VII.
Agitato
***
His eyes snap open and his right hand flies to his throat, expecting to find it slippery with blood.
He is sweating and shivering at the same time, the cold sweat of exhaustion and fear.
His heart pounds painfully. He is tense to the point of snapping. The sheets are tangled around his naked body and he doesn't need to feel it to know that there is a damp stain on one of them.
Damn. Damn.
A chimera. Nothing but a dream.
It is not reassuring. It doesn't ease the humiliation he experiences.
In a brief flicker of indignation, he loathes her. Hates her for what she does to him, what she puts him through. It doesn't matter that she isn't even aware of it.
His brain should tell him otherwise, but his brain refuses to kick in, still trapped somewhere in Morpheus' arms.
He is left with something that is unfamiliar and unpleasant. Feelings. Once again.
He cannot and will not allow this to continue.
All he wants is to rid his mind of those disconcerting images. They weaken him, threaten his composure in a time when he needs it the most.
There has to be a way to purge himself.
Some way.
Any way.
At whatever cost.
He knows he has to calm down before he does anything, knows he has to think.
A dream. Nothing but a dream.
Yet he swears he can smell the scent of sex in his room, and a deep, stabbing ache lances through him.
He tells himself to stop being so stupid, such an easy target for those images. Has this whole thing gone too far already? Is he trapped, beyond redemption?
He untangles the sheets from around him, slips into a pair of comfortable cotton boxers.
The steady, enervating blink of his clock tells him that the power is back but he doesn't switch on the light. Walks into the kitchen, his feet quiet on the parquet. This flat is soothing, most of the time. Vast and cool and during the daytime flooded with sunlight. Not much furniture.
A ridiculously expensive stereo, top-notch equipment. He's by no means a man to waste money, but a few luxuries make life sweeter.
He finds his way around the flat blindly. Takes water from the filter, pours it into the kettle and switches it on. He never takes water directly from the tap, knows that the chlorine would ruin the subtle taste of the tea. He breathes. Feels the cool parquet under his bare feet. Concentrates on the noises, the slight crackling of the metal warming up, the rushing when the water warms, the deep gurgling sound when it comes close to the boiling point. He knows the temperatures of every single one of these stages.
His supply of tea is small but choice. He hates the tea people buy in supermarkets, hates the concoctions served in restaurants. His teas come directly from small, private plantations.
Lapsang Souchong for special occasions, but he doesn't want the smoky flavour now. No Darjeeling, either, even though the sweet, flowery smell of the Sungma Autumnal usually invigorates him. But he doesn't want to be invigorated now. He wants calm. He wants his fucking mind back.
So, Yin Zhen. A white tea, horrendously expensive, but every single leaf worth the price. He even knows the women plucking the silver-coated buds. The water has reached 70°C, the sound somewhere between rushing and gurgling, and he switches the kettle off at just the right moment.
Making tea takes time. Time you have to give to it if you want a decent result. And he wants it, wants the small upsurge of calm on his tongue when he sips the wisdom of centuries.
He doesn't need a clock to tell him how long it has to steep. There will be enough time for a shower.
He takes it in the dark as well. Direct light would be offensive at the moment. The water is hot, even though his body screams for cold. But he stands under the hot spray, scrubbing his body thoroughly and harshly; no mercy for weaknesses. A vigorous turn of the temperature control ends the shower with an icy cold douse.
His skin prickles when he steps out of the glass shower compartment. Drying off quickly, he walks back into the kitchen, perfectly timed to keep the tea in the right balance between bitter and sweet.
The delicate bone china cup all but burns his hands when he pours the hot tea, but he doesn't pay attention. His thoughts are elsewhere.
A sliver of light falls from the living room into the kitchen, a street-lamp's glow, perhaps the brighter for its few hours' involuntary rest. It catches on the stainless steel refrigerator he is standing next to, and for a few moments, he can see his own reflection in the polished surface.
Watches himself sip the tea in the semi-darkness. Sees the blurry image of a tired man with confusion and unrest written all over his features, his posture not nearly as straight as he wants it to be.
It takes all his will-power not to punch the mocking image.
He finishes the tea without actually relishing in its exquisite taste. He doesn't need to, has tasted it many times before. Which is possibly one of the reasons why it's not working the way it usually does. Its cleansing qualities are missing tonight.
He isn't clean.
But he needs to be.
He needs his mind to be blank, his thoughts to revolve around something other than her. It is vital to find his focus again.
Some way.
Any way.
At whatever cost.
He tries to think about the last time he felt absolutely in focus. The last time in focus and not behind the barrel of a gun.
His mind makes the connection quickly. Maybe too quickly.
But it isn't important now. It is a way to purge himself. At whatever cost.
He slips into comfortable, nondescript work-out clothes, ties a pair of well-worn trainers and leaves his flat.
Liberation.
There is only one way available to him here in this city.
***
Hand over hand. Foot follows foot.
Find a ledge, a window-sill, a crack, a rough surface. Make sure your hands don't slip.
Ignore the wind, ignore the darkness, ignore the cars down there and the sounds of the city. Focus.
Hand over hand. Pull. Foot follows foot.
Don't slip, don't slip.
He has been forced to climb multiple times in his line of work, but never like this. This is something else entirely. It's his own decision.
There's no harness securing him, no bolts, no safety measures. There's just him and the building. He doesn't look down, doesn't want to know how high up he is, only looks up, up, up.
In the beginning it had seemed endless. Now he has only one or two storeys ahead of him.
His muscles scream at the maltreatment, his breath is harsh and fast in his ears. His brain has shut down, he's only working on instinct now.
Closing himself off, shutting down everything that isn't necessary now. Pulling. Controlling aching muscles. Ignoring the perspiration trickling into his eyes.
The wind is cool up here, sings a deceptive lullaby. He is too tired to be doing this, but the adrenaline keeps his body awake, pushes him past endurance.
Keep going. Take in the environment, take everything as it comes, accept it, move on. Move.
Nothing else matters.
When he finally reaches the roof, it is with his last ounce of strength. He hauls himself over the outcropping and collapses on his back, trembling, panting, his lungs aching from the too deep breaths, sweat running freely down his body.
After a while he moves, crawling back to the outcropping, then kneeling, daring a look down.
A gust of wind meets him just as vertigo pulls at his mind, narrows his vision.
Fear jumps at him like a wild animal; painful, intense, glaring.
No harness, no safety. He could have died. Right that very second. Every single second of that climb.
He sits back on his heels, leans his forehead against the cold, unforgiving concrete. The shaking isn't only from his exhausted muscles anymore. The fear is real, he can taste it on the tip of his tongue: Raw, fresh, stark.
His head is light, just like having had alcohol on an empty stomach. He claws his hands into the outcropping to stop the vertigo, to stop the nauseous feeling of floating.
And then, suddenly, without even knowing where it comes from, he gives a howling laugh.
It is taken away by the wind, barely audible anymore once it has left his lips.
It doesn't matter. It's a victory. His victory, and this laugh is for everyone who ever thought him weak. Poor, miscalculating bastards.
The delayed reaction proves but one thing: He is still in control. He has climbed this building flawlessly, without slipping, without fear or anything else to distract him.
He is on top of this building.
He has managed it.
What can stop him now? Dreams and obsessions and international espionage and terrorism suddenly seem so very small and unimportant.
He wills his still trembling limbs into cooperation, rises slowly. Moves to stand at the edge of the building and forces himself to stare down. Down at the city with its thousands of lights. Down at all the buildings, hiding thousands of people who mean nothing to him.
Down. Down to where the wind moves the palm trees. Down.
A wind much different than up here.
And he looks up. Up, to where the sun slowly rises and casts its still innocent light on a new, unsoiled day.
A fresh start.
Let them come.
He is ready for everything.
***
TBC