Tired of hearing complaints that he never surprised her, Colin organised a picnic for Miranda on the rooftop. Vertigo, she’d moaned, but he carried on pointing out the big wheel, the spires. He liked how she lay prostrate in front of him, clinging to his ankles, refusing to let go.
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Up here, head in the clouds almost, sounds of the street are muffled. Close your eyes and they shift further off. Joseph imagine himself someplace else than the city. He tries to tell her.
‘Except for the taste of exhaust catching in the back of the throat,’ Poppy says, coughing.
Now Antonin has her, rooftop high, above everything, and seeming to be alone and unobserved, he could do it. One sharp jerk of his arms and she’d fall, into air, falling falling until he’d no longer see her or hear her screaming. One hard push.
But Catherine smiles at him.
Birds fly. With little effort, it seems. Feathers stroking the air, easier than swimming. Easier. Dominic has lost weight. You can see his bones through the skin, ribs like a cage and shoulderblades like small wings. He stands rooftop high, naked, arms outstretched, balanced on tiptoe. Flying soon, he thinks.
Don't look down, he'd said. The patio doors were the giant windows of St-Mary-le-Bow's bell tower, the conservatory was the dome of St Paul's Cathedral and the single storey library was actually the musty top floor of the Houses of Parliament. The therapy for vertigo had worked.
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