The gideon trilogy adaptation as a narrative tool in creative practice: reflections on the nature of adaptation and a comparison

Chapter Five: Altered Skylines

The Tar Man ran up the steep and narrow spiral staircase towards the Stone Gallery. By the time he was nearing the top his lungs were close to bursting – even with his exceptional stamina he could run no more. He was heading for a secret chamber, barely big enough to accommodate two standing men. He had used it on several occasions and it had been shown to him, as repayment for a favour, by the grandson of the mason who had worked on it. But he could go no further and the Tar Man stopped, slumped against the cold wall, and rested his forehead on clenched fists while his ribcage rose and fell and he took in huge gulps of air. Through half-closed eyes he saw a date cut deeply into the stone wall. He was slow to decipher letters but figures were easier for him. There was a name, t. mohun, which he spelt out painfully, one letter at a time.

“Greetings, Master Mohun,” he said out loud. “I’ll warrant you were not in such a predicament as I when you took a fancy to carving your name and announcing your presence to the future.”

Underneath was a date: 1724. The Tar Man smiled to himself. I must be the oldest man in London but you were born before me - and you are long gone now.

The sound of raised voices and people running up the stairs drew him back to his senses with a jolt, and the fear of capture gave him the strength to move his legs, still trembling with over-exertion. He flew up the last few steps and dived to the right where he knew the chamber was located. To his horror he was confronted with a kind of office, with windows and an ugly modern door. At least it was empty but the secret chamber was no more, converted into a bare guard’s room with a desk and a chair. Fear clutched at his heart; fear of capture, fear of incarceration. It had only happened once in his life, all those years ago at the age of fourteen, and they had not shown him an ounce of mercy. He hated the men who had unjustly put him away with a black hatred, and he still picked at the wound which the experience had inflicted upon him, refusing to let it heal, so that it would keep him strong. Being innocent was no protection, so you might as well be bad, as bad as you dared…

So the Tar Man sprang across the corridor, past the stairwell, where he could hear his pursuers close on his heels, and on through a small door that opened out onto the Stone Gallery. The gallery was open to the skies and encircled the base of the dome. It was here that visitors would poke their heads through the stone balustrades and marvel at the magnificent views of the capital. The gallery was almost deserted. Dusk was approaching and an icy blast of wind struck the Tar Man as he hastened around the gallery in search of the stairs which lead down to the lower levels. When he found it, he flung open the door and charged down the stairs several steps at a time until, heading towards him, he heard voices and feet thundering up the stairs. He froze. How had they managed to go down and across and up again so quickly? Confound these talking devices! he thought. Now he was trapped. He had but one choice: to go up. Up to the Golden Gallery at the top of the dome. This was not good…

The Tar Man retraced his steps and pulled open a door leading to a series of steep, spiral staircases, this time made of iron. Grabbing hold of the thin handrails, he used his arms as well as his legs to climb to the top, alternately pulling himself up and taking giant strides, covering several steps at once. With each step the free-standing metal staircase clanged and vibrated; the noise he was making would instantly give him away as soon as his pursuers entered the stairwell. But better this than to move slowly. He was beginning to feel giddy climbing round and round and round and started to see spiral shapes in his mind’s eye, nauseating, luminous spirals. Just as he was beginning to fear that his legs would no longer support him, he arrived at a narrow stone corridor. He squeezed through and stepped out through a small doorway onto the Golden Gallery.

He was alone. A strong, glacial wind slapped his cheeks and through eyes that watered with the intense cold he was fleetingly aware of London stretching to the horizon on all sides. Wasting no time, he unbuckled his belt and tied it firmly around the bottom of one of the metal railings that encircled the gallery. Then he climbed over, hanging on to the railings with one hand and grabbing hold of the belt with the other. His feet were wedged painfully between the metal bars. Screwing up all his courage, he dislodged his feet, let go of the rail, and caught hold of the leather belt with his other hand as gravity caused him to drop sickeningly towards the ground. He clung on. As he dangled there, buffeted by the wind and swinging this way and that, like a carcass on butcher’s hook, he could just make out the sound of approaching voices. His hands were so numb with cold he could scarcely feel them. He was beginning to lose his grip. The Tar Man closed his eyes and gritted his teeth and willed his fingers to hold firm. For a moment his head swam and strange shapes floated before his eyes. And then he realised that the wind had suddenly dropped and that it was much lighter, in fact hot sunshine was pouring down on him. He opened his eyes and squinted in the glare. This was not the same London. What miracle had transported him here? Before his last ounce of strength failed him, he heaved himself up and onto the handrail, and threw one leg over so that he was balanced half on and half off, three hundred and fifty feet above the ground. He looked to see if he was alone and saw that there was a kind of dark border on the edges of his vision and that he could make out three or four guards walking around the Golden Gallery who soon gave up their search for him. He heard a shout as if from a great distance.

“He’s not here, mate!”

Then the guards disappeared.

The Tar Man dropped down from the rail and leant against the wall of the cathedral and dropped to his knees in thanks. He looked out over an altered landscape. It was summer. He saw green hills in the distance and a river with sailing boats and a thicket of church spires and wood smoke rising up from chimneys. He did not need to be told the date. This was August 1763. He tipped back his head and laughed.

“I have faded!” he cried. “I have the secret!”

And as abruptly as he had returned to his own time, he was catapulted back to the twenty-first century and he stood, alone, above the dark and windswept city. The Tar Man looked down at Fleet Street, running like a steep ravine through the buildings that lined it; he looked to the West and glimpsed the Millennium Wheel and the Houses of Parliament; he looked to the East and saw great skyscrapers rising up in front of him and, further east still, he saw the Towers of Canary Wharf winking in the twilight.

He shouted into the wind:

“Never will I be brought low again! Now shall I make my mark on the world and no man will know how to stop me!”