David Jackson - Pariah

He pushes his head outside, feels the sting of an icy blast of wind. It looks one hell of a long way down. He has never thought of himself as a sufferer of vertigo, but his head swims at the thought of putting his center of gravity any closer to that sheer drop. He turns his head and sees that the nearest fire escape runs under the adjoining office. The only thing that will take him anywhere near it is a drainpipe that runs from above his window and gently angles down toward the front corner of the building. It’s hard to tell in the darkness, but there’s a slight gleam on the pipe that makes it look as though it’s been recently painted. What lurks beneath the paint is another matter. As escape routes go, dangling from a length of decades-old rusty pipe two floors above the ground would not be high on his list of preferred options.

Not that you got all that many options here, Doyle.

He swings his right leg up and slides it onto the narrow outer ledge. Slowly, cautiously, he edges his torso sideways through the window. Keeping his left arm hooked under the window, he starts to pull his outer leg under his body. Inch by jittery inch, he transfers his weight onto that single leg, as he brings his other leg out and twists himself to face the building. He eventually gets into a standing position, his face pressed hard against the freezing glass as he tries to stop his knees wobbling. Remind me not to become a window cleaner when they throw me off the job, he thinks.

He slides his hands upwards along the window and brings them above his head. He feels them hit the brickwork, and continues to push them over the rough surface. He flexes his fingers, searching for the drainpipe.

Nothing.

Reluctantly, he unpeels his face from the glass and leans his head back as much as he dares, then rolls his eyes upwards. He sees that the pipe is inches above his fingertips. He straightens up again. Begins to raise his heels from the ledge. When he is on his tiptoes he stretches his arms until it seems they’re about to leave their sockets.

He feels like an Olympic diver about to do a backward jump into the pool. He has never been in such a precarious position. One gust of wind is all it’ll take to knock him from his perch. Despite the cold, he starts to perspire.

He extends himself another couple of millimeters. Feels his fingernails just scrape the lower surface of the pipe. But it’s not enough. He comes down onto his heels again, relaxes his muscles, allows his joints to click back into place. There’s nothing for it, he thinks. I’m gonna have to jump.

He looks up again, fixes his gaze on the drainpipe, flexes all his fingers. Another couple inches — that’s all I need. If I don’t make it, or I do make it and the pipe doesn’t hold. .

He casts such thoughts out of his mind. There is no time to debate this. It has to be done now, and it has to be done with utter conviction.

He brings his arms up again, then starts to bend at the knees. There’s no room to take his knees forward, and so he has to bow them out to the sides, like he’s a ballet dancer.

He gives himself a three-count: Three. .

It’s a lot lower than the basketball hoop in high school, he tells himself, and you could reach that.

Two. .

Except I was a lot younger then. And fitter. And I weighed less.

One. .

And it was always a running jump, never from a fucking bandylegged nutcracker position like this.

Go!

He hears a starting pistol go off in his head, and suddenly he’s shooting up like a rocket, willing himself up and up. He imagines himself back at school, stretching for that basket, seconds left to win the trophy for his team. At the apex of his jump he gives a loud grunt of exertion. .

His hands snap into position around the pipe. He hears the metal groan at the sudden burden, but it doesn’t give way.

The pipe is so cold it burns Doyle’s hands. He knows he can’t stay in this position for very long. Not that that was ever his desire.

He slides his left hand along the metal, feeling as though he’s leaving a layer of frozen flesh behind, then follows it with his right hand. His legs dangle and swing freely below him, cold air fluttering up the inside of his pants. He continues his motion sideways and slowly downwards, trying to ignore the pain in his hands, his arms, his shoulders. You’re okay, he tells himself. Focus and keep going. We’re gonna do this.

He moves again, and hears more squeals of complaint from the drainpipe. ‘Don’t you dare,’ he hisses at it. ‘Don’t you fucking dare!’

He keeps going. Another couple of feet, then another. How come that damned fire escape doesn’t seem to be getting any closer?

There is a sudden outpouring of noise from below. He stops moving and looks past his armpit to the alley that still appears a thousand miles down. Light spills out from an open doorway, and the night is filled with voices and throbbing music. Some kind of side entrance to the club, Doyle realizes.

A lone figure exits the club and closes the door behind him. He is tall, with dark hair and a Saturday Night Fever swagger. He wears a heavy gray overcoat and gloves.

Sonny Rocca.

Rocca heads toward his Lexus, almost directly below Doyle. Don’t look up, Doyle thinks. He hangs there in space, praying that his arms don’t pop out of their sockets. His hands burn like they’re on fire, like they’re becoming fused with the drainpipe.

Rocca opens his car door, climbs behind the wheel, closes the door.

Shit, he’s gonna get away! The only man who can help me now is about to take off, probably never to be seen again.

He starts moving again with renewed vigor. I have to get down there, he thinks. I have to stop him.

The drainpipe creaks more loudly now. Doyle is certain he feels it give slightly, but he can’t slow down now.

Below, Rocca starts up his engine.

Doyle puts everything into one last desperate push. The fire escape is just feet away.

Rocca backs the Lexus up, just enough to give him clearance to pull out.

Come on, Doyle tells himself. Get the fuck down there!

And then, as if granting his wish, the drainpipe gives out a loud crack and breaks away from the wall.

There is no time for thought, no time for any reasoning along the lines of Okay, I’m plummeting to my death, here’s what I should do. . All that Doyle can do is live the experience of his body twisting in free space, register the unusual sight of a car’s roof hurtling toward him at God knows how many miles per hour.

He lands on his side, smashing into the roof of the Lexus. He feels it crumple below him, absorbing his impact. There is an explosive sound as the metal collapses and the windows blow out, showering fragments of glass in all directions.

Doyle lies there for a second, appreciating the fact that he’s still alive. He feels pain in his ribs and in his leg, and wonders if any bones are broken. He looks around him, realizes that he’s landed on the driver’s side, and that the roof on that side is now almost level with the car’s hood.

Rocca! Jesus Christ, have I just killed him?

He drags himself forward and peers upside down through the shattered windshield. At first he’s not sure what he’s looking at, but then he sees motion. The face of Rocca looks straight at him, rivulets of blood streaming down past his eyes and mouth. There is more movement. Rocca’s arm comes up, his gloved hand comes into view, and. .

Shit!

Doyle rolls sideways off the car just milliseconds before Rocca starts shooting upwards through the roof. He lands heavily on the cobblestones, agonizing jolts of pain firing through his bones.

He keeps rolling, putting distance between himself and the car. When the shots cease, he stops too. He gets up on one knee and fumbles for his Glock. Ahead of him, Rocca has begun squeezing himself through the passenger-side window, forcing himself up the narrow gap between the crushed Lexus and the wall of the nightclub. He looks on the edge of consciousness, barely aware of his surroundings.