The Light of the Day - Eric Ambler [86]
I felt myself starting to lose my balance and fall, so I knelt down quickly and clung to the lead surface of the roof. Then I began retching. I couldn’t help it; I’ve never been able to help it. From what I’ve heard from people who get seasick, that must be the same sort of feeling; only my feeling about heights is worse.
I had nothing in my stomach to throw up, but that didn’t make any difference. My stomach went on trying to throw up.
Fischer began kicking me and hissing at me to be silent. Miller reached up and dragged me by the ankles down over the ledge, then made me sit with my back against the side of the cupola. He shoved my head hard between my knees. I heard a scuffling noise as he helped Fischer down off the ledge, then their whispering.
“Will he be all right?”
“He will have to be.”
“The fat fool.” Fischer kicked me as I started to retch again.
Miller stopped him. “That will do no good. You will have to help. As long as he gets no nearer the edge it may be possible.”
I opened my eyes just enough to see Miller’s feet. He was laying out the anchor rope round the cupola and presently he pulled one end of it down between my back and the part I was leaning against. A moment or two later, he crouched down in front of me and began knotting the rope. When that was done, he slipped on the upper block of the lifting tackle. Then he brought his head close to mine.
“Can you hear me, Arthur?”
“Yes.”
“If you didn’t have to move, you’d feel safe here, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t know.”
“You are safe now, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then listen. You can handle the tackle from here. Open your eyes and look up at me.”
I managed to do so. He had taken his coat off and looked skinnier than ever. “Hans will be at the edge,” he went on, “and with his good hand will hold my coat in place there. In that way the ropes will run smoothly over it and not be cut. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“And you will not have to go near the edge—only let out rope and pull in when you are told.”
“I don’t know. Supposing I let it slip.”
“Well, that would be bad, because then you would have only Hans to deal with, and he would certainly make sure that you slipped, too.”
The teeth, as he smiled, were like rows of gravestones. Suddenly he picked up a coil of rope from the lead beside him and put it in my hands.
“Get ready to take the strain,” he said, “and remember that it stretches. I don’t mind how slowly I go down or how quickly I come up. Hans will give you the signals to lower, stop, and raise.” He pointed to a ridge in the lead. “Brace your feet against this. So.”
The day Mum died, the Imam came and intoned verses from the Koran. Now taste the torment of the fire you called a lie.
Miller slipped the end of the rope around my chest and knotted it firmly. Then he hauled in the slack. “Are you ready, Arthur?”
I nodded.
“Then look at Hans.”
I let my eyes go to Fischer’s legs and then his body. He was lying on his right side with his shoulder on Miller’s coat and his right hand on the tackle ready to guide it. I dared not look any nearer the edge. I knew I would pass out if I did.
I saw Miller put a pair of gloves on, step into the sling, then crouch down and move out of sight.
“Now,” Fischer whispered.
The strain didn’t come suddenly; the stretch in the nylon had to be taken up first. My hands were slippery with sweat and I had looped the rope round the sleeve of my left arm to give me more purchase. When the full strain came, the loop tightened like a tourniquet. Then the pressure fluctuated and I could feel Miller bouncing in the sling as the tackle settled down.
“Steady.” Fischer held his right hand palm downwards over the tackle.
The movement in the block by the anchor rope beside me ceased.
“Lower slowly.”
I let the rope slide round my arm and the bouncing began again.
“Keep going, smoothly.”
I went on paying out the rope. There was less bouncing now, just an occasional vibration. Miller was using his feet to steady himself against the wall as he descended. I watched the coil of rope beside me growing smaller and had