Dead Man's Time

faith
sanctioning this trip, and they had to deliver. But the fact that Eamonn Pollock had put a false address on his immigration forms was a clear indicator that he was in this city for an illicit
purpose. Maybe he should go to the hotel where they knew he was staying, and join the guard. But he had to get some sleep, otherwise he would be useless tomorrow. The best thing he could do, he
thought, was get a bite to eat, have an early night and head over there first thing in the morning.
    Guy Batchelor waved the waitress over and told her they wanted another round, but Roy Grace intervened. ‘Just the – um – check, please,’ he said, firmly. Then he turned
to his colleagues. ‘You might not thank me now, but you will thank me at six o’clock tomorrow morning.’
    ‘Six o’clock?’ Batchelor said, looking horrified.
    ‘That’s when we’re starting. Still want another drink?’
    ‘Maybe not.’

98
    Amis Smallbone pushed open the heavy roof hatch. Instantly, he felt the savage wind, hurling rain as hard as grit against his face. Later today he’d be in Spain, in the
sunshine, out of all this shit weather. He lowered his goggles over his eyes and the night turned bottle green.
    He climbed out, slowly and carefully, onto the narrow metal platform. All around him the wind screamed. He could see the ambient glow of Brighton’s street lighting, a vivid green haze.
Steadying himself, he once again rehearsed in his mind the short journey ahead to the Grace house. Fourteen paces along the three-foot-wide metal fire escape, with a single handrail to the right
for support. Then the dog-leg left, ducking to avoid the satellite dish. Eight more paces and he would be alongside the Grace house roof hatch.
    And then, if all went well, he would be in their loft.
    In their house.
    In their baby’s face. Right in it. Making it smile for the rest of its life!
    A strong gust buffeted him and he waited for it to pass, gripping the handrail, so much looking forward to what lay ahead. A dream come true. A dream that had been more than twelve long years in
gestation. Now he was just paces away from his quarry. From ruining Roy Grace’s life. Just as the bastard had ruined his. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. A baby with a rapist’s
grin. For the whole of its life!
    He took a few steps forward, gripping the handrail and looking around him. Looking down at the deserted courtyard. Looking over the rooftops at night-time Brighton. Well past midnight now, most
people asleep in bed.
    The metal beneath him was vibrating, as if someone else was walking on it too. He turned his head, but it was hard to see behind him. He continued walking.
    Thirteen paces. Twelve. Eleven. Ten. Nine
, he counted. His vision through these goggles was less good than he’d thought when he had tried them out. He could see straight ahead,
but had virtually no peripheral vision. He glanced round once more, but still his view was restricted. Then he focused dead ahead, continuing to count the paces, to be absolutely sure.
    Eight. Seven. Six.
    A hand gripped his shoulder, as hard as a steel pincer.
    For an instant his brain froze. He turned, saw a hulk of a figure with a balaclava over its face. He squirmed in panic, somehow tore himself free and threw himself forward, feeling the metal
gridding vibrating beneath his feet.
    Almost instantly, something smashed into the side of his face, like a southpaw’s punch.
    The fucking satellite dish. He reeled, dazed. His left foot suddenly found only air. He windmilled his arms, the wind pushing him sideways. He tried, desperately, to find the grid again with his
left foot, crying out in terror. Then he fell, head first. Struck something hard and wet and slippery. He clawed at the roof slates with his gloved hands. He saw the courtyard looming towards him;
he was sliding; slithering. Down a steep slope, face forward. The cobbles were getting bigger.
    Bigger.
    Racing towards him.
    He jammed his hands even harder against the wet roof slates, screaming, trying to get a purchase.
    Bigger still.
    Then he was falling through air.

99
    Cleo frowned. The screen had suddenly gone fuzzy, just as Frasier was about to enter the school reunion with the beautiful former prom queen on his arm. She grabbed the remote
and stabbed at a different channel number.
    Just then she heard a slithering, scraping noise right above her head. It sounded like a horse tobogganing down her roof. A slate, she thought, blown