Strangers on a Bridge: A gripping debut psychological thriller!. Louise Mangos
through the strips of midday sunlight now streaming down the hallway. No breathing bodies.
A hurried note scribbled on the back of an envelope told me Simon had departed on a bike ride with his mates. He had dropped the boys with friends of theirs before heading out. The spidery scribble indicated he was mildly pissed off I hadn’t been home when I said I would. My first reaction was guilt, then a flash of irritation as I imagined him hurrying the note, not stopping to consider I might have sustained an injury or had a problem on my run.
I unclipped my running belt and let it drop to the floor, prising off my running shoes. I was still cold, and wished I could stay in my warm, cosy house. I ran the tap at the kitchen sink and took several big gulps of water straight from the flowing spout to quench my thirst.
After grabbing a fleece jacket, I pulled the car keys off the hook. Picking up my mobile, I swore I wouldn’t run without it again, despite its bulk and fragility.
I stabbed Simon’s number on the keypad.
‘Come on, come on.’ The ringing tone went on and on, eventually switching to his voicemail.
‘Honey, please call me as soon as you get this message.’
I imagined Simon pushing his cadence to the maximum along some winding alpine road, changing positions in the peloton as his turn came to draft the others, phone ringing unheard in the tool pouch under his seat. Placing the mobile in my pocket, I leaned over to pull off my socks and slipped my slightly sore feet into a comfortable pair of pumps.
I was wary and didn’t want to taint my hands with a decision that might lead Manfred back down the path of self-destruction. I was no experienced psychologist, and had never really used my skills in the remedial sense. This man needed help I could not give. Above all, my lack of mastery of the language meant I didn’t have a great deal of confidence when it came to approaching anyone in authority on this matter. And it was Sunday, the obligatory day of rest. Along with washing-hanging and lawnmowing bans, the police were also entitled to a day off. They might not be around to save lost souls on bridges. I wasn’t sure who I would find to help.
I glanced in the hall mirror, registering my post-sport mussed look, and hurried down the stairs to the main door.
Manfred was still sitting on the bench with his head lowered, but his body language had changed. My mood brightened as I noticed the squaring of his shoulders, the set jaw, and his hair neatly combed. He was cleaning his glasses with a tissue pulled from a packet lying next to him on the bench. His head was no longer poised in despair, but in a position of concentration, performing the simple task with an air of purpose. I had been expecting more empty looks and the shell of a wretched soul. The change in these few minutes was remarkable. Humility and purpose were evident, and I smiled broadly at his return to life.
‘I cannot believe I am so dumm, so stupid,’ he said, continuing to carefully polish a lens. ‘What was I thinking?’
A huge wave of relief washed over me. Part of me still wanted to help, but part of me wanted to turn my back on this situation now I was home. I selfishly wanted my weekend back. I wanted a hot shower and a cup of tea. I wanted to make up for my absence from our family Sunday when everyone came home.
As Manfred stood up, on impulse I put my arms around him and hugged him.
‘Welcome back,’ I said with relief.
As I felt the pressure of his arms gently hugging me back, with his palms on my shoulder blades, a blush rose to my face. I cleared my throat and released him awkwardly.
‘Is there somewhere I can take you? Would you like to use my phone to call someone?’ I asked, reaching for the mobile in my pocket.
He shook his head slowly.
‘No, I’ve no one to call. I don’t know, but I think I’ll go home.’
‘Is there… someone at home who will help you?’
A muscle ticked above his jaw as he clenched his teeth and a small sigh escaped his lips.
‘No, actually. On second thoughts, perhaps that is not such a good idea.’
I began to feel awkward about Manfred being in such close proximity to the house. His case needed to be reported; he should talk to someone.
‘Will you drive with me in my car?’
He looked at me, green eyes shining behind his glasses, brows slightly raised in an expression of complete trust. He fell into step beside me as we walked to the garage where our Land Rover was parked. He waited while I started the car. After reversing out of the garage, I indicated he should get in.
‘It’s okay, you can leave the garage door open,’ I shouted through the open passenger window as he stood for a moment wondering what to do.
Manfred nodded once. He took off his coat and folded it carefully over his arm, then undid the middle button of his jacket before climbing into the car, as though sitting down to a meeting at a conference table. As I drove along our rough driveway, he glanced around the interior of the car, and I followed the direction of his scrutiny. A set of tangled headphones, an empty bottle of Rivella, one football shinpad and various sweet wrappers were scattered over and between the seats.
‘Bit of a state,’ I said. ‘Two boys. Untidy boys.’ Manfred nodded.
‘I have a boy,’ he said. Oh.
His expression revealed sadness, but not the despair I had seen on the bridge. I stared back at the road. He didn’t elaborate, maintained a steady composure. I wasn’t sure if I should ask something. I released the breath I had been holding.
‘We need to find you someone to talk to,’ I said tentatively. ‘If you don’t feel you can talk to anyone in your family, perhaps someone else, a doctor, a friend…?’
‘When my English will be better I can talk to you,’ Manfred stated.
The irony of the sudden grammatical error made me smile and without thinking I retorted, ‘You mean, when my English is better…’ I waved my hand apologetically as I realised how patronising I sounded, and when I looked at him, he was smiling. I wondered if he had made the mistake deliberately. He paused before saying:
‘Yes. Natürlich. Sorry.’
‘Where is home?’ I asked.
‘Home… was in the next canton, in Aargau. I don’t think I can stay there. My wife is not… with me. She… she died.’
‘Oh! I’m so sorry.’
‘That was long ago,’ he said with a matter-of-fact tone. ‘My… my sister now looks after my boy. He is a student. But I don’t have a very good relationship with my son.’ He hesitated. ‘They don’t expect me back. I have broken that bridge.’
I was momentarily confused.
‘Oh, you mean burned that bridge; that’s the saying in English.’
I wondered if he had left his sister and son a note. And I found it ironic that a bridge had found its way into the conversation. He needed professional help straight away. I was hoping not everything would be closed on a Sunday.
‘No, I will not stay there,’ he said again as I glanced at his face. ‘But it is okay, don’t worry. You are helping. Thank you, Alice.’
It felt strange to hear him say my name for the first time. My hands gripped the wheel a little harder.
In the neighbouring village, I pulled into a parking space in front of Aegeri Sports, where we hired the boys’ ski gear each winter.
‘Wait here. I’ll be a moment,’ I told Manfred as I climbed out of the car.
The tiny suboffice of the Zuger Polizei was situated between the sports shop and a tanning salon. But as this was Sunday, as expected, it was inevitably closed. The hours were marked on the police station’s door like a grocer’s: Monday,