All falling away

There was a view over the top of the city from Malcolm’s vantage point. Not that he was taking in the view; he had work to do on the chimney stack – a little bit of painting and some minor repairs to the pointing. It was not an exciting job, but one at which Malcolm was adept, a job he could be left to do without someone looking over his shoulder. This was probably for the best, as he was hanging by a rope and there was only just enough room for him, let alone having someone else 200 feet up constantly yakking away.

Malcolm liked the feeling of isolation, liked the feeling of being his own boss, prioritising his work. Most of all he loved the fact that his boss didn’t like climbing and therefore never came up to check on things, like the boss of other jobs Malcolm had done tended to like doing.

He liked to dream of what he’d prefer to be doing instead of mending chimneys. While surveying the city skyline, he’d imagine that he was witness to some gruesome murder, or a bank robbery; sometimes he’d just spot someone, milling around on the ground like an ant, and take on their life, imagining what this particular person did for a living, where they went after work, with whom. And so on, and so forth.

It was while Malcolm was eating his jam sandwich, fending off the sea gulls that congregated around him hoping for a scrap or two, perhaps just a crumb, that he spent time thinking. Occasionally, he’d pull off a large piece of bread and drop it straight down and watch as the birds hurtled towards the earth, fighting each other for that piece of bread. Sometimes one of the birds would successfully grasp it, swallowing the bread down before it hit the ground. Other times they’d fail, giving up as the ground came up to greet them. The bread was then left for the pigeons to squabble over.

Today he wanted his sandwich all to himself. Today, Malcolm didn’t feel like sharing.

Often, when finding himself up so high, Malcolm didn’t like to look down at the ground. Whenever he did, a wave of vertigo would overtake him, a wash of nausea coming over him, suffocating and claustrophobic. However, this particular day he found himself looking at a glinting object the two hundred or so feet below him. He couldn’t tell what or who might be below him, what the frantic waving of arms meant. So, he ignored it and turned his attention back to digging out the old cement between the bricks and sliding his trowel over the gap and filling it with fresh cement.

The glinting was still there, though, and he found it too difficult to ignore. He knew it would take him at least ten minutes to climb down and a further twenty minutes to get back up to the top again. Glancing at his watch he decided he could afford some time; that he could do with putting his feet on the ground and experiencing the feeling of safety that this always gave him.

He hoisted himself around and began his slow descent. He could hear a voice shouting to him, but he wasn’t able to clearly make out what was being said. Something about soap, cope… rope. It was about his rope.

Fear suddenly overtook Malcolm and he clung to the chimney as best he could. For the first time since he had been climbing high buildings, making repairs and suchlike, he was experiencing some doubt as to his personal safety. Sweat broke out on his forehead. The voice was still shouting. It was getting louder and louder, although the whistling of the wind was still making it hard to discern the nuances of the message.

When he finally reached the ground the voice became clear enough: Your rope is frayed, your rope is frayed.

By then, of course, Malcolm could no longer hear the words. Malcolm was never going to hear anymore words. The broken end of the rope made a slapping sound as it smacked against the harness around Malcolm’s chest, strangely louder than the noise of his body hitting the floor.