Chapter 40Please Stay Inside the Line

At two o’clock exactly, he was still on the service ladder.

The ladder ran up a shaft inside the body of the tower. It was iron, eleven rungs to a section, four sections in all. Each rung had a hollow worn into the middle of its tread, made by a great many pairs of shoes, and his shoe fitted into it exactly. The handrail was cold, cold right through his gloves. He did not change hands, and went up one rung at a time. The first section stood against the wall, and on the wall was an old sign with half its letters gone. He did not read it. To the left of the ladder ran a cable, drawn from the bottom of the shaft all the way to the top, with an iron hanging ring every few rungs. Nothing hung from the rings. His hand stayed on the handrail the whole time and did not touch the cable. The zip of his black leather jacket was pulled up to his chin, and the shadow print on his back did not keep up with his steps; it was half a beat slower than he was. When he stopped, the print slid down a little further before it stopped too.

The walls of the shaft had been painted white, and the paint had come off in patches. Wherever a patch had come off, the concrete underneath was grey. In the second section thirteen patches had come off; in the third, not one. On a crossbar in the third section was a number, painted on, half-written, the rest of its strokes missing. In the middle of the third section his right knee clicked, very softly. He did not stop. His calves began to ache, and he did not stop for that either. The higher he went, the colder the air, and the wind leaking up through the gap round the hatch carried the smell of rust.

The topmost rung of the fourth section was a hatch. The hatch was painted grey, with a screw in each of its four corners, and the screw heads had been worn smooth. On the underside of the hatch was a line of writing, painted on. He did not look at it. Round the edge of the hatch was wound a strip of grey cloth, old, wound very loosely. He pressed his palm against it and pushed. It did not move.

He pushed again. The hatch lifted a crack.

It was two o’clock exactly. The tower lit up.

First, through the crack, came a band of white.

The white light pressed down from outside onto the top of the shaft, very bright. He did not narrow his eyes. He pushed the hatch all the way open, and it struck its stop with a sound, very soft.

The rim of the shaft was edged with a band of black rubber, and the rubber bore a few pressed marks, made by a great many hands. The cold air rising from the shaft met the rubber and formed a thin film of moisture on it.

The lights came up from far below. He could not see the base, only a ring of white, climbing ring after ring from beneath, passing the shaft under his feet, reaching the level of the hatch, and pausing. The whole ring lit, evenly, not one lamp late. Every lamp had the same shade, and the slits in every shade faced the same way. Round the outside of each shade was a fine mesh, its holes square. The lamps of the ring were all the same distance apart. He counted them: in the stretch before him, twelve in all.

He pushed himself up. His elbows pressed on the steel plate, he knelt for a moment, and stood. On the patch of plate where he had knelt was a small damp mark, and it dried quickly.

The wind on the walkway was much stronger than in the shaft. It came in gusts, and each gust pressed in first from the railing side, then curled round his shoulder to the back of his neck. He turned his collar up. The break in his right earring moved slightly in the wind; its ragged edge lifted, then fell back. He breathed out, and his breath became a small puff of white in the white light, and scattered.

One of his gloves had a wet patch, picked up from gripping the handrail. He tugged the glove down a little, and his knuckles showed, and went cold quickly. The wet on the glove dried slowly in the wind, and where it dried it went stiff.

Only once he had straightened up did he see the whole harbour.

The water in the harbour had gone out as far as it would go. Along the shore a band of wet stones lay exposed, black, one against the next, nothing growing on them. Over the water was a bridge, its lights one after another, white, running to the far shore and stopping. The cranes at the port stood idle, in a row, all of them tall, not one of them moving. A road curved along the shore, the headlights on it strung together in a chain that broke off where it reached the other side of the hill. On the far shore most of the buildings’ windows were dark; there was only one row of streetlights, white, running all the way to the foot of the hill. In one corner of the port stood a lighthouse, and its light took a long time to go round once. By the time it came round to this side it was already very faint, so faint that all that remained was a little white on the surface of the water. There was a trace of oil on the wind, coming from the port. The sound of the water at the foot of the tower came up, very distant, broken off and starting again: once, a pause, once more.

※

The outer ring walkway ran right round the body of the tower, outside the glass. It was less than two metres wide, steel plate after steel plate, with a gap between each one, and through the gaps he could see the black below. He counted them: from the hatch to the corner of the glass opposite, seventeen plates in all. One had been newly replaced, and its colour was brighter than the others. In a few places water had collected in the gaps. The water was black, and reflected the white lamps.

On the plates were painted arrows, white, all pointing the same way. One arrow had been trodden away until only its tail was left, and the tail was nearly gone too.

He stood still and waited for the wind to pass. Only after it had passed did he walk on along the walkway. The soles of his shoes on the plates made no sound; there was only a little wind leaking up through the gaps. On his white shoes, the outer side of the left heel had worn flat.

On the inner side was glass, silver-grey, a finger thick, fitted together pane by pane. It had been freshly cleaned, and the wipe marks ran sideways. Behind the glass were floor slabs, level after level, each level empty, a layer of dust lying on the slabs. In a corner stood a bucket with no water in it and a dry ring at the bottom. Against the wall were stacked coils of rope, grey, one coil weighing on the next, and from each coil hung a small tag. The writing on the tags was all in the same hand, stroke by stroke, every stroke finished off neatly. On the far wall hung a whiteboard, with a table drawn on it, square after square. Some squares had ticks; some were empty. In the glass, too, there was a person reflected: a black leather jacket, a silver earring hanging from the right ear, broken off partway, the break turned up in a ragged edge. That person’s face was very close to his, and over the left brow bone ran an old white mark. The print on his back was half a beat slow in the glass as well.

On the outer side was the railing, white-painted steel tube, three crossbars, the lowest only a hand’s breadth off the floor. The railing’s posts stood one after another, and on top of each was nailed a small iron plate with a handwritten number, the ink faded by the sun. He counted them: from this end at the hatch to the far end at the line, eleven in all. The wind passed through the railing’s tubes and blew a very low note that never stopped. Beyond the railing there was nothing: wind, and the black further off.

Over at the corner of the glass was a small door. The door was grey, and round its handle a thin piece of wire had been wound, wound very tight. Above the door was a lamp, and the lamp was out. A little dust had gathered under the door, its edge straight.

The middle of the tower was a ring-shaped head of three levels, and he was standing on the middle one. The windows of the level above were dark. In the windows of the level below were a few small lights, white, very far away. In one corner of this middle level stood a chair, its back white, its seat facing outwards, facing the glass. There was no one beside the chair. Inside the body of the tower was a kind of sound, low, always there, never stopping.

Above the ring, the cone narrowed upwards. The cone’s lights had come on too, level by level, until they reached the cloud and stopped. The cloud hung low and cut off the top of the tower, cut it very flat, no gap to be seen. The cloud went past one side of the tower in clumps, and as each passed, the tower’s lights were blocked for a moment, then showed through again. The edges of the cloud were lit by the tower’s light, and the lit edges were white. The tower’s light fell on the water and drew out a white line. The line wavered once, then held still. The cloud moved in one direction; the disc stayed where it was.

In the cloud was a light that flashed at intervals. He counted to five, and the light flashed. A small patch of brightness showed through the cloud, and was quickly gone.

There were cars in the street below. Their headlights were white, in a line, moving slowly. A rubbish lorry came out from the street corner, the lights on its body flashing, and drove past. The people in the street did not look up. They walked with their heads down, or stood at the roadside with their heads down. Someone walked along the road on the far shore, a plastic bag in one hand, and the bag swung, and swung again. Somewhere far off a dog barked, barked twice, and stopped.

On the far shore, at the water’s edge, were two white lights, lit side by side.

The disc was in the sky to the south by west.

He did not look at it first. First he looked down at the plate under his feet, at the black in the gap, and only then raised his head. As he raised it, the violet light inside the break in his right earring flickered once, keeping time with his breathing.

The disc did not hang high; it was close to the cloud. Its edge was a pale violet ring, very fine, lying against the sky. The bright side took up a little more than half. The bright side was one whole piece, unbroken, with white clouds on it, clump after clump, which did not move with the clouds in the sky. The dark side was a little narrower, with a few specks of broken light on it. The disc was so large that he had to turn his head to take all of it in. Its lower rim was still some way above the line of distant rooftops. On the rooftop line stood an aerial, too thin to see; he could see only a point of white at its top.

He did not know what it was. No one had ever told him.

He looked at its edge. He looked for a long time, and the edge did not change.

Above the disc, on the side nearer the tower, was a black mouth. The black mouth stood higher than the disc, black, with no bottom. Round its edge ran a fine white ring, so fine that only a thread was left, going all the way round the mouth, unbroken. The stars outside the ring had been twisted; one by one they slanted round the mouth, slanted into curves. The one twisted worst was closest to the ring, and shone very thin.

His neck began to stiffen. He turned his head back and set it straight.

At the middle of the tower’s body, struts stuck out from the tower one after another, holding up the outer edge of the walkway. Between two of the struts a panel was stretched, and behind the panel was something very large that did not move. It filled that stretch of space. The shadows of the struts fell on the panel, and the thing behind the panel did not move. The edges of the panel were in shadow; its shape could not be made out, only that it was very large.

※

On the floor of the walkway was a painted line. The line was white, painted from the railing end to the glass end, crossing the walkway. At each end of the line an iron nail had been driven in, its head covered by paint, only a small circle of it showing. The line was worn. Several stretches in the middle had been trodden thin by shoe soles, showing the iron beneath. One stretch had been repainted; its colour was whiter than the rest, and at either end of the repainted stretch was a join. On the inner side of the line the plate was a little darker than on the outer side; that was where someone had sat year after year. A very thin layer of water drops had formed on the white paint of the line, drop after drop, not running down.

The line was three steps from him. On the other side of the line, against the railing, sat a person.

The tower keeper sat on the floor, his back against a post of the railing, both legs stretched straight, his heels against the plate. The line was under his heels. A small piece of the white paint had been rubbed away, and the edge of the rubbed-away part was round, a half-circle, worn there long ago. On the plate beside him lay a thin layer of dust, its edge straight, a ring of it, which no one had stepped in. Beside the dust stood an empty plastic water cup, mouth down, upturned on the plate. His work clothes were charcoal grey, with no colour markings, no writing, no name badge. He wore no gloves. His two hands rested on his thighs, backs upwards, the fingers bare. The skin on the backs of his hands was dry and had no lines. Seen from this side of the line, his hands and legs stayed where they were. They did not move, and did not reach forward.

His head rested against the post. On the post was a mark where the paint had come off, level with the back of his head.

His face was in shadow and could not be seen clearly.

His chest did not move.

His face was turned towards the line. Not up, and not down.

From his waist hung a carabiner. Charcoal grey, D-shaped, a little smaller than a palm, with a few fine scratches on its body. The curve faced upwards, and the steel inside the curve was bright, worn many times. From the carabiner hung a small tag, plastic, with writing on it. The writing had been soaked faint by the sweat of hands and could not be read. Round the gate was wound a band of white tape. The tape was old, a fine layer of dust on its surface, and along its edges were a few pressed marks, row after row, every one the same depth. The join was on the front of the gate, facing out, squarely towards this side of the line.

A rope ran down at a slant from the carabiner, round the post of the railing, and was tied to an anchor ring on the walkway. The anchor ring was welded to the base of the railing, the weld a single ring, round, without a break. Beside the anchor ring, an iron plate was nailed to the floor, with a number written on it, the last stroke drawn out very long. The rope was taut, pulling him towards the railing. The rope’s shadow fell straight across the plate. At intervals along the rope were white marks, three in all, evenly spaced. The white thread of the marks was cotton, a little fuzzy. The post had been pulled very slightly out of true by the rope, so slightly that it had to be measured by eye. The wind came in from the harbour, and the rope swayed a little, then held still.

The shaft behind him was still open. The hatch had not been closed; below it was black, going down section by section.

The tower keeper spoke.

The Fail-Safe: “Please stay inside the line. Thank you.”

When this line went out, the voice was flat. The start of the sentence did not rise; the end did not fall. The voice had no room to it. It landed directly on the ear. The plates did not shake, the railing did not take it up, and the glass did not take it up either. Once it had gone out, it did not come back.

When he had finished, he stopped, and waited.

The pause was very even, and it passed.

Two minutes past two. The light flashed once.

He did not go inside the line. He walked up to it and stopped outside it, the toes of his shoes only a finger from the line. His right hand came out of his jacket pocket and hung at his side; the fingers spread, then closed.

The tower keeper did not say it again. His face was still turned towards the line.

The wind stopped for a moment. The rope did not sway.

The Fail-Safe: “You may go down this way at any time. Thank you.”

As he said this, his left hand lifted, and his forefinger came to rest on the gate of the carabiner. The forefinger started at one side of the gate, went once round along the tape, came back to the join, and stopped. The edge of the tape curled up a little under the pad of the finger; he did not press it flat. The moment the forefinger stopped was the same length as the pause before.

The tower keeper did not look at the finger. His face was still turned towards the line, and the water drops on the line did not move.

He said nothing. His eyes went back for a moment and glanced at the open hatch. Through the gap of the hatch the wind was still going up, carrying the smell of rust. His eyes came back to the line.

Three minutes past two. The cloud went past once.

※

The Fail-Safe: “The last person must wait for someone to check the rope. Thank you.”

When this line was finished, the tower keeper’s hand was still on the gate. His forefinger pressed on the join; the pad of the finger was white, pressed into a small dent.

He looked at that hand.

The hand did not move.

He glanced at the tower keeper’s chest. It did not move. He brought his eyes back to the hand.

He put his right hand on the railing. His palm pressed against the steel tube, and it was cold. The paintwork of the railing had fine lines in it, one after another, made by the wind. The lamplight fell on the white paint and reflected a ring of faint white, its edge straight. He took his hand away.

He moved two steps along the line and stood in front of the rope. The rope was inside the line, just across it. The white paint of the line was in front of his toes, a finger away. His toes stopped outside the line and did not go across. He bent down. On his back, the print bent down half a beat later. His left foot was behind, his right foot in front, his weight on the back foot. Neither hand was propped on anything.

The carabiner was inside the line, two steps from him. Looking across from outside the line, he could see the carabiner’s locking sleeve, and the knot. The gate was shut, the nose of the gate flush against the frame, so tight that no gap could be seen. The rope had been tied onto the body of the carabiner in a figure-eight knot, two loops, one large and one small, the large one facing the railing. The tail had been threaded back once, and the end was bound twice with a length of white thread. The two rope ends were the same length; they had been measured. The locking sleeve was screwed all the way down, its thread biting firmly, not one turn left loose. On the sleeve were a few spots left by rain, dried, the edges of the spots white. Along the edge of the sleeve was a fine white paint mark, straight, left when it was screwed down. On the side of the sleeve was a line of small writing, very small; he did not lean in to read it. Along the spine of the carabiner was a narrow groove, pressed by the rope year after year. The rope’s sheath was whole, not fuzzy, not flattened, not a single core strand showing. The cut end of the rope was flat, with no ragged edge. The rope was old, its colour gone grey, an even grey.

He did not reach out to touch the rope. He only looked. The seam of his trousers was straight; his fingers moved on it once, then stopped.

He looked the rope over three times. The first time he looked at the screw thread, the second time at the knot, the third time from the head of the rope to its tail, and from the tail back to the head.

There was nothing wrong with the rope. He looked it over once more, and the result was the same.

The rope’s shadow lay perfectly still on the plate, its edge straight. He could see the weight of the rope. The curve in which it hung was very slight.

On the back of his left hand, a row of fine violet lines was lit, moving as his fingers bent. His right thumb brushed the back of his left hand, and the violet lines did not break.

His breathing was his own, one breath after another, some long, some short. He swallowed.

Four minutes past two. The water had stopped going out, and stayed at the lowest band of wet stones. There were a few fewer water drops on the line. The wind came again. The rope did not sway.

※

He straightened up. That low sound inside the body of the tower was still there, not stopping. Something in his lower back clicked softly; he did not press it. As he stood straight, the earring in his right ear touched his collar and made a very thin sound.

Nothing hung from his waist. On his belt was an empty iron ring, meant for tools, with nothing in it.

His right hand pressed once on the inside pocket of his jacket, through the cloth. The earphone lay at the very bottom, its cord wound into a loop. He did not take it out.

He stood there, and did not go forward, and did not go back.

The tower keeper’s face was turned towards the line, waiting for him to answer with a word. On the other side of the line, the dust beside him did not move. The line did not move. The tower keeper did not move.

He let the wait pass. Half a beat later, he spoke. His voice was bright, and thin too; as soon as it went out, it went thin.

Jaewon: “I’m not clipped on. I’m not on the list.”

The tower keeper’s face did not turn away from the line.

Another half beat passed, and he spoke again. This time his voice was softer than the last.

Jaewon: “Take the load off first.”

This line was very short. It landed on the plate without a sound. On the other side of the line, no echo came back. His breathing stopped for a moment, then went on again, one breath, then another.

The tower keeper did not answer, and did not raise his head. His left hand was still pressed on the gate, his forefinger pressing on the join. The edge of the tape curled up a little, then fell back.

Five minutes past two. The two white lights on the far shore were still lit.

The white under the tower keeper’s forefinger slowly faded, fading back to the colour of skin.

The tower keeper stood up. His chest still did not move. As he stood up, he held on to nothing. His left hand left the gate, and as the forefinger left the join, the tape sprang up once and fell back. His right foot stepped onto a crossbar of the railing. The crossbar gave a sound, very soft.

The rope went slack by an inch.