Strangers on a Bridge: A gripping debut psychological thriller!. Louise Mangos
held out his palm, and I suddenly felt bad about leaving him. I hesitated and shook his hand. Since our hug in the porch outside our building, I wasn’t sure I should touch him again, not trusting either of our reactions.
The seal of a handshake put official finality on the departure. But as I was about to pull away, Manfred brought his other hand to the outside of mine.
‘You will understand, Alice.’
As he smiled at me with what I assumed was gratitude, a flush tingled at my throat.
The yawn of space that opened between us as I turned to go was both cleansing and disturbing. Manfred smiled resignedly at me from his chair as I backed out of the sliding doors of the emergency room.
I walked back to the car, wondering what Simon would think about my experience, but more than anything anticipating a cup of tea and a hot shower.
Scalding water pounded the back of my neck and shoulders. The crusted salt of dried sweat dissolved into the shower basin. I hung my head and let my arms flop, enjoying the release of tension, inhaling the whorls of steam rising up around me.
I wondered again what had driven Manfred to the point where he was ready to jump. I’d felt down at times. Dealing with the isolation of being an only child, that stupid mistake as a teenager when my attempted suicide was considered an attention-seeking exercise, a bout of postnatal blues, or the loneliness I’d felt when Simon started travelling, and the kids were still so young, and I had no one to talk to for weeks on end. But even under the worst of circumstances, such as those Manfred had hypothesised about, I couldn’t do it. Because of the shame, the selfishness. All those hurt and confused souls wondering if it was their fault. The mess I had tried to convey to Manfred he would leave behind. I couldn’t burden anybody with that. And jumping off that godforsaken bridge? It would be the worst possible scenario for me, with my inherent fear of heights. It was either the ultimate thrill or the ultimate nightmare. And neither was plausible in my world.
I closed my eyes, knowing I was wasting water, but unable to move from the ecstasy of cleansing. I smiled as I thought of Simon, who would soon be home from his ride. From the start we’d been the perfect fit, the perfect couple. Although we stood by our individual opinions, we both ultimately wished for the same things for the family, and were fulfilled by what life had to offer us. My forced independence in our foreign world had made our love stronger.
Simon would be preparing for another round of business trips over the next few months as his new project developed, but I felt balanced and content in my foreign space now. Although I thought I could relate to Manfred’s despair, I couldn’t think of anything that would drive Simon and me apart, and I couldn’t imagine what had happened within Manfred’s family to lead him to that bridge.
I was still drying my hair as they came piling through the door, and the boisterous presence of cherished humanity made me smile. My family was home. I could sense their body heat spreading to various rooms; smells, noises and movements as familiar as my own. I headed downstairs and wandered into the kitchen where Oliver was making himself a jam sandwich.
‘Hey, sorry, guys, I know I haven’t been here all day, but I’ve had quite an experience,’ I said, kissing the top of Oliver’s head.
‘This better be good,’ Simon said, not unkindly, as he came through from the sitting room still in his bike gear. He reached into the fridge for a beer. ‘Saracens are beating Sale. I missed the first half, and they’re just about to restart.’
Simon’s Sunday afternoons watching cable, his reward for the morning’s workout, were only satisfying if a rugby match was airing.
‘I stopped a man jumping off the Tobel Bridge this morning,’ I said. ‘He was about to commit suicide.’
Oliver gaped at me with his eyebrows raised, and a dollop of strawberry jam dropped onto the kitchen counter.
‘Wow, that’s a pretty impressive excuse,’ said Simon. ‘Where’s the guy now? Floating down the Lorze?’
Behind Simon, Oliver giggled.
‘Come on, I’m serious. This isn’t a joke,’ I said. ‘It was scary. I kind of took him under my wing. Eventually took him to the hospital.’
I was about to say more, indignation fading at the lightness of Simon’s comment. I could see in his eyes that he didn’t want to discuss suicide in front of the children, but his words only emphasised how confused I felt at that moment. Had I done all I could to help?
Simon placed his beer bottle on the kitchen counter and put his arms around me.
‘Are you okay, Al? I guess that messed up your Sunday,’ he said quietly.
I nodded silently and leaned my head against his shoulder as he rubbed my back. I closed my eyes and breathed in his familiar musky smell.
‘I’ll put the kettle on, a nice cuppa will do it,’ said Simon, sounding vaguely like my late mother. ‘We wondered where you’d gone with the car,’ he continued, taking a mug out of the cupboard and snapping open the caddy for a teabag. And then, as an afterthought: ‘If you were at the Tobel Bridge, how come you came all the way back here to drive him to the hospital? How come you didn’t just get on a bus down to town?’
Of course, this is what I should have done – I realised that now. My initial joy at regrouping with the family had turned from annoyance that Simon had no idea of the situation I’d found myself in, to a pang of guilt for the anguish I might cause him if he knew how much Manfred had latched on to me. I glanced at Oliver. It certainly wasn’t a conversation to be had in front of the boys.
‘I don’t know really. All I could think about was keeping warm, getting some dry clothes, but not leaving the poor sod alone,’ I said, watching Simon pour boiling water into my mug. ‘I made him wait outside in the porch.’
‘The usual good Samaritan,’ chirped Leon as he joined us in the kitchen, the main reason I’d been on the bridge already forgotten. ‘We had to walk back from the Freys, Mum. You had the car,’ he continued with a pubescent whine.
‘Which doesn’t happen often, young man. It wouldn’t hurt you to walk home more – it’s hardly a Himalayan expedition,’ I replied in mock anger, ruffling his hair and lightly squeezing his shoulder.
We had reverted to the usual family banter. Simon would undoubtedly ask me later to elaborate, but for now I needed a little time to work out why I didn’t feel good about the afternoon’s outcome.
After dinner, I stood at the sink absently washing a pan. The kitchen at the rear of the house offered a view across the garden to the barn and a track to the farm on the right. I could see the car parked in the garage, engine ticking away after its day of labour. I remembered I’d left my mobile phone sitting on the dashboard.
Someone coming along the hallway broke into my thoughts. Seconds later, Oliver came in, cupping a handful of pencil shavings for the bin. I slid the cupboard under the sink open with my foot, my hands immersed in suds. Oliver attempted to deposit his stash, most of it fluttering to the floor. His fingers were dangerously smudged with pencil graphite.
I pointed to his hands ‘Wash, please!’
Oliver dipped his hands into the sink, and before I could protest ‘Not here’ he asked, ‘Mum, why would someone want to kill themselves? What happened to that man that he wanted to die? Do you think he lost a pet or something?’
I smiled. My youngest child was growing up, but I still clung with maternal pleasure to his naivety.
Oliver had always been my little saviour. The family all knew how important my running was to me. I wasn’t winning county competitions any more, but it was a part of my life not even motherhood could diminish. They could forgive a few dust balls under the furniture