James Craig - Man of Sorrows

‘ Ready? ’

‘Ready.’ With his heart hammering inside his chest, the inspector stepped out onto the roof. Almost immediately, he was hit by a gust of wind that caused him to sway alarmingly. At least, for once, he had dressed for the occasion. Zipping his Berghaus Parka all the way up to his chin, he edged his way round the side of the building to where the police negotiator was crouched in the gutter.

‘Angel?’ Perching on the inside edge of the parapet, his feet firmly planted in the gutter, Carlyle shook the sergeant’s hand. ‘I’m John Carlyle.’ He nodded at the figure of McGowan, who was twenty yards away. ‘He asked for me?’

‘Yeah,’ Angel said.

‘And it’s safe for me to go along there?’ Carlyle asked, praying that the answer would be ‘no’.

‘Yeah,’ Angel grinned. ‘Just stay in the gutter, take it nice and slow – and don’t look down.’

‘Jolly good,’ said Carlyle grimly. Immediately disobeying and looking down, he was suddenly struck by just how much he liked the feeling of firm ground under his feet.

‘Good luck,’ Angel smiled.

‘Thanks.’ Another gust of wind cut through them and Carlyle was sure that, at any second, he was about to meet his Maker.

‘If he decides he wants to come down,’ Angel said, apparently unperturbed, ‘we’ve got a cherry-picker on the way. If you’re worried about being stuck, just sit tight.’ With his back against the roof, he manoeuvred past Carlyle, leaving the inspector free to continue on his journey.

‘Will do.’ Shuffling along on his haunches, with one hand on the parapet and another on the roof proper, Carlyle slowly made his way towards the priest. After five minutes, he had gone about halfway but McGowan, in his suicidal funk, showed no sign of acknowledging his presence. A thought suddenly hit him: what if Helen and Alice were watching this live on TV, right now? Unable to resist another peek down, he could clearly make out the lights of the TV camera pointed in his direction. The sheer bloody stupidity of what he was doing almost overwhelmed him and he stopped to fight for a few breaths before continuing on his way.

‘Stop! Don’t come any closer!’

Less than five feet from McGowan, Carlyle did what he was told. For a few moments the two men eyed each other warily. McGowan’s eyes were bloodshot and wild. At his feet was an almost empty bottle of Famous Grouse whisky. Not my first choice for a final tipple , thought Carlyle, but what the hell. ‘It’s fucking freezing up here,’ he shouted, gesturing at the scotch. ‘Can I have some?’

McGowan looked down at the bottle as if he’d never seen it before and kicked it in Carlyle’s direction. It came to rest against the parapet a foot away. Slowly, keeping his eyes on McGowan, Carlyle moved towards the bottle. Picking it up, he wedged himself into the gutter, with his back against the parapet, unscrewed the top and took a long mouthful.

‘Thanks,’ he sighed, and McGowan nodded.

Carlyle offered him the bottle back but the priest shook his head. Carlyle put the cap back on and placed the Famous Grouse upright in the gutter between them. The whisky was already having the desired effect, putting some warmth in his belly and taking the edge off his fear. ‘You wanted to talk to me?’

Taking a couple of steps closer, McGowan sat down tentatively on the parapet. There was now only a couple of feet between the two men. The priest went to say something, but all that came out was a loud burp. He held out a hand. ‘Pardon me.’

A bit late for manners , Carlyle thought, already eyeing the rest of the Famous Grouse. He turned his head towards the roof. The folks down on the ground wouldn’t be able to hear him, but he didn’t want any lipreading going on either. ‘What do you want, Francis?’

‘You have ruined me!’ the priest lamented.

‘Me?’ This time Carlyle did grab the bottle.

‘They are sending me away.’

I bloody hope so , Carlyle thought. ‘Nothing to do with me,’ he shrugged. Another long swig left the Famous Grouse almost finished. No point in leaving such a small amount, he mused, sucking down the remainder greedily.

‘It was you,’ McGowan groaned. ‘You chased me down; you tried to kill me.’

Carlyle thought about throwing the bottle at one of the TV crews below, but commonsense prevailed. Tossing it back into the gutter, he wiped his eyes and yawned.

‘You wanted me dead,’ the priest repeated.

Yes, I did , Carlyle thought. The parapet was cutting into the small of his back, forcing him to shift position. He looked searchingly at McGowan. ‘And what about Simon Murphy? Who killed him , you old bastard?’

The priest looked at him blankly.

Carlyle sighed. ‘Let’s get down from here.’

McGowan gestured out into the illuminated night and the crowd below. ‘You have to admit your l-lies,’ he stammered.

‘What lies?’ Carlyle snorted.

‘You have to tell them I am innocent.’

‘But you’re not innocent.’ Carlyle could feel his mobile buzzing in his jacket pocket, but he ignored it. ‘You’re as guilty as sin.’

‘I’ll jump!’

Carlyle shrugged. ‘Be my guest.’

‘You must repent.’

‘Fuck off,’ Carlyle said angrily. ‘Look, either you jump or we get down from here right now.’ A thought popped into his head. ‘Anyway, I believed that taking your own life was a sin.’

‘It is,’ McGowan panted. ‘Of course it is.’

‘Well then,’ said Carlyle, wondering if he should maybe try and brain the crazy old bastard with the bottle, ‘that’s this little problem sorted. Let’s go and get another drink.’

Half-standing, McGowan looked as if he was going to lunge at Carlyle. ‘You . . . must . . . repent.’

Oh fuck , Carlyle thought, what do I do now? Trying to wedge himself as deeply as possible into the gutter, he grimaced as the priest took a step towards him then side-stepped off the parapet and into thin air. His brain flipped between a freeze-frame image of McGowan there and one of McGowan gone. Even as the screams reached him from down below, he wasn’t sure which picture was real.

The view from the gutter was not great. No London landmarks were visible; all you could make out was the light pollution from dozens of office buildings and hundreds of streetlights. But the polluted orange glow was at least the polluted orange glow of home and he was a man – a rather pissed man – at peace with his surroundings. After an indeterminate amount of time he became aware of a mechanical noise coming from somewhere below him. Shortly afterwards, a man’s head appeared beyond the parapet. Carlyle did a double-take before he realized it was the smiling face of the cherry-picker operator, come to rescue him.

‘Inspector?’

Carlyle nodded.

‘Don’t worry, sir,’ the man said cheerily. ‘We’ll have you back down on the ground in no time.’

‘Thank fuck for that.’

After manoeuvring the small platform into place, the man opened a small gate and helped him to clamber on board. Holding onto the railings for dear life, Carlyle concentrated on breathing deeply while studying the cityscape in the middle distance to avoid looking down.

‘A word to the wise, sir,’ the operator said as they approached the ground.

‘What’s that?’ asked Carlyle, cheered by the realization that he probably was going to make it back down alive. Below them, he could see McGowan’s body being loaded into an ambulance which then began slowly moving away down the street. As it did so, he caught a glimpse of Slater stealing away into the night.

‘Your wife is waiting for you down there.’