The Bridge

by Stuart Prebble

  * * *

  That night Michael’s sleep was once again visited by the dream which so often had haunted his childhood. In it, he was playing with other children and somehow become separated. He found himself alone on an area of waste ground, lying flat on his back, and had the feeling of being grabbed by strong hands and lifted up bodily into the air. The pressure tugging on his legs and arms increased until he was spread-eagled, and he felt pain in his shoulders and hips as if in danger of being torn apart. It was just at the moment when the hurt became excruciating that the scream formed in the bottom of his throat and built and built until it was actual and audible, and moments later he found himself grappling with the bedclothes. As a child he had frequently woken in this way to hear the words of his grandmother Rose soothing him and to feel her soft cool hands on his brow. This time the hands touching and holding him were different hands, and her words were spoken by another voice—“It’s all right, Michael. It’s all right. I’ve got you. You’re all right. It was just a bad dream.” These were the hands, and this was the voice, of Alison.

  As soon as Michael knew where he was and realized what had happened, his first concern was for her. He knew that it had been his own scream which had woken him, and that therefore she must have been woken in the same way.

  “Oh God, I am so, so sorry.” He sat up in bed, leaning forward and pressing his forehead into his cupped hands. “What a terrible thing to do to you. You must have been scared out of your wits.”

  She was at his shoulder, her arm around his back, and running a hand through his hair. “Not at all. You had an awful dream and woke yourself up. Poor baby.”

  Neither of them spoke again for a little while, and finally Michael felt his equilibrium returning. He was keen to try, if he could, to lighten the mood. “By the way,” he said at last, “I’ve been meaning to ask you. I know I may not have been the best-looking boy in the class, but was there some reason why you turned the photo of me as a schoolkid to face the wall?”

  Alison glanced up to look towards the dressing table. “I don’t think I did, did I?” She paused. “Sorry. I think I did look at it but thought I’d put it back as I found it.” Now she smiled. “Did you think I thought you were so ugly that I didn’t want to look at you?” She grabbed a pillow from beside him and cuffed him gently across the head.

  * * *

  The team from Matterhorn Productions had been commissioned to make a further program about the police hunt for the Madman, and once again the off-line editing and postproduction was being done at Hand-Cutz. For several days the following week, Michael was in and out of the editing suite and, like everyone else, he was curious to know whether the police were any closer to finding the killer. Coverage in the newspapers and on the radio and TV had reached new levels of hysteria, and wherever two or three people were gathered together it seemed as though the crimes had replaced most other topics of conversation.

  This latest program was due to be broadcast on Sunday, and so Michael was required to work long hours during the week. He had tried to get to Greenacres after he finished work on Thursday, but by the time he arrived at the care home it was 9:00 PM and too late to visit. He ran into Esme at the end of what had been a long shift for her and offered to give her a lift to the train station. Once in the car, he asked how she thought Rose was doing and, unusually for Esme, when she spoke she was not smiling.

  “To be honest with you, Michael, I am a bit worried about her. She is off her food and has been sleeping a lot during the day. When she’s awake, she seems to be agitated, as if something’s upsetting her.”

  Michael told Esme about what had happened when he visited a few weeks earlier after seeing the welfare officer, but he stopped short of repeating the words he thought she had said.

  “Yes, she’s been a bit like that,” said Esme. “Like I say, sleeping a lot during the day—says she can’t sleep at night—but when I’m cleaning her room sometimes she seems troubled. She lies there, just staring at the ceiling, muttering and mumbling.”

  Michael did not reply, but drove in silence. “By the way,” he said eventually, “did you ever find out anything about the woman who visits Rose from time to time? The one who brought the daffodils.”

  “Ah yes,” said Esme. “I was meaning to mention it to you. I think she must be a neighbor. I asked reception to look her up in the visitors’ book. She’s been coming in now and again for more than three months—I thought I was right about that. She put her name down as Rawlinson. Eileen Rawlinson, I think it was. Mrs.”

  “That doesn’t ring any bells,” said Michael. “But why do you say ‘put her name down as’? Is there any reason to think that’s not her real name?”

  “No, not really. It’s just—I was a bit surprised. I didn’t recognize Eileen as the name your grandma has been calling her. I can’t remember what name she uses—maybe it was just a nickname. I’ve been racking my brains, but I can’t remember it.”

  Michael said he would try to check with an administrator next time he came to Greenacres. “But you haven’t seen any reason to think she is upsetting Rose in any way? That her visits could be unwelcome?”

  Esme shook her head. “No, quite the opposite. Rose always seems pleased to see her—but you know that she’s sometimes been getting upset for no apparent reason.” By now the car was drawing to a halt outside Queenstown Road Station, and Esme was about to get out. “It’s not my place to say it, Michael, but I’m afraid that what’s happening to your grandma is probably no better and no worse than you should expect. I’ve seen this before. Sometimes people fade away happy, and sometimes they fade away sad, but all of us fade away in the end. It’s just upsetting for everyone who loves them, is all.”

  Once again Michael thanked Esme for looking out for his grandma and watched her as she walked across the pavement and into the station. There was hardly any traffic at this time of night, and so forty minutes later he was opening the door of the apartment in Kingston. For some reason he could not name, he felt an instinct to go into his grandmother’s bedroom.

  The photograph of himself on his first day at grammar school was back in its place, and Michael picked it up and peered closely into the scrubbed clean and shiny young face. He remembered the terror he had felt at the prospect of going to the big school where almost all of the other kids seemed to be so much more worldly than he was. He remembered the other kids in the class talking about their brothers and sisters, or their mums and dads, and of remaining silent himself because he had nothing to contribute. Sometimes a bully would make fun of him, but always the teachers intervened quickly to save him from his embarrassment. Nonetheless, he had felt the isolation of being an only child and had found most of his friends among others in the same situation.

  Michael put down the school photo and picked up the only other framed picture on display. It was a black-and-white shot, in a gilt frame, of Rose’s wedding day. He looked closely at the bride and struggled to match this lovely young woman whose face was full of hope and happiness with that of the troubled and much older person he knew. Next to her was his grandfather, sporting an impressive and handsome mustache and looking every bit as overjoyed as his new bride. It occurred to Michael that he knew next to nothing about the people standing on either side of the happy couple and made a mental note to ask Rose more about his great-grandparents—if only he ever got the chance to do so.

  The thought reminded him of the photograph which Elsie had retrieved from the envelope found in Rose’s bureau, and which Rose had said was of a family of neighbors. He tried to remember which jacket he had been wearing when he had shown it to her, and now he went into his own bedroom and fumbled through his clothes, eventually finding it. Once again he returned to his grandmother’s room and sat on the edge of the bed. He turned on the bedside light and examined the picture carefully.

  He could see the outline of four children; there seemed to be two young boys, an older girl, and a baby. The face of the older girl looked as though it
had been unclear in the first place and had been further damaged by the hot sauce he had accidentally spilled on it. Michael held the photo under the light and examined it closely. The child was about seven or eight years old and was holding the handles of a stroller and standing in an attitude which suggested that she was proud to be in charge. Her face was neither smiling nor frowning, but there was something about the arrangement of her features which seemed familiar to him. Michael felt frustrated. He had spent his entire life with Rose and had never before known or heard any reference to this family who apparently had at one time lived next door. He wondered what their story could have been that would be so bad that Rose was still upset to be reminded of it. He stood up and went to the door but turned to have a last look around before he switched off the light.

  * * *

  The next day was Friday and was likely to be another long day looking after the needs of the team from Matterhorn. By midmorning the program was in postproduction, and Michael became aware of an unusual flurry of activity. He joined a group of people gathered around the TV in the foyer, which was always tuned to twenty-four-hour news.

  “What’s happening?” Michael’s question was to no one in particular.

  “There’s been another incident involving the Madman.” It was one of the receptionists who answered. “But no one seems to know what.”

  Michael’s first instinct was to wonder how that might affect the schedule of the program they were making, and therefore how long he would need to stay at work. It took him only a few seconds more to feel a sting of shame about his reaction. Somewhere out there a desperate human tragedy was probably going on, and all he was worried about was how it might affect the end of his working day.

  The television was showing live pictures of a news conference being set up by the police searching for the Madman. Someone next to Michael wondered out loud if they were going to announce that they had made an arrest, in which case the program in production would probably have to be shelved. The officers were settling down into their seats, and in the studio the newsreader announced that the channel would be showing the statement live.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for gathering at such short notice.” The face of Detective Chief Superintendent Norman Bailey had become familiar to anyone following the news in recent weeks, and Michael thought that he looked exhausted. “We always appreciate the help of the public and members of the press, and there has been a development which we hope may represent a significant breakthrough.”

  “Has there been an arrest?” It was one of the journalists shouting out from the back of the pack of assembled reporters, but the cameras did not follow the disembodied voice.

  “I’m sorry to say that I’m not in a position today to announce an arrest. However, we have received what we believe to be a significant piece of evidence which we wish to share with you.” It seemed that everyone held their breath as they waited to know what the new development was. In the foyer of Hand-Cutz, you could have heard a pin drop as the detective leaned forward to the keyboard of a computer on the desk in front of him.

  “Most of you are aware that the inquiry into what have become known as the Madman crimes is one of the biggest investigations ever carried out by the Metropolitan Police. So far we have been deploying sixty-five detectives and have followed up more than fifteen thousand leads.” Bailey looked down at his notes, but then placed them on the table in front of him and directed his words straight into the camera. “Recently we received a package from an anonymous source, containing a recording of the voice of a man. We believe that this voice may be that of the person we are looking for in connection with the incidents at Waterloo Bridge, on Brighton Pier, and in Kingston. We have not ruled out the possibility that this may be a hoax, but in view of the chance that it’s genuine, we feel the need to share it with the public so that anyone who recognizes the voice can let us know. So, ladies and gentlemen, in a moment I’m going to play this recording to you, and then we need to hear quickly from anyone who thinks they recognize the voice on the tape.”

  Once again the silence in the room was absolute. The detective looked around to check that everyone was ready and then leaned forward to start the playback. There was another long pause before anything happened, and Michael felt an apprehension quite unlike anything he had experienced before. He sensed the same among the people around him. The hunt for the Madman was unique in his lifetime, and the fear he had witnessed among parents and families was also unprecedented. The voice, when it came, echoed around the room, and around the world, like the voice of evil.

  “I am the person everyone is calling the Madman.” The effect was stunning. The pause was only two or three seconds, and then the recording continued, “I may be mad, or it may be the rest of you who are mad. Who is to say? Some of us have known for a long time that the world has gone mad, but it takes someone like me to make all the rest of you realize it.” There was a further pause, and then an intake of breath. After a few more seconds the words went on, “And by the way, if I’m the mad one, how is it that you’re no nearer to catching me than you were when I first started?”

  Michael looked around the room and saw that everyone else was every bit as transfixed as he was. Did anyone recognize the voice? Michael tried to scan through a mental Rolodex of possibilities—maybe from school, from work, or from childhood. For a moment he imagined that there was something about it that seemed familiar, but then he checked himself, sure that he was allowing his imagination to run away with him. Still, there was a timbre in the voice which managed to get into his head and reverberate around it. It seemed to be that of a young man, without a noticeable regional accent. There was total silence as it was unclear whether or not the recording had finished.

  “That’s all for now. If you don’t get any closer after the next time, maybe I will send you another message to get you on the right track.” Now Detective Bailey leaned forward and switched off the machine. He sat back in his chair, as if unburdened from a huge weight, and began to speak again.

  “That was it, ladies and gentlemen. That, we believe, may be the voice of the person known to the press as the Madman.” Instantly, there was a bedlam of questions, none of which could be made out distinctly in the broadcast. Everyone who had gathered around the television in the Hand-Cutz foyer started talking to one another all at once, each offering instant opinions about who or what the voice sounded like.

  “Well, that’s me done for,” said one of the women from the reception desk. “I won’t be getting a wink of sleep until they catch the bastard.”

  “He sounded like the devil himself if you ask me,” said another. “Enough to give anyone the creeps.”

  Everything was a hum of indistinct conversations, and then Michael’s friend Stephen, who was standing just a few feet in front of him and closer than he was to the television, turned and spoke at a volume just loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room.

  “You know what, Michael,” he said. “That bloke sounds a hell of a lot like you.”

  TWELVE

  Michael had continued to postpone the business of obtaining a power of attorney over his grandmother’s affairs, and the long hours at work had made it more difficult. However, with Rose’s condition now apparently deteriorating more quickly, he made a new resolution to get on with sorting out the various papers he needed. On the way home that evening he stopped in the Blue Anchor fish-and-chip shop, which was just around the corner from the end of his street, bought his dinner, and ate his food out of the paper. Once again he reflected that he never would have done this while his grandma was living here. He felt sad and lonely as he sat at the kitchen table, but nonetheless made no effort to use a plate or cutlery.

  Michael picked up the remote control and flicked through the options. It seemed as if every channel which was not showing cartoons or films had cleared its schedule and was carrying the latest news following the police press conference. Speculation about what it all amounted to was becoming f
renzied.

  An assortment of criminologists and retired detectives had been called into the TV studios to opine on what the words used on the tape might reveal about any motives for the murders. The consensus among the experts still seemed to be that police should be looking for a father who had been denied access to his children and had been driven crazy by the system. A representative of the Fathers for Justice campaign group was being given the opportunity, for what seemed the hundredth time, to explain the inequities of a system that he said was loaded against dads. Hence, he said, some of the more extreme stunts staged by protesting fathers. “Not, of course, that anything could possibly justify the kind of actions we are seeing here.”

  Experts in linguistics had also been brought in to give instant analysis of the geographical and social roots of the person speaking, while criminologists were called upon to pronounce on whether or not the tape was likely to be genuine. Veteran journalists and academics recalled the case of the Yorkshire Ripper, who had murdered thirteen women in West Yorkshire and across the north more than thirty years ago. Police hunting him received letters and a tape purporting to be from the killer, only to discover later that they had been someone’s idea of a joke. Michael remembered that the way the original case had been covered by the newspapers had been a part of his media course at A level. Detectives had been convinced that the man on the tape and the killer were one and the same, which had thrown the investigation completely onto the wrong track. Lessons needed to be learned.

  For the moment at least, it seemed that police were working on the assumption that the recording was genuine, and so the hunt was on to identify the voice on the tape. At the time he had tried his best to shrug it off, but now he began to think about Stephen’s suggestion that the voice sounded a bit like his own. He thought it had been intended as a joke, but Michael was not feeling inclined to see a funny side. It was, of course, a difficult thing for him to judge, but if he considered it as objectively as he could, he supposed that the voice did sound similar to his. Certainly the person on the tape sounded relatively young, was probably from the southeast of England and from a reasonably good educational background. He ticked those boxes, but then again so did millions of others.