Chapter 9

My first thought, after I'd brought Jess crashing to the ground, was that I didn't want Maureen sneaking off on her own. It was nothing to do with trying to save her life; it would simply have pissed me off if she'd taken advantage of my distraction and jumped. Oh, none of it makes much sense; two minutes before, I'd been practically ushering her over. But I didn't see why Jess should be my responsibility and not hers, and I didn't see why she should be the one to use the ladder when I'd carted it all the way up there. So my motives were essentially selfish; nothing new there, as Cindy would tell you.

After Jess and I had had our idiotic conversation about how she'd killed lots of people, I shouted at Maureen to come and help me. She looked frightened, and then dawdled her way over to us.

'Get a bloody move on.'

'What do you want me to do?'

'Sit on her.'

Maureen sat on Jess's arse, and I knelt on her arms.

'Just let me go, you old bastard pervert. You're getting a thrill out of this, aren't you?'

Well, obviously that stung a bit, given recent events. I thought for a moment Jess might have known who I was, but even I'm not that paranoid. If you were rugby-tackled in the middle of the night just as you were about to hurl yourself off the top of a tower-block, you probably wouldn't be thinking about breakfast television presenters.

(This would come as a shock to breakfast television presenters, of course, most of whom firmly believe that people think about nothing else but breakfast, lunch and dinner.) I was mature enough to rise above Jess's taunts, even though I felt like breaking her arms.

'If we let go, are you going to behave?'

'Yes.'

So Maureen stood up, and with wearying predictability Jess scrambled for the ladder, and I had to bring her crashing down again.

'Now what?' said Maureen, as if I were a veteran of countless similar situations, and would therefore know the ropes.

'I don't bloody know.'

Why it didn't occur to any of us that a well-known suicide spot would be like Piccadilly Circus on New Year's Eve. I have no idea, but at that point in the proceedings I had accepted the reality of our situation: we were in the process of turning a solemn and private moment into a farce with a cast of thousands.

And at that precise moment of acceptance, we three became four. There was a polite cough, and when we turned round to look, we saw a tall, good-looking, long-haired man, maybe ten years younger than me, holding a crash helmet under one arm and one of those big insulated bags in the other.

'Any of you guys order a pizza?' he said.