The Hawk Is Dead

101

Thursday 30 November 2023

Roy Grace got back onto his feet, panting heavily, his stomach hurting badly, but he didn’t care. He looked around, everywhere. Where was she? She hadn’t run past him and she hadn’t gone into the tunnel. Then he noticed a narrow doorway with a small sign, white on black, with an arrow pointing upwards, saying FOOTMEN’S FLOOR.

Taking several deep breaths he hurried towards it, running on adrenaline now, then began climbing the steep, narrow, wooden staircase. As he reached the first floor, where there was a door out into the corridor, he stopped and listened. And heard the sound of footsteps on the treads, faintly, above him.

He began sprinting up the stairs, taking them two at a time, stopping again at the next door briefly to listen. Again he heard footsteps above him. As he reached the third floor, he saw the stairs from this point had been sealed off with red and yellow tape, and there was a sign reading: EXTREME DANGER — KEEP OUT!

The tapes were torn. He ran through them and on up, past what looked like the entrance to an elevator, covered in polythene sheeting, securely taped and with another sign warning, DANGER — DEEP SHAFT. Then he felt a cold blast of air on his face and looked directly up, to see daylight through an open hatch. Blue sky. The steps up from here were extremely narrow, gridded metal, like a fire escape.

He climbed rapidly, then stopped a few feet below the hatch, wishing he had something to defend himself with against the blades of the sword and dagger. Was she waiting to jump him when he went up through the hatch, or had she an escape plan up here?

Taking a deep breath, he raced up the last few steps as fast as he could and peered at a view of the rooftops of the Palace, and part of the skyline of London beyond. A stiff breeze was blowing as he clambered out onto lead roofing, and stood upright, looking around in all directions. He could see the gardens a long way below, the acres of lawn, the lake, the skeletal framework of a marquee that was being dismantled, a gardener on a ride-on mower, too far away to hear more than a faint sound.

The rooftop was on several levels, all covered in ribbed strips of lead and with metal-grille walkways and stone balustrading around the edges. CCTV cameras were dotted along, pointing downwards, covering the grounds. There was a fine copper dome, turned green, with a curved balustrade in front of it, almost directly beneath him. Where the hell was she?

Though never good with heights, today Grace didn’t care; he was going to get her, whatever it took. She had to be up here somewhere.

There were gridded metal steps ascending steeply to another roof level across the far side. Had she gone up there? Gripping the rails with both hands he hauled himself up and onto a narrow viewing platform. The wind was even stronger here. But he could see no sign of her as he looked around and then down. Just acres of lead, skylights, chimneys, scaffolding and plastic sheeting in some parts.

Was she hiding behind the sheeting? There was one area that resembled the edge of a tent and could easily conceal someone.

He clambered down, hurried across the roof, careful not to trip on the lead ribs, and reached the stone balustrading. Keeping one steadying hand on the flat stone rail atop the balustrading, to his right. He tried to avoid looking down at the sheer drop of one hundred feet or more on the far side of it, down onto lawn or gravel — he couldn’t see which. He reached the sheeting, but it was sealed tight. He was about to turn round when he heard a sound behind him.

Clack... clack.