Chapter 36Clip In Before You Climb

At two minutes to ten, Swan walked in from the atrium exit.

A clock hung above the information desk, and the clock said that time. The atrium air conditioning hummed overhead. Air came down from the vents and landed on the back of her neck. The stiff collar of white feather pieces stood where it was, layer on layer. The air could not move it, and it did not press down either.

The atrium was big. The floor was pale grey tiles, one after another, the joints straight. She counted a few of them, got to seventeen, and stopped counting. The shops on both sides had closed, their shutters down to the floor, leaving strip after strip of light on the ground. Only one shop, which sold phone cases, still had its lights on, the assistant sitting behind the counter, head down over a screen. The food court shutter was half down, and inside there was a pan nobody had put away, the oil in its bottom set into a skin on the cold hob. The big screen overhead was playing a stretch of seaside road, no one on the road, no sound. At the roadside there was a plastic bag, blown by the wind, stopping a moment at the kerb, rolling a little, and never rolling far.

She looked once and walked on. The tiles were dry. She walked over them, and her soles left no marks.

The first thing she saw was a wet-floor sign. White, folding, two feet biting the tiles. One leg stood on the joint between two tiles, at a slant. On it was a little figure, feet slipping, body tipping back. There were no words on it. At the foot of the sign was a small puddle, and the water reflected the little figure, upside down, head pointing down.

She went round the sign, giving it a wide berth. The tips of her shoes were still half a palm from the wet patch at the edge of the pool when she stopped and changed direction.

Her left foot was in a satin pointe shoe. There was a very faint crease in the upper that had not flattened. The ends of the ribbon were newly sewn, the thread a little darker than the satin. She had sewn this length herself, with thread unpicked from an old jacket. There was a plaster on her toe. Yesterday at noon the woman had taken it from the little drawer of the cleaning trolley and handed it to her. She had said thank you and stuck it on her toe, crooked, one side lifting. She had not stuck it on again.

Her right foot was in a worn street trainer, the heel sagging a little. There was a hole in the toe, and a corner of greyish-white paper showed in it. The laces were tied twice, very tight. With every step the laces cut once across the top of her foot.

The fountain was off. The water in the pool was flat, flat enough to reflect the strip lights above, one after another, trailing in the water. The tiles at the edge of the pool were wet, pale where they had been wiped, and water still seeped from the joints, drop by drop, very slowly.

She stopped at the edge of the pool for a moment. Her left foot turned out half an inch, then turned back. Her toe touched the lifted side of the plaster, pressed it down, and it sprang back up. The blister under her toe had not burst yet. It was swollen, the skin shiny.

Yesterday at noon she had sat on this very bench and taken off her left shoe. The slats of the bench had been bleached pale by the sun, and one of them stuck up. She had not looked at it. When she turned the mouth of the shoe back, the satin inside was cool against her ankle. She remembered that coolness. When she put the shoe back on, her toes had stayed in the cool so long that the inside of the shoe felt hot.

On the way to the lift lobby, a woman in grey overalls passed her, heading towards the exit. Neither of them spoke.

The glass doors of the lift lobby were shut. She pushed them open. The tiles inside were very bright, bright enough to show the soles of her shoes. On the noticeboard on the wall was a maintenance notice, dated last month. At the far end of the lift lobby was a passage, its strip lights on one after another, leading to the tower side.

The passage was long, the tiles new, the joints fine. Her left foot came down without a sound. Each time her right foot came down, it knocked a dull thud off the wall, and the thud trailed ahead a little, then drew back. Every twenty paces there was a sign on the wall showing a person walking forward with an arrow under their feet. She passed the first one without stopping. The arrow on the second pointed the same way.

※

The end of the passage was the base of the Twin Towers. The hall was very high, the lights in the dome set row upon row, a dark seam between each row and the next. Along one side of the hall was a line of turnstiles, all the gates open, no one tapping a card. The floor was polished stone, the joints very fine, and footsteps spread out in it and drew back. A cleaning trolley stood by the wall, a cloth hanging from its handle. The cloth was dry.

A security guard sat behind a desk, his cuffs rolled up a little. The small television on the desk was off. He did not look up.

At the other end of the hall were four lifts. The doors were all brushed stainless steel. On three of them the panels were dark, the buttons unlit, the doors shut tight. On the one furthest right, only one button on the panel was lit, “41”. All the other buttons were filmed with dust. Only this one was clean.

She did not press it. The button was already lit.

The doors opened and she walked in. The car was grey, the floor laid with rubber that made no sound underfoot. There was a smell of cleaning fluid in the car, very faint. The inside of the doors reflected her face. She did not look. The doors closed, and in the car there was only one white light and a row of numbers.

The lift went up. Her body went light for a moment, then heavy again. The numbers jumped one by one. She counted them, up to forty-one. Counting was a habit she had formed in the practice room: one count, then the next, to the end, and stop. At the twenty-sixth floor the light flickered once and came back on. The handrail was cool. She put her hand on it and took it off again. The tip of her left foot tapped once inside the shoe, and the blister jumped.

When the doors opened, it was three minutes past ten.

One whole wall of the lift lobby on the forty-first floor was glass. The floor was grey carpet, silent underfoot. Behind her the lift doors closed with a very soft sound, and then nothing. On the carpet was a line of footprints, running from the lift all the way to the window. The footprints were faint, each the same distance from the next, as if measured with a ruler. The last footprint was at the window, its toe pointing outwards. The clock on the wall was white, its second hand jumping, tick by tick. In the corner stood a water cooler, the bottle empty, its mouth turned down on the rack.

There was a thin film of mist on the window. She wiped a stripe with her finger, and in the stripe the lights outside came in. The stripe she had wiped soon misted over again, the mist closing in slowly from the edges.

Outside, the lights of the two towers had come on up to this floor and stopped.

Only one light was on at the middle of the skybridge. A point, very small, white, between the two towers, a long way from her window.

She could not see the lights at the top. Up the towers the cloud pressed down, and where it pressed, they broke off.

※

The review room was at the east end of the skybridge, a narrow room with its window facing the bridge. The sign by the door had only one character: “Review”. In the room were a steel desk, a stool, and a row of hooks on the wall. On the hooks hung a few twin-hook lanyards, one to each hook, each with a harness. Two of the hooks were empty, and those hooks were shiny. From each lanyard hung a white tag, and there was nothing written on the tags. Each lanyard hook had a string of numbers stamped into its side. She looked once and did not memorise it.

A picture was stuck on the wall. A person standing on a bridge, a line at their waist, the other end of the line attached to a post. There were no words under the picture.

She took a lanyard and a harness down from one of the hooks, put the harness on, clipped the lanyard to the harness, then pulled the harness up one notch, up to her breastbone. The gate was open. Inside the gate was a spring that sprang back when pressed down, and it was very stiff. She closed it and heard a soft click. She tugged at the hook, and it held fast to the harness, not loosening. She tugged again, and still it did not loosen. She sat down on the stool and moved the weight off her left foot onto her right. The legs of the stool were short, and her knees nearly reached the edge of the steel desk. She did not sit long. The stool was steel tubing, and it made no sound at all when she sat on it.

There was wind outside the window. The glass rattled softly once and stopped. It rattled again and stopped again. Seen through the window, the bridge was a thin line, and the point of white light in the middle was very small. The clock on the wall reached nine minutes past ten. Her fingers touched the window frame. The frame was aluminium, colder than the glass. Beyond the glass, the edge of the cloud was pushed by the wind, moving east bit by bit.

A review ledger lay open on the steel desk. The cover was dark grey, the corners worn by hands. A fine cord was wound round the spine, white, already old and fraying. The paper was very thin. When she turned it, page lay on page, without a sound.

On the first page were six rules, one to a line, all written with the same pen, the nib pressed down hard, a pause at the end of every stroke.

“Article One: No one alone at height.”

“Article Two: Clip in on the bridge, always.”

“Article Three: Every anchor must be reviewed; self-checks do not count.”

“Article Four: Until the review is complete, the inspector may not leave the post.”

“Article Five: Nothing that has not passed is let through.”

“Article Six: The rules are not changed by one person; two must sign, and both must be certified.”

She ran her fingertip along the first line once, one character after another. Seven characters, and the edges of every character were even.

She looked at the second. Clip in on the bridge, always. The hook clipped to the post, not to a person. This line was about the hook. It said nothing about a person. She noted that to herself.

The third said self-checks did not count. Checking yourself did not count. Then, she thought, it would take someone else to do the checking.

The fourth said, until the review is complete, the inspector may not leave the post. If the review was not finished, the inspector could not go. She did not think any further.

The fifth said: nothing that has not passed is let through. The paper did not say who had made this rule.

Under the six rules was a line: anchor posts on the bridge, thirty, one every two metres. Thirty posts, with twenty-nine lengths of two metres between them, exactly fifty-eight metres. She worked the number out twice.

At the very bottom of the first page was a box, marked “Amendments”. In it were two empty ruled lines, and to the right of each line two small characters were printed: “Certified”.

She did not have that certificate. She looked once and did not touch the two lines. She turned the first page over to look at the back. The back was blank. The paper was thin, and the writing on the front showed through, stroke by stroke, all reversed.

She turned the pages. Each line had four columns: anchor number, reviewer, crosser, remarks. In the reviewer column every line had the same character, “Cheng”. The crosser column held other people’s names. Hafiz. Lin Yuying. Amir. Over the page, it was other people again.

In the first few lines the ink was pale, the edges of the strokes a little blurred. The further on, the neater the writing.

She turned twenty-odd pages. On every page, the reviewer column said “Cheng”.

In the crosser column, from the first line to the last, his name did not appear.

She turned to the last line.

Number seventeen. The reviewer column said “Cheng”. The crosser column was empty. The remarks column said: “Unchecked (self-checks do not count)”.

A few pages back, every line for number seventeen had the same words in the remarks.

He had written this line himself. The writing was as neat as every line before it. The nib had been pressed down hard, and on the last stroke it had paused, then drawn back. There was not a single correction on the page.

She closed the review ledger and put it back where it had been, the corner of the book lined up with the edge of the desk.

Stuck to the glass by the window was a sheet of paper with the anchor numbers written on it, from one to thirty, row by row, the edges of the paper straight.

At the other end of the steel desk lay a duty book, grey cover, white paper. She opened it. The first page gave the person on shift: Cheng An, ropes, the façade maintenance crew. She turned the pages one by one, and the name in the on-shift column was always the same. A dozen or so pages further on, it was still Cheng An. The last few pages were empty, printed with boxes, and not a single word in any box.

The line below gave a ship number: LM-1-07. The location column said: “Under the bridge”. The status column said: “Not passed”.

LM-1. She knew that prefix.

The small window to one side faced south-east. Beyond it was the direction of the sea, very far, and in the sky over the sea were three specks of light, one red, one green, one white, spaced well apart, all very small.

Her left foot grew hot inside the shoe, and the edge of the plaster lifted a little more. She did not press it down.

※

Outside the door at the east end of the skybridge was an iron platform, and at its edge stood the first anchor post. In the corner of the platform was a folding chair with a grey towel over its back, folded very flat. The chair was empty. The wind squeezed in through the gap in the door and blew the hem of her clothes back. The door closed behind her, very gently, the latch making no sound. She did not look back.

She clipped the hook on. The gate bit onto the ring, one click. The ring was round, with a worn groove on its inner side. Her hook slid in and stopped in the groove. She tugged once. It was clipped on fast.

Then the second post. The lanyard had two hooks. She clipped the free one onto the ring ahead first, then unclipped the one behind. Every post was like this. One post, one click. She did not skip a single post, and she never let both hooks be free at once. Her hooks were new, the gates not yet worn bright. Each time she clipped on, the spring in the gate was pressed once, all the way down, and sprang back.

The skybridge was fifty-eight metres long, and between the two towers there was only this one bridge. The bridge was steel, laid with grating. Every square was silvery white, dark at night, the empty air below showing through the gaps. The railing was silvery white and low, up to her knees. One place on it had been rubbed shiny by hands. Beyond the railing there was nothing, only wind and the sound of the city, very far off. A loose thread dropped through a gap in the grating by her foot and fell for a long time before the sound of it was gone.

Her left foot came down without a sound. The gaps in the grating were a finger wide, and the tip of her shoe went round them, only just. Her right foot came down with a dull thud, the sound leaking through under the grating, striking the A-frame legs far below and coming back up, drawn out long. She put her weight on her right foot and walked on, step by step.

The wind came through between the two towers, carrying a very faint smell of iron and a little of the damp after rain. Below there was the sound of the city, very far, coming and going. Down among the A-frame legs a cable sounded in the wind, very low, like someone drawing a bow once across a string, a long way off. On the road a motorbike went by, its headlight flickering, and was quickly gone.

Every two metres she breathed in, counted to five, and breathed out. The stiff collar of white feather pieces did not move at the back of her neck.

There was an anchor post every two metres. The posts were short, up to her waist. At the top of each post was a ring, and a lifeline cable ran through all the rings, stretched from the east end all the way to the west. The lifeline cable was taut. She touched it with a finger, and it sounded softly once, then stopped.

The bases of the posts were painted with white numbers. One, two. She counted as she walked. The base of every post was fixed to the beam with four bolts, and on each bolt head was a stroke of white paint, the mark of an inspection. Far away at the west end of the bridge there was a door. The door was shut, its glass black, reflecting no one.

A small tag hung on the side of each post, one that could be flipped. The side facing out said “Checked”. On every post so far, this side faced out.

She pressed the palm of her hand on post five. The post did not move at all. The bolts at its base were tight, the white paint intact. She looked once more and did not press again.

On the grating at post eight a piece of paper had blown in and stuck, white, its corners curled, flat against the steel, not moving. The wind blew, the paper shivered, then went still. She did not pick it up.

Nine. The white paint on eleven was intact. Twelve. Far ahead, at the middle of the bridge, a person was standing beside a post.

She did not stop.

She thought of the stone steps in Paris. Those steps, one after another, she had counted on her own, twenty-six in all. There was a crack along the edge of the ninth step, and each time she counted to there, she walked past beside the crack.

Fourteen. Beside the post, a small pinch of dust lay on the grating. The dust was fine, and the wind could not blow it away.

The person was standing at seventeen, his back to her. From here she could not make out his face, only an outline, standing very straight. Grey overalls, worn pale at the shoulder seams. His shoulders were level. His left hand hung at his side. His right hand did not move.

The ring at the top of post seventeen was brighter than the others.

On the tag on the side of post seventeen, the side facing out said “Unchecked”.

At the middle of the bridge only one light was on. White, very small, right above seventeen. The light fell and landed on his shoulders. The white of the light was very clean, with no halo round it. On the grating only the square under his feet had light, white. The other squares were dark.

At the foot of post seventeen was a silvery-white box, a little bigger than a palm. A line was attached to the box. The line came out of the box, went over his left shoulder and on round to his front, where she could not see it. The line was grey, a size thinner than the harness she had clipped on.

Eighteen was two metres ahead of him. The tag faced out, saying “Checked”.

She looked down through a gap in the grating. In the gap there was a little light, from somewhere very far below, very small. The A-frame legs spread out from under the bridge, very long, coming down somewhere far away. Where they came down, she could not make out. The space between the two towers was black. In the black there was something very large, not moving.

She looked once and did not look again.

On the inside of her calf, under the trouser leg, a very fine line of light lit up, a single thread of cyan. The light fell on the grating, and the grating stayed silvery white. The upper of her left shoe lit up for a moment too. The satin did not reflect it. The light only rested there, then withdrew.

She breathed in for three beats, out for five, walked to fifteen, and stopped. She was still four metres from him.

He spoke. He did not turn round.

“No one alone at height. Clip in, then go on.”

When he had finished, the last word did not fall. It trailed there, like a rope paid out with no one to take it.

There was no other sound on the bridge. The wind passed between the A-frame legs and gave a very low whistle, and then that stopped too. The wind went through the grating gap by gap, very slowly, each gap making a little sound.

He did not take a breath. His shoulders did not move, and neither did his back. She watched his shoulders and counted to ten, and still they did not move. Her breath fell on the grating without a sound.

The words had no echo. The grating did not draw them out. They were said, and then they were gone.

Her beat slowed by half a beat. She did not move until the second count.

She looked at his back. His shoulders were level, a line drawn taut between them. He stood very straight, knees not bent, his weight on both feet, his body not leaning forward. The wind blew, and not one corner of his overalls lifted.

The tip of her left foot pointed forward, left the gap in the grating, and drew back. The wind in the gap was a little colder than elsewhere.

Sixteen. She clipped the hook on, the gate biting the ring, one click. She tugged once. It was clipped in.

She did not go on.

She was two metres from him. The two metres took her two steps, the second shorter than the first, and the part it was short by, she had drawn back herself. The lifeline cable between them was taut. She did not touch it. Her hook was clipped to the ring on sixteen, only one post short of seventeen.

She spoke, her chin barely moving, her sibilants bitten off very clean.

“I won’t go on.”

Her voice fell onto the grating, trailed for a moment among the A-frame legs below, and came back to her ear.