Читать книгу Strangers on a Bridge - Louise Mangos - Страница 7

Immeasurable seconds of silence followed the man’s admission. My brain shut out external influences. A blink broke the rift in time. Sounds rushed back in – the swishing of an occasional passing vehicle, gushing water in the river below, the persistent tweeting of a bird, like the squeaky wheel of an old shopping trolley.

‘Now you’ve stopped me,’ he said. ‘This is not good. You should go away. Go away.’

But the daggers in his eyes had retracted. I held his gaze, trying not to blink for fear of losing the connection. Many clichés entered my head. In desperation I chose one to release the tension.

‘Can we talk? I know things must be bad. But maybe if you talk it through with someone…’

I shrugged, unsure how to continue. Perspiration cooled my body, and I shivered. Pulling the sleeves of my running shirt down to my wrists, I rubbed my upper arms. Wary of the abyss at my side, I took a step closer to the man. He didn’t speak, but stood upright, and raised his hand as though to push me away. He turned briefly to look into the depths of the gorge, and I grabbed his arm firmly below the elbow, gently applying pressure. His gaze at first fixed on the hand on his arm, then rose again to my face. He studied my furrowed brow, and the forced curve of my smile.

‘Please. Let’s talk,’ I said.

I had no magical formula for this, but I sensed my touch eased the tension in his body. My nails scraped the material of his coat as my grip on his arm tightened. He slumped down to sit on the pavement with his back to the bridge wall. I closed my eyes briefly and puffed air through my lips.

Step one achieved. No jump.

Traffic was sparse on a Sunday. One car slowed a little, but kept going. No one else was curious enough to stop. The regular swish and thump each time a vehicle drove over the concrete slabs echoed between the walls of the bridge. We must have looked like an odd pair. Me dressed in Lycra running pants and a bright-yellow running top, the man in his business attire, now looking a little dishevelled. The laces on his black brogues were undone. I stared at his feet, and wondered if he had intended to remove his shoes before he jumped.

‘Can I help?’ I asked, crouching down. The man looked at me imploringly, hands flopped over his knees. The strain of anguish had reddened the whites of his eyes, making his irises shine a striking green.

‘I don’t know,’ he said uncertainly.

‘Well, let’s start with your name,’ I said, as though addressing a small child.

‘Manfred,’ he said.

There was no movement towards the traditional Swiss handshake. Still squatting, pins and needles fizzed in my feet. I kept one arm across my thigh, the other balanced on fingertips against the pavement.

‘Mine’s Alice, and I’m sorry, I don’t speak very good German…’

‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I speak a little English.’

I snorted involuntarily. It was the standard I speak a little English introduction I had grown used to over the past few years living in Switzerland, usually made with very few grammatical mistakes. The tension broke, and relief flooded through me. He would not jump. I sensed my beatific smile softening my expression. Manfred looked into my eyes and held my gaze intently, absorbing the euphoria.

I turned to sit at his side, blood rushing back to my legs. His gaze followed my movement, a curious glint now in his eyes, and his lips parted slightly, revealing the costly perfection of Swiss orthodontics. Leaning back against the wall, the cold concrete pressed against my sweat-dampened running shirt. I extended my legs, thighs sucking up the chill of the pavement. Our elbows touched and he drew in his knees, preparing to stand. I laid my hand on his arm.

‘You must not do this thing. Please…’

He looked at me, tears pooling briefly before he swiped at his eyes with the back of one hand.

‘You stopped me.’

‘Yes, I stopped you. I don’t want you to jump, Manfred.’

‘You…’ He scrutinised me.

‘It’s messy,’ I said.

Manfred’s gaze travelled from my face, looking at the dishevelled hair I knew must be sprouting from its ponytail, down to my legs stretched in front of me.

‘Taking your life,’ I continued. ‘It’s messy. Not just the – you know…’ I made a rising and dipping movement with my hand. ‘Trust me, I’ve been there.’

‘You… wanted to jump?’ Curiosity animated Manfred’s voice.

‘Not jumping, no. God forbid. A failed attempt at overdose. A teenage stupidity after a heartbreak. But I wasn’t going anywhere on a dozen paracetamol.’

I’d never told Simon this, and I bit my lip at the admission. I remembered the ‘mess’ I had caused: a hysterical mother, a bruised oesophagus, a cough that lasted weeks after the stomach pump, embarrassing counselling that all boiled down to adolescent drama.

‘Whatever has happened to make you do this, people will always be sad. You will harm more individuals than yourself. Not just physically,’ I continued.

Manfred hissed briefly through his teeth. ‘Ja, guet,’ he said, the Swiss German ‘good’ drawn out to two syllables. Gu-weht. He stared at a point below my face. I knew he was watching the pulse tick at the base of my throat, the suprasternal notch. The place where Simon often placed his lips. I blushed, and zipped my running shirt up to the collar.

His gaze shifted back to my face. A slip of a smile, and then a frown.

‘I cannot live with myself any more. I cannot live with who I am, what I do. What I have done,’ he said.

The back of my neck tingled.

‘But it doesn’t solve the problem for other people,’ I interjected. ‘It creates more. There must be another way to work out your… your problems. Your life is precious. Your life is sacred and will be special to someone.’

His lips formed a small circle.

‘My life is…’

‘Precious. Valuable. Prized. A good thing, not to be thrown away,’ I reiterated.

He smiled tentatively, siphoning my relief, feeding on my compassion. I felt my euphoria returned to me, delivered on a platter of… what? Gratefulness? No, it was something else.

My mouth went dry.