‘Excuse me,’ said Max. ‘How much further is it?’
The woman came to a halt on the step above him. In the semi-light Max could barely make out her features. Had she understood him?
‘To the top,’ he said. ‘How much further?’
‘Not far,’ the woman said. ‘Not far at all. The view’s fantastic. You won’t regret it.’
Max had to squash himself against the wall to allow her to pass. He looked up into the darkness, then continued his climb. He’d started off quickly, taking the steps two at a time, but now he was beginning to feel the effort in his calves.
A man came up behind him.
‘After you,’ said Max, swooping his hand upwards.
‘No, no, after you.’
‘I insist.’
‘So do I.’ The man laughed, the sound coming right up from his belly, accompanied by a growl. ‘I guess we have reached something of an impasse. Why don’t we go together?’
‘The more the merrier,’ said Max.
It was soon obvious that it was impossible to climb side by side. They adopted an awkward sideways shuffle.
‘Do you know,’ said the man, ‘I have always been puzzled by that phrase, “the more the merrier.” Is it really true?’
Max had never given it any thought, and was about to say so when the man carried on.
‘I mean, is there a limit to the number of people? The people to merriment ratio, I guess you could call it.’
‘Some people like crowds,’ said Max.
‘You are quite correct. But it depends where you are, does it not? In here, for example, it would not be a cause for merriment.’
‘I guess not,’ said Max, who was beginning to think that two was very much a crowd.
‘Any idea how much further it is to the top?’ asked the man.
‘Not much further, I think,’ said Max.
‘I am told there is a wonderful view.’
*
Everybody said the view from the top of the tower was spectacular.
‘Seriously,’ said a woman sitting at the table next to Max’s at dinner the night before. ‘It’s one of a kind.’
‘She’s right,’ said her husband, leaning towards Max as if letting him in on a big secret. ‘You have to go see it.’
The bloke at the kiosk on the corner said the same. And the receptionist at Max’s hotel. The waitress at the café where he took his morning coffee put her hand on her heart and sighed. Max found himself imagining what he would be able to see up there. Vast landscapes. Mountains. Ships far out on the ocean.
*
The man seemed frustrated at Max’s slow pace. A couple of times Max even felt the man’s hand on his back, as if he were trying to push him onwards. Eventually he wished Max luck, overtook him and disappeared up the stairs.
Max came to a halt. There was a room off to his right. The walls were covered in information panels. One outlined the history of watchmaking in the city, while another talked about different cloud formations. There was a series of panels about the life of a woman who had invented a new kind of sticking plaster. A display case in the middle of the room housed a twelfth-century Chinese vase. On it were tiny drawings of bridges and houses. But not a single tower.
*
One foot in front of the other. The only thing to look at was the grey stone of the steps leading up and spiralling round and round. Max tried to concentrate on his breathing. In, out. In, out.
‘We’re nearly there!’ cried a young voice behind him, and Max stood back to allow a man and two children to pass. The younger child, a girl, was pumping her arms like a sprinter. ‘I can’t wait to see the view!’
Sometime later, an old lady came down towards him. She had long grey hair tied back in a ponytail and was carrying a stick, waving it around in front of her as if to fend off assailants.
‘I feel quite refreshed,’ she said to Max. ‘It’s a hell of a climb, but my goodness it’s worth it.’
She hit the stick twice against the wall then stepped down with the litheness of someone half her age. Her enthusiasm bolstered Max. A few more bends and there was a faint change in the light, a brightening, and he could feel a cool breeze. Finally, he came out onto a narrow walkway. It wasn’t completely open – there was a roof above him and he was relieved not to be exposed. He had to shield his eyes from the sudden brightness. Blinking, he took his hands away.
The view was of rooftops, church spires, playing fields and parks. Cars were backed up on the main arteries in and out.
It could have been anywhere.
But then he thought: this is not the city. I mean, this is not the city I am in. This is another place. Look, there’s the stadium my father took me to as a boy. And that’s the cathedral where I sang in the school choir. If I look over to the right of it – yes, there’s that square, the one we sat in drinking funny coloured cocktails until after dark. Somewhere is the house I grew up in, and somewhere else must be the cemetery.
Max turned. He followed the walkway round and soon came to the place he had emerged from. He ducked his head and entered, adjusting once more to the darkness. No, he saw now, it wasn’t the same staircase, because this one only led up.
He stood for a moment, breathing deeply, then took the first step.
Ian Critchley is a freelance editor and journalist. His fiction has been published in several journals and anthologies, including Neonlit: Time Out Book of New Writing, Volume 2, The Mechanics Institute Review #15, Litro and Storgy, and his journalism has appeared in the Sunday Times, Times Literary Supplement, Literary Review and Telegraph. Find Ian at @iancritchley4 and iancritchley.wordpress.com
