The wind snatched away his breath, carrying any spoken sound soaring away across the skyline. Nods, pointing, actions were more important than any yelled commands up here, vulnerable, on the top of the office block where eyesight was more important than hearing. He liked it that way, the loud quietness where human voices were made useless by the deafening wind in high and exposed places. He had always thought the world would be a better place if there was a little less talking.

Each member of the team had a different coloured helmet, to make it easy to tell one from another at a glance, with each person’s name stencilled on front and back. Jack. Jen. Serge. Pez. Bold, simple. All the equipment had been thoroughly checked on the ground by at least two people — every rope and accessory cord examined for nicks or stretches, every harness for worn stitching or fastenings, every belay and carabiner for wear or fatigue — so that activity on the roof would be focussed and efficient when the team were most vulnerable.

Ordinary office blocks would have allowed a cradle to be used, but the celebrity architect had been given far more freedom with this building and aesthetics had trumped practicalities. A vast budget with foreign investment, a prestige location, a city aspiring to the global stage and eager for a landmark building. A vanity project, you might call it. The winning design was a burly offset oval, fifteen stories of glass and steel around a central courtyard, on the crest of the hill of the city centre with the beautiful curved angle of the roof accentuating the building’s height and muscular breadth as it barged into the centre of the city skyline, shoving the other tower blocks aside. The vast curvature made it a wonder to look at from the outside, the celebrity architect receiving plaudits and prizes aplenty, but comparatively little thought had been given to the internal architecture. All those curved walls made it a hard place to fit and furnish, and beige managers’ propensity to straight-lined conformity made it a bland place to work. A rectangular cradle was no use for cleaning all that curved glass, of course, so an abseiling crew was retained for a bi-monthly clean. This, though, was a special job for a different kind of celebrity.

That morning one of the famous city centre peregrine falcons had stooped down into the building’s hollow centre chasing a pigeon and collided with the giant hanging sculpture of a griffin attached to the inside of the building. The mirrored scales, intended to direct mythical light down into the courtyard, had presumably confused the living missile at the full speed of its explosive dive. Shell-shocked by the bang as the bird crashed into the griffin, office workers on the east side of the eighth floor had become concerned for its welfare as it sat unmoving on a giant clawed hind leg of the legendary creature, eternally tensed, ironically, ready to leap from the side of the building and up into the open air.

Pez and Jen were the two who would make the descent to net and rescue the bird, while Jack would relay at the top and Serge would anchor at the bottom. Pez. Instantly chosen for him by the Scouse chair of the university rock climbing club when he had introduced himself in Freshers’ Week with his full name, and it had stuck.

…

He had always hated his name. One might have thought that as a young child his name would be the source of imaginative games, but no flights of fancy or lofty escapes into the wild blue could ever offset the teasing, the taunts, the torments, the terror. Children can be cruel. In the Eighties, in his provincial school playground, there were no unusual names. Plenty of Jameses and Emmas, Lauras and Toms, Daniels and Sarahs, but none of the more foreign names of playgrounds in Britain’s more cosmopolitan cities, and Peregrines, none. Peregrine Woodville. He had retained a painful resentment that his parents had chosen his name selfishly, without any apparent conception let alone concern for what his life would be like bearing the weight of a portentous name.

His mother, Alison Jane, née Munro, had inherited her own mother’s claim of Prime Minister William Gladstone as a distant ancestor by some convoluted branch and twig, and consequently felt she was conferred an elegant aristocracy. Michael Edward Montgomery, his father, was descended from a string of Majors and Colonels whose portraits lined the hallway of his own childhood home, and asserted that a successor of his line would need a name with gravitas and distinction. And so their firstborn was named Peregrine Arthur Clement, Pip for short because Tolkien had passed through his father’s hands at just the right time, or the wrong time, depending on your point of view. Alison and Michael were content that their chosen name projected the character and virtues they expected their son to embody and would satisfy the expectations they were instinctively compelled to fulfil. Of course, neither of them had ever considered that their august son would fluff his eleven-plus exam and miss out on the long-presumed place at the highly respected county grammar school. Army wages of a middle-ranking officer meant that a private education was out of the question, so Peregrine Woodville boarded the bus for the local comprehensive and a secondary school career punctuated by consistent catcalls, comma, and persistently bruised arms, full stop.

…

His alienation from his schoolmates and his churning contempt for his parents drove Pip onto his bicycle to escape into a pilgrim’s solitude in the Staffordshire lanes, lost in the cadenced meditation of pumping legs and synchronised breathing. It was on these long weekend journeys that he first found the bird with which he shared a name and in which he found a meaning. A regular rest stop at Blithfield Reservoir would often turn into an hour or several of contemplative attention to the wild rhythm of the waterside. Having never previously paid any attention to bird-life, Pip knew no names let alone colourings, behaviours or characteristics. He would try to remember the markings and colourings of one new bird at each visit to look up on returning home. Waders and warblers; gulls, grebes, geese and goosanders; stonechats, sandpipers and shovelers: all shared the lake shoreline and the trees and fields of its borders, bobbing, pecking, darting, halting, watching, pecking again, in their endless toil of survival.

Occasionally, though, there would be a sudden commotion, shrieking calls and then a scattering in all directions. Understanding little of bird behaviour beyond the ebb and flow he observed during his monastic watches, he assumed it was entirely normal, that some mystical avian signal triggered these rowdy responses. It was only after many weeks that he noticed the shape of a bird that was different from the others: faster; here, and then far away in mere moments. He wondered how he had not noticed the distinct fluted body and long pointed wings of a hawk circling high above when the birds at the water’s edge were most skittish. It wheeled high on the winds, seemingly stationary despite the strongest gusts and then darting away and quickly disappearing into the far distance.

On the fourth sighting, though, he realised what he had been seeing, what he had been missing. Alarm at the waterside, crying and flapping, a flock of panicked shelducks flinging themselves into the air, white forewings and collar marking an easy target against the dark earth for a hawk’s eyes, even from great height; a silent missile, noiseless impact, a talon-strike to the head, white, brown and green feathers tumbling through the air then thumping down onto the hard ground of the ploughed field. The hawk gracefully pitched fast around and landed hard down on the neck of its kill, powerful talons making sure it was broken. Stillness. The shelduck flock fleeing but one of their number gone. Head held high, the hawk’s huge eyes surveyed the horizon, wings dropped over its prize, hiding the white of the shelduck on the brown earth with its own camouflage. It flipped the limp body over, presenting the breast to the sky and with expert precision plucked its feathers and consumed the warm meat of the duck until all that was left was the moss green head and dulling pink feet.

Afterwards, he inspected the kill. Cardinal stain still glistened on the dark sod where it flowed and stopped. Yet, in his naïvety the bird was still nameless, no more distinct than a hawk, unable to even identify it as a falcon rather than any other raptor, and he carefully committed to memory his impressions of its slate, almost purple, head and back, the waves of rust and dirty white on its breast, the whipping tips of its wings as it accelerated in flight and those terrifying, powerful bright yellow talons that gripped its kill and would not let go until it was satisfied.

Later that evening, he discovered its name. Peregrine. The wandering falcon.

…

The wind sang in their ears as they attached their descending ropes to the roof anchors, carrying with it the percussion of city life and traffic sounds. Pez and Jen checked their climbing harnesses for comfort, cross-checked by Jack and Serge for secure fastening. Each gust brought a new phrase to the song and they attached their rappel devices to the ropes in the easy, virtuosic rhythm brought by masterful experience, again cross-checked, and then autoblock knots tied on for full safety. Spare billets and carabiners checked to ensure they would not tangle or interfere during the descent but still be accessible if needed, as the wind-song reached the middle eight. And the net, to catch the bird, stop it trying to fly off and maybe hurting itself further. Gloves on. The traditional four-beat finger countdown, and the final nod on the last beat. And as the whistling tune hit the opening phrase they leaned back and out into the chorus and began the steady swing-time tempo of their synchronised descent.

…

The University climbing club had given Pez (as he had by then became known universally outside his family, who all still resolutely referred to him by his childhood diminutive, Pip) a new means of escape. His adolescent cycling had kept him lean and light though it also meant his physical strength was unevenly distributed and he found he needed a lot of training before he was able to climb with friends with even a moderate amount more experience. The club ran regular weekend trips to climb cliffs, gorges and rock faces in the countryside that could be reached within an hour or so. The most able and most eager, though, would eschew the traditional untamed student Friday nights for a more feral existence in the British wildernesses, hunting the best climbs they could find and returning with savage tales of conquest and capture. As Pez’s strength increased and his skill grew his appetite for the great climbs and wild places became more primal, matched by his singular will to overcome any physical weakness or technical capability.

His yearning to escape, to take flight, became more visceral. Pez began to feel he was tied to the wilderness, that if he spent too long in the city a cord attached to his abdomen would tug at him and pull him out once more. His excursions into the wild were as much about the journey as they were the climb and the conquest. The sensation of departure, leaving the everyday behind and starting the trip, almost tingled, like a sudden deep breath that cleared the lungs all the way to the bottom and sent a potent rush of oxygen throughout his body, exciting his extremities and charging his mind. The tingling could last beyond the leaving, he found, if he stayed in the moment of the journey and was able to prevent his mind drifting to the latest demands of his parents for diligence in his studies or preparation for his post-varsity career.

He often saw birds of prey in these wild places — kestrels, buzzards, goshawk, kites and once, in the Lake District in the autumn of his third year, a golden eagle — but it was the peregrine that he found most captivating. He admired its status, the pinnacle of perfect evolution, the fastest creature on the face of the earth. He found it sharpened his self-discipline and he trained more precisely, practising movements singly and ceaselessly until he was utterly confident in his body and the efficiency of his actions. Sometimes he would intentionally take his weekend climbing trips in places known to have nesting pairs of peregrines, specifically so he would watch them behaving wildly in the wild. The more he watched them the more he began to realise how sensitive they were to human movements, these careless creatures wandering loudly across the landscape, legs and arms flailing, betraying themselves and scaring off everything else. When humans came by, the peregrines would leave for quieter places. He did the same.

After university, Pez used his climbing as a means for travelling, using the friendships he had made in the club to visit contacts around Europe, working as he went as an instructor and guide. His parents did not approve, of course, but hoped it was just a phase and trusted he would eventually come to his senses and use his engineering degree for a proper career, as they saw it. Talking on the phone with them he would just listen, mumble something vaguely appropriate at the right places, but their words washed over him. When either of his parents were exhorting him to choose whichever life-goal was their current fixation they always called him by his full name, Peregrine. It riled him. It irritated him. It kept him away, kept him wandering.

Dolomites, Italy. Chamonix and Fontainebleau, France. Kalymnos, Greece. Labské Údolí, Czech Republic. Costa Daurada, Spain. He travelled, collecting the great ascents of Europe, often not contacting home for months on end, especially after the most unilateral phone calls. It was climbing in Teverga, in Northern Spain, that he met Paloma. And there was a resident pair of peregrine, too. On his second day there the tiercel peregrine took a collared dove in mid-flight, from a stoop of five hundred feet or more.

…

It was curious, the way the crosswind died suddenly and was replaced by a pushing, shoving, insistent downdraft as they went over the edge and down inside the hoop. The noise dropped from the high-pitched whistling of the rooftop to which they had become accustomed, to a deeper, lower burr, almost a growl. The griffin’s stare that from above had seemed to strain upwards, desperate for its liberty, changed as they slowly, steadily dropped down, becoming haughty and disdainful, pitying even, of these poor, weak flightless beasts, forever bound by gravity, falling in slow motion. They passed the griffin’s head and could still feel the steady downwards pressure of the gusting air on their heads and shoulders. Though a supreme master of flight, the falcon still needed sufficient space to gain the speed to clear the roof. With the swirling currents and tenacious downdraft, small surprise that an injured bird was unable to make it out.

The peregrine hid, its slate feathers blending perfectly against the dirty steel of the griffin’s hind leg, wary of these slowly falling creatures from which it instinctively retreated, their lurid colourings and flailing limbs, their constant chatter and shouts upwards that boomed and bounced in this resonating artificial tube. Pez could see the pigeon carcass, askew, on top of an air conditioning bin five floors below, grey and mauve and still, a dried wine stain smeared across the metal box.

…

Paloma was unlike anyone he had met before. Fast. Fit. Naturally strong. Tenacious. Single-minded. He was transfixed by her from their first encounter, passing him ascending the wall at Entrago. Her gothic grey hair, tied tightly so it would not interfere; the no-nonsense iris-purple-and-silver vest and shorts combo; her lithe, fluid olive limbs; she seemed to barely notice him as she scaled the rock face, utterly focussed on her movements, her holds, her climb. He was entranced. He took a moment to admire the huge carob wings of a griffon vulture slowly circling on the updraft created by the wall. Even from this distance its dark primary feathers looked like graceful fingers, he noticed, pointing at the cliff as it wheeled around. He turned back to watch this masterful climber again but she had already disappeared behind an overhang. In the bar later that evening she was unmistakable: exuberant and magnetic, surrounded by friends, loudly talking and laughing together, reverent climbers flocking to hear the whispers confirmed and then fist-bump and congratulate her for the record-breaking time up the wall that day.

Their relationship was sudden, fast, urgent; their sex, likewise. They climbed together, Pez’s instincts for perfection and achievement driving him to follow her, to keep up. They were the centre of climbing social scene, Paloma and Peregrine, the dove and the falcon who pursued her. Within weeks they were laying plans to start a climbing gear shop together; within months it was up and running, using a small inheritance he had purposely never touched before. How could it fail, at a place like this?

Their first customers were loyal friends and awed admirers. The buzz was perfect and the shop was flying from the first month. Pez thoroughly enjoyed talking to customers and his engineer’s attention to detail was heightened by being surrounded by all the gear. He was eager to make sure each person had exactly the right thing for their trip, questioning them for precise details of their planned climbs and their ability. At first he did not mind that Paloma would often leave early. She had competitions, she had to train. He understood. But when the buzz of the first few months began to diminish and customers dwindled he became frustrated and, to compensate, was even more eager to help with each person who came through the door. Their first quarrel was over the shared workload. He argued it was because word had got around that you were unlikely to meet the local celebrity in the shop she ran. His money was running out, he said; he could not prop up the sales much longer. She said he was too demanding, too obsessive, that he was too intense with customers. He did not understand, he was just trying to help, to make sure they had the right thing. He said it was important he was honest and advise people not to buy the wrong gear. Paloma, despairing, climbed. Pez put more money into the shop to cover their bills.

They argued more frequently after that. The customers ran out, and so did the money. The shop folded. The fights became vicious. Paloma left. Pez was devastated, wounded, broken. He had lost the woman he adored. He had sunk all his money into the shop. And that meant he was stuck, too, unable to afford to travel anywhere, let alone home.

…

As they descended the last half-dozen metres they could finally see the injured peregrine. Unable to stand, it made no attempt to flap or move away from them as they abseiled closer but those huge black eyes kept a careful watch. Now they were closer Pez could tell it was a male, a tiercel: the feathers of its back were a near-uniform glaucous grey, with occasional shimmers of deep blue as the bird craned its head, scrutinising their subtlest movements, and the butter yellow of its beak and talons was vibrant even here in the dimmed light.

Since it was not making any attempt to stand there was no way it would be able to fly away, and it may have sustained damage to its wings or to a clavicle or coracoid, say, in the collision with the sculpture, but there was no telling what a frightened bird might try to do. Jen prepared the net they would need to throw over it to stop it from trying to escape. The bird was skittish, wary, and despite its wounds the two abseilers were anxious of getting too close and the bird injuring itself further through any instinctual moves from danger. They decided they would need a pole to hold the net out and drop it over the bird. Pez called up to Jack above on a walkie-talkie, who swiftly let one down on a third rope. Jen affixed the net, turned away from the bird and tested a few times how to drop it so the net ballooned, then turned back, ready. The tiercel cocked its head up at the net hovering above but made no attempt to move. It dropped smoothly and gently; the bird sat meekly underneath, calling out twice, then once more, then silent. Pez put on the hawking gloves and moved in to carefully take the bird. He slid his hands underneath the net, took a firm but gentle hold on either side, preventing it from moving more. Jen delicately pulled off the net, careful not to hurt the bird any more. With the net off and the wounded peregrine safely in hand, Jack sent down a travel cage, they placed the bird inside and then the three of them slowly descended together, Serge guiding the cage line to bring the bird safely to the ground.

…

Michael Woodville arrived on the first morning flight. The phone call home had been difficult, and it had taken him over two weeks before he was able to dial the number. Pez had tried asking friends for work first of all, but they had been unwilling, of course; no one wanted to be seen to be taking sides. He was only able to tell himself the truth, that he had nowhere else to turn, when he had not eaten for two days.

‘Dad, its me.’

‘Hello, Peregrine, my boy.’

‘Dad, really? You know … ’

‘Yes, I know, son. Sorry.’

He ran through the other people he could have called instead, people he had met in the last few years of traveling.

‘Are you still there, my boy?’

‘Yes, I’m still here.’

Many were delightful, kind people, but he could not think of one that would be willing to help.

‘Dad, I’m in a bit of trouble.’

As his father walked up to the door Pez noticed that the rental car was parked uncharacteristically poorly; he had always parked slowly, carefully, deliberately, which had never failed to frustrate teenaged Pip. Michael had already booked a return flight for the two of them later that afternoon. Packing took little time — touring round Europe meant traveling light — and Pez and Michael were in the car and leaving Teverga behind within two hours. They had an awkward lunch in central Santander before taking the flight home.

The parental instinct is powerful, no matter how reckless or prodigal your child. Alison fussed over her returned son. His bed had new Egyptian cotton sheets. Everything was cooked in double cream and red wine. Michael made sure he was up and about every day and took him to the golf club when he went, where Pez would drink coffee and read while Michael played a round.

He wanted to talk with his parents about what had happened, to tell them honestly about it all. But he did not. At first he was just too embarrassed about what he had done, embarrassed that he had run away from them, that he had blindly pursued Paloma, that he had spent his inheritance so easily. As time went on, inertia took hold and it became simpler not to talk than to stir the waters, to bring the pain of the past back to the surface. There is only so long you can sustain a change to your natural rhythms and after the first couple of weeks had passed and the initial pleasure of having their lost son back again had dwindled, Alison and Michael returned to their normal routines. Without ever voicing it, they both began to anticipate their son’s wandering urge to return. Their parental affection was not diminished but, as captive to their instincts as any animal, tacitly they understood it was only a matter of time.

About a month after his return, Pez had a text message from his old university climbing club-mate, Jack. He had heard online that Pez was back in the UK after his odyssey. He had a business he had been running for just over a year, abseil window cleaning for commercial buildings. The business was thriving but one of his key staff had gone off for the summer climbing season in Chamonix and he had a busy schedule coming up so needed someone experienced and reliable to fill the gap. Pez agreed to do a fortnight to begin with, to decide whether he was interested. That was nine months ago, and some of his aborted thoughts in his panic in Spain had taken time to gestate. He kept thinking about a friend running a rock climbing tour company in the Atlas Mountains a few hours from Marrakesh.

…

Serge took the bird box off the rope at the bottom as Pez and Jen unclipped themselves and tidied up the equipment. Many of the staff of the office block had come to see the avian celebrity and applaud the abseiling team. Someone had contacted the local newspaper who despatched a photographer. Pez, Jen and the team posed for a round of photos, and the building manager and the young woman who made the original report were pulled in as well.

An RSPCA vet had arrived while the team made the rescue and a security guard brought her through the crowd to examine the injured falcon. Pez introduced himself.

‘Hello, my name’s Peregrine, believe it or not. Here’s the falcon,’ he said, passing across the box. ‘It’s a male. He’s wounded, but he seems to be coping.’