Strangers on a Bridge

by Louise Mangos

  I texted simply: That’s okay.

  When he texted back: We must do it again, I didn’t respond.

  I picked up the shopping and paused to collect the post from the mailbox beside the door. In the parcel section underneath the letterbox lay a bunch of roughly picked marguerite daisies, stalks torn and bruised. Tied together with a stem of barley grass, it looked like a gift a child might leave. I often gave the farmer’s wife a bag of the boys’ outgrown clothes, and on more than one occasion had helped shoo the cattle back behind trampled fences. Their thanks often came in the form of a carton of fresh eggs from the farm.

  ‘Were the cows out again this week?’ I asked Oliver, knowing he and Leon were often enlisted to help put them back in the field. ‘Looks like the farmer’s kids have left us a gift.’

  I took the marguerites with the post. Later that evening, as I began preparing dinner, I studied the flowers sitting in a glass of water on the bench in the kitchen and narrowed my eyes.

  Chapter Twelve

  Climbing the stairs to our bedroom that evening, I felt drained. Generally priding myself on self-control, I wondered whether something was shifting in me because of recent events. But as I walked into the bedroom from the bathroom, Simon put down the book he had been reading, playfully pursed his lips and opened his arms to welcome me into a hug. I had been about to spill the beans about meeting Manfred and the coincidence of Oliver seeing him in the village, but filed the thought away for another time. Simon’s suitcase was open in front of the wardrobe, displaying a few half-packed items. I didn’t want to sour the mood by mentioning Manfred. Simon would be leaving in a couple of days for London and wouldn’t be back until the following Saturday.

  I shed my clothes, letting them pool at my feet, and crawled onto the bed, curling myself gratefully into his embrace. He kissed my hair and moved his hands to gently stroke my back and shoulders. I pressed my lips to his chest and felt his erection pressing against my thigh. I caressed him, and we began our familiar ritual of lovemaking, my passion rising as we touched each other tentatively where we knew the fires would ignite. Simon manoeuvred himself over me, sinking his hips to mine. I gasped with pleasure. He raised his face to the ceiling with eyes closed, exposing a day’s blond stubble on his throat, revelling in the first slide into that special place. My hips rose to him as we moved together. I felt the familiar pressure clenching in my lower belly as Simon’s movement became more urgent.

  Then a loud beep. My mobile phone. I had left it in my jacket pocket hanging on the back of the door. It caused my already thumping heart to miss a beat. My eyes flew open. Simon stopped moving and looked at me with a frown.

  ‘Ignore it, Al. Who the hell messages at this time of night? And since when did you become so reliant on your mobile? It can wait.’

  ‘I know, it’s okay,’ I whispered.

  But, of course, it wasn’t okay. Of the few people I knew had my number, none of them would text at this time of night. But then again, it could be a wrong number… Simon resumed his slow lovemaking and closed his eyes again. I concentrated hard on recalling that rising sense of ecstasy, wanting to be right back in my passion. The phone beeped again. It was probably only a repetition of the same message, but I slammed my head back into the pillow.

  ‘Gah!’ I gasped.

  The passion drained from me like water through a sluice gate, replaced with a feeling of self-loathing and frustration.

  ‘Al. Honey, what’s the matter? What’s with the weirdness? If it’s to do with your mobile, can’t you ignore it?’

  I shook my head, biting my lip as Simon pulled away. I remembered Manfred telling me he’d got my number from the hospital, and I couldn’t think why he would text me now, unless he was feeling desperate again …

  ‘Al, you seem so preoccupied at the moment,’ Simon continued gently. ‘Maybe I can help ease your anxiety,’ he added with a smile.

  He reached for me again, but I put my hand against his chest.

  My passion had gone, and with a sigh Simon lay on his back.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I whispered.

  ‘Me too, Alice, me too,’ he said as he patted my hip, rolled over, and turned out the light. ‘I have a long day tomorrow. Let’s get some sleep.’

  I turned on my side, hugging my knees. A frustrated tear dribbled across the bridge of my nose. I couldn’t work out why I was feeling so jumpy.

  When I heard Simon’s regular soft snore, I climbed out of bed and took my mobile phone out of the jacket pocket. I clicked open the message:

  I miss your wise words. And your arms around me.

  I should never have hugged Manfred, should never have let him touch me. I thought perhaps I should block his number, for both our sakes. What would Simon think if he found out I’d met him?

  But not knowing whether he would go back to that dark place without my support was somehow worse than knowing. I shivered. I needed to know he was going to be okay.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘I’m sorry, Fraulein, I am not normally allowed to give information about the patients, but I can really say we have no record of Herr Guggenbuhl. I cannot tell you if he was referred to a specialist because his name is not in the system.’

  The medical receptionist’s hands lay unmoving on the keyboard of her computer, my eyes willing information out of her. The Post-it notes and papers had been removed from the area around the counter affording a clear view of the office. Manfred Guggenbuhl had become a ghost patient. There was no record of my bringing him in. I was sure I had signed a document relating to his admission. Maybe my German was just too atrocious. Maybe they thought I was a tourist, and hadn’t kept my details, even though I had given my address and telephone number. Surely it wasn’t so unusual to hear English spoken in this canton with so many international corporations taking advantage of its tax-haven status.

  ‘How about in the hospital patient records? Is there anything?’ I asked, knowing I was repeating a question that had already been answered.

  The nurse’s hands remained immobile.

  ‘The hospital’s computer system is linked everywhere. When I type his name, any patient records from all departments will show. This name did not show anywhere. I’m sorry. I am also a little embarrassed to say that we had a few computer problems when the hospital opened,’ admitted the woman.

  That explained the Post-it notes, now absent from the glass between us.

  ‘This man attempted suicide that day. He could still be a danger to himself. In any case, he would still need medical and psychological help. You do understand this, don’t you? I can’t believe his case would be treated so lightly, or ignored altogether.’

  The nurse looked at me with sympathy, as though I was the one who’d required help. I sighed.

  ‘I gave my contact details that day. Is it possible someone would have given them out? Mr Guggenbuhl has been calling me, and I’m not sure where he got my number.’

  The receptionist looked taken aback.

  ‘That would not have been allowed. Unless you gave it to him yourself? Perhaps you don’t remember.’

  ‘No, I didn’t give him my number,’ I said pointedly.

  ‘I’m sorry, madam…’

  I figured Manfred must have persuaded one of the other nurses to give him my number that day or maybe a few days later. They all seemed like a bunch of incompetents at the moment.

  Outside the hospital entrance, I kicked a rubbish bin with frustration. A medic walking towards the door spontaneously sidestepped me with a shocked glance, but didn’t say anything.

  We lived in a country where everything worked, trains always ran on time, letters inevitably arrived in the mailbox the day after they had been posted, insurance payouts were implemented without question. And the average Joe who worked as a civil servant or council clerk knew exactly what everyone was doing at any given time in the hierarchical human ladder that made up Switzerland’s complex functioning administration.

  But it seemed they
had all conspired to defeat me today. Most of all I felt sorry for Manfred, who had somehow slipped through the net to wander, lost in his misery, latching on to me of all people, a confused foreigner who had slipped through the other end of the system.

  Two flukes in an otherwise perfect utopia.

  I sat in the car and put my hand to my temple. My skin felt hot and my head had begun to pound. The frustration was beginning to build to an indefinable irritation, and I was losing faith in my ability to help Manfred resolve his issues.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Weaving through the trees along the Lorze Gorge, I stumble. The path morphs from packed dirt to cotton wool beneath my feet. I try to speed up, sense someone chasing me. I can’t turn my head. There is a person… someone familiar. The person takes off, spreading great silver wings, flying. It’s an angel. I twist my head, still can’t quite catch the face. A face that is changing… Oh, it’s Manfred. What are we running from together? I turn my head forward again, try to run harder. My feet sink deep into the cushioned softness and I can’t gain purchase on the path. I’m getting nowhere. The next moment I am knocked over, the wind whipped from me, my face pressed down into the spongy earth. I can’t breathe.

  Waking out of the nightmare, I was at first confused to find I was looking at the ceiling of our bedroom. A great weight lifted from my chest as I gasped, filling my lungs full of air through an aching throat.

  My eyes were smarting and sore, the place behind my sockets pounding to the rhythm of my heart, clumpy boots stepping across my brain. These, at least, were symptoms I recognised. I had a cold.

  Simon had already left. I hadn’t heard him. Unusual to have slept through his departure. I was further saddened by the fact that I wouldn’t see him for a few days and that things between us were far from harmonious. I lacked energy, but knew I had to get the boys ready for school. I swung my heavy legs over the edge of the bed and padded to the bathroom. Checking the thermometer, I realised I had a mild fever. Even pressing the monitor to my ear caused discomfort. Every movement made my temples pound.

  I winced with pain as I stepped gingerly down the stairs. In the kitchen I filled the kettle and took the cereal packet and two bowls out of the cupboard for the boys. Glancing at the clock on the oven, I saw it was later than I thought and hurried as best I could back upstairs to wake them. Oliver would be cross he hadn’t been woken early enough. He hated to be late for anything, even school. Leon, on the other hand, would be grumpy he had been woken at all.

  As I knocked quietly at the boys’ doors, the phone rang. I returned to my bedroom and answered quickly, if only to stop the shrill noise from making my headache worse. I had assumed it would be Simon calling from the airport, making sure the household was up and about. I croaked a greeting.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘You sound not good.’

  Manfred. I really couldn’t deal with talking to him just then, and wanted to get him off the line. I should probably have cut him off. But I felt I should say something.

  ‘I’m not well, Manfred. I have a sore throat and a headache. It hurts to talk. I’m busy getting the boys ready for school. I’m still not sure how you got my numbers, but please, it’s really best you don’t call here.’

  ‘I could come and care for you. Alice, you must not forget that I owe you my life. It is, how you say, my obligation to you.’

  ‘Manfred, I…’

  ‘I can make a good hot soup, a drink. You must take liquids if you are not well. Stay in bed. I can be there in a moment.’

  ‘Please, Manfred, leave me alone just now!’ My throat burned as I raised my voice. ‘This is not the time. You’re mistaken about my being able to help. Go to see a doctor. Find someone to talk to. I really don’t feel I can help you.’

  The phone slipped back into its cradle on a film of sweat. The product of my anxiety rather than my illness. It didn’t take long for guilt to flood in on my frustration and misery.

  Leon shuffled along the hallway, pyjamas in disarray and hair in a lopsided wedge only a pillow could design.

  ‘Is everything okay, Mum? I heard you shouting. You don’t sound like you’re doing too good, you know.’

  ‘No, I’m not well. I don’t sound like I’m doing too well, Leon. It’s late. You’d better hurry and get ready for school.’

  ‘She’s not too sick for a grammar lesson,’ he mumbled, shuffling to the bathroom.

  I went to check on Oliver. He’d already perceived an edge of tension.

  ‘It’s okay, Mum, I’m getting up,’ he said with forced cheerfulness. Of the two boys, Oliver was much less inclined to invite conflict. I was grateful.

  ‘I’ll see you downstairs,’ I said, and went down to the kitchen to prepare myself a tisane.

  I was at least relieved to know my silent caller hadn’t been Manfred. There would be no reason for him to suddenly engage in conversation if he’d been the one making all those spooky calls before. But in my wretched state, I would have preferred to have the crackling static of a silent caller than to actually talk to Manfred now.

  Then I felt really bad, wondering how harsh I’d sounded on the phone. He hadn’t deserved that. There was always a worry the thread holding him to life was still delicate. Here was a sad human being who had fixed on the idea I could somehow help him.

  Even though I’d already told him this was way beyond my psychological capabilities.

  Chapter Fifteen

  JUNE

  My influenza lasted six days from start to finish. I had never felt so helpless before. It required superhuman effort to get out of bed for the first three mornings, and as soon as I had packed the kids out of the door, I crawled back to bed with a hot honey-lemon drink and handful of paracetamol. Simon called from London at lunchtime on the first day, sounding sympathetic when I explained I was ill. After our conversation, I pulled the phone wire out of the wall and only plugged it back in when the boys walked through the door after school. The battery in my mobile phone died and I chose not to charge it. I decided I could live without it, despite my earlier conviction that I should run with it in case of an emergency. The only person I truly needed to keep in contact with was Simon, and he could call me on our landline at the end of the day.

  Midweek, after the boys had left one morning, the phone next to the bed rang before I’d had a chance to unplug it. I glanced at the caller display. No ID. It could have been Simon. He knew I was ill, would expect me to answer. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk to him either. Out of some perverse impulse to punish myself, I stood watching the phone to see how long it would ring. It clanged and jangled around my stuffy head, and when it finally stopped, the roaring silence was almost more disturbing. Long after I had unplugged the wire from the wall, I could still hear the phantom echo of ringing, matching the pulsing of my temple.

  Simon arrived back from London at the weekend, and was perplexed to find me still ill. I had always been the stalwart of the family, able to function whatever my dilemma. Rendered helpless by the flu, my uselessness depressed me. He took over household duties, providing the boys with food, and tried unsuccessfully to delegate tasks to them. But he couldn’t take any time off work. For the first time, I was really aware of how much work he had on at the moment. I wanted to talk about my own concerns over the past days, but they seemed so trivial compared to his workload. It was easy for me to keep quiet, keep the peace.

  Simon took to sleeping on the fold-out sofa in our little home office with the excuse that he couldn’t afford to fall ill in the middle of his current project at work. He brought me tea and soup and sat on the edge of the bed before going off to his quarantined space. But in my fevered state, I read far more into this separation, and irrationally wondered whether this was an excuse to distance himself from me, irrespective of whether I was contagious. He was behaving like a husband with a lover.

  By the time he moved back to our bed halfway through the following week, I had become used to sleeping alone. My irrational anxiety
at having him return to our marital bed was exacerbated by the fact that there was an unidentifiable thing between us I hadn’t talked about: I’d met Manfred a couple of weeks before for a coffee to make sure he was doing okay and, rather than solving his problems, might simply have opened a new can of worms.

  An anti-cyclone settled over the Alps, and the beautiful spring days were set to last. The bilious strands of clogging phlegm finally diminished in my chest, and I was keen to get back into my running routine.

  For my first run, I started out gently, cutting across the meadow dotted with young fruit trees to the north of the house. I took time to appreciate the view of our village below. The church spire commanded a matriarchal position, surrounded haphazardly by steeply gabled buildings, all rendered toy-like from this distance. Smoky wisps floated lazily upwards from the chimneys of the few homes still requiring heating during the clear nights.

  As I jogged along the path, a prickling sensation crept up my neck. In that sure and certain human trait of premonition, I knew I was being watched. But when I looked around me, I couldn’t see a soul. A breeze stroked the tips of the fresh new grass in the field, and a flurry of petals fell like snow from a row of cherry trees in the upper meadow.

  As I rounded the barn in the upper field, I heard the occasional shake of a bell inside and thought it a shame the farmer hadn’t let the cows out on this beautiful spring morning. I caught the flash of something in my peripheral vision. Was that a trouser leg, or the flap of a jacket, next to the old plum tree at the end of the farm track? My gaze darted back to the spot, daring the movement to repeat itself. Like scouring the midnight sky for that evasive shooting star. My heart pounded and the breath stuck in my throat. One of the farm cats leapt across the track in front of me from the verge, and I squealed involuntarily. Its tail flicked back and forth as it trotted away, ears turned backwards, advertising irritation. I let out a rush of breath in relief and laughed at my ridiculous paranoia. Observed by a farm cat. Next I’d be suspecting the trees and the grass.