Chapter 38This One, I've Checked

She clipped the hook onto the ring on Seventeen first. The gate bit, one click. Only then did she unclip from the ring on Sixteen. Clip one on, then take the other off. She did not let herself be without one clipped on.

The ring at the top of Seventeen was brighter than the others. Her hook bit onto it, and the bright patch was caught under the hook.

She walked two metres. There was a very thin layer of water on the bridge deck, left by the rain a moment ago, pooled in the gaps of the grating, reflecting the lights in strips. The grating ran seven squares; she had counted many times, and each time it was seven. Her right foot came down on the seventh, with a dull sound, and the sound leaked down through the gaps, struck the A-frame legs below, and came back up.

Both sides of the bridge were empty. The wind came from the north and went back from the south, and the two streams met on the grating and flicked the hem of her clothes upward. There was a very faint smell of iron in the wind, and the damp of rain just fallen. The grating trembled lightly in the wind, a very fine trembling, and the soles of her shoes could feel it.

The post at Seventeen was a little thicker than Sixteen, and not one spot of its paint had been touched up. There were a few very fine scratches on its shaft, worn in by hooks, time after time, and the scratches all ran upward. Four bolts at the base, the white paint intact.

She stood beside Seventeen, behind him, the post on her left. He had his back to her, facing west, his shoulders level. She did not look at the box.

She hung her weight on it.

As she pressed down, the box made a sound.

The box was at the base of the post, silvery white, lid up. The line came out of it, went round his left shoulder and on to his front. The line drew back an inch and did not shake. The lid of the box was shut; the dial inside was probably turned all the way. Her toes pressed in first, then rose bit by bit, each time slowly enough that she could hear the sole scuff a little on the grating. All the way down, stop, wait for it to be still. It was still.

She thought of an escalator in Paris. That day the escalator had stopped, and she had walked up it step by step, counting, up to the fortieth step, her soles on the ridges of the steel plate, every ridge the same. Her toes were like that now, pressing step by step, not one step skipped.

She breathed in, three beats. Pressed. Breathed out, five beats.

The tip of her left foot braced inside the satin shoe. The blister there jumped once; the plaster on her toe still had its edge lifted, and she did not press it down. The lace on her right shoe was tied twice, and every time she pressed, it cut into the top of her foot. On the inside of her calf, under the trouser leg, the thin line of light lit up, a thread of cyan. The light fell on the grating, and the grating was still silvery white.

The wind came through between the two towers and made the cable below sound once, very low, and stop.

The man on Seventeen did not turn round. The light above the grating fell on his back.

Her rhythm slipped half a beat behind. She waited a moment before she let the words out.

“This one, I’ve checked.”

The voice fell onto the grating and drew out long. It drew out across the dark between the two towers, struck the A-frame legs, bounced back, returned to her ears, half a beat slower than she had spoken it.

The small plate on the side of the post turned over. What had faced out was “Unchecked”; what faced out now was “Checked”. The plate was thin sheet iron with rounded edges, and as it turned, a little paint came off the pivot, with a very light metallic sound.

Her hand had not touched it.

A sheet of paper was clipped to the lid of the box.

The paper was thin, ruled into boxes. Only one row. Anchor number, reviewer, crosser, remarks, every character pressed into the middle of its box, very evenly. The top row read “Seventeen”, the reviewer box read “Cheng”, the crosser box was empty, and the remarks box read “Unchecked (self-checks do not count)”.

She looked over every box once. Article Three said exactly that. She had read that article on the steel desk in the review room, the words written with the same pen, the nib pressed down hard.

The writing in this row was a size smaller than in the review ledger, the strokes held tighter. Whoever wrote it had probably been standing, with no desk to lean a hand on.

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

In the top right corner of the paper was a very small date, November of the second year. Below the date was a dot of ink, where the nib had rested. The edge of the dot had already dried, gone grey.

This paper had been copied from the review ledger. The boxes were the same width, the writing the same shape; even the “Amendments” box at the bottom had been copied. The paper was thinner than the ledger’s; whoever copied it had used a different paper, and its edges had gone fuzzy all round. She had leafed through that book in the review room on the forty-first floor, and knew what it looked like.

A pen was tied to the lid as well. Black, fastened to the edge of the box by a white cord, the end of the cord knotted. The cord was thin, the same as the one wound round the spine of the review ledger, and it was already fraying.

※

She crouched down and untied the pen.

Her knee touched the grating with a dull sound. The pen was cold, its barrel marked with fine lines, pressed in by many hands. She smoothed the paper flat and held a corner down with her finger. The wind came up through the gaps and lifted the other corner, and she held it down with her left hand, very flat.

On the first ruled line of the amendments box, she wrote her own name. The strokes were small, one stroke at a time, pressed onto the line, held very neat. The ink of the first stroke spread a little, into a small dot, and she did not wipe it. The ink was black and dried quickly. She lifted the nib from the paper, and the paper did not stick to it.

To the right of the line it said “Certified”. She was not certified. She knew. Article Six said two must sign, and both must be certified. She read that sentence from beginning to end, reached the two characters for “certified”, and stopped. She wrote anyway.

When she had finished, she picked up the paper, stood, and passed it with the pen over his shoulder. The nib pointed towards his hand.

His hand came back over his shoulder. He did not turn round. His fingers touched the pen and took it, paper and all. Her fingers did not touch his.

He did not write straight away. The paper rested against his chest, and she looked over from beside his shoulder. The nib came down on the blank space in the amendments box, the blank above the two ruled lines, with no writing in it. The nib stopped there, stopped for a moment. The light above the grating fell on his shoulders, and his shoulders were level.

Then he wrote.

The writing was small, one stroke at a time, pressed into the middle of the box. As he wrote the first character, the nib paused on the paper, and the ink gathered into a dot beneath it. He lifted the pen, did not wipe it, and set it down again, beside the dot. Only after finishing one character did the nib move on a little to write the next. What he wrote was: “Article Four, one sentence added: Once checked by a second person, it counts as complete.”

When he had finished, he signed on the second ruled line. Two characters, Cheng An, held very neat. His strokes were written the same way as the “Cheng” in the reviewer box of every row.

The sound of the nib across the paper was very light, lighter than the wind on the bridge. The wind stopped for a beat, and in that beat there was only the sound of the pen on paper.

He did not put the pen down. The white cord hung at the edge of the box, swung once, and stopped.

His pen moved to the crosser box. That box was empty.

She had leafed through that book in the review room, twenty-odd pages, and in the crosser column, not once had it been his name.

He wrote: Cheng An.

Two characters, the same as the two he had signed in the amendments box. When he had finished, the nib left the paper and stopped in mid-air, stopped for a beat. The wind made the paper shiver lightly, and it lay flat again.

In the remarks box, the words “Unchecked (self-checks do not count)” were still there.

He drew a line with the pen.

One horizontal line, from the left side of the box to the right, through the middle of those words. The line was straight, and where it reached the end it stopped exactly. That row, in the review ledger, he had never struck out. This time, he struck it out.

※

He passed the paper and pen back over his shoulder. She took them.

His left hand rose.

The callus on the second joint of his index finger pressed against the gate of the hook at his chest. The hook was stainless steel, D-shaped, a little smaller than a palm, with a string of numbers stamped into its side. The finger rested on the gate for a moment, then pressed inward.

The gate sprang open, one click, very light. The line at that end moved with it, and came loose.

That hook, he had never once opened for himself. The edge of the gate had never been worn bright by a finger. It was open now, only a crack.

The line slid off the hook and hung over his shoulder, slack, and the wind made it sag slowly down an inch. The box made no sound. Its lid was shut, and no one touched it.

He drew a breath.

The breath went in, very full, his chest swelled, his shoulders rose, and fell again. The sound of it was very light; she almost did not hear it. It was the first time she had seen his shoulders move.

Then he turned round.

He turned very slowly. His heels were still pressed on that crossbar of the grating and did not shift. His left hand was at his chest, and the slack line swung once. His shoulders and head turned together, round to face her. The grating made a sound, very short. His face was only an arm’s length from hers. She saw his face clearly.

She did not step back.

One of her hands held the paper and pen, the other rested on the harness strap at her chest, the strap pressing on her breastbone. She let go, and the strap slid a little towards her shoulder, and she did not pull it back.

He spoke.

“…Walked to the end.”

This line had an echo.

The voice left his mouth, fell onto the grating, and did not stop. It drew out across the dark between the two towers, struck the A-frame legs, and bounced back. Back onto the bridge, back to the square where he stood, back to his own ears. Every crossbar on the bridge sounded lightly once, as if someone underneath had tapped each one in turn with a knuckle. The wind came up through the gaps and blew on her face, and on his voice too. The voice came back from below, slower than he had spoken it. He heard it. The wind under the bridge stopped.

There was a line at the corner of his eye, very faint, slanting a little down from the outer corner, only one. It was what eleven years of narrowing his eyes at high places had left.

His shoulders levelled again.

The last word fell.

※

He did not look at the box, nor at her. He lifted his foot from that crossbar and took one step west.

The grating made a sound. Very short, with no tail. He took another step. He walked very steadily, every step the same length; he did not count the squares, yet his feet landed exactly on each crossbar. As his feet came down, the sound leaked through the gaps, struck the legs below, and came back up, half a beat behind his steps. His footsteps went west post by post, the sound following him, past one, past another.

His left hand hung at his side, swinging back and forth.

She did not follow him. She stayed at Seventeen. The square under her feet was still lit, the light falling from above onto the uppers of her shoes, and the satin did not reflect it.

There were thirty posts on the bridge in all; she had counted. From Seventeen west, thirteen more.

The ring at the top of Eighteen was like the others, not worn bright. He passed Eighteen and did not tap it.

Nineteen, Twenty. He walked past them one by one. On the small plates on the sides of the posts, every face turned outward read “Checked”.

The wind came through between the two towers again. The grating sounded lightly once in it, and stopped.

In the dark between the two towers, that very large, motionless thing moved.

It backed out of the gap at a slant. No sound. The engines made no sound; there was only the wind passing over the hull, giving off a very thin whistle, much thinner than the wind on the bridge. The dark in the gap was pushed open on one side and closed on the other.

First the stern. Two parallel fins, leaning back, cutting a seam in the dark. Then the spine, openwork, a little light showing through the gaps in its beams. Then the hull, whitish grey, emerging from the dark section by section. There was a patch on the hull where the paint had been touched up, its colour a little newer than the rest. The bow was a wedge, tapering at the front to a chisel point, pointing north-east. Its bridge was low, glass on three sides, the glass dark, no figure inside. The glass reflected the one lamp on the skybridge, as a very small white dot.

The hull turned a little to the side, and she looked down through the gaps in the grating and only then saw, beneath its bridge, on the belly, a serial number sprayed in one line: LM-1-07. The letters were grey, one shade darker than the hull.

There was no name on the hull.

A hundred and twenty-eight metres. More than twice as long as the skybridge. It backed out from between the two towers, every inch of it showing, and only when all of it was out did it stop in the dark beyond the gap, hanging there.

The lights beneath the belly were set in a row, shining upward, and a little white leaked up through the gaps in the grating. The wind blew her hair across her face, and she did not brush it aside. She watched that little white move across, one crossbar after another. The white light at the stern flashed once, the little white on the grating flashed with it, and went dark again.

Along one side of the hull ran a thin orange line, from bow to stern. So thin it was only a line. A red light was lit at the side, and a white one at the stern, flashing every few seconds. At its throat there was a little warm-coloured light, holding it up.

Two round launch pods rode on the spine, their covers sealed. The hull was still turned to the side, and a pod hung beneath the belly, its lights white, not flashing.

She counted its windows. Nine on a side, every one lit. Her knees had gone a little stiff; she shifted her weight onto her left foot, the blister jumped once, and she shifted it back to her right.

In the sky above the sea to the south-east, the three lights were still in place, one red, one green, one white, far apart. She looked once, and did not look again.

In the sky a little west of north, the disc still hung.

The bright side was still six tenths of it. The pale violet rim was very thin, so thin it could only be made out on the bright side. White clouds, in clumps, passed in front of it, not moving. Their upper edges were lit white by the bright side. The black mouth was at its upper left, a little higher than it, towards the west. Round the mouth’s edge ran a very fine white ring, and the stars outside the ring were twisted, bent one by one.

Her neck ached from tilting back. She lowered her head for a moment and saw, through the gaps in the grating, the dark below, and in the dark, points of light, the lights of the city, very far off. She raised her head again.

The clouds pressed in and covered half the disc. Then half again. The pale violet rim glowed once behind the clouds and went dark.

The clouds parted.

The disc was gone. The pale violet rim was gone, the black mouth was gone, the fine white ring was gone too. That patch of sky was an ordinary night, with a few stars, every one of them straight.

A patch of sky a little west of north was empty.

The lights of the two towers went out one by one.

First the two pinnacle spheres. Then the topmost ring of windows went out, and then the ring below. Floor by floor, each floor going out in the same second. Along the octagonal ridges, the white lines of light dimmed one after another, very evenly. After the lights went out, the outline of the tops was still there, the two spheres, a thin spire tapering up through the middle of each, all dark. There was no sound as the lights went out. In the buildings around, a few windows were still lit. A few windows were still lit on the towers too, white, not in any line, mixed in with the buildings around; only the ridges still showed which tower was which.

Beneath the A-frame legs, the city’s lights were still on, patch after patch, spread out a long way. The traffic lights at a junction were changing, red, green, red again, and no car stopped.

The glass door at the west end was dark, reflecting the light on the bridge. The door opened, a grey figure went in, the door closed, and the glass reflected the dark sky again.

The dimming reached the level of the skybridge and paused. The one lamp at the middle of the skybridge was still lit; it was the last to go out. When it went out, the square beneath her feet went dark with it.

In the lobby of the base a few white lamps were still on, lighting the glass doors. The streetlights were on too.

On the bridge only she was left, and the silvery-white box at the foot of post Seventeen.

※

The next day, twenty past five. Aini did not turn on the light, and ran her fingers once over the sheet of plasters in her pocket in the dark. Ten to a sheet, every square flat. She counted twice. Nine. She put the sheet back into the left pocket of her jacket, zipped it up, and pressed it with her palm.

At twelve minutes past six, in the staff corridor off the back street of Twin Court, the clock-in machine beeped once. She pressed her finger to it, and the time came up on the screen. The smell of disinfectant in the corridor was fainter than yesterday; the fire plan on the wall was the same one. The guard at the far end of the hall was a different man, his cuffs not rolled up. He looked up, saw her, and looked down again. She washed her hands under the tap in the staff corridor and dried them on a clean cloth, every finger.

The cleaning trolley stood by the storeroom wall. Three buckets were lined up by the wall, cloths draped over their rims, the same as yesterday. The flask hung on the trolley handle; it had been hung there last night and had hung there all night. The worn-bright patch on its side faced her hand.

She pulled open the trolley’s little drawer. Inside were a roll of tape, a few plasters, a used marker. She glanced at them and shut it. In the corner the mop hung head down, water dripping one drop at a time onto the edge of the floor drain.

Razak slept in the daytime; at this hour he was at home. The flask was his.

The lid was screwed one turn tighter than anyone else would screw it. She loosened it half a turn, then twisted it off, and poured a small half-capful. The tea was lukewarm, with a little steam rising, a little sweet. She drank a mouthful. She screwed the lid back where it had been, loosened it half a turn, and hung the flask back on the handle, on the worn-bright patch.

She pushed the trolley out, and its wheels went over the threshold at the door with a bump. She went to the atrium first.

Only half the lights in the atrium were on. The big screen was off; during the last shift it had still been showing a road by the sea, with no one on the road. The air conditioning overhead was silent, the air still. The shutters were still down, and the light on the floor was grey, in strips. The fountain was off, the pool flat, flat enough to reflect the light tubes above. The ring of floor tiles round the pool had been wiped yesterday afternoon, and the joints were still a little damp.

She crouched and pressed the pads of her fingers to a tile, pressed until she could feel the water in the joints. Then she laid her whole palm on it, and held it there a few seconds.

The tile was cold. As cold as the other tiles.

The wet-floor sign at the entrance was still there, standing on its two legs. One leg was on a joint between tiles, crooked. She pressed it down until it no longer wobbled.

Half past six, the food court.

The shutters went up one after another, eleven in all; she had counted. The sky was still grey, the patch to the east brightening very slowly. The breakfast woman’s cart had not come yet, and on the floor of her stall was a ring of water from last night that had not quite dried. Thirty-one plastic stools were stacked in front of the first stall, white, stack after stack. She pulled them out one by one, wiped them, and set them back in place. She had to run her hand over the legs of every stool, and if she felt something on a stool’s legs, she wiped it off with the cloth, and what would not wipe off she scraped with her fingernail. The tape wound on the stool legs was all tape she had wound herself.

The tape on the leg of the seventeenth stool she took off every morning and wound again. When she took it off, the back carried the previous day’s dust and had to be rinsed under water. By the third turn it went crooked, longer on one side, shorter on the other.

She counted twice. Thirty-one.

The tape on the seventeenth stool had gone crooked again.