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  And now – my death.

  How did I forget about that bloody staircase…?

  • • •

  Am I dead?

  No. Seems not. For some reason my shoulders hurt. The pain is entirely real. So why is it dark?

  Because my eyes are closed.

  Am I asleep?

  No, seems not. Then why haven’t I shattered into pieces yet?

  I carefully open my eyes.

  I’m still falling. The tarmac is far beneath me, down below my feet. There’s nothing else below them. I’m hanging in nothingness, eight floors above the ground.

  A creak. Some kind of ripping noise. Which I really don’t like. I lift my head and barely restrain a scream. And then I realise that I need to breathe. I’d forgotten to breathe.

  As I fell the collar of my t-shirt got caught on an iron bar sticking out of the wall where they’ve taken away the stairway. The t-shirt hiked up under my arms but didn’t come off. And now I’m hanging by it. Eight floors up. And it’s ripping.

  I realise this all very quickly. And even before I realise all this, I discover that I’ve already hooked both hands onto the bar, so hard that my fingers are white.

  Right, calm. Calm, please, I beg myself. If you grab on too hard the t-shirt could slip off and the situation will get a lot worse. Then again, how could it get worse? It’s already not a whole lot of fun.

  Right. Right, right, right. I need to make myself loosen my fingers so I can get a new grip on this damn bit of metal. Well, not really damn. This lovely bit of metal. My saviour. Thank you. OK, we’ll talk about that later. Ready. Ready! I let go with one hand, turn my face to the wall and grab hold of the metal again. Now the same with the other hand. Perfect.

  My t-shirt has nearly slipped off, but that’s not so frightening now, right? I’m hanging by my hands, facing the wall, gripping tightly to the bar.

  I pull myself up and grab on to the edge of the roof. My t-shirt slips off. Don’t think about that. I pull myself up higher. Now the other hand on to the roof. Good. Now pull your knee up on to the bar. From here on it’s easy, just don’t look down, alright?

  I stand up to my full height and immediately collapse onto the roof. My legs are totally shaking. I lie there for a long time looking up. The sky above my head grows dark, turning to night. You can see the colour change right there. You know how if you look at a hour hand for a long time you can see it move. It’s the same with the sky, if you look at it and don’t think about anything else.

  • • •

  Me and Mutt are driving in the Torino. The weather’s awesome, we’ve got all the windows down. Once you’ve got used to seeing the world through glass, then if you open the windows the colours seem brighter and more luscious, as if someone had turned up the contrast.

  “I should get a car like this myself,” Mutt says. “It’s handy.”

  “Definitely,” I agree. “Even if you haven’t got any cash, get any old thing. When you’ve got a car, you’re… you’re in charge, you know.”

  “I’m in charge whatever,” Mutt says. “Who else?”

  “You need to feel it. The city changes. The city changes inside you. You start to think differently. You see the streets differently. And then your day starts becoming different too. Whenever you want, you get in the car and do whatever you want.”

  “It’s interesting that,” Mutt notes. “I need to try it.”

  “You got a licence?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a licence. Got it ages ago. But I’ve still never had a car.”

  “Try it. It’s worth it. You start to… take control of your own life.”

  My foot hits the brake pedal before I have time to realise what’s happening. The screech of brake pads, the squeal of tyres on the asphalt. A man bends over, as if he’s dancing the fandango; he looks at our car furiously, which with his build looks very funny. The Torino grinds to a halt as it pushes the man and he falls over.

  Me and Mutt sit in silence. I clutch the wheel. What was that? How did that happen? Why does this sort of thing keep happening to me?”

  The man jumps up from under the bonnet and starts yelling. All sorts of abuse is shouted at us.

  “You... you… where are you looking!”

  And so it goes on. We watch. I can physically feel the sweat pouring out of my palms. Mutt sticks his head out of the window and says:

  “Oi fellah, where exactly did you see the crossing round here? What are you doing running across the road? There’s barriers along the sides.”

  You can hear the relief in his voice. The bloke looks round amazed. He’s clearly in shock. Maybe he hit his head?”

  I get out of the car.

  “Listen,” I ask, “are you alright? Did you take a knock? Maybe you need to go to hospital? You just came out of nowhere there.”

  He starts to look more rational. He examines himself, patting his trousers with his hands. A smart-looking fellow. Well-dressed. Tubby.

  “No harm done,” he mutters. “I was just in a rush. You were also going some. Need to be more careful.”

  I don’t get angry. I wasn’t going fast. But why argue? He’s alive, no injuries. He got lucky, we got lucky.

  “Sorry,” I say with a shrug.

  He nods. His eyes come to rest on the bonnet of my Torino. There is a black heraldic lion painted on it. Torte gave it a go. For free.

  “Was that there when you bought it?”

  “No,” I shake my head. “A friend painted it. Some mates of mine are artists.”

  “Oho,” he says. “Cool. And does he do this all the time?”

  “All the time. But for money. You need something painted?”

  “Aha. Yes. Lots. I want to do up a house. Are lots of your mates artists?”

  “Enough,” I laugh. “What do you need lots for?”

  “One’ll do. I just need to pick a good one.”

  “Alright then,” I say. “I’ll put you in touch. I’ve got their numbers…”

  “Here’s my details,” he says and hands me a business card. “They can call me. Tell them that it’ll be a decent commission.”

  “I’ll tell them,” I promise. “Thank you. Right, we’re off. Goodbye. Sorry again.”

  “No worries,” the fellow dismisses it, looking crossly at his dirty trousers. “All’s well that ends well”

  I sit in the car, as does Mutt. We look at each other then set off.

  “Let me copy his number down,” Mutt says. “Kind of an interesting bloke.”

  I give him the card, and concentrate on the road. I drive half as fast as before. Why is this always happening to me?

  • • •

  Me and Oxana are sitting in a café chatting.

  “Oxana,” I say, “God only knows what’s going on with me at the moment. Twice in the past couple of weeks I’ve almost died. And the other day I nearly killed a guy. What the hell is going on?”

  Oxana sucks on her straw and swings her leg.

  “You’re looking at it all wrong, Max,” Oxana drawls in reply. “You didn’t nearly die twice. You survived twice. What happened by the way? You hit a lamp post or something?”

  “Yeah, very funny! I’m not exaggerating, I never exaggerate! I really did nearly die. Nearly died, you get it? I was inches away.”

  Oxana still looks at me with playful mistrust.

  “Yeah, whatever. Don’t be shy then. Tell me all about it, if it really happened.”

  “Here goes then, I’ll tell you. It’s true, but you won’t believe it. To begin with I was walking along in the park. And then suddenly this truck comes flying over. Came off the road. It flew past me like a centimetre away. A centimetre! I’m not exaggerating now either, it even caught me a bit. But not a scratch. A couple of bruises on
my shoulder. So, just a tiny bit closer and I’d have died. The truck driver did die.”

  “No way!” Oxana says, and even leaves her juice alone. “I am so sorry. Oh, I mean, you jammy git! Touch wood. And what did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything. Shook myself off and went home. People were all standing round and watching. The ones that came running over didn’t even know that I’d nearly died.”

  “Sick . And the second time?”

  “The second time was so completely stupid. It was my own dumb fault I nearly died. They’d taken away the stairs down from the roof at work. And I forgot. And fell off the roof. Luckily I got snagged on a bit of metal. On my t-shirt. Climbed back up. If I’d died, it would’ve looked really stupid. Plus people would’ve thought that I jumped.”

  “Yeah,” Oxana says, “they’d have thought that for definite . With you especially…”

  She stops herself and falls silent. Looks like she knows. I thought no one knew, but she knows. Which means everyone knows. Well there you go. Interesting. What does she think about me now? About the t-shirt. What, like, really happened. What are they saying about me behind my back? Would be very interesting to hear. Maybe she thinks that I’m sort of crying out for help. It’s all really dumb, of course. I can feel her reading my thoughts and cursing her slip of the tongue.

  “Wait just a sec, I’m going to get some ice cream,” says Oxana with exaggerated cheerfulness and goes off to the counter.

  She comes back after a couple of minutes with two sundaes.

  “Here you go. I got one for you too. Enjoy. I once had a crazy thing happen to me too by the way. Want to hear?”

  “Sure,” I say. “It’s nice ice-cream, thanks.”

  “It’s frozen yoghurt. So then. I went off with this dude, well more like a douche, to the seaside. Actually, first we went to the cinema, and then we went to a café. That was our first date. All romantic. He had a car. And he says – let’s go to the seaside. We’ll watch the sunset, the beach and all that.”

  “Leave it at that,” I tell her, tired. “I already know what’s coming next.”

  “You don’t know anything,” Oxana takes offence. “You should listen. So then, we’re going to the seaside. And for some reason I stop fancying him. What was his name again? Ah well, doesn’t matter. So, we’re going to the sea. He’s banging on about the movie. And I’ve stopped fancying him. Already. So there’s no point banging on. Maybe I’ve sobered up a bit after the café, or maybe I never fancied him right from the start, anyway, I don’t remember. We get to the seaside. There’s the sunset, all that stuff, I’m yawning a bit. He sees that I’m bored and so he starts stressing. That’s when I realise that he’d had been counting on getting a bit of afters, if you know what I mean. But a bloke doesn’t get afters on the first date. Not him anyway. And so he leans in for a kiss. I don’t want to kiss him. Basically he’s creepy and boring. And because of this he starts stressing more and more. Offers me some champagne. Now, champagne I’m OK with. I drink the champagne. He’s driving. And nothing. Nothing’s working for me. Not the champagne, not him. And then the grand finale. “Come on,” he says, “let’s go and have a bit of fun in the car.” “Nah,” I say, “I don’t want to have a bit of fun. Let’s go home instead. It’s cold and dark here.” And he gets upset, poor lad. Because, I guess, he sees that I don’t want to be with him. So basically he doesn’t like it. After the cinema, the café and all. So he gets mad. And says he can’t take me back. Kinda like, you can stay here on the beach, honey. Greet the sunrise. In five or so hours. The trains and the buses had all gone already obviously. Like, you know, if you’re so smart. That sort of bastard, right.”

  “I’d never have guessed,” I say, bored.

  I don’t like listening to all these stories. It offends me somehow. On behalf of everyone involved. Her and him and me too, for some reason.

  “And you stayed there?”

  “Nah. I didn’t stay,” Oxana says snappily. “I didn’t stay. I said ‘Adios, amigo,’ to that knob and hit the road. Walked about three miles. Along the motorway, doing it my way. Barefoot, too. ‘Cos you can only manage the first mile in heels. No way you can keep going like that.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Then a couple gave me a lift. A really nice, cute couple. Didn’t ask any questions, didn’t take any money.”

  “So, any regrets?” I don’t ask more specifically than that, but Oxana understands.

  “Crossed my mind, despite myself. ‘Cos of my legs. But, nah, no regrets, no regrets.”

  We sit in silence for a while. My ice cream has completely melted. Hers has melted too.

  “You’re great, Oxana,” I say. “Sorry.”

  I don’t know what I’m saying sorry for. Or maybe I do know but I just can’t express it in words.

  “Pff,” Oxana says. “Well then. So what, another couple of espressos? They’ve got good espresso here.”

  “Go on then,” I say. “My treat.”

  “Works for me.”

  The espresso really is good. Nice coffee, nice café. We sit there for another hour.

  • • •

  “So what did he say?” Linda asks sceptically, looking at the business card.

  “Nothing specific,” Mutt says. “There’s a job going, needs an artist. But he wants to see a few of us first.”

  “Seems kinda strange,” Linda says. “What if he turns out to be some kind of maniac?”

  “Why would he be a maniac?!” Torte says with surprise. “Where do you get that from?”

  “Well, no job description, wants to see different artists… Maybe he’s got some castle outside of town and he lures artists there and kills them.”

  “Are you being serious right now?” I ask, curious.

  Linda grimaces enigmatically, as if to say, “I don’t even know myself.”

  “Well even if he is a maniac,” Torte says. “As long as he pays. All the same to me. I’m not a cop.”

  “How can you say that?” Linda gets annoyed.

  “Look at you all,” Torte says suddenly. “A maniac. Rubbish! Give me the card.”

  He rips the card out of Linda’s hand, gets the phone and focuses on dialling the number. He waits.

  “Hello… Yes. My name is Dima. I was asked… My friends said… Basically, I’m an artist. Yes. Yes. I’d like to think so. Animals, yep, I can do the lot, if that’s the job. Yeah, I’ve got some friends. OK, agreed. Where? Okaaay…. Mm-hm. Got it. I’ll be there.”

  He hangs up the phone. Everyone looks at him in expectation. And excitement. Pretty cool isn’t he…?

  “Basically, he’s set up a meeting with me. And you guys too. Tomorrow.”

  “Where?!” Linda asks.

  “In a castle. Outside of town.”

  “Jeez,” I say, but Linda holds her mouth to her hand.

  “I’m joking,” Torte says evenly. “In the Emerald City. It’s a café. To be honest, I’ve never been there before. Tomorrow, at four. He asked us to bring our portfolios.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure” Linda says unhappily. “Yeah, that’s a good one.”

  “But I don’t have a portfolio,” Torte says thoughtfully. “What now? I’ll go anyway…”

  Mutt doesn’t say anything. He acts as if he doesn’t care.

  “What about Gray?” Linda asks.

  “What about Gray? Well someone call him. By the way he was a completely normal bloke. I don’t know how come you decided he was a maniac. Talked all sophisticated with this nice voice.”

  “There you go!” Linda says. “That’s what all maniacs are like without exception.”

  “So,” Torte asks, “we’re all going to go together, are we?”

  “I’m definitely going,” Mutt says. “If anyone doesn’t want to come, they
don’t have to, that’s their right. Are you coming, Max?”

  “I’m coming,” I reply. “Though I’m not saying I’ll be able to do anything.”

  • • •

  We’re sitting in the café and stressing out. The cast: me, Torte, Mutt, Gray and Linda. All five of us. Isn’t he going to be scared? Or maybe on the other hand he’ll be thrilled. He wanted a lot of artists, well, here we are, in bulk, like a supermarket. Pick one off the shelf.

  “Our maniac, meanwhile, is already ten minutes late,” Linda notes.

  “Stop calling him a ‘maniac’!” Torte says, “You might suddenly say something you regret, could be he gets touchy all of a sudden.”

  “Could be he’s a maniac all of a sudden,” Linda replies, mimicking his tone.

  “Listen, Linds, I’m getting the feeling that you want him to be a maniac. That’s a pretty strange wish.”

  Mutt laughs. It’s fun here. If a potential client heard them, then the job would definitely be off.

  “Maybe this is all a practical joke.” Gray looks suspiciously at Mutt as he laughs.

  “No,” I say, “it’s not a practical joke. Give him another five minutes. Guys like him are often late.”

  “That’s for sure,” Torte confirms. “I noticed that a while ago. Clients are, as a matter of principle, unable to arrive on time. They’ve got some global conspiracy going on.”

  At that moment he appears. I watch him as he comes through the glass door of the café, scans the room, spots us without fail and heads our way.

  “I reckon it’s disrespectful,” Linda announced. “We’ve got an unbalanced relationship here, and the problem is not even about who pays who!”

  “Hey…!” I say, but no one hears me.

  The bloke weaves his way through the tables. He’s already noticed me and is getting closer.

  “Hey, guys!” I say again, louder.

  Mutt looks at me. He’s sitting with his back to the door. If I nod to him now the potential client will probably notice. I need to say something without changing my expression or posture.