Strangers on a Bridge

by Louise Mangos

  Runners began overtaking me in increasing numbers. I stopped mid-pace to gulp down an entire beaker of energy drink. It was too concentrated, a radioactive blue that didn’t help the sensation of it sloshing around in my stomach. Now I needed water, but my stomach was already full of the sweet drink.

  My footfalls felt like useless slaps to the tarmac, my engine no longer running smoothly. We had reached Corseaux, barely twenty-five kilometres into the race, still seventeen to go, and the devils of doubt began invading my psyche.

  I eased off the pace even more as one of my hamstrings tightened. Massaging it helplessly as I jogged along, I felt slightly nauseous and panicked as different parts of my legs began a chain of physical protest. The pace monitor on my watch showed several minutes’ deficit and I knew my personal goal was slipping away. My body cried out to stop, legs like solid concrete. This had happened to me before in previous races, but I couldn’t believe I had reached the ‘wall’ so soon, that place where marathon runners are challenged by the devils of self-doubt and inability in their heads. The mind telling them it is madness to continue, overruling the heart that says this thing is still possible.

  Pushing on, I knew I only had about five or six kilometres to go. I started feeling good again, a seed of hope blossoming in the knowledge that I was almost there. Although I could do nothing to increase my speed, I seemed to have made it through the wall. My legs clicked into a rhythm of their own, knowing if I changed anything, or had to stop, my whole body would just seize up.

  As I jogged through the village of Lutry, I saw a runner coming head-on through the now straggling competitors. His style was of someone fresh on the road, who hadn’t yet worked up a sweat. He wore a pair of training pants and a white cotton T-shirt, his kit not at all common to the marathon runner, and he had no number pinned to his chest. We were on a collision course.

  My stomach dropped, and I thought I might throw up.

  You have got to be kidding me.

  ‘I think I can help you now.’ Manfred smiled, and did an about-turn to run with me as I approached.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ‘Get. Away. From. Me,’ I growled between breaths, with my teeth gritted and my jaw set, trying not to waste precious energy. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? How did you find out I was running here?’

  My pace decreased, but I kept my eyes fixed on the route ahead.

  ‘I know where you are all the time, Alice. You cannot fool me by signing up for two marathons. If I hadn’t seen you today, I would have seen you next week in Luzern. I am here to help. The last five kilometres are the most difficult. I will help.’

  ‘You are not helping. You’re not even allowed on the course. Just go away.’

  Hot tears pricked in my eyes. Up ahead I could see a race official wearing a reflective jacket at the side of the road, and I stopped in front of him.

  ‘Excusez-moi, excuse me – this man, he’s bothering me.’

  The volunteer looked uncomprehendingly from me to Manfred, who had stepped away to an unthreatening distance.

  ‘He is following me! Il est fou!’ I said, dragging up some high-school French.

  Manfred turned to the group and spoke.

  ‘Désolé, Messieurs, je n’avait aucune intention d’emmerder la dame, je suis un ami, je voulais l’encourager à l’arrivée…’

  ‘Jesus, of course you speak French!’ I let out a wail, and clenched my fists. ‘Leave me alone!’ I yelled.

  I glanced desperately around, hoping to see someone in uniform with a more authoritative role. The thought of having to explain my situation to someone in yet another foreign language made my eyes sting. I turned back to the yellow-jacketed official.

  ‘Police! I want the police, can you…?’

  I indicated the radio poking out of a breast pocket of his waist jacket. He touched the button on the top, looking from Manfred back to me, and shook his head.

  ‘Non, Madame, it is not necessary. Do you like something to drink? It is only four kilometres to the finish. Can you finish?’

  ‘Come on, Alice, you can do it. I’m here to help you finish,’ Manfred added.

  ‘Get out of my face!’ I screeched, my throat hurting with the forced effort.

  Delirium drove my anger past the irrational. My left calf had begun to cramp, my back was stiff, and my hips were suddenly sore.

  ‘You have got to leave me alone!’

  I raised my leaden arms, shoulders burning with the discomfort of making a movement out of the ordinary during the past three hours. I rammed the sides of my clenched fists into Manfred’s chest. He stumbled backwards with the force, then lurched towards me and clutched both my wrists with a grip of iron. I was shocked by his sudden strength. He dug his thumbs into the soft spaces next to the contracted tendons on my arms. I squealed and stared into his eyes, blazing with madness. His eyebrows furrowed as he clenched his jaw and my exhausted heart ramped up its pounding. I was about to turn and scream at the official for help, when Manfred released me with a push and turned away to avoid confrontation with the official.

  The rebound put me off balance and I stepped backwards into the unseen kerb. My foot landed unexpectedly on the raised pavement, and slid sideways. With a sickening crunch I was sure everyone could hear, the whole weight of my body came down on my ankle at right angles to the road. I opened my mouth and finally let out a wail.

  The noise had the desired effect. A spectator came over and shielded Manfred from me. He flapped both hands downwards in a dismissive gesture that looked like disgust and walked away, his mouth downturned. The volunteer took me by the arm.

  ‘You will change your mind, Alice. You will come to me in the end,’ Manfred called over his shoulder as he was obliged to retreat, unaware that my outcry was now more a scream of pain than frustration.

  I was miles from home, surrounded by French-speaking strangers who could all have been called as witnesses to Manfred’s obsessive behaviour if I had thought about it, but I barely had the energy to plonk myself down on the kerb and reach for my foot, which was already swelling alarmingly. My whole body protested at the abrupt change in stance and motion, and the intense throbbing pain in my ankle was a masochistic relief from the overall pain in the rest of my body. I was locked to the kerb and thought I might never move again.

  To have come all this way and have to give up because of a stupid slip of the foot. All that hard work. All that time devoted to training for this day, this point in my life. I felt abject. I sobbed. Thoughts of Kathy’s imminent disappointment ran through my head. I thought of Simon and the boys waiting, expecting me at a predicted time, with the certainty of a Swiss train arriving. Every minute that passed beyond my expected finish time would worry them. They would wonder what had happened. My body began to shake, going into the shock of the injury. I had to get to the finish. I looked down the road. Manfred had disappeared. I tried to get up, but it was too painful.

  The volunteer insisted I stay still. I must not put my foot down. He reached down and carefully undid the laces of my shoe.

  ‘Madame, we must take away shoe, foot…’ He held his hands around an imaginary ball in front of my face and moved them apart to indicate swelling. I wondered if he was a doctor. If so, he was now in his element.

  ‘You cannot run. I sorry. Not good.’

  He carefully loosened all the laces on my shoe and splayed it open. Expertly clasping my ankle with unexpected gentleness, he worked my shoe off without moving it sideways. My freed foot felt momentarily, exquisitely relieved as I attempted to wriggle my toes. A sharp pain pierced the arch, travelling to the outer ligament, and I knew it had stretched, perhaps even torn.

  And then the throbbing started. I put my face in my hands as the volunteer finally reached for the radio in his pocket. An abrupt conversation ensued between him and an unseen helper. I attempted to move, and he put his hand out, commanding me to stay.

  ‘Wait, Madame,’ he said. ‘Maybe we lucky. Someone coming f
or you. Wait, please.’

  Fresh tears now mingled with the dried salty crust of sweat residue on my face. I felt a terrible sense of failure. Someone patted an emergency Mylar blanket across my shoulders, and I held two corners next to my chest to avoid the flimsy sheet blowing away in the breeze, trying to preserve some warmth in my exhausted body. I realised I must let Simon know. The volunteer was happy to lend me his mobile phone now I had a genuine problem to address. I called Simon’s number.

  It rang for a long time before he answered with a curious ‘Hello?’ as he saw a number on his screen he didn’t recognise.

  ‘Simon, hi it’s me,’ I said, my throat closing with a fresh bout of tears. ‘I’ve had a little accident, twisted my ankle.’

  ‘God, are you okay?’ He was genuinely worried, knowing how important it had been for me to finish this race.

  ‘Well, I’m… yes, apart from my ankle, I’m okay. I might have to wait for a sweeper van to bring me in. I can’t walk.’

  ‘Jeez, Al, what happened?’

  ‘I slipped on a kerb as I was taking a drink. It’s okay. I’m okay. But you won’t be able to get the car here. The whole road is cordoned off for the race. Hopefully I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’m sorry,’ I said miserably, my voice breaking with a sob.

  ‘We’ll wait, it’s okay,’ he said in a surprisingly sympathetic voice. ‘Don’t worry about us. Just take care of yourself, get something to drink and don’t get cold. Is someone looking after you?’

  I answered his questions in monotone, all the while aware that the real cause of my accident had been Manfred, not some unseen kerb at the side of the road. The fact that Simon was showing such empathy made me want to cry all the more, but I had no more energy for tears.

  While I waited for the sweeper truck, someone managed to find some hot fruit tea in a Styrofoam cup, and a Mars bar magically appeared from a spectator. I was finally helped onto the corrugated flatbed of the sweeper vehicle. I sat with my legs hanging off the back of the little truck, still clutching the Mylar blanket, my right shoe resting in my lap. As the vehicle pulled slowly away, the volunteer waved and smiled sympathetically. I was sure he was glad to be shot of me.

  The vehicle rounded the last bend of the course near the Olympic Museum in Ouchy. Glancing over my shoulder, neck creaking with stiffness, I could see the huge, inflatable, orange archway of the finish line in the distance, yacht masts in the marina piercing the background beyond. How humiliating to be finishing in this way.

  Suddenly the boys appeared at the side of the avenue, waving their arms, concerned faces bobbing along as they ran at the same speed as the vehicle. I kept my eyes on them as they flashed between the gaps in the horse chestnut trees lining the road. My throat closed and tears immediately sprang to my eyes. Leon was caught up in the enthusiasm of his younger brother, and I was momentarily warmed by his unbridled display. The driver hopped out to move the metal barrier aside and drove off the course to avoid passing through the finishers’ archway.

  I slid gingerly off the back of the truck, and Leon ran to me, throwing his arms round my neck. I clung to him, relishing this rare display of affection, and bit my lip to hold back a new flood of tears. Oliver’s smile of moments before dropped, and he stared, horrified, at the dried sweat and tears on my tired face.

  Simon gave me a perfunctory hug, ignoring the stale smell of my body. It was the first time he had touched me for weeks, his recent frustrations forgotten in this time of primal need. I was sad, angry, and a plethora of emotions I couldn’t put a finger on. I didn’t trust my voice, but answered Simon and the boys’ questions with as few words as possible. How? When? Where?

  Stopped for refreshment. Moved to the side. Tripped on the kerb. Twisted ankle.

  I kept my face down. The truth was I couldn’t raise my head for fear of catching a face in the crowd.

  I wanted to lean into Simon’s chest, but his half-hearted words of sympathy had evaporated in the worry of how we would get out of town in the heavy traffic. Instead I clutched the Mylar blanket as we made our way slowly back to the car.

  ‘Are you okay, Mum? Does it really hurt? It will get better soon, Mum!’

  Oliver touched my arm and I smiled, wanting to hide my suffering from him.

  ‘Oliver, darling, of course Mum will be okay.’

  I spoke in the third person, a common trait of all mothers lying to their children.

  We stopped briefly to cut off the electronic chip tied to my shoe and, as I winced, the volunteer suggested I visit the medics’ tent at the exit of the enclosure. She threw my chip into the collecting box inside the race barrier. I gazed past the box to the runners picking up their medals and souvenir ‘finisher’ Tshirts at the adjacent stalls, and turned back to watch my chip disappear into the box under an increasing pile. My chip with thirty-eight kilometres of effort registered. My chip for an incomplete marathon. The chip that would confirm my status on the result sheet as DNF, Did Not Finish.

  I hobbled to the medics’ tent, supported between Leon and Simon. A man indicated I should sit down and tutted as he examined my ankle.

  ‘I give you something for pain and inflammation, but you must go direct to your médecin when you are home. Maybe he will not see you until tomorrow. He will need to scan this.’

  The man laid a box of tablets on the ground next to him as he expertly bandaged my ankle.

  ‘Keep this élévé as much as possible,’ he said, holding my foot with one hand and raising the flattened palm of the other.

  As he secured the bandage with an elastic clip, he glanced around at the mayhem in the tent. The floor was littered with paper cups, and the menthol smell of muscle relaxant masked the smell of sweat. The other helpers who had been busy dishing out electrolyte drinks to exhausted runners, and space blankets to those with blue lips, were now rushing to pack up as they had been instructed by the police to open the area to traffic again. In his hurry the medic handed me the whole box of tablets. I turned it over in my hand. Co-Dafalgan.

  ‘Is okay,’ he said. ‘You eat something first, then take two of these. Not more than two every four hours. Take the pack to your doctor when you make appointment.’

  I thanked the medic and we made our way slowly to the car, which Simon had parked some distance away. There was nothing more to say. My family could tell how disappointed I was not to finish the race. I couldn’t speak anyway.

  The vision of Manfred filled my head each time I closed my eyes, along with the question of where he had obtained prior access to the starting list of the marathon.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Four of us sat at a square table barely large enough to hold the array of glasses, cutlery and plates. The echoing resonance of the high ceiling raised competitive speech to rock-concert levels in the Mexican restaurant. I sat across from Simon, and Kathy sat opposite Matt. We all blatantly avoided any conversation about the races. Kathy had run the Lucerne marathon a week after mine and had earned herself a respectable time. She was still irked I had changed my plans at the last moment, even though I explained about Manfred. It hadn’t made any difference in the end. He’d still found out which race I was running.

  I recounted the events of our recent holiday. We leaned in to be heard, clutching sweating bottles of beer spiked with slices of lime. Kathy’s high-heel-clad feet possessively touched Matt’s under the table, making space for my heavily bandaged ankle stretched besides Simon’s own feet. Simon and I sat with our elbows on the table, not quite touching. I was glad of the warm, muggy atmosphere, as I had boldly worn a short-sleeved shirt to show off my fading tan.

  The conversation lulled as our food arrived, the table increasingly crammed with burritos, taco salads and all the paraphernalia required to construct fajitas. As Matt loaded a small tortilla with a pile of shredded beef from the sizzling pan in front of him, he started a new thread of conversation from that of palm trees, coral reefs and sand castles.

  ‘Whatever happened to that arsehole who sta
rted stalking you, Alice?’ asked Matt. ‘Kath told me about the sleazy dude. He’d soon have felt the rough end of my fist if I had anything to do with it.’

  I squirmed in my seat, felt my face flush, and hunger drained from me to be replaced by a tight knot in my stomach. I glanced at Simon, who held his head slightly to one side, eyebrows raised, waiting for my answer. Matt looked from Simon to me, realising he had raised a hot point. Rather than backing down from the sliceably thick air between Simon and me, Matt launched deeper into the bag of vipers.

  ‘Kath said Al thought he might have been nicking stuff from your house,’ Matt continued. ‘Jesus, I’d be mad as piss if something like that happened in our home.’

  ‘It was only a photo, Matty,’ Kathy interrupted, ‘and that happened ages ago. He can’t get into the house now, can he, Al?’

  Kathy shot an apologetic look at me, realising she should have briefed her buffoon of a husband before heading out for the evening. I wanted the floor to open and swallow me up. Simon’s expression changed from curiosity to irritation. The noise in the restaurant increased, pounding in my ears to the rhythm of my heart.

  ‘It’s being sorted, Matt. The police know, the school knows, he’ll be out of our lives very shortly,’ I stated, more confidently than I felt.

  ‘He’s been in our house?’ Simon asked, astounded. ‘What has been going on? Which photo exactly?’ The questions flew at me. ‘I think there are a few things you haven’t told me. Do please explain.’

  He spoke with the patronising voice of a parent grilling a recalcitrant child. I couldn’t blame him.

  ‘Matt’s got it a little out of proportion. I’ll explain later. God, it’s so loud in here. I’m just popping to the loo,’ I said as I stood up suddenly.

  My wooden chair slid noisily backwards and my crutches crashed to the floor. The noise in the restaurant decreased briefly as a few people around us stopped their conversations and turned to stare. Matt picked up the crutches and handed them to me. Smiling vaguely in the direction of the surrounding tables, I hopped to the ladies’ cloakroom.