George Mann - The Osiris Ritual

He had no idea how Ashford had got across the gap, or, indeed, why the man was stil lurking in the shadows when it was clear that he had been spotted. Perhaps he didn't expect Newbury to successful y leap across the two rooftops to confront him. Whatever the case, this was the best opportunity Newbury had yet encountered to bring the man to justice, and he planned to do it before any more people died. Assuming, of course, that he wasn't about to kil himself.

Coiling like a spring to get as much power into his legs as possible, Newbury pounced. He flung his arms out as he sailed across the alleyway, keeping his eyes fixed on the point where he intended to land. He almost made it, but a trailing foot caught the stone lip and sent him sprawling. He slammed down hard onto the other roof, only just managing to get his arms up in time to protect his head. His elbows smarted from the blow, and he'd knocked the wind out of himself. He lay on his front for a moment, breathless, before rolling onto his back and sitting up. He took a moment to regain his composure. Then, not wanting to provide Ashford with a chance of escape, he clambered to his hands and knees, and then to his feet, gasping as he finally managed to pull the cold, damp air down into his lungs. He turned, ful y expecting Ashford to be rushing him across the terrace. But he was stil there in the shadows, stil watching. Newbury could make no sense of the man's motivations.

He heard a crash beside him, and, surprised, turned to see Purefoy landing neatly on his haunches and breaking into a forward rol to cushion his landing. He came up standing beside Newbury, a wide grin on his face. They looked at each other, something wordless passing between them. An understanding. And then Newbury set off, bolting across the rooftop towards the glowing lights that represented his murderous prey. Purefoy's footsteps fel in behind him.

As he drew closer, Newbury watched the shape of Ashford resolve in the dim, foggy light. He made no attempt to conceal himself. He was dressed as Purefoy had claimed – as he had been when Newbury had last encountered him – in his flowing black cloak, hulking beside the towering chimney stack. His red eyes seemed to track Newbury's progress across the rooftop. Newbury skidded around a skylight, and then realised, with shock, the reason why Ashford had not yet taken flight. He was rushing headlong towards the lip of another building. Newbury had misjudged the distance in the fog. Ashford was waiting on the next rooftop. It was too late to stop. He was already careening towards the drop, which yawned open before him like an ominous chasm. There was no railing this time, only the same decorative lip that had caused him to trip on the other side. He didn't stop. Reaching the edge of the building he leapt up onto the lip and propel ed himself forward, flinging himself through the air so that he hurtled across the gap and landed at a run, stumbling slightly but managing to maintain his momentum. His arms wheeled as he tried to maintain his balance. He didn't have time to congratulate himself for the manoeuvre, however, as something seemed to change with Ashford. As Newbury darted between the chimney stacks that peppered the roof, Ashford turned and began to flee.

Ashford's legs seemed to drive him forward at a phenomenal speed. He was like a blur, as he shot towards the other end of the building. Newbury's legs pumped hard at the ground as he attempted, ineffectually, to keep up.

There was a terrified cry from somewhere behind him. Newbury, torn, skidded to a halt, glancing back over his shoulder. He realised almost immediately what had happened. Purefoy hadn't seen the gap between the two rooftops until it was too late, and had failed to clear the opening. A lump rose in Newbury's throat. He was labouring for breath, not used to the exertion. Turning, he rushed back towards the alleyway. He knew he was allowing Ashford to get away, but if there was any chance..

Newbury scanned the line of the building as he ran, but everything was shrouded in cloying, yellow fog. He called out. "Purefoy?"

There was no reply.

Newbury came to a halt a few feet from the drop. He searched the terrace around him. Empty.

There was no sign of the young man. The roofline opposite was also clear.

Purefoy, it seemed, was nowhere to be seen. Newbury, drawing ragged breath, could only fear the worst.

Hesitantly, Newbury approached the lip of the building. He couldn't see any sign of the other man. He called out.

"Purefoy? Purefoy! Are you there?" He was panicking now. He didn't know how he could live with the responsibility if the reporter had fallen to his death.

There was a grunt from down below, somewhere in the fog. Newbury knelt on the edge of the building and leaned over, searching, urgently, for the source of the sound. "Purefoy? Is that you?"

"Here.." The voice trailed off, and Newbury heard the sounds of something soft and heavy banging against metal. There! He leaned over as far as he dared. An iron staircase resolved in the fog. It was an emergency stairwell, attached to the side of the building. And, dangling from it, twisting and turning, clutching on by only one hand, was Purefoy. He seemed dazed, as if he may have caught a blow to the head in the fall. Blood was smeared in a long line across his cheek.

Newbury knew the situation was precarious. One slip and the reporter would be dead. He cal ed out to him.

"Purefoy! Focus. Use your other hand. Hold on!" Purefoy seemed to respond to this. He eased himself around so that he was facing the brickwork, and swung his left arm up, trying to catch hold of the ironwork. His hand, however, did not seem able to find purchase, and he slipped, dangerously, crying out as he lurched awkwardly from side to side. Newbury feared the motion would cause him to lose his grip altogether as he swung wildly over the alleyway below. "Stay there.

I'm coming for you."

Newbury stood, surveying the scene beneath him. The fog was thick here, and it obscured his view. He knew the iron stairwell would have a small platform, just to the right of where Purefoy was hanging, and knew also that it couldn't be far below the lip of the building itself. But it was difficult to see. Past Purefoy, he could make out the indistinct shape of a railing, but little else. He'd have to take it on faith. Edging along the lip of the factory, he drew a deep breath. If he missed, they would likely both wind up dead in the gutter below. He hadn't planned on this when he'd decided to visit Wilfred Blake that morning, and he wondered, absently, what Veronica would say if she could see him now.

Newbury judged he was standing above the metal platform. Purefoy had once again disappeared into the syrupy miasma. Below, all Newbury could see was a swirl of grey. He took a deep breath. He couldn't put it off any longer, and he couldn't let Purefoy fal to his death. He closed his eyes, flexed his shoulders, and jumped into nothing.

His feet clattered against the metal rungs, but the platform was higher than he'd imagined and it was this that nearly toppled him over the side of the railing as he fought to get his balance.

Frantically, he scrabbled to get a grip, grasping hold of the iron bars as he slipped and slid on the slick metal. Finding his feet, he heaved a brief sigh of relief, and then rushed immediately to the left-hand side of the platform and sank to his knees, searching for Purefoy between the metal bars.

The reporter was still there, clinging on for his life. Newbury thrust his arm through the grate, and reached down to grasp Purefoy by the wrist. The reporter's other arm was still dangling uselessly by his side, and he seemed unable to gain enough leverage to swing it up to try for a better hold.

"Here! Use my arm. Pull yourself up."