The Ground Beneath His Feet

Gods are great, but the heart is greater.
For it is from our hearts they come, and to our hearts they shall return...
—Neil Gaiman, American Gods (Ch.14)

He took a sledgehammer to the brownstone wall, shattering the thin plaster with the first blow and dislodging an island of mortar on the fifth. He looped the bike chain around and padlocked it tight against the chunk.
    The security guard had already ambled across to his hut to gather up his assortment of keys. The automatic doors cycled before he even rounded the corner. The brownstone chunk bashed dents in every step up to the first floor like some demented bulldog on a leash until he decided to take the elevator. It pinged at the top floor. The terminus.
    The door leading out offered no resistance. He lugged the brownstone chunk up onto the low wall that framed the graveled rooftop, and clambered up after it. The world pitched, switched perspective: The city-sprawl stretched out like the lens of the world had perfected the contra-zoom; latticed ground rolling up to meet the orange sky. He wrapped the end of the chain around his left shank. The first inch of his dust-spotted sandals teased the lip of the drop, persuading granules of plaster to free themselves from their purchase. He stared down at the abyss, and decided it would probably all be okay.
    Click.
    A chill ran along the spine of the night.
    ‘Oh.’
    Blue smoke crept into his nostrils. The door closed behind him, the latch clicking back into place.
    ‘The show’s starting any minute now,’ he said.
    The brief sound of lips creasing into a smile, like the crackle of a wood-fire a room away.
    ‘A once-in-a-lifetime spectacular. No interval, no ice-cream. The greatest show on earth.’ Three beats. ‘Miserable old place.’
    ‘I like it,’ said the air behind him, floating a voice across the gap as if his back was to an open window, and a silk curtain was gently brushing his ear to the beat of the breeze. ‘It has charm.’
    ‘Springer spaniels have “charm”,’ he replied. ‘The world is... what is it? Sound and fury.’
    ‘I like it.’
    ‘I haven’t slept. I don’t sleep. I’ve got bags under my eyes.’
    ‘That’s okay. Nobody looks at your eyes.’ He felt her presence slink up onto the wall. He considered that “slink” was the wrong word, because it implied a feline allusion. Cats had always been straightforward creatures.
    ‘Nobody looks at yours, either.’
    ‘I know. The plastics industry was a Godsend. It certainly made up for the Suffragettes.’
    A turquoise smoke ring drifted across his eyeline before dissipating against the glow of sodium-vapour.
    ‘I’m gonna do it, you know.’
    ‘I know. You’ve had a hard life, all of that cattle rustling and being languorous around the harp.’
    ‘Liar,’ he said. ‘I had to be always on, always performing. My life’s been soaked in death. All those crossings.’ He kicked his heels against the flat of the wall. She took a breath. ‘And don’t try to persuade me that I “rose above it”, or I “was always light on my feet” or something. It’s trite.’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘Jokes are for cowards who won’t face up to anything other than irony.’
    ‘I know. Your Achilles heel. You always had a tendency to play it straight.’
    ‘Was that a joke? Tendency?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Good.’ He refused to look at her. For her part, she remained absolutely still, and blew no more smoke rings. ‘You’re doing a pretty shitty job of talking me down.’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘Good. Just so you know.’
    ‘Mind, you’re not doing a very good job of shuffling off your coil. What’s with the brick?’
    He lifted his right leg half-heartedly, and wiggled his foot in mid-air. ‘Weight.’
    She exhaled a thought into the night air. ‘The captain goes down with his ship. Except the ones who chain themselves to the mast.’
    ‘Cowards.’ Five beats. ‘What happens if you push me?’
    ‘Street art,’ she said.
    ‘What happens?’
    ‘Sound and fury. Use your imagination.
    ‘Turning himself into Swan matches, that kind of thing?’ He picked at the stone wall with a finger, lodging chippings under the nail. ‘Bloody swans. Of all the creatures…?’
    ‘Only one with a, y’know. A fellah.’ She dangled a hand back and forth. The nails were long, varnished. Rose-red.
    ‘Sounds like him. Randy little bastard.’
    ‘He prefers “mercurial”. Like you.’
    ‘Like me.’ He shook his head. You’re not gonna push me, are you?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Good.’
    ‘Do you want me to give you the speech? No one will remember you. We’ve all got it tough. It’s adaption, not decay.
    ‘No.’
    ‘Good. My throat hurts.’ She blew another smoke ring, hazier and less defined than the last. ‘These things are useful, though. Men like a woman who can blow rings around them.’
    ‘I’m glad you’re prospering.’
    ‘What did it in for you?’
    ‘Adaption decay. They invented the aeroplane.’
    ‘Oh.’ She shrugged, and doused the cigarette on the skin of the wall. She glided to her feet, and left without another word, leaving him kicking his heels.
    Click.
    A feather fell to earth.