Glass by Alex Christofi

one of those odd situations that was not serious until it was fatal. I began to get the feeling of dread that I always got at the possibility of dying ignominiously, a feeling I had first discovered when I was eight and I realised, swimming in the sea, that my feet weren’t touching the bottom, and the tide was strong. My mum had waved to me happily from the shore. The tide wasn’t vicious, but there had been a small chance that I would start losing ground with each backwash and that, despite swimming as hard as I could, I might not make any progress towards the shore. I was struck with horror that I might never reach the sand, which was so close and yet just out of reach. If I were pulled out to sea by the tides, I would be fighting a lost cause before anyone had even noticed I was in danger. I would never see my family again.
    And now there was a small chance that I would fall to my death.
    I was far down enough to see Blades on all fours, upside down with his suction cups, scrubbing at the glass. He glanced across at me and winked. Can’t anyone ever tell when I’m in trouble? Knowing my luck, some tourist would probably snap my last moments in some stupid pose.
    â€˜Just checking on you,’ I shouted to Blades cheerily.
    â€˜I’m fine,’ he smiled. ‘You?’
    â€˜Yep. Yep.’
    My rope uncoiled slightly and I span to face the sky. There was nothing out ahead of me until the nearest star many light years away. There was nothing below me to put my feet on, nothing solid to grab onto. I was falling, but for three inches of rope. If I pulled the catch on my karabiner now, I would head backwards, picking up pace, approaching terminal velocity, before smashing into the cold hard fact of the concrete below me. It was almost tempting. And it might make a nice follow-up piece for the local paper. I could just pull a little on my karabiner, and never think again.
    Still, nothing makes less sense than committing suicide without thinking it through, and I had a job to finish. The task of pulling yourself back up is not difficult, I told myself. The thing to remember is that you only get one chance. You either get it right, or get it wrong. If there has ever been a time to fully concentrate in your whole life, it is now. Okay, stop thinking about thinking about it. Just look at the rope. Firm grip. There’s the release. Release and heave. Just do it a bit at a time. First try – agh! Okay. Good. Now one more. I really need to eat less. Stupid … gravity. Nearly. There. Good.
    I was nearly back at eye level. Pete had finished his window.
    â€˜Do ye want me to finish yours, mate?’ He indicated the window, in case I needed help identifying it.
    â€˜I can finish it myself,’ I snapped.
    And I did, under the gaze of the rogue medium. She stood at the window keeping a watchful eye on me until I was back on solid steel. Something about her unbroken attention was discomfiting, and yet I felt safer, up there, with her watching me.
    When we were back inside I went into the viewing room to find her. I didn’t know exactly why I was going to find her, as she had been so rude to me before, but it turned out not to matter since she was no longer there.
    I went back down and took off my gear. The heavyset man appeared swinging car keys round his index finger, holding a little book in the other hand.
    We three squinted up at the tower, which gleamed like a kiss in a toothpaste advert.
    â€˜I guess we done all right,’ said Pete.
    Blades handed us each an envelope.
    â€˜I’ll be in touch boys.’
    Pete tore his open immediately. I opened mine too, using my little finger as a letter-opener, and found a cheque for £500. Crikey. Perhaps it was danger money.
    I started off the way I had come, back down the quay, past the faux French café, and I spotted the strange woman, sitting at a table by the window. I thanked the driver and waved Blades off. I didn’t know