Strangers on a Bridge

by Louise Mangos

  I shook my head and ran on up the hill. Adrenalin initially fuelled my progress, but I didn’t get far before my chest began to feel tight and I knew I’d probably pushed my luck on my first time out after recovery. After several pauses, and one dizzy moment when I leaned over with my hands on my knees, I conceded it was time to head home and promised myself I would plan a more gentle reintroduction to fitness by running an easier route next time.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I pushed open the door of the police station and stepped inside. A young officer sat at a desk some distance behind the counter, studying a computer. His desk was surrounded with cardboard boxes full of files and books. The nametag on the royal-blue uniform shirt of the Zuger Polizei said R. Schmid. I remembered the name from the day I had called. He seemed surprised to see a visitor as he glanced up from the screen. His hand floated briefly above the keyboard with his palm raised, forbidding interruption while he finished typing slowly with one finger. My confidence began to wane as the seconds passed.

  ‘Grüeziwohl, what can I do for you?’

  I wasn’t reassured by his informal and jocular manner. I wanted gruffness and officialdom.

  ‘My name is Alice Reed,’ I said. ‘I called you a few weeks ago regarding a man I stopped jumping from the Tobel Bridge.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Schmid said. ‘The lady who does not want to practise her German.’

  He had that look on his face I had seen before. Communication had been my main worry in my encounters with the authorities. Taking a deep breath, I put on my friendliest tone.

  ‘Do you remember my report about the man I saw on the Tobel Bridge?’

  The policeman tipped his head on one side.

  ‘This man, his name is Manfred Guggenbuhl. He wanted to jump. You know, suicide.’

  I drew my hand comically across my throat, face flushing. A flicker of amusement lit the policeman’s face.

  ‘Selbstmord,’ I reiterated, patting my handbag to reassure myself the dictionary was there should I need it.

  Schmid compressed his lips and nodded slowly, bringing his hands together in a steeple of fingers, a gesture way beyond his years. If I couldn’t make him believe I had prevented someone from committing suicide, how was I going to convince him I thought the man still needed help?

  I haltingly explained the subsequent events, emphasising words I knew in German. The officer’s expression, displaying initial displeasure that I hadn’t tried to speak his language, soon faded to one of irritated boredom.

  ‘Although I’ve asked him repeatedly, he hasn’t told me he’s sought help, and I’m concerned. It’s important for people who have attempted suicide to have follow-up therapy and, through some strange mix-up at the hospital, I couldn’t find out from them whether he has been assigned psychological help. Is there any way you could intervene? It’s just that… my son has seen him in the village when I haven’t been around, and although he told me he has business here, I’m not sure…’

  I thought it strange Schmid hadn’t stood up and approached the counter. The wild thought occurred to me that he was missing his trousers. More likely he wanted to finish his work without the interruption of some foreign woman.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be taking notes or something? Writing a report of my visit?’

  He crossed his arms and leaned back.

  ‘I’m… I’m sorry,’ I stammered. ‘It just seems to be a lot to remember.’

  ‘Well, Frau – Reed, gell? I cannot know yet what you are here to complain about. You are telling me this man did not jump, but neither did you call 117 on the day…’

  ‘But I didn’t have my phone with me.’

  He carried on as if I hadn’t spoken.

  ‘…Instead you took him to your home, and you took him to the hospital, so he should certainly be thankful. And you called him to meet for coffee. Surely this is an invitation, how do you say, to engage? Has he been displaying behaviour that makes you believe he is still a danger to himself? Maybe the man who was outside the school is not the same person.’

  ‘There’s something else… We’ve been getting some silent calls at home. The two incidents are making me nervous.’

  ‘What exactly are you here about, Frau Reed? Herr Guggenbuhl’s well-being, or to report some other fool making joke calls?’

  Schmid leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, a further sign I was getting a rejection. He continued.

  ‘I took the liberty of learning a little about the gentleman in question after your telephone call. He has an unusual name, so I was curious.’ Schmid was now openly patronising. ‘He has an exemplary character, no record, and is well spoken of among his neighbours. He has recently moved to Aegeri and lives in an apartment in the same residence as the Staatsanwalt. It is natural he would be seen around the village. You must be very careful if you are to declare instability in a respected member of our community.’

  My jaw dropped and I stood at the police desk dumbfounded. This information almost needed a replay button in my mind to allow me to compute.

  ‘He lives here? But he lives in Aargau! He has family there…’

  ‘This is a small community; people talk to each other, Frau Reed. The man you are concerned about has recently made his home here. He will pay his taxes here. Where he came from and his history are no business of anybody else. He has a right to move where he wants. I think you are being a little overexcited. Perhaps he has been trying to make a normal impression on people as a new resident and you have taken his politeness in the wrong way? If he was still… unwell, there would be evidence.’

  The heat of tears prickled. I didn’t want to humiliate myself any more. I turned to leave.

  ‘Are you moving your office?’ I asked, manoeuvring my way round a pile of boxes.

  ‘We are preparing to close the office here. Our services will soon be centralised in Zug. We are much occupied with combining the administration and assigning new rotas.’

  I wandered back to my car, climbed in and clutched the steering wheel for half a minute until my whitened knuckles began to ache.

  When I arrived home, I passed the mailbox. The latest gift from the farmer was a small box of Kirsch Stängeli, tiny chocolate fingers filled with cherry schnapps. I thought perhaps they were going a bit far with their kindness, but appreciated the fact that at least they hadn’t shunned our presence in the community as everyone else seemed to be doing.

  In the apartment, I went straight to the shower, having worked up an unpleasant sweat with my frustrating police encounter. I turned the water to as hot as I could stand and enjoyed the sensation of the heat on my shoulders and neck. I lathered my hair with shampoo and breathed in the whorls of steam to help ease the tightness in my lungs. I immediately felt better, and knew it wouldn’t be long before I was back to my regular pace and running distances.

  I made a mental note to be extra affectionate with Simon from now on. I would cook him a favourite meal, offer to give him a massage, try to reconnect where I thought we might have had a misunderstanding about my reactions and decisions regarding Manfred’s attempt to take his life. With summer approaching, I wanted to broach the subject of fixing certain days of the week for marathon training. Tuesday afternoons for a long hill run, Thursdays at the track. If I alternated times, Simon might need to be available to look after the kids after school. I knew he was pleased I had formed a long-term goal to keep me occupied during his long working weeks, so thought he would comply.

  I stepped out of the shower, towelling my hair. Squeaking a space clear on the fogged-up mirror, I pulled my fingers through damp locks. As I wrapped the towel round my torso, I heard the familiar creak of wood on the fourth stair and figured the boys must be home, or perhaps Simon, to surprise me for lunch. I smiled in anticipation of a complaint about the muggy bathroom, and threw open the door.

  Steam swirled out after me as I walked barefoot into the hall and stood silently with my head on one side.

  ‘Simon?’ I called. ‘Are y
ou home?’ Silence. ‘Leon, Oli?’

  I shrugged, figuring I must have been mistaken, and headed to the bedroom to open the window where condensation was blurring the glass from my shower. As I opened the wardrobe to pull out a pair of jeans, I heard the latch click on the door downstairs.

  ‘Simon?’ I called again, and looked over the banister to the empty hall. I must have left the door ajar, the breeze from the open bedroom window pushing it firmly closed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Simon sat at the kitchen table sipping a beer and flicking through his latest edition of The Economist. I rattled around in the cupboard for a saucepan and ran cold water into it, preparing to peel some potatoes for dinner.

  ‘I went to the police today,’ I said.

  Simon closed his magazine and sat back in his chair.

  ‘You think they’ll talk to your guy?’

  Your guy? I narrowed my eyes. I wondered if Simon had ever taken me seriously about Manfred’s psychological needs.

  ‘I thought I should urge them to contact him. To make sure he’s okay.’

  ‘Is it worth kicking up a fuss about this? I trust your judgement, Al. But are you sure he needs your intervention? Don’t forget you’ve misinterpreted the Swiss in the past. Remember the electrician incident? You’ve got to be sure if you’re going to try and mix yourself up in someone else’s life. He probably just wants to forget about it. Move on, like the rest of us.’

  My face reddened. I didn’t like to be reminded of the electrician incident. When we first moved in we were having the wiring of a light fitting altered in the kitchen so the lamp would hang over the kitchen table. I’d thought the electrician was coming on to me. He’d put a hand on my shoulder and said something I didn’t understand with an unusually broad smile. At that stage I understood practically no German, and hadn’t realised he was trying to explain he was the father of one of the boys’ friends at school, and that he’d be happy for our families to get together socially. Boy, had I got that wrong. Especially as this was not a typically Swiss request. I could have benefitted from a little help when it came to integrating. Instead, I ended up complaining to one of the mothers, who happened to be his sister-in-law, making the whole thing worse.

  ‘The guy was imbalanced enough to attempt suicide,’ Simon continued. ‘You never know how someone like that is going to react, Al. Don’t go interfering where someone else should be doing their job. You don’t want any kind of repercussions from this guy finding out you’ve been meddling. I think you’re worrying about nothing. It’ll peter out. You’ll see.’

  ‘You’re right. I don’t think Manfred is a danger to himself.’

  I bit my lip as soon as I had spoken. I remembered fragments of Manfred’s unsettling conversation about the knife and tried to imagine his domestic situation. I wondered whether he had been cutting bread at the time, or if he had reached for it in response to some kind of sickening impulse. I remembered his eyes when he looked at me. The recollection made me blush, although I was relieved, at least, that Simon was being more pragmatic about things.

  I was on the verge of speaking again, of telling him I’d instigated a meeting with Manfred. I knew Simon would be angry about my meddling. But it had happened, and I couldn’t take it back. However, I didn’t think it would change anything and I wanted to avoid giving him extra cause for concern just as his project at work was ramping up. I knew there was professional tension at the office, although he always made sure he didn’t bring it home with him. I was eternally thankful for that. But the stress was there, and I shouldn’t be adding to it.

  Also, the length of time between my meeting with Manfred and telling Simon about it was making it even harder to admit what I’d done.

  So I kept quiet. To end the conversation, I turned to carry our cups to the sink.

  ‘Of course, it doesn’t help that you showed him where we lived that day, Al. I wouldn’t want to be proved wrong on this.’

  The cups rattled heavily on their saucers.

  Chapter Eighteen

  As I pulled into the driveway after running errands the following day, I saw a police car parked outside the house and my hopes rose. I wondered if they’d talked to Manfred and had come to update me on their actions.

  But then I thought maybe something had happened to Leon or Oliver. Oh God, it must be Leon. He must have finally gone over the top at school. Perhaps he had hurt some child. But the police… I felt sick that a parent might have intervened before talking to us.

  Oh, Leon, I didn’t think it would come to this.

  As I walked into the house, Police Officer Schmid came out of the kitchen. Leon stood at the top of the stairs to the bedrooms, looking down at me. His eyes were wide, and he drew his hand across his throat in mock horror. The policeman couldn’t see Leon from where he stood, and I was momentarily confused, looking from one to the other. Why was Leon at the top of the stairs?

  ‘Ah, good afternoon, Frau Reed. Could you come in here for a moment, please?’

  I followed Schmid into the kitchen, where Oliver sat at the table, fists clenched in front of him. Another policeman leaned against the kitchen sink.

  ‘What’s happened? What’s going on, Oliver?’ I asked.

  He was upset, but not tearful.

  ‘Mum, it was all Alex’s fault. It wasn’t me. I…’ Schmid held up his hand to stop Oliver speaking.

  ‘Your son has been caught, how do you say, doing shoplifting,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, no, Oliver…’ My voice dropped in disbelief. My good little boy?

  ‘Mum, listen, it wasn’t me,’ Oliver said adamantly.

  I looked enquiringly at the policeman.

  ‘He says he didn’t do it. What has he been accused of stealing exactly?’ I asked.

  ‘It was a chocolate bar,’ said Schmid. ‘From the Mölki, the local dairy. Normally the shop owner would deal with this herself, this type of thing happens so rarely, but I think she wanted to make your son an example. But the truth is, Frau Reed, your son stole something, and then attempted to deceive us, telling us he hadn’t stolen it. Frau Besmer and her assistant saw him do it with their own eyes. Two witnesses. We ignore his excuses now, Frau Reed. He is a thief and a liar. Of course, we will not prosecute, he is too young, but his name will be retained on our records of this incident. We hope that you and your husband can deal with his discipline in a sensible manner. What he has done is against the law,’ he concluded.

  I winced to think of Oliver’s name on some juvenile criminal list.

  ‘Of course, Officer… Herr Schmid, we will talk to him,’ I said.

  I waited until Simon came home from work that evening to address the issue with Oliver. Once Leon had gone to his room to do some homework after dinner, we talked to Oliver at the kitchen table. He explained what had happened. It was a schoolboy prank turned bad.

  ‘It was this bet. Alex and the others. We were messing around after school. They made me do it. Honest. I know it was wrong. But it was like they forced me.’

  ‘The only people who can force you to do anything, Oliver, are your mum and me,’ Simon said with a little humour.

  We talked about trust, telling the truth, and the need to ask himself if something was right before following the lead of others. We agreed we would go to the dairy early on Saturday, to apologise to the shopkeeper in person. I could tell Oliver felt wretchedly disappointed with himself. I was sure this was something that wouldn’t be repeated.

  ‘I want you to promise nothing like this will ever happen again,’ I said.

  ‘I promise, Mum, Dad.’

  He gave us a hug, tears finally spilling over after the upheaval of his day. My concern as I hugged Oliver wasn’t so much that he might repeat the misdemeanour. I was sure he wouldn’t. It was that the reputation of my son was now tainted in the eyes of the police.

  Chapter Nineteen

  JULY

  I’d been running more frequently with Kathy now we had the marathon as our goal. There we
re some days when a weather inversion meant an early mist would settle in the valley around Zug. As Aegeri was often bathed in summer sun from early in the morning, she came to my place, and we would set off from home.

  One morning, after a gentle run along part of the local Panoramaweg, a few fat drops fell bizarrely from an otherwise cloudless sky. A summer rain shower.

  ‘Oh, crap, my washing would have been dry,’ I said.

  ‘Race you back,’ she said. ‘We can still rescue it.’

  As we turned down our driveway, Kathy chortled.

  ‘Looks like someone’s already taken down your laundry.’

  The umbrella washing line to the side of the house stood empty, turning slowly in the breeze.

  ‘You’ve got the best neighbours,’ she continued. ‘Do you think I can hire them? Plenty of clothes to fold in my house.’

  In the basket on the bench in our porch sat two neatly folded piles of laundry, plucked from the line before they had become dampened in the rain. No one had ever done that for me before. I took the basket wordlessly into the house, trying to work out which of my benevolent neighbours would have done such a thing.

  ‘Stay for a tea?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course, sweetie, the usual,’ Kathy replied.

  Placing the teapot on the low table, I flopped down on the sofa next to Kathy. She’d pulled on a fresh cotton T-shirt to replace her Lycra.

  As the rain stopped, I flung the windows open to the rural summer sounds of the farmer mowing the paddock outside the house. The gentle putt-putting sound filtered into the living room with a dusting of pine pollen I would regret having to clean up later.

  ‘I’m so glad we signed up to do this marathon,’ I said.

  Kathy nodded.

  ‘It’ll be good to concentrate on something other than shopping sprees and ladies pearl and twinset lunches. Which reminds me…’ Kathy glanced at her watch. ‘I must leave, although I really should stick around until your boys get here. I haven’t seen them for so long. I don’t know how you can stand having them coming home for lunch every day. I’m so happy Matt’s company pays the international school fees and Tommy gets fed at the canteen.’