The Restoration of Otto Laird (33 page)

‘Silly old sod,' he muttered.

It wasn't for him to judge the building's aesthetic value: he really ought to leave all that to others. Anyway, what was more important: a beautifully crafted staircase or an elevator system that worked properly? This question seemed increasingly pertinent, the higher up he climbed.

Otto wished they had spent more time on the lifts, back when Marlowe House was being planned. They should have focused on improving their quality, maybe at the expense of the ill-fated sculpture garden. Eight sculptures seemed extravagant, with the benefit of hindsight, especially since they had all disappeared or ended up headless.

If the place is saved and given a listing, maybe we can do something about that.

He paused again to look up to the roof, but the intimidating spiral above his head did not appear to have decreased by much. More beads of sweat had broken out on his brow. He mopped these away impatiently with his handkerchief. The great dizziness he was starting to feel, however, was less easy to brush aside.

Oh, for a moving staircase right now, an escalator to glide on …

And then, as if upon command, as if the thought had somehow brought itself into existence, the staircase began to move. Otto felt himself lift slowly forwards, gasping slightly at the unexpected motion. His feet were no longer moving, but somehow he was moving. His body was being propelled by an invisible force. The staircase moved silently, winding steadily upwards, level by level, with no churning of a motor to reveal the hidden source of its magical power.

Once his initial surprise had passed, Otto found himself starting to smile. He even began to giggle in childish delight. The staircase was taking him ever higher: fifth floor, sixth floor, seventh. He had settled down, and was enjoying the ride, when a troubling thought suddenly occurred to him.

What if the escalator didn't stop moving? Not just on his floor; on any floor. What if it kept going – spiralling ever higher, beyond the rooftop he had stood upon recently, through the clouds and out the other side? What if it kept going until the wind was howling, the sky was deepening from blue to black and he could see the curve of the earth's surface appear below him? What if it kept going until the oxygen ran out?

At this point, Otto decided it was time to halt the rising staircase. But how exactly did one achieve such a thing? Looking down at his feet, he pushed the cane hard into the step before him, trying through leverage to halt its movement. When this didn't work, he tried pressing it between a gap in the banisters, leaning on it with all his meagre strength. Some sparks flew up, but it hadn't quite worked.

As the staircase continued moving, he pulled the cane from between the banisters, steadying himself as he prepared for another attempt. In order to gain greater purchase on the cane, he took a firm step backwards. The staircase seemed to crumble away beneath him. Grasping at the air with both his hands, he tumbled into the void, the only sound the clatter of his cane upon the stairs.

Thirty-One

When he opened his eyes, Otto could see the now stationary staircase stretched high above him, the elegant spokes of its various levels radiating outwards like a mandala. All was peaceful here in the stairwell. It had that special quality of silence – the echoing silence of the old synagogue in Vienna. He breathed in the spacious air, and felt his back resting on cool stone. The experience was pleasant, in its way, apart from the slight aching in his neck and a soreness in his head.

Otto saw his cane lying abandoned on a higher step. He reached out both hands and tried to raise himself towards it, but gravity defied his efforts and he was unable to move very far. Eventually, he gave up the attempt.

He touched his bare forehead with his fingertips. It was coated once more in beads of sweat. With an effort, he reached down and removed the white handkerchief from the inside pocket of his unbuttoned overcoat, slowly wiping it across his brow. He lacked the strength to return the handkerchief to its place, however, and lay there with it reposing in his hand like a small flag of surrender.

Where was his homburg? Instinct told him it was rolling around on another step, somewhere out of sight behind his head. But he was unable to turn around and see. A warmth was spreading outwards around the back of his head, and somewhere he could hear an occasional dripping sound. It was loud and intrusive, disturbing the perfect peace of the stairwell.

Otto noticed that his feet were resting on the steps of the flight above him with the tips of his faded leather brogues pointing upwards. He tried moving his toes, and saw the leather wrinkle and pucker as he did so. For some reason, although he was not sure why, this came as a relief to him. He was still unable to move his head – the warmth around it was making him drowsy. But he found that if he diverted his gaze to the left he could see the narrow window-slits, running up the wall. Through one of them he could make out a patch of blue sky with a cloud moving slowly across it.

Otto centred his eyes once more and lay staring at the radiating spokes above him. He was starting to feel a little cold, apart from his head – which seemed, if anything, to be getting warmer. The warmth seemed to be draining from the rest of his body, downwards into his skull. The toes, he noticed, were coldest of all.

‘Most peculiar,' he said aloud and was startled to find that he could hardly hear his own voice. It came to him only indistinctly; muffled as though heard from the other side of a door. Yet the dripping sound behind him remained perfectly clear.

He decided that he should try to move his feet. They were starting to feel fuzzy now, as well as cold. The pins and needles were nipping at his toes. But he lacked the strength to lift them properly, or readjust the position of his body. He would have to try something else instead. With his heels, Otto pushed as hard as he could against the step on which they rested. His body started to shift backwards. As it did so, he realised that his head was hanging over the edge of the top step of the flight below. If he pushed any harder, he might propel himself down even further. Better just to lie where he was, then. Perhaps take a little nap while he waited for someone to come and help him move his feet.

Otto drifted in and out of consciousness. Each time he opened his eyes he saw the tall yellow staircase, drawing him upwards through its coils.

‘Partly inspired by the lines of a seashell, and partly by the structure of DNA,' he said aloud to himself at one point.

Some time later, in the silence of the stairwell, he felt a rhythmical vibration begin to tickle the back of his head. It was not the dripping sound – that had stopped altogether. This was a steadier rhythm, regular and solid, and the vibrations were getting louder with every beat. He heard a muffled noise, like an exclamation, at which point the vibrations became very fast indeed. The spiral staircase disappeared from view, replaced by a face that Otto recognised. It was the young man he had seen earlier that day, exercising on the forecourt of the building. What was the name on the back of his top again?

The face above him was filled with anxiety. He felt hands cradling his head and heard a voice speaking to him. But he couldn't understand what was being said. The young man gently lowered his head back down, stood and ran swiftly up the stairs. He was wearing a different-coloured top this afternoon: blue this time, not red. No letters on the back like before.

The name, Otto wondered. What is his name?

He watched the head grow smaller as it circled the stairs up to the higher floors. The young man was ascending at a remarkable rate. He must have been taking three or four steps at a time.

Otto shut his eyes. He was starting to feel quite drowsy. Exceptionally drowsy, in fact. And there was a heaviness about it that was unfamiliar. This was no ordinary fatigue. It felt to him like the weight of many ages, pressing gently on his eyelids.

Moments later, a tiny head appeared in the distance – wheeling its way quickly down the stairs. Another followed immediately behind. The second was not moving as fast as the first, but it was travelling at a fair rate, nonetheless. The two heads made an interesting pattern as they wound their way to where he lay.

Geometry in motion, he wanted to say out loud, but the words would not come from his mouth.

The two bobbing heads continued their descent. Otto now could make out the first. It belonged once more to the young man in hooded top and jogging pants.

The name. What is his name?

Otto also recognised the head of the person running behind. The bright-red hair, bouncing loose in plaited streams, was highly distinctive.

Roz, Otto tried and failed to say, as her face appeared suddenly above him.

Roz was saying something to him, as she looked him over with the calm professionalism of the nurse. Her movements were urgent but unhurried. After a brief examination, during which she appeared to be focusing on Otto's neck, her hands gently lifted his head, while the young man (Mikey – that was it!) took his legs.

Once he had been moved around and placed down flat upon his back, Otto felt a little more comfortable. He wanted to thank them both but couldn't, smiling at them weakly instead. They continued talking for a minute or two – beyond his line of vision. Roz reappeared briefly, looking carefully into his face as she spoke on a mobile phone. Then she was gone from sight once more.

Settling as best he could into a more comfortable position, Otto studied again the geometry of the staircase. The peeling metal banisters seemed to wheel away into infinity. And then, high above him, emerging from the darkened heights of the stairwell, he saw something tiny, falling. It was not descending at a steady velocity, but slowly, even cautiously, whirling its way downwards as though in imitation of the banisters' distinctive rhythm. This tiny object, getting closer to Otto now, seemed almost as light as the currents of air in which it spun. There were moments when it blew off course, or lifted slightly upwards, caught within the draughts from the heating system. But sure enough, the downward motion would re-establish itself once more, as this delicate white object defied all attempts to halt its progress.

Dancing and circling, elegant in its descent, the long journey down from the heavens was reaching its end. Then high above it, Otto noticed, many similar objects were falling – hundreds, thousands of them – obscuring the upper reaches of the stairwell as they wheeled and tumbled to earth in silent chaos. The tiredness that had been encroaching on Otto enfolded him completely. Just before losing consciousness, the corners of his mouth twitched slightly and a peaceful smile spread across his upturned face. The snowflake had landed on his cheek.

Thirty-Two

Anika stood as Daniel entered the ward and came across to the bedside, embracing her quickly and without fuss.

‘What's the latest?' he asked.

‘He seems to be okay. Still not talking, I'm afraid, but he appears peaceful enough.'

They looked down at the bed. Otto lay with his head raised on the pillows. His eyes were shut and his face as pale as the bandages round his head.

‘How much damage has been done? Do the doctors know yet?'

Anika shook her head.

‘They're not entirely sure. The injury, apparently, was fairly superficial. It was quite a nasty cut, but it looked worse than it actually was. They say there was no serious damage done, either to the skull or … to the brain.'

Daniel nodded.

‘That's a relief, anyway.'

He bent over to look at his father, while Anika continued, ‘Having said that, they are a little concerned about his slow response to treatment. They told me the concussion would normally have worn off by now.'

‘I see…'

Anika looked down at the resting face, which evoked a complex range of emotions within her. Sadness, of course, even a dash of pity; but also love, compassion and a certain underlying anger that Otto had been so bloody stupid. He had not been well for some time and had partly brought this on himself.

When she had first received the call from Angelo, Anika had exploded with recrimination. She had built up an additional store of anger while reflecting upon events on the plane across from Geneva. As soon as she arrived in London she was prepared to let Angelo, Chloe and anyone else involved in this ridiculous project have it straight between the eyes. Upon walking into the hospital ward, however, and seeing her husband unconscious, she felt her anger dissolve into something less vengeful.

It had briefly re-emerged, once or twice, in the past few hours; but having been given some time to think about the situation, she no longer especially blamed Angelo or the people behind the film. If anything she blamed Otto, but then she couldn't blame Otto, because he had already suffered the consequences of his actions; and because she now grasped that she couldn't have gone on protecting him for ever. Her impulse, to keep him safely out of harm's way in the villa, had been unrealistic. Ageing and illness were unavoidable, and Otto was ultimately too headstrong a character to stay permanently wrapped in cotton wool. The project in London was foolish, Anika still believed. But it was his final attempt to assert his independence, and to answer the siren call of his own abandoned past. It had always been there, she realised, even though he had never once spoken about it with her.

His eyes opened as they sat waiting beside the bed.

Daniel leaned across.

‘Hello, Dad.'

A smile crossed Otto's lips. He tried to speak but failed. Anika reached out and brushed her fingers across his cheek.

‘You must try to rest now, Otto,' she said, leaning forward to rearrange the pillows. ‘You look very tired.'

He did not respond, but lay staring peacefully at the ceiling.

‘He does this,' Anika told Daniel. ‘There are moments of clarity, when he comes to and recognises people. But then he drifts off again, who knows where? It seems to be a place that makes him happy, though, so maybe it's best to leave him there.'