Until now.
He turned into Downing Street. He’d be caught, surely. But the question was, how far could he get before that happened?
Someone had had the bright idea to string the tower cranes building the Grand Arcade with Christmas lights; that’s how much a fixture the cranes had become. They shone.
That’s one of the last things Liv said to Peter: that she loved the cranes. That they were more beautiful, in their immensity, symmetry, and balance, than whatever they could build.
There’s nothing so tall as they in Cambridge. Yes, there’s the view from Great St. Mary’s bell tower, but it has a cage around the top to prevent jumping. You can press your face up against the cross-hatching to give your eye an unjailed look. You can see down onto the college lawns, and notice the plaids and stripes made by the mowers. But the cranes …
It was all too small, suddenly. Too tight. The history, the traditions, the glut of buildings.
Peter wanted height. He wanted to look at how big the world really is.
Cambridge is a transitional place. Some people stay. But most pass through on their way to somewhere else. They get their degrees. The cranes sum it up nicely—they’ll come down when their job’s done.
That’s why it was urgent that Peter do this immediately.
The building site was fenced and locked. Peter knew there would be cameras. He tried to not look too interested. He wanted to shock whoever was watching. He wanted to give himself the most time he could.
Just scale the fence, jump down. The cranes were there. Just scramble up the base of one and grab on to the beginning of the latticed neck. He could manage that. Would alarms go off? How far could he get? Would whoever swooped in to get him down treat him like a criminal, or gently, like a potential suicide?
He just wanted to get up high. The air didn’t feel breathable down among the buildings anymore.
There’s a famous Hubble image of deep space, full of distant galaxies and stars like a bag of sweets spilled across a blackboard. Hubble gets those kinds of pictures because it’s above the atmosphere. It sees without fog.
That’s what Peter wanted to do.
He wanted to try. He wanted to reach. He wanted to stand there just for a moment, and fling out his arms, and look down from a great height.
I’ll come down without a fight
, he promised himself.
I’ll take what punishment comes. But I’ll have that view in my head. That’ll make it worthwhile
.
He grabbed the link fence and hauled himself up. He climbed, and rolled over the top, landing on his feet. The cranes were right there. He scrambled up a base, and gripped the bottom lattice in his hand.
The universe expands.
Acknowledgments
My heartfelt gratitude to all who contributed to
The Whole World
, especially:
My research sources, Keith Ferry, Dave and Gina Holland, Stephanie Hurd, Jon Coppelman, Dr. Judy Weiss, Dr. Sheila Picken, Jo Timson, Dr. J. Alex Stark, Ruth and Elizabeth Doggett, Mingwei Tan of Peterhouse, and Detective Superintendent Mark Birch of the Cambridgeshire Major Investigations Team, for the generosity with which they shared their experiences and expertise. They know their stuff; all errors and liberties are my own.
My contacts at Magdalene College, especially Dr. Glenton Jelbert, Dr. Simon Stoddart, Assistant Bursar Peter Daybell, College Marshal Bob Smith, and Deputy College Marshal Michael Flanagan. I deeply appreciate the warmth and friendliness I’ve encountered whenever I’ve approached this college.
My early readers, Derek Black, Amy Mokady, Renee Cramer, Mary McDonald, Margaret Brentano Baker, and Eva Gallant, for encouragement and excellent advice.
Miss Snark, whose Crapometer set me on the right path at a critical moment.
Kristen King, for insisting on clarity.
Cameron McClure, for her artistic sensitivity and professional savvy.
Kate Miciak, for taking a chance on me.
Randall Klein, for the challenge of his high standards. You didn’t fix mistakes; you identified opportunities.
And, personally, gratitude to Dad, who loves me second to James Joyce; Mom, who embodies the compassion I attempt toward all my characters; and Gavin, the love of my life, who ensures that I have time to write.
Love to both Samuel, who has what it takes to be a writer himself one day, and Westcott, who will very soon be a reader.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
E
MILY
W
INSLOW
is an American living in Cambridge, England.
The Whole World
is her first novel.
The Whole World
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Emily Winslow
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
D
ELACORTE
P
RESS
is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
All interior photographs copyright © iStockphoto.com
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Winslow, Emily (Emily Carroll)
The whole world : a novel / Emily Winslow.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-440-33957-1
1. Women college students—Fiction. 2. Americans—England—Fiction. 3. Cambridge (England)—Fiction. 4. Psychological fiction. I. Title.
PS3623.I6643W57 2010
813′6—dc22 2010001646
v3.0