The Bridge

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The Bridge Page 11

by Stuart Prebble


  Michael did his best to banish thoughts about the hunt for the Madman, but the price he paid for doing so was that even-less-welcome thoughts occupied his mind. Try as he might, he felt unable to make any headway in his efforts to work out whether he was creating an issue from nothing or whether there was actually something odd going on relating to Alison. He wondered what the tension between her and Joanna could have been about and whether any of that was related to the strange text message received when they were walking together in Brighton. THERE’S NO POINT IN TRYING TO PROTECT HIM. What the hell could that mean? Michael had no way to know whether the text was from Joanna or what it could mean. Half the time he felt certain that there was something worrying going on, and the rest of the time he was impatient with himself for obsessing over what was likely to be a completely innocent set of misunderstandings. However, he knew that having these questions gnawing away at him in the background was not good for him or for the future of their relationship, and that soon he would have to confront this further mystery head-on. Always keen to avoid confrontation when he could, Michael did not look forward to the prospect.

  He cleared away his food wrapping and rinsed his hands under the tap, then dried them on the tea towel and reminded himself that it should go in the laundry. He grabbed it and threw it into the washing machine and then had to press his knees against the glass door to force it to close. He moved into Rose’s bedroom and went to the bureau where important family documents were kept. He knew that the papers he was looking for were stored in the second drawer, just beneath the section where he had found the envelope he had given to Elsie.

  He folded and tidied away the school reports he had rummaged through recently, and next he came across a diploma he had been awarded when, at age eight, he had managed to swim one hundred meters unaided. He remembered his grandmother taking a special pride in that particular achievement—she had always given a very high priority to ensuring that her grandson could swim.

  After a while he found his grandmother’s birth certificate, which was in her maiden name of Williams. He knew that he would be unlikely to find a copy of her marriage certificate because that was one of the papers which had been destroyed in the fire. However, Michael knew that he would need a copy of his grandfather’s death certificate as evidence that he was no longer Rose’s next of kin. He reflected that he did not know, and had probably never been told, the actual date or even the place of his grandfather’s death, so he hoped he would be able to find the original and not need to apply for a duplicate. Michael continued to sort through a whole pile of letters about pensions and family allowance. Finally there was just one aging brown envelope remaining, which he hoped would contain what he needed. The paper felt almost like old cloth in his hand as he carefully unfolded it, and he saw straightaway that it was what he was looking for. The document was headed “Certified Copy of an Entry of Death,” and to one side was the imprint in red ink of a rubber stamp which said AMENDED COPY. Michael had no idea what that could mean but assumed it was a result of the house fire which he had been told about. Beneath these words was a row of boxes, each of which had been completed in scarcely legible handwriting. Under WHEN AND WHERE DIED the registrar had written “Hove, April 15, 1997.” Under NAME OF DECEASED was written “George Frederick Beaumont.” In the box headed AGE was written the number “64,” and beneath the box asking for the cause of death was written a single word. Michael looked at it, and immediately something made him turn his head away for an instant, and then he turned back to look at it again. The word written in the box was “Suicide.” Michael felt his legs give way under him, and he sat down on his grandmother’s bed, his hands suddenly trembling uncontrollably.

  * * *

  An hour later Michael was still sitting in the same spot on the end of Rose’s bed, the same bed he used to climb up into as a small boy when he felt in need of comfort. He had tucked his heels into the gap beneath the mattress, elbows resting on knees and the palms of his hands supporting his head. Now he realized that his back had stiffened painfully from remaining for so long in one position, and he rolled over onto his side and brought his knees up to his chest. Several times he arched his spine this way and that, trying to ease the cramp which gripped him. He felt himself shivering and pulled back the duvet to slip his legs under.

  For all the aspects of Michael’s young life which had been missing—parents, siblings, cousins, all the usual ties—there had always been one person he could rely on, one constant factor in the otherwise fragile framework of his world. Now even she, his beloved grandmother, had embarked on a journey which would eventually take her out of his life altogether, as though he could see her steps in the snow, and she was retreating into a deepening mist which would soon engulf her. Of course he had had time and opportunity over many recent months to absorb some of this, and had done his best to do so, but sometimes the reality hit him hard, and this was one of those moments. It occurred to him that the less form and structure he had in his life, the more precious were any constants that he did have. One of the few fixed points of Michael’s life was that his grandfather, Rose’s husband, had died of a heart attack when Michael was a small boy. Like all tiny children, Michael had always taken this at face value as something that happens when people get very old. He had no recall of being told that his grandfather was sixty-four when he died, but even if he had heard it at the time, this would have seemed to a small boy to be a ripe old age. Now that he was twenty, Michael knew enough to understand that sixty-four was young to die in any circumstances, and the idea that his grandfather had committed suicide seemed to yank away another part of his already flimsy foundations.

  The shock of all this was exacerbated because it had come on top of all the other uncertainties that had been troubling him earlier in the evening. Such was the deterioration of Rose’s condition that it might already be too late for him to ask her about the circumstances of her husband’s death. Then he thought again about the photograph which Elsie had discovered in the envelope and wondered whether it was his destiny to have his entire history forever concealed by mystery.

  Eventually Michael pulled himself together as best he could and tried once again to apply the important lesson his grandmother had taught him: always to do his best to see any situation from the other person’s point of view. Eighteen years or so ago, his grandma Rose would have had what must be one of the worst experiences it is possible to have—the suicide of her husband. God only knew what the circumstances had been, but suddenly she was facing a situation in which she had lost her spouse, and her daughter had walked out the door, leaving her to take care of a tiny boy. Certainly it was entirely understandable that anyone dealing with all that might choose to try to bring up the child in ignorance of the tragedy which surrounded his early life. How could suicide be explained to a small boy anyway, and what would have been the point of trying to do so? Michael thought he could understand why the story would have been kept secret from him, but nonetheless it was a shock to discover it in this way. The revelation had knocked him sideways.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his telephone, and he was relieved to hear Alison’s voice. After their usual greetings she wanted to talk about the same subject that everyone was talking about.

  “I couldn’t believe my ears when I first heard it. Everyone in the travel agency stopped work. My friend Angela said it would give her nightmares. Do you think it’s actually him?”

  Michael related what he could remember of the news reports about the similar situation with the Yorkshire Ripper, which had happened before they both were born. He thought it was dangerous for the police to assume that the person on the tape and the killer were the same. “Bloody Stephen at work said he thought the voice sounded like me. Shouted it out among a big group of us.”

  Alison hesitated while she tried to absorb what Michael had just said. Her first reaction was indignation, as though having a similar voice in some way associated her boyfriend with the crimes. �
�What’s he talking about? It sounded nothing like you. And even if it had, that’s not a very nice thing to say among a whole load of people you work with.”

  “I don’t think he thought about it in that way. Remember he’s a sound engineer—he’s trained to listen to different voices. I think he just said the first thing that came into his head.”

  “Well, I think he’s got some bloody cheek,” said Alison. She was quiet again, and perhaps she was wondering whether there was indeed some similarity or not. Michael changed the subject.

  “Did you ever sort out that woman from work who was on at you to go to the bridal shower or whatever it was? The one that kept on ringing you? Pauline, was it?”

  Alison said that she had, and that it had all been a lot of fuss about nothing. Then she in turn seemed to change the subject quickly.

  “How is your gran? Any change there?”

  Michael told her that he had been trying to make progress with the power of attorney and that he had successfully located the key papers he needed. “But the weirdest thing has happened which has completely freaked me out. I don’t know whether I told you, but my grandfather died when I was a baby, and I’ve always been led to believe that the cause was a heart attack.” Alison said that he had not told her that, but urged him to go on anyway. “Well, guess what? The last document I needed, to prove that Rose has no other living family, was my granddad’s death certificate. And I just found it at the bottom of a pile of other stuff, except that it doesn’t say that his cause of death was a coronary, as I’ve been told. It says that his cause of death was suicide.” Michael expected a reaction from Alison, but for a moment there was silence and he wondered whether the line had been cut. “Alison? Are you still there?” He heard a noise at the other end of the line, as though perhaps she was swallowing or breathing deeply. “Alison?”

  “Yes, I’m here,” she said finally. “I just don’t know what to say.” There was another long pause, and then when she spoke, there was a long hesitation between her next words. “That’s…absolutely…awful.”

  THIRTEEN

  Michael had been told to report for work at 10:00 AM for what seemed likely to be a long and hard day, so he decided to drop in at Greenacres early on his way into town. Strictly speaking, relatives were supposed to confine their visits to the prescribed hours, but he had found that if things were quiet and the medical teams were not on their rounds, no one seemed to mind him popping in.

  It was just after 9:00 AM when Michael arrived at the care home. He was able to find a space in the car park, and he entered by the main door and made his way along the corridor in the direction of the residents’ rooms. At the far end, beyond number 23, he could see Esme washing the floor using a bucket of soapy water and an old-fashioned mop. She caught his eye as he approached, and Michael walked past Rose’s room to greet her. Last time they had met he had kissed her on the cheek, but now he did not know whether it was appropriate to repeat the gesture. There was a moment of awkwardness, and then he did and was glad.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” said Esme. “Your grandma will be pleased to see you, but you’ll get into trouble if you keep turning up here whenever you like.”

  “Yes, sorry about that,” said Michael. “I’m having to work late a lot these days, and it’s difficult to get here in the evenings. Anyway, I’m here now. How does she seem?”

  Esme said that Rose had been sleeping a lot, but when she was awake she was alert and her old self for some of the time. “But you can see that she is gradually withdrawing, Michael. Part of the time she seems not to know where she is, and she gets very distressed. Once or twice she has woken up from a bad dream and has been shouting out.”

  Michael would have liked to ask more questions but was aware of having little time to spare this morning. He said that he would put his head round the door to see if Rose was awake but would have to get on to work shortly.

  Rose was sound asleep when he entered her room. Michael looked at his watch and reckoned that he could spend a few minutes at her bedside. As he did so, he remembered that the watch on his wrist had belonged originally to his grandfather but had been given to Michael by his grandma on his eighteenth birthday. It was not especially valuable but had been Rose’s gift to her husband on their silver wedding anniversary. Michael had been very moved to receive it and had promised to take special care, which he had. He looked at it now and wondered again what could have happened that was so terrible that it led his grandfather to take his own life.

  As he sat at her bedside and looked at his grandmother’s face, Michael tried once again to wash away the passage of time and imagine her as a much younger person. Despite the toll taken by the years, his grandmother was still, in her way, a beautiful woman. She had reached a point of her life when beauty was not about physical appearance but about the person behind it. Clearly Rose had been through more than her share of tragedy and disappointment, but she had been true to herself and had given him every opportunity and an enormous amount of love.

  His time had passed, and Michael got up to leave. He was moving towards the door when he heard a soft knocking from outside and saw the handle turn. He took a step back to ensure that he was not in the way when the door opened, and as he did so a woman entered, clearly surprised to find a visitor in the room. She was shorter than Michael and did not look up at him as she spoke.

  “Oh, sorry. I had no idea.”

  The woman was about fifty years old, with shoulder-length brown hair parted in the center and just a few streaks of gray. She had a pretty face and wore no makeup. She also seemed to be more flustered than might be expected by the surprise, and only then did she turn up her face to look for the first time at Michael. It took her a second or two to register him and then with no further words, she turned around and walked briskly out of the door.

  The woman had come and gone so abruptly that Michael needed a moment or two to collect himself. He allowed the door to close, but then stepped forward to open it once again. He walked into the corridor, looked left and right, and saw that she had already reached the far end of the corridor and was hurrying out of the main door towards the car park. Seeing her running away made him realize that this was the same woman he had seen leaving Rose’s room after he heard his grandmother screaming. The thought propelled him to quicken his pace, and a few seconds later, he burst through the door and cast his eyes around. He hoped that he would catch a glimpse of her getting into one of the cars and driving off, but there was no sign.

  Michael was now at risk of being very late for work and so had no further time to consider or to follow up on what had happened. He remembered his intention to make more inquiries about the woman Esme had said was called Mrs. Rawlinson and regretted that he had not done so before. The earlier incident had faded from his mind, and now he determined again that he needed to find out more about Rose’s mystery visitor. Certainly he had no objection to Rose receiving anyone so long as they were welcomed by her, but he was more curious than ever to know who this woman was.

  The commuter traffic was just a little lighter since the main part of the rush hour was over, and Michael turned on the radio as he weaved in between the lines of cars. The news was still dominated by the police hunt for the Madman, with speculation about the significance of the recording still overshadowing every other story. It seemed that everyone had a view about it, and it was being reported that the police had received hundreds of calls from people who thought they knew the man on the tape. The police had released more details of the form in which the recording had reached them. It had been on one of those USB digital storage devices, of a type which had been adapted for use as a key ring. “That’s a fat lot of use,” Michael said aloud, and looked down at his own car keys, which were attached to a USB stick he had bought in a service station for less than a pound.

  Michael parked the car in the underground car park, which was one of the few perks of his otherwise rather junior job. He and colleagues sometimes joked that the car park
ing in the center of London was worth more than the salary. He waved hello to the two young women on the reception desk, but both seemed to be immersed in conversation and neither acknowledged him. Michael thought it slightly strange that he passed no one else in the corridors on his way to the sound recording suite, which he used as his base. The doors into the recording area were unusually heavy in order to dampen the noise and were fixed with strong springs so that they closed quickly and completely behind whoever was passing through them. The last door into the sound suite had a glass porthole at head height to enable people entering to check that they would not be interrupting a critical moment of recording. As it was first thing in the morning and no red lights were on, Michael glanced quickly through the window at the same time as he pushed the door, and it was just a second before he realized that there were perhaps half-a-dozen people inside the suite, and that two of them were uniformed police officers. He stopped dead, taken aback by the unexpected sight, and then his amazement went into overdrive when he realized that he had interrupted them listening to a voice which was coming from the speakers, and that the voice was his own. Five men he did not recognize, plus his friend Stephen the sound engineer, were listening to the recording he had made a few weeks ago listing the items on the lunch menu.

  “You must be Michael.” It was one of the men wearing plain clothes whom he now assumed was a detective. “Please, would you sit down?” It did not sound like a request, and he gestured to the three-seat sofa which was positioned in front of the control desk and facing the screen. Michael made no movement, unable to take on board what he was seeing. Eventually his brain engaged sufficiently to enable him to speak.

 

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