The Hundred and Ninety-Nine Steps by Michel Faber Read Free Book Online

exceptionally frail; the rags from which the paper had been made must have been shabby stuff indeed, poorly pounded. The brown ink of Thomas Peirson’s handwriting stood out tolerably well against a background that hadn’t discoloured much, but then the paper’s whiteness had less to do with thorough washing of the rags than with an expedient douse in that brand-new invention (well, brand-new in 1788, anyway) chlorine bleach. Inevitably, the bleach had left its own acid legacy, and with every gentle nudge of Siân’s knife, the weakened grain of the humid surface threatened to disintegrate. The words themselves were fragile, the gallic acid and iron sulphate in the brown ink having corroded little holes in the ‘e’s and ‘o’s.
    below, I write these words. In my fifty years of life I have been
    Been what? A thread of the paper had come loose, damaging the crown of one of the words in the line below. Siân paused, dabbed her eyes with her sleeve. She ought to give the paper longer to relax, get some sleep while it did so.
    Outside in the street, a drunken male voice shouted an ancient word of contentious etymology, and a female voice responded with laughter. The act from which all humans originate, evoked in a word whose own origins were long lost.
    Siân laid her head against her pillow, one leg hanging off the bed, the other twitching wearily on the mattress. She closed her eyes for just a moment, to moisten them before getting back to the task.
    â€˜I love you – you must believe that,’ the man with the big hands whispered into her ear. ‘I’ll risk my soul to save yours.’
    He sounded so sincere, so overwhelmed by his love for her, that she pressed her cheek against his shoulder and hugged him tight, determined never to be disjoined from him.
    Within minutes, of course (or was it hours?), her head was disjoined from her neck, and the seagulls were screaming.
    Later that same morning, when the sun was high over Church Street and the hundred and ninety-nine steps were glowing all the way up the East Cliff, Siân stood poised at the foot of them, breathing deeply, getting ready for the climb. The sharpness of the sea air was sort of restorative and yet it was making her dizzy too, and she was finding it hard to decide if she should keep breathing deeply or cut her losses and get moving. She still hadn’t begun the climb when, half a dozen breaths later, she was jolted from her under-slept stupor by the shout:
    â€˜Kill, Hadrian, kill!’
    It was Magnus’s voice ringing out, mock-imperious, but she couldn’t see where it was coming from. All she knew was that a large animal, barking raucously, fangs bared, had sprung into her path, ready to knock her sprawling.
    â€˜Hey!’ she yelped, half in fear, half in recognition. Hadrian leapt back on to his haunches, panting with pleasure. His cream-coloured snout was still twitching, his teeth still bared, but in a whimpery, goofy grin.
    â€˜Show ’er no mercy, boy,’ said Mack, jogging into view. He was taller and better-looking than she remembered, stripped down once again to athletic essentials, his bare legs glistening in the sun, his T-shirt stained with a long spearhead of sweat pointing downwards.
    â€˜You scared me,’ she chided him, as he drew abreast of her and continued to jog on the spot, his limbs in constant motion.
    â€˜Sorry. Cruel sense of humour. Blame it on my father.’
    Though his face was flushed and she was regarding his pounding feet and pumping fists with disdainful bemusement, he seemed unable to stop running on the spot. It was an addiction, she’d read somewhere. Exercise junkies.
    â€˜For goodness’ sake, stand still.’
    â€˜It’s a glorious day!’ he retorted, throwing his arms wide to the sun as he continued to pound the stone under his feet. ‘Come on, let’s run up the steps!’
    â€˜Be my guest,’ she