looking at him and then suddenly staring at him.

‘Are you …’ He looks down at the surging crowd in the street. There’s the sound of gunfire, nearer now. ‘Sorry if this is your place. I’m just waiting here till it’s safe to go down. That all right?’

She nods, slowly. He tries a smile. ‘Not looking good down there. You come up here to hide?’

She speaks slowly and carefully. Her accent’s not bad; she could be saner than he thought: ‘I was looking for you.’

He thinks for a moment she means that she knows his voice from the internet, that she has seen his photograph. He half smiles. A fan.

She kneels down, dabbles her fingers in the puddle of water he’s still sitting in. He thinks she’s trying to wash her hands until the shock hits his shoulder and his whole body begins to tremble.

It’s so sudden and so quick that for a moment he imagines it must have been a mistake. She’s not meeting his eyes, she’s looking away. The pain bleeds across his back and down his legs. There are scribbles of pain drawing a tree across his side, it’s hard to breathe. He’s on his hands and knees. He has to get out of the water.

He says, ‘Stop! Don’t do that.’ His own voice surprises him. It’s petulant, pleading. He sounds like someone more afraid than he feels himself to be. It’s going to be fine. He’s going to get away.

He starts to back up. Beneath them, the crowd is yelling. There are screams. If he can just make her stop this, he’ll get some amazing shots of the street, the fighting.

The woman’s still stirring the water with her fingers. Her eyes are rolling in her head.

He says, ‘I’m not here to hurt you. It’s OK. We can just wait up here together.’

She laughs then. Several barks of laughter.

He rolls over, crawls backwards out of the pool of water. Watches her. Now he’s afraid; it was the laughing that did it.

She smiles. A bad, wide smile. Her lips are wet. He tries to stand up, but his legs are shaking and he can’t quite manage it. He collapses on to one knee. She watches him nodding, like she’s thinking, Yes, this is expected. Yes, this is the way it goes.

He looks around the rooftop. There’s not much. There’s a rickety bridge across to another roof, just a plank. He wouldn’t like to cross it; she could kick it over as he walked. But if he grabbed it he could use it as a weapon. Fend her off, at least. He starts to crawl towards it.

She says a few words in a language he doesn’t know, then, very quietly, ‘Are we in love?’

She licks her lips. He can see her skein twitching at her collarbone, a living worm. He moves faster. He is faintly aware that there are other people watching them from the rooftop across the road, people pointing and calling out. There’s not much they can do from there. Maybe video it. How much good will that do him? He tries standing again, but his legs are still trembling from the aftershocks, and she laughs when she sees him try. She lunges for him. He tries to kick her in the face with his shoe but she grabs the exposed ankle and gets him again. A long, high arc. It feels like a meat cleaver wielded in a solid and practised stroke all down his thigh and calf, separating the flesh from the bone. He can smell the hair on his legs burning.

There is a scent like spices, something wafting up from the street. Roasting meat and the smoke of dripping animal fats and burned bones. He thinks of his mother, reaching into the pot to test the grains of parboiled rice between her fingertips. Too hot for you, Tunde, get your hands away. He can smell the sweet, hot aroma of the jollof rice bubbling on the stove. Your brain is jangled, Tunde. Remember what they say about this. Your mind is made of meat and electrics. This thing hurts more than it should because it short-circuits your brain. You are confused. You are not at home. Your mother will not come.