The Bridge

by Stuart Prebble

  Michael explained that the apartment belonged to his grandmother, but that when they had first been given her diagnosis, he and she had agreed that she would grant him power of attorney over her affairs. They had done nothing about that as yet, but he felt that the time to do so was approaching. Anyway, he was her only relative and beneficiary, so while he had to find money for council tax and utilities, he was at least spared the expense of paying a mortgage.

  “I used to drive her around, to doctor’s appointments and stuff, before she went into the care home. I reckon I’ll have to sell the car sometime soon, but now I come to think about it, I don’t even know where she keeps the documents.”

  For a little while, the only sound was of early evening traffic on the busy streets outside. Eventually Alison said she needed to be on the 10:30 train back to Brighton, and so Michael rummaged in the kitchen drawer for a menu from the nearby takeaway.

  It was nearly midnight by the time Michael got back to the apartment in Kingston after having seen Alison off on the train at Victoria Station. His thoughts turned within themselves on the journey back through the suburbs, and he luxuriated in the new sensation in his stomach as he relived the previous hours. He had spent much time in the past week imagining undressing and making love to her. He had known that she would be beautiful, and her body was every bit as thrilling as he had anticipated, her skin brown and soft, and kissing her had been like a narcotic. Though she was by no means his first girlfriend, these feelings were all very new to him, and he felt a twinge of regret that he had no one, no sibling or close family member, with whom to share the novelty of his emotions.

  Michael looked forward to the prospect of returning to bed so that he could further indulge his reverie, but that night, a dream he had dreamed many times as a young boy and adolescent returned to discomfort him. In the past the dream had begun in different ways, but always he was with a group of boys around his own age when he found himself somehow having become separated. Sometimes he was alone in a dark alleyway, or occasionally on an anonymous wasteland, when suddenly he was grabbed by strong hands. Instantly his body would go limp, any power to resist draining away, and he felt himself being held tightly by his arms and legs. The force of the violence lifted him bodily off the ground, and the pressure became more and more intense, until he felt the strain at the joints where his limbs were attached to his body, and suddenly there was a danger that he would be torn apart. The pain increased still more, so that at the moment when his limbs and flesh must tear, a single scream from deep within his throat pierced the night and woke him, cold yet sweating, and he would be found clawing frantically at the sheets as though it was they which held him down.

  When he was a child, his distress was quickly comforted by his grandmother, who would rush into his bedroom, alarmed herself by the noise of his sudden awakening, but urgently reassuring him that he was safe. She would hold him tightly to her, her cool hands stroking his brow, and whisper soothing words in a singsong voice that he came to love. Eventually he would return to sleep, and she to her bed, and seldom was the matter referred to again in the morning. At last she became so concerned by the frequency of his nightmares, however, that she consulted the doctor. Michael was aware of whispered conversations in which he played no part, but over the years the bad dreams disturbed his sleep less frequently, and gradually the problem faded to the back of his mind.

  This night, though, for the first time in several years, the dream returned. It was as before, except that on this occasion he could make out the shadowy outline of his assailants. They were not people he recognized, but he could see the shapes of their faces. As so often before, it was at the point when he felt the flesh on his shoulder begin to rip apart that he woke with a jolt and realized that he was totally alone in the aftermath of his ordeal. There was no one to soothe him or whisper that he was safe, and Michael wept quietly for his loss.

  THREE

  In the days after the incident on Waterloo Bridge, newspapers and news programs on TV and radio carried wall-to-wall coverage. “Madman Throws 4 Kids off Bridge” screamed the Daily Express headline the following morning and, as if by agreement, the other tabloids adopted the same description. “Madman on the Loose” was the Mirror’s version, while the Sun went for “Police Hunt Mad Child Killer.” The label was repeated in the wider print media and on radio phone-ins. Like unseasonal rain, the crimes became an add-on to conversations about anything else. “Have they found that Madman yet?” was heard as commonly as the hope of a decent summer.

  Grieving relatives, neighbors, sympathizers, and tourists came from far and wide to leave flowers and tributes at the scene, and soon the carpet of bouquets and wreaths began to obstruct traffic on the bridge. With care and respect the police moved them onto the South Bank, where the walkway was wider. Frequent updates on television revisited CCTV footage from the bridge and the nearby streets, and a single frozen frame of a blurred white face in the shadow of a pulled-down hood became a national familiar. It seemed that every person in Britain was looking for this man, despite the fact that the shot gave no realistic chance that he could be recognized. Anyone wearing blue jeans and a hoodie was likely to be viewed with suspicion, and there were several reported cases of unjustified beatings by vigilantes.

  Continuing interest in the story obliged journalists to resort to ever-more-ingenious means to keep it on the front pages. After the backgrounds of all the dead children and their families had been investigated and reported, there were the funerals and the grieving relatives. There were extended profiles of the “brave hero”—a twenty-three-year-old man who had dived into the water from the South Bank in a futile attempt to rescue the children. His body, along with that of the father who jumped from the bridge after his five-year-old daughter, was eventually washed up in the mud at Greenwich.

  There were reports from inside the police operation and analysis of the capabilities and limitations of CCTV monitoring. TV and radio staged debates about the merits of Big Brother–type surveillance, and criminal psychologists were brought into newsrooms and studios to opine on the kind of mind which was capable of dreaming up such an outrage. Child murder by drowning, it turned out, was by no means as rare an incident as might be expected, but usually it was committed by deranged parents who sought revenge on former partners by killing their children. There seemed to have been few previous examples of random acts of this kind of violence. Speculation was rife that the culprit would turn out to be a father who had been denied access to his own children.

  There were discussions in pubs and social clubs about whether the wearing of hoodies should be banned in public places, and everyone seemed to have their own opinion about the civil liberties issues arising therefrom. But gradually, despite the very best efforts of editors and reporters, the specter caused by “fear on our streets” began to fade, and after more time the subject was relegated to inside pages and then was absent altogether.

  Michael’s job in the postproduction house involved very long hours during the working week but almost always allowed for freedom at the weekends, and so every Friday night since that first time, Michael would travel to Brighton, or Alison would travel to Kingston. One Sunday when he was in Brighton and making plans to return to Kingston for the week ahead, he received a call on his mobile to say that there had been a break-in at the production house. No one was sure if anything had been taken, but most of the staff would not be required until Tuesday. Michael was glad of the opportunity for an extended weekend with Alison, but her job in the travel agency was more difficult to juggle, especially at this time of year when people were booking their summer holidays. He remained in bed that morning but arranged to pick her up at lunchtime for a bite to eat.

  As he waited in the foyer, he enjoyed watching her through a glass panel and witnessing her best efforts to remain patient with customers who were trying to organize every last detail of their trip of a lifetime. She looked smart and efficient in blue uniform and tied-back hair, and he sm
iled to himself as she struggled to be polite in the face of a series of entirely unrealistic requests, when all she wanted to do was to get out of the office and spend time with him.

  He was also aware that he was an object of curiosity among some of the other staff who worked with Alison, and guessed that he had been the subject of office gossip. He found that he rather liked the idea that she had talked about him, and when he saw two women who seemed close to Alison’s age obviously pointing him out, he tried not to appear self-conscious when he smiled back at them.

  “That was Angela and Pauline,” said Alison as they walked arm in arm back to Alison’s apartment. “Angela is a great mate of mine. She’s thirty and has been through the mill in her love life.”

  In the space of seven or eight weeks, the couple had fallen into something resembling a routine, and increasingly Michael began to feel the need to reintroduce Alison to Grandma Rose. The visit had fallen on that terrible day and had not gone well, so there were no immediate plans for a repeat. He had been to see his grandma many evenings since that first time, but Rose had not referred to it, and he, hoping for the opportunity of a fresh start sometime in the future, had decided not to raise the subject.

  Alison’s apartment consisted of two rooms and a tiny bathroom on the second floor of a large Victorian terrace, three or four streets back from the seafront in Brighton and surrounded by the bustle of everyday and every-night life in the popular tourist town. There was seldom a quiet moment. One Sunday, a few weeks after their visit to see Grandma Rose, they spent the afternoon making love and had fallen asleep in front of a black-and-white movie playing on the TV, which she propped up on a recycled hospital trolley at the end of her bed. The kitchen was arranged along one wall of the living room down the corridor from the bedroom, and the two did a “dip, dip, dip” to decide which of them would go to make the tea. Michael won and stayed in bed watching the news while Alison slipped on a yellow terry-cloth robe, using both hands to flip her tousled hair from inside the collar, and padded barefoot down the hallway. He loved to see the shape of her as she pulled the dressing-gown cord tight around her waist. The report was about a recent hike in house prices, featuring interviews with first-time buyers who were describing their struggle to get on what the newsreader kept referring to as “the housing ladder.” The story was illustrated by animated graphics of people on ladders, which made Michael wonder if he was watching Play School rather than the news.

  A picture of Waterloo Bridge appeared in the frame behind the newsreader, and he reached for the remote to turn up the volume. The words BREAKING NEWS suddenly appeared in the rolling text at the bottom of the screen, and an immediate change in the newsreader’s demeanor indicated that this was a big story.

  “And we are just getting word of an incident which has taken place just a few minutes ago in the south coast seaside resort of Brighton. Reports are coming in that an unidentified man walking on the pier has taken hold of a number of children and thrown them into the sea. Let me repeat that, a man appears to have grabbed and thrown three children from the pier at Brighton into the water, and first accounts suggest that he has fled the scene and escaped. We are hearing that several passersby gave chase, but the man is believed to have vanished into the holiday crowds.” All the while the newsreader was looking off camera towards a computer screen beside his desk, and now he put a finger to his ear to indicate that he was receiving more information.

  Michael yelled to Alison to come through from the kitchen, and only at that moment did he realize that she was unable to hear him because she was speaking to someone on the telephone. He could not make out her words, but when the tone of her voice suggested that the call was coming to an end, he shouted to her once again.

  “There’s been another incident involving that lunatic, and it’s just down the road from here, at the pier. Three kids thrown into the sea.” Alison appeared at the door, drying her hands on the corner of her dressing gown, and sat on the bed beside him.

  The newsreader continued, “We have no certain word about the condition of the children who are reported to have been thrown over the barrier into the water. We will bring that to you as soon as we hear more. So, to repeat for those who have just joined us, we are receiving news…” The story was told again, but as yet there were no new facts.

  “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” said Michael. “That’s unbelievable. More or less the same thing, in broad daylight, and they say that he got away again.” Alison did not speak, but gently shook her head while she remained transfixed by the TV screen.

  “Who was that on the phone?” he asked distractedly. Alison seemed momentarily confused. “I called you when the news came on, but you didn’t hear me. I think you were on the phone.”

  “Oh, just Angela,” she said. “Some problem at work. Nothing to bother about.”

  Over the following minutes the news channel began to fill out the story with hurriedly sourced maps showing the location and archive shots of the pier, viewing it from a variety of angles. At last, and with some relief in his voice, the announcer said that they had an eyewitness on the telephone. The screen graphic read “MADMAN” STRIKES AGAIN: EYEWITNESS INTERVIEW.

  “We were just enjoying a day out with the kids, nothing unusual, and then we hear this ruckus coming from the pier.”

  “You were on the beach at this point?”

  “Yeah, playing with the kids, and we hear this scream from above our heads and then a splash, and we look up and at first we can’t see anything, and then there’s another scream and we see this kid just, like, flying through the air. A second later she lands in the water, and then we see that she’s landed beside another kid who is lying facedown. It was shocking.”

  The TV screen cut back to a shot of the presenter in the studio.

  “That was an eyewitness who was on the beach at Brighton when this incident occurred just a short time ago. And I’m being told that we can now go over live to our reporter James Connelly, who has recently arrived on the scene. What can you tell us, James?”

  The presenter was looking off camera, and nothing happened for a few seconds until he started to look uncomfortable and began shuffling the papers on his desk.

  “He’s gone to the outside broadcast before they’re ready,” said Michael. “There’ll be panic in the control room right now. They’re all over the place.”

  Just then the screen changed to an unstable camera shot, which jerked around for a few seconds before coming into focus on a young reporter who seemed harassed and ill prepared.

  “Yes, Bill. I’ve just arrived at the scene, and while our cameraman was setting up, I’ve been talking to eyewitnesses. They’ve been telling me that this incident you’ve just heard about took place just fifty yards or so along the length of the pier, and by the time anyone realized what was happening, the man had turned and sprinted away at what’s been described to me as lightning speed. He leapt the turnstiles at the exit to the pier, apparently, and then ran through the traffic, into the Lanes and alleyways beyond. I have with me Brendan Carlton, who’s holidaying here with his family and who tried to apprehend the person responsible.” The shot widened to include a large man aged about thirty, wearing an undershirt and with sunglasses perched on top of his head. “I’ve been told that you’re the hero of the hour. Can you say what happened?”

  “Well, I just seen this bloke running off the pier,” said the man, “and someone shouted something like ‘There he is,’ so I ran after him, and I managed to grab him by the arm, but he struggled and kept on running, so I wasn’t able to keep my grip.”

  “So he ran into the Lanes? Can you say what he looked like? What was he wearing?”

  “Yes, he had on blue jeans and a white T-shirt and sneakers. He had what looked like a red bandanna covering the bottom half of his face. He seemed to be young, but honestly I couldn’t say more than that. He was strong, though, and very, very fast.”

  Two of the three children thrown into the sea had been rescued and t
aken to hospital, where they were said to be expected to survive; one had been caught up by a wave and slammed against the props holding up the pier and had sustained serious head injuries. Within ten minutes of the first report the news was carrying video footage taken on mobile phones showing the limp body of a small boy being carried ashore, and what seemed to be frantic efforts to breathe life into him.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” said Michael, “that’s absolutely unbelievable. This crazy bloke has done more or less the same thing again. Just weeks after the last time.”

  Their original plan had been that Michael would catch the return train to London at around 6:00 PM, which would get him back to Kingston in time to sort himself out for the working week ahead. When he began to pack up his belongings, however, Michael was aware that Alison had not spoken for some while, and when he looked over at her, he saw that her eyes were turned down towards the floor and she was unwilling to raise her face to look at him.

  “Are you going to be OK?” he asked her. “Is it this stuff that’s going on…?” She shrugged and shook her head, but he knew that she was evading the question. “I know it’s upsetting. Especially happening just up the road like this,” said Michael. “It’s upsetting for everyone, but is there something in particular?”

  He had been trying his best to express sympathy, but when she turned to look at him, the look of sadness on her face had been replaced by something closer to indignation, and her voice sounded brittle. “Why would you ask that? I’m just upset like any normal person would be.”