Precipitate Flight

Daybreak following the storm was a damp and overcast affair, all was quiet with not a breath of wind. I lay twisting in bed, the thin mattress offered by the Ullman Hotel was not, I fear, the cause of my lack of sleep. It was is if the town held breath.

A palpable tension seemed to grow in strength, a low grade headache buzzed at the base of my skull. Then, when a release seemed inevitable, a knock came at the door.

I heard the landlady, the formidable Ms. M Sykes, make representations to what was clearly a party of men at the door. I could not hear the content of the conversation, the voices droned up the three flights of stairs to my room. One voice stood out, however, the dread Edwin P. Hargreaves.

A shock of galvanic power rippled through my body as the flight or fight instinct charged my system. Given there were at least six men downstairs flight, then, seemed my only option.

I donned my overcoat and hat before quietly leaving the bedroom. There was to be no escape down the stairs, the front door looked onto the bottom flight of steps and I would be plainly seen.

Instead, I padded to the communal bathroom at the end of the corridor, slipped inside and fastened the bolt. I then clambered atop the old iron bath, pushed open a squeaking skylight window and clambered onto the slate rooftop of the Ullman Hotel.

The slumbering town lay before me like a hibernating bear, it offered no welcome, no comfort, just a baleful eye that regarded my presence with disdain and mistrust.

As I gazed over the year-shadowed rooftops a sadness pierced my soul, this place was cursed and yet the inhabitants did not realise it, a malignancy was coursing through them and they carried on regardless. And yet, for the observant outsider, the symptoms were clear to see.

I was snapped back from my revery as I heard the bathroom door splintering. I clambered the peak of the roof and slide into an inside angle on the other side. I had reached the top of an adjoining house.

I made my way along the ridgeline of this roof, seeing skylights leading into an attic room, below one small pane an old man sat in an easy chair reading the day's paper. I envied his simple comfort.

I heard cursed mutterings behind and turned to see four men reach the peak of the Ullman hotel's roof. At the head of the pack was Edwin Hargreaves, sap already in his grip.

A form of panic overtook me and I moved in a fugue state, unthinking flight across rooftops that seemed without end. In desperation I looked around for access to the ground but there seemed to be nothing but precipitous drops all around.

I felt short of breath, dizzy and fearful for the men drew closer.

Then, when I thought my lot could not worsen any further I spied a set of fire escape stairs at the side of merchants store. I scrambled across the roof and made it to the steps.

Behind me the group huffed and clambered. As I gave them a final glance before descending the steps I saw Edwin Hargreaves slide on a particularly wet and slippery section of the Merchant's roof. He threw me a hateful stare as he hit the guttering then tumbled out of sight. A second later he struck the pavement from a height of at least 25 feet. No cry of pain or plea for help was issued, his companions stopped, stunned by his sudden disaster.

I took my opportunity and descended into the dark and oppressive alleyway below. I ran into the shadows of Tarnmouth.