Strangers on a Bridge

by Louise Mangos

  ‘I know that. I just…’

  ‘Who’s a creep, Mum? Who’re you talking about?’

  Oliver walked into the kitchen, throwing his football bag down into the doorway.

  ‘What’s for dinner?’

  As ever, I was grateful that Oliver didn’t really require an answer to his first two questions. My gratefulness was short-lived, however, when Simon felt obliged to elaborate, making my head tingle.

  ‘I saw the guy who’s been stalking your mum,’ he said as my heart dropped.

  I knew I was in trouble now, as Oliver’s eyes rounded in recognition.

  ‘The weirdo? And me Dad, he’s been stalking me too!’

  ‘What?’ Simon was now furious. ‘And how come no one told me about this? I thought a couple of kids just saw some guy outside the school.’

  ‘Simon, I… I told Oli not to bother you with it. It wasn’t a big deal. He talked to him on the way home from school one day. Please, don’t get angry. You’ve been away so much, been so busy with the project.’

  I put my hand on Oliver’s shoulder to reassure him it wasn’t his fault he had provoked an outburst.

  ‘Oh, right, so now I’m not even permitted to be kept in the loop about my kids? Alice, these are my children too. I have every right to know what’s going on. I’m now thinking this guy is a nutcase. You’ve got to take his instability more seriously. Look, I’m away again next week. I wish the project would hurry up and conclude, but the Copenhagen office have found a glitch on the legal side, so this thing could take months with so many parties involved. I don’t want to be away. It’s just as frustrating for me as it is for you. But I can’t avoid it. Something must be done about this guy. You’ve got to act, dammit.’

  Simon’s anger was now unbridled.

  I felt my mouth turn down involuntarily at the corners. A pounding welled behind my eyes. Pull yourself together. Don’t cry! Once again I felt rebuked, and knew it was perfectly justified. But my actions couldn’t be reversed. Simon’s frustration was manifesting itself in a choleric reaction. I’d never seen him like this, and it was unnerving. I turned to the fridge. I hadn’t a clue what to cook for the family for dinner. I hadn’t a clue what to do, but knew I must somehow take control.

  ‘Why do I have to act? Why can’t we act? I’ve been to the police – twice – and the school has intervened and promised action. What more can I do on my own? Has it occurred to you I might need your help now too?’

  The open fridge cooled my burning face. I turned back to face him.

  ‘If you’re so bloody uptight about the need for action, why can’t you organise a time to come with me to the police station? Back me up. You’ve seen him now. At least you can tell them I’m not hallucinating, or making up stories.’

  ‘That’s right. Shift the blame. Make it my problem now.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus. Don’t be so childish. You know I’m not blaming you! I know, I know, you don’t have time. You are away a lot, and there’s nothing we can do about that.’ I took a breath to calm myself. ‘I won’t say it again, but you must know I regret the way things turned out. I won’t say it’s not my fault, and it was stupid of me not to have told the whole truth.’

  And I still hadn’t told him everything. Simon’s eyes blazed as he turned from me, wrenching his tie free from his collar, the sound of strained threads tearing in his shirt or his tie. He grabbed his jacket, keys falling to the floor, and left the kitchen. I picked up his keys, laid them gently on the table and stared at the static, crackling space in the doorway.

  Oliver stood gaping at me. I pulled him towards me in a tight embrace.

  ‘It’s okay, Oli. It’s not your fault. Everything will be okay,’ I said without conviction.

  As I listened to Simon’s heavy footfalls on the stairs, and the ensuing thump of the bathroom door, I realised we weren’t so different, he and I, running away from our responsibilities.

  Later, I lay on my back in bed, eyelids closed but fluttering with the effort of feigning sleep. The only sound in the room was the occasional rustle, slide and flip of paper turning as Simon read another page of his novel. I wanted to stretch my leg out and circle my ankle, but continued to breathe deeply, hoping to convince Simon I was asleep. I reflected on this precarious new feeling I had when in close proximity to my husband. The silence between us buzzed in my head.

  I had spent so long avoiding conversations and confrontations, I no longer knew how to start, like a girlfriend trying unsuccessfully to over-impress on the first date. The spaces around us were getting larger as we subconsciously avoided each other in the apartment. Tonight’s display in the kitchen had been rare physical contact, and even that had ended badly.

  He seemed oblivious to the fact that I felt almost constantly wretched. I ached to know his feelings, but knew disappointment in me must be high on his list. He didn’t know about the childish gifts I continued to receive in the mailbox. He didn’t know I had seen Manfred in our home. And he didn’t know Manfred had seen me naked in our bedroom.

  I wanted to spill the whole sorry truth, but feared his anger when he once again learned of the horror of the consequences of one fateful meeting. I could have kicked myself for my indecision and inaction. I wanted to touch him, but dared not disturb the static calm between us.

  I was lying on eggshells.

  ‘Fuck right off! Stop fucking calling, you creepy fuck!’ Simon shouted into the mouthpiece of the handset before jabbing the cut-off button and slamming it down in its cradle. I imagined the hoarse, burning soreness of his larynx as he used a tone of voice I could only remember having heard at rugby matches in college.

  The phone had rung in the night and it was one of the rare occasions I had forgotten to pull the plug from the wall. Thinking to stop the ringing before it woke the whole household, I picked up the receiver and listened briefly to the silence before Simon leaned over and grabbed it from me.

  I turned on the bedside light. The shock of the shouting and the language didn’t quash my admiration for the many grammatical usages of the word ‘fuck’. I held back the squawk of a laugh. Too late, he’d seen my face.

  ‘It’s not bloody funny. You ought to remember you got us into this weird mess,’ he shouted.

  I choked on the moment of hysteria, much like being told someone has died. The inappropriateness of laughter feeds the compulsion to giggle. Simon’s retort stung harder than a slap to my cheek.

  I almost wished he would hit me so I could have something to justify my pain.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  I had just seen the locksmith out of the house when my mobile rang.

  ‘Alice, are you at home?’ It was Simon. I told him yes. ‘Then why didn’t you answer the bloody phone? Listen, I need you to do me a favour.’

  He sounded perturbed. I didn’t tell him I rarely answered the house phone.

  ‘Sure. What’s up?’

  ‘I’m at the garage. There was a bit of a problem with the brakes on the car. I’ve had a little accident. Had to swerve into a field on the way down to Zug.’

  ‘Oh, my God, Simon, are you okay?’

  You have got to be kidding me. Would Manfred go that far?

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. A little shocked, that’s all. A fence post has done a fair amount of damage to my front wing. Thank God I wasn’t anywhere near the gorge or on that flipping bridge. Can you believe it? On the one day of the week I take the car to work.’

  ‘And thank God the boys weren’t in the car with you.’

  Would he?

  ‘I need you to get me the insurance policy number for the Land Rover, and find out whether we’re covered for marten damage – the mechanic says it’s standard in this canton. It’ll say ‘Marderschade’ or something like that. But I need to make sure.’

  ‘Okay. Hang on.’

  I raced upstairs to our office and pulled out the file for household insurances. I thumbed through the policy, and picked up the extension.

  ‘“Marderschad
en”. I think so, Simon. It looks like we’re covered. But what does this mean?’

  ‘The mechanic says the little bastards must have been in our garage. They’ve chewed through some cables and pierced the brake lines with their teeth, which means the fluid ran out. Jesus, I’m so bloody lucky.’

  ‘Is he sure it was martens, Simon?’

  ‘Of course! What else would it be?’

  I couldn’t air what else I was thinking at that moment.

  When I went to pick up the Land Rover a couple of days later, I asked the mechanic if he thought it could be anything other than martens that caused this damage.

  ‘To be honest, I’ve never seen them biting through brake lines before, because most of the modern ones are braided metal. The critters usually attack electric cables or coolant hoses. But it’s not unheard of, and these ones are old. They still have a bit of rubber tubing round the connection. So the damage was consistent with Marder damage, yes.’

  He took out a file and showed me photos they’d taken of the damage for the insurance company. The images showed the lines were randomly pierced.

  ‘The animals have very sharp teeth,’ the mechanic continued. ‘This old Land Rover has only two drum brakes. A more modern car would have had the backup of a disk brake on each wheel. Your husband is a very lucky man. These cursed creatures are protected in our country, but they cause more headaches than anything else for everybody – drivers, us and the insurance companies.’

  I stared at the photos. I so wanted to believe it was impossible for a human to have made these incisions with a sharp object. But my stomach was roiling.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  NOVEMBER

  I walked up from the village, gazing distractedly at the lake, carrying a few provisions I’d bought at the Co-op. A fishing boat was trawling for perch on the calm water. A chevron of ripples widened off its stern.

  A shout carried across the field, and my eyes darted towards the sound. Two figures were tussling on the grass verge next to the road a couple of hundred metres away, not far from the house. My first thought was that Leon and Oliver were having a fight. Limbs flew, clothing flapped, and the shouting grew louder. As I increased my pace and drew closer, I realised it was Manfred, and he was having a physical confrontation with… Oh, my God, it’s Oliver!

  I saw Oliver’s leg kick out at Manfred. A raised fist arced towards his body. I heard a childlike squeal and Oliver stumbled away, bent double, before he tripped on a clump of grass, fell against a fence post, and tumbled to the verge.

  ‘Oli! Oli!’ I yelled, as I broke into a run towards them.

  A sharp pain stabbed my ankle and the pack containing my shopping bounced against my back as I lumbered up the road. The chill air caught in my throat. I knew I should conserve my breath for running, but I was compelled to shout, depleting precious energy.

  ‘Stop! Manfred, stop!’ I yelled breathlessly.

  And then I saw the unmistakable flash of a blade, and panic compounded my fear. With the realisation that Manfred had a knife, tears sprang to my eyes with the effort of running through my pain and the violent sense of self-reproach that I had misread this whole stalking thing from the start. Manfred stumbled towards Oliver lying on the verge.

  I tried to run faster. It was like one of those dreams when one wasn’t able to get away from an unseen threat. I couldn’t get there quickly enough. I couldn’t fathom what was happening. It didn’t make sense. He must not hurt my son!

  As I came closer, my strangled shouting finally registered, and Manfred looked up, a fistful of Oliver’s T-shirt unravelling from his fingers. He saw me and his eyebrows shot up in what I could only think was shock, having been caught doing something by the one person he didn’t want as a witness. I thought it must be guilt I saw flooding his face. He stared at the small knife in his hand and held both arms away from his body in a moment of comic surrender. I checked my pace briefly before continuing towards him.

  He suddenly dropped the weapon, and it skittered along the pavement. I recognised the red plastic handle of a Swiss army knife.

  ‘He means to harm me, Alice. He stops us being together,’ Manfred shouted as he backed away. ‘Nobody must stand between us. We are meant to be together. He is ruining everything. You must see this.’

  ‘What?’ I gasped. ‘Get away from him. Get away from my son! This has nothing to do with him!’

  He cast me one curious glance, a crooked smile on his face. Then he turned swiftly, and loped away towards the forest.

  I arrived at the scene, and looked down at Oliver, my breath ragged. I was torn between chasing Manfred and bending to tend to my son. Oliver slowly stood up, his hand on his lower back. I reached down to pick up the Swiss army knife, and looked towards the trees in the direction Manfred had headed.

  ‘You fucking monster!’

  My energy now completely spent, the phrase came out as a strangled wheeze. Manfred was now too far away to chase, and had disappeared. I reached towards Oliver, smoothing my hand on his back.

  ‘Mum. Don’t. It’s mine.’

  ‘My God, Oli, what happened? What did he do? What did that man do to you?’

  Oliver shook with sobs. He covered his face in the crook of his elbow to hide his tears.

  ‘Oli, are you hurt? I’m so sorry I was a bit late. I thought I might catch you on the way home from school. Oli, please tell me what happened.’

  I rubbed his back, feeling some tension ebb, the loosening of muscles.

  ‘Mum, didn’t you hear me? I said the knife is mine.’ He sobbed again.

  ‘This is your knife? What were you doing with it at school?’ I asked in confusion.

  ‘We had a project in the garden today. We’re building a living shelter out of Weide branches. I think they’re called willow in English. You know, like that story with Toad and Ratty.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Oli. Please! It’s okay. That’s not really the issue here. What happened? With him?’

  I nodded towards the forest, with the flashing image of the blade in my head. Learning the knife was Oliver’s hadn’t calmed my nerves. He took a deep breath.

  ‘I saw him as I was walking home, and… Mum, I know you think he’s a bit weird. I just wanted to… I wanted to scare him. I shouted at him. You know, after you and Dad had that argument. The knife was in my pocket from school. I felt somehow strong, protected, and held it in my hand. I don’t want him to keep annoying you. I want him to go away. It was a stupid plan… I think it went wrong.’

  He turned towards me, reached up to clasp his arms around my neck, and buried his face in my chest. My happy, funny pre-teen regressed alarmingly to a state of toddlerhood in utter confusion. He spoke into my sweater.

  ‘He wanted to take the knife off me, and I did that feinting thing they do in the movies. He grabbed my arm and twisted. It hurt, so I let go, and he took it, and… and…’

  He sobbed again, and we stood up together. I felt dampness on my jeans, and looked down. He’d wet himself. My heart went out to him. I felt ashamed with him, for him.

  ‘Where are you hurt?’ I repeated, and he shook his head.

  ‘I… don’t know. I’m… not sure,’ he said, between his sobs.

  Whatever physical damage had been wrought would be eclipsed by mental anguish at this point, but I couldn’t shake the vision of Manfred holding the knife aloft.

  Jesus.

  If he hadn’t heard my shout at that point, he might have used the weapon on my son. I had a sickening vision of the blade sinking into Oliver’s chest.

  Chapter Forty

  ‘We have to get these trousers off. Come on. We need to get to the house. Let’s get you to the bathroom, get you cleaned up.’

  Oliver sobbed in gulps, great spasms of air heaving back into his lungs in threes, an involuntary reaction reminding me of him as a four-year-old with a grazed knee. Various scenarios ran through my head. He was either aware that he had escaped some horrific danger, or reacting to
the humiliation of having wet himself.

  We reached the bathroom upstairs in the house, and Oliver fumbled with the zip of his jeans. I was relieved to see the top button still fastened. Of all the nightmare scenarios still flashing in my mind, Manfred’s transgression hadn’t included that. I swallowed. Oliver stamped his jeans down to his feet, followed shortly by his underpants, adhering with dampness to his legs. I waited for him to speak, running the shower in the bathtub until the water warmed. His legs were shaking.

  ‘I know you said I could never take the knife to school, but Herr Iten told us we could, because we were working outside and cutting the branches. We were allowed to take the knife, Mum. It’s the one you and Dad gave me for my birthday last year.’

  ‘It’s okay, Oli. I’m just so sorry I was late home.’

  ‘Herr Iten let us go early. Said it wasn’t worth going back to the classroom for ten minutes. I was trying to protect you, Mum. I know he’s been kind of interested in you, especially after the questions he asked last time. And I felt like it was wrong. I didn’t want to hurt him. I just took it out and…’

  I blanched, realising I should have warned him, warned both my children, about the unpredictability of Manfred. Another error of judgement.

  He stopped speaking. I waited patiently, not making visual contact, fearing he would clam up if he saw my eyes. I busied myself helping him off with his clothes. The string of his sweatshirt had been pulled through on one side of the hood, which was half-torn from the collar. I wondered how long the fight had been going on before I noticed. Manfred had obviously used great force to be able to tear the cloth.

  I tapped the side of the bath and Oliver climbed obediently in, shuddering as the hot shower hit his head and flattened his hair against his cheeks and neck. I glanced briefly over his body, making a rapid damage assessment. Everything looked normal front on. He stopped shivering, closed his eyes in the steam of the shower. I held his hand, and water ran up my arm as I crouched beside the bath, not wanting to let my baby go.