Читать книгу Strangers on a Bridge - Louise Mangos - Страница 12

‘The irony is, when Kathy and I have run there before, we’ve often wondered about finding a body under the bridge.’

It was early the following day, and I hadn’t slept well. I’d had a recurring dream about a body falling from the Tobel Bridge. The first time it bounced like a ragdoll on the ground, and I woke with a start. The second time the body stretched into a marvellous swan dive and swept up through the forest like Superman, disappearing over the ridge of the canyon. The third time the falling image repeated itself over and over, never quite reaching the ground. After that I dared not go back to sleep.

Simon and I dodged each other through our breakfast routine like some ritual dance. He kissed my head and patted my backside as I paused to take the milk out of the fridge. A memory of how we couldn’t keep our hands off each other at the beginning of our relationship sprang to mind, and I trailed my hand across his shoulder as he passed. His butter knife clattered into the sink, and the coffee machine whirred, clicked and trickled his morning pick-me-up into a minuscule cup. The kitchen filled with the delicious aroma of a rich Arabica blend, and my thoughts returned to the bridge.

‘Kathy read about a woman who took her life last year in the local paper, and we were so glad it hadn’t been us that found her. We’d run there a few days before. The paper said Tobel Bridge is a suicide hotspot,’ I said.

‘That would explain the flowers and candles I sometimes see clustered on the pavement there on my drive to work,’ said Simon.

‘Don’t you think that’s kind of weird? I think the relatives or loved ones should leave those trophies where the body lands, not up on the bridge. Surely the soul departs down below, at impact.’

I shuddered to think of witnessing a jump. To think of Manfred jumping.

‘They need a wider audience to see their pain, Al. Better a string of commuters on their way to and from work than the occasional runner and mountain biker.’

‘You have to wonder what goes through someone’s mind when they jump, between takeoff and the final lights-out. I wonder if anyone has ever regretted their decision in the moment it takes to fall?’

‘Some people make stupid decisions every day,’ said 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.’