Strangers on a Bridge: A gripping debut psychological thriller!. Louise Mangos
Simon, and I swallowed. ‘But that one would be pretty final. No going back.’
He crunched into his toast. I shook my head, attempting to eliminate the thought of a jumper realising with horror they had made a terrible mistake in that split second before hitting the earth. I imagined them wanting desperately to turn back the clock, hoping an invisible force would lift them back onto the bridge, plant their feet securely on the tarmac. That could have been Manfred.
‘There would be no chance of survival at that height,’ I said absently, sipping my tea.
Simon licked a buttery finger and pushed his chair away from the table.
‘Al, I’m not sure what you were thinking, but can you tell me again why you came home first? I feel like we have another case of a rescued mongrel here, not just a clinical experiment for a psychology assignment. You and your hare-brained SOS help routines. Florence Nightingale or Mother Teresa, I’m not sure which.’
I had relished his jovial mood this morning, and wanted to treasure the light feeling between us for a little longer. But as he said this, my stomach heaved. I hoped I hadn’t made a huge mistake. I put my hand on his arm.
‘I thought you might be home. This was beyond anything I’ve ever experienced at college or work. I thought a male influence would help. We would have had to wait over an hour for the next bus down to Zug. I was so cold by then, I knew I had to change my clothes.’
Simon nodded nonchalantly, accepting my logic.
‘Well, I’m very proud of you, Al, for saving that guy’s life. He should be grateful. It’s a terrible thing, suicide. But it’s good there are professionals taking care of him now. I know you’re concerned, but there’s only so much you can do for someone with such an unstable disposition.’
He gave me a concerned smile.
Once the kids and Simon had been packed off to school and work respectively, I thumbed through the local phone directory for the number of the police station where we’d stopped the day before.
‘Zuger Polizei. Reto Schmid.’
The brevity and gruffness of the voice when he picked up on the second ring threw my confidence. I’d written down a few words in case I couldn’t get the message across.
‘Sprechen Sie Englisch?’ I asked hopefully.
‘Ein bisschen, but you can always practise your German, Fraulein,’ he replied in German.
My heart sank. His tone, immediately patronising, was weighted with a message now familiar to my ears. These bloody foreigners should learn to speak our language if they want to live in our community.
‘My name is Alice Reed. I wanted to inform you of a suicide attempt yesterday.’
‘Ein… was?’
‘A suicide attempt. Selbstmord Versuch. Yesterday. On the Tobel Bridge.’
‘Are you sure? Did you, how do you say, intervene?’
‘Yes, I intervened. I took the man to the hospital in Zug. His name is Manfred Guggenbuhl. I just wanted to make sure someone knew, officially. I wanted… I wondered if you had heard anything about this man. If he’s okay…’
‘Someone knows at the hospital if you went there,’ he said pointedly. ‘If they make a report, usually they send this to my colleagues in Zug. I was not informed.’
‘Well, I’m informing you now,’ I said crossly, and heard a sniff on the other end of the line. ‘I mean, I thought you might want to be vigilant, in case he tries again.’
‘Vigilant?’
‘Aufmerksam,’ I explained.
‘I know what the word vigilant means, Frau… Reed, gell? But are you suggesting the Zuger Polizei is not… vigilant?’
‘No… I… You misunderstand. I’m sorry. I just hope… Herr Guggenbuhl is okay.’
Kathy and I met the next day for our regular Tuesday run. A balmy breeze blew across the lake, a gentle Föhn from the south, threatening to strengthen as the day wore on. We ran slowly up the hill behind the house where the village road narrowed to a winding lane. I took a deep breath and my spirits lifted as I adjusted to Kathy’s rhythm and pace. I could hear her struggling beside me on the steep sections, so I slowed down a little.
The road levelled out, following the contour of the valley and, as the trees thinned, we were afforded a magnificent view of the Aegeri Valley with the lake as its centrepiece. Towards the southeast lay the snow-capped Glarner Alps and to the west, through a gap in the hills, the magnificent Rigi rose like a giant anvil through a mauve haze.
We decided to continue to the Raten Pass on the easier forest trails skirting the valley. A few clouds scudded across a blue sky, casting the occasional shadow on the newly sprouting grass in the surrounding meadows. As we ran, we chatted about her son, Tommy, and my boys, and the improvement in the weather for running.
‘You’ll never guess what happened when I was running the Lorze route on Sunday. I saw a guy up on the Tobel Bridge about to jump off. I managed to stop him.’
‘Holy cow, Al, that’s pretty serious! How did you know he was going to jump? Must have been scary. Ironic that we’d only been talking about it last autumn. Remember that woman who chucked her dogs off first, then topped herself? We invented that new word, canicide. But this is no laughing matter. Jesus, what did you do?’
Kathy’s curiosity had slowed us to little more than an exaggerated walk.
‘I ran up that hellishly steep path next to the viaduct and managed to talk him out of the deed on the edge of the bridge. It was pretty weird to think that, if I’d been ten minutes later, I might have found him somewhere at the base of the bridge, maybe even floating in the river,’ I said.
‘Shit, Alice, I can’t imagine. Did you call the police right away?’
‘I didn’t have my mobile phone with me. We went to the bus. I… We eventually went to the hospital and I left him there. They said someone would take care of him. I called the police yesterday, but it made me so mad they weren’t very helpful. I wanted them to contact him, make sure he was okay, but they didn’t seem to care.’
‘Wow, Al. Hope the guy’s okay now. You probably saved his life. Good girl!’
I wasn’t feeling convinced about being a good girl.
‘I really hope they took care of him at the hospital, poor sod. Attempted suicide shouldn’t be treated lightly, but I felt like no one was taking me seriously. Of course, he didn’t seem to want help, was probably more humiliated by his failure than anything.’
As we approached a thicket of trees next to a picnic spot near the pass, our mood was lightened by the haunting sound of a trio of alphorns. We stopped in our tracks at the beauty of the music.
‘Can you believe it? I tell you, we’re living in a fairy tale,’ said Kath. ‘It’s not the first time I’ve felt so blessed to live in this country where we don’t have to worry about locking our doors, we can run free in the mountains, and then get the occasional Heidi moment like this.’
I put my hand to my side and dug in my fingers to relieve a stitch that was threatening, before taking a moment to enjoy the evocative music, with the snowy Glarner Alps as the magnificent backdrop.
Three old men, dressed in traditional black wool jackets intricately embroidered with edelweiss, had carried their bulky instruments up the hill to this idyllic setting. The melancholic music drifted across the fields.
As the music came to an end, a long, hollow, three-pitch harmony