Neverwhere(92)

“I’m not scared of falling,” he told himself. “The part I’m scared of is where you finish falling.” But he knew he was lying to himself. It was the fall he was scared of—afraid of flailing and tumbling helplessly through the air, down to the rock floor far below, knowing there was nothing he could do to save himself, no miracle that would save him . . .

He slowly became aware that someone was talking to him.

“Just climb along the plank, Richard,” someone was saying.

“I . . . can’t,” he whispered.

“You went through worse than this to get the key, Richard,” someone said. It was Door talking.

“I’m really not very good at heights,” he said, obstinately, his face pressed against the wooden board, his teeth chartering. Then, “I want to go home.” He felt the wood of the plank pressing against his face. And then the plank began to shake. Hunter’s voice said, “I’m really not sure how much weight the board will bear. You two put your weight here.” The plank vibrated as someone moved along it, toward him. He clung to it, with his eyes closed. Then Hunter said, quietly, confidently, in his ear, “Richard?”

“Mm.”

“Just edge forward, Richard. A bit at a time. Come on . . . ” Her caramel fingers stroked his white-knuckled hand, clasping the plank. “Come on.”

He took a deep breath, and inched forward. And froze again. “You’re doing fine,” said Hunter. “That’s good. Come on.” And, inch by inch, creep by crawl, she talked Richard along the plank, and then, at the end of the plank, she simply picked him up, her hands beneath his arms, and placed him on solid ground.

“Thank you,” he said. He could not think of anything else to say to Hunter that would be big enough to cover what she had just done for him. He said it again. “Thank you.” And then he said, to all of them, “I’m sorry.”

Door looked up at him. “It’s okay,” she said. “You’re safe now.” Richard looked at the winding spiral road beneath the world, going down, and down; and he looked at Hunter and Door and Lamia; and he laughed until he wept.

“What,” Door demanded, when, at length, he had stopped laughing, “is so funny?”

“Safe,” he said, simply. Door stared at him, and then she, too, smiled. “So where do we go now?” Richard asked.

“Down,” said Lamia. They began to walk down Down Street. Hunter was in the lead, with Door beside her. Richard walked next to Lamia, breathing in the lily-of-the-valley-honeysuckle scent of her, and enjoying her company.

“I really appreciate you coming with us,” he told her. “Being a guide. I hope it’s not going to be bad luck for you or anything.”

She fixed him with her foxglove-colored eyes. “Why should it be bad luck?”

“Do you know who the rat-speakers are?”

“Of course.”

“There was a rat-speaker girl named Anaesthesia. She. Well, we got to be sort of friends, and she was guiding me somewhere. And then she got stolen. On Night’s Bridge. I keep wondering what happened to her.”

She smiled at him sympathetically. “My people have stories about that. Some of them may even be true.”

“You’ll have to tell me about them,” he said. It was cold. His breath was steaming in the chilly air.

“One day,” she said. Her breath did not steam. “It’s very good of you, taking me with you.”

“Least we could do.”

Door and Hunter went around the curve in front of them, and went out of sight. “You know,” said Richard, “the other two are getting a bit ahead of us. We might want to hurry.”

“Let them go,” she said, gently. “We’ll catch up.” It was, thought Richard, peculiarly like going to a movie with a girl as a teenager. Or rather, like walking home afterwards: stopping at bus shelters, or beside walls, to snatch a kiss, a hasty fumble of skin and a tangle of tongues, then hurrying on to catch up with your friends . . .

Lamia ran a cold finger down his cheek. “You’re so warm,” she said, admiringly. -“It must be wonderful to have so much warmth.”

Richard tried to look modest. “It’s not something I think about much, really,” he admitted. He heard, distantly, from above, the metallic slam of the elevator door.

Lamia looked up at him, pleadingly, sweetly. “Would you give me some of your heat, Richard?” she asked. “I’m so cold.”

Richard wondered if he should kiss her. “What? I . . . “

She looked disappointed. “Don’t you like me?” she asked. He hoped, desperately, that he had not hurt her feelings.