Strangers on a Bridge

by Louise Mangos

I traversed a summer alpine pasture long since deserted by cows, and arrived at a clearing in the trees. A wooden picnic table and a bench sat next to a fire pit. From our house across the valley I had sometimes seen a thin wisp of smoke rising from this very place and vowed one day to stop and set a fire.

  I sat on the bench and waited.

  It felt like an hour.

  He was there. I could feel him. As dusk fell, my senses became sharper, and the occasional swish of dry leaves told me he was edging closer to the picnic area. My breath vaporised about me, and I rubbed my arms in the chill.

  ‘Will you help me light a fire?’ I finally called.

  My voice sounded too loud, echoing through the trees. It felt stupid talking to a blank space.

  ‘We’ll need a fire if we’re to stay warm,’ I said, the ‘we’ belying my uncertainty.

  It was hard to control my trembling, a combination of nervousness, fear and deep, boiling rage. I placed my backpack carefully under the table, leaning it against the solid wooden legs. A small pile of chopped wood was stacked neatly in a makeshift shelter at the edge of the clearing.

  ‘We’ll need some kindling. Can you help me look?’

  As I began collecting small sticks and pieces of bark, I heard a footfall near me, and Manfred’s curious voice.

  ‘Kinder… ling?’ he asked. My heart raced. It seemed apt that I’d uttered a word he didn’t understand.

  ‘Small sticks, dried twigs. Look. Kindling.’

  I picked up a handful of dried wood from the undergrowth around the clearing, showing him I didn’t mean I needed Kinder – children – to light the fire. It was as though he had walked beside me since the beginning of the hike. The fleeting look from the sticks in my hands to his manic eyes was as smooth as a well-spliced movie.

  He came out from the shadow of the tree he had been standing next to, and delight shone from his face as he set about making himself useful. He looked back to me often, perhaps to make sure I wouldn’t simply disappear in a moment of trickery. I could feel the intensity of his gaze burning into my back as I bent to collect more wood at the edge of the clearing.

  Returning to the fire pit and scrunching a page of yesterday’s newspaper I pulled from my pack, I placed it in the centre of the ring of rocks. The methodical Girl Guide task kept me busy, focused. Sprinkling a few twigs haphazardly on top, I lit the paper near the base with a lighter. The newspaper curled and fringed red, and ashy grey feathers floated upwards. As the twigs caught the flame with a popping and crackling, I breathed a sigh of relief.

  As I loaded larger sticks onto the tiny pile of embers, the noisy combustion accompanied an ambient orange light, enclosing us in the small clearing, matching the colour of the autumn sky across the lake, but emphasising the falling dusk in the forest.

  ‘You do this well. I like the fire. It will warm us both.’

  Manfred’s voice made me jump. I couldn’t help thinking we had gone through some time warp. This man was now as close to me in proximity as a colleague or friend, and my hate for him eclipsed any feeling of sympathy I might have had in the past. It felt surreal.

  Under the clear sky, a chill, dewy dampness was already forming in the thick autumn air. The heady smell of decaying leaves mingled with the sooty smell of the newly lit fire. I placed two split logs from the woodpile on top of a healthy bed of orange embers and finally rocked back on my heels. I sat on the bench next to Manfred, my heart pounding. He clasped his hands between his thighs like a small child.

  Once the fire was roaring, I opened my backpack and retrieved a bottle of red wine, a fine Italian Ripasso. I pulled a corkscrew from a side pocket. Heat rose to my face.

  Manfred clapped his hands, making me jump again.

  ‘A Fest, a celebration,’ he said with a childlike voice. I was startled by this new characteristic. As I turned to him, he pressed his hands together, touching his lips as though in prayer, and a worried frown appeared on his brow. The glint in his eye spoke of an excited child considering a forbidden act.

  All I could think about was the wine.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  As I centred the corkscrew over the middle of the cork, Manfred clapped again.

  ‘I usually drink beer,’ he said, and my heart dropped. ‘I haven’t drunk wine since I was at Kaufmännische Schule. This will be fun. Like my study years.’

  I breathed out with relief, and hoped Manfred wouldn’t insist on opening the bottle. My heartbeat quickened as the cork twisted within the neck of the bottle, the spiral screw only a centimetre in. I pulled gently. The weak pop sounded authentically, like opening a good vintage at a dinner party.

  It had been a while since we’d spoken. The sound and vision of the fire was soothingly mesmerising. He hadn’t asked why I suddenly felt the need to celebrate our friendship, hadn’t questioned this paradoxical decision to welcome him with open arms. I assumed, in his current manic phase, which might have been going on for months now, his brain somehow filtered out the negative.

  I cleared my throat, making me sound embarrassed. It was hard to know what to say to him.

  Shaking two picnic beakers from their supermarket plastic wrapper, I indicated Manfred should take one. I poured wine into both our beakers.

  ‘A toast!’ I announced with forced jollity. I could hardly believe this was happening. A sickening contrast to what I was feeling in my heart.

  ‘To us! Our friendship. Our future!’

  Manfred’s eyes shone.

  ‘Yes, our future!’

  He held the beaker of wine, and suddenly grabbed my other arm as I put the bottle down on the table, almost tipping it over. My heart pounded. Before I knew what was happening, he planted an awkward and slightly misplaced kiss on my mouth, his soft lips imperceptibly open. I was so surprised I almost dropped my beaker, but was thankful I hadn’t had time to react. I tried to convince myself that the taste of his lips was the taste of insanity. I raised my drink to my mouth, and made as though to swallow the first gulp of wine. My gaze held Manfred’s, willing him silently to do the same.

  As he took a tentative sip, an involuntary grimace passed over his face. He sipped again.

  ‘I am not an expert, but this is not very good wine, Alice.’

  I chewed my lip. He grinned, as though forgiving me for my poor taste.

  ‘But it’s okay, we must drink our celebration. Drink! Zum Wohl!’

  Manfred laughed and took a larger sip as I smiled and made as though to take a gulp of wine, aware the liquid against my lips was as acrid as the smoke from the fire.

  ‘It’s getting chilly. Let’s sit near the warmth,’ I said as I took the bottle from the table.

  Manfred spread his coat on the ground in front of a length of log, allowing both of us to sit with our backs leaning against the smooth bark. How far would I have to go to keep up this pantomime? As we sat, I discreetly poured the wine from my beaker onto the ground in the darkness.

  I settled on the ubiquitous worldwide conversational topic of The Weather.

  ‘It’s been a beautiful autumn,’ I volunteered.

  ‘What did you think of my fine boy, Gerry?’ Manfred asked without rancour.

  Dispensing immediately with the banalities of weather, he seemed not to have heard my comment. His query must have been sitting so loudly in the forefront of his mind. I raised my eyebrows with a sharp intake of breath. How did he know I had visited his son?

  ‘Mmm.’ I tried to portray indifferent approval. I didn’t want to talk about Gerry. He was my one weakness in this plan. Manfred continued to sip his bitter vintage. I poured some more. He seemed to need it for courage, gulping the wine to loosen his tongue. Yes!

  ‘I think you will be a better mother than Trudi. Certainly a better wife,’ he said.

  I wondered if he had convinced himself his wife was dead. Perhaps he thought he could replace her more easily that way, slot me into the role she’d once occupied in his life.

  ‘Maybe when my Gerry knows you better
he will also return to me… here.’

  Manfred lightly thumped his chest near his heart twice with his closed fist.

  ‘He has not understood me these last years. Did you like my fine son?’

  ‘I… yes, Manfred, he is a nice boy.’

  ‘Gerry spoke about us, yes? I am hoping he likes you too, Alice. He will know we are right for each other. And I will welcome your boys. I think your youngest son sees me as a good father figure. It was brave of him to show me his penknife. And now he knows how important you are to me.’

  I bit my lip, controlled my breathing at the mention of Oliver, and realised Manfred could not possibly have heard me yelling in anguish as he ran away. Or he was choosing what to ignore and what to treasure.

  I wondered how much Manfred knew of my conversation with Gerry, but couldn’t ask, for fear of hearing something I didn’t want to. I knew I must remain neutral, and never reveal the bitterness with which Gerry spoke of his father. I took a gamble, continued my act.

  ‘Yes, Manfred, we talked about you. I think he would like to reconcile with you; he does love you. He just doesn’t know how to show it. I think he liked me. I told him I had feelings for you, and he seemed to accept that.’

  The thespian’s finest hour.

  ‘You did? Oh, Alice, that makes me so happy.’

  I gritted my teeth behind a false smile. He had truly convinced himself his wife did not exist. I studied the fire as Manfred continued and felt bile rise in my throat.

  ‘That is why I know our togetherness is for good reasons. We will all be together in the end,’ he said as he took another sip of his wine, and I refilled both our beakers, blood roaring in my ears.

  Yes, we will all be together in the end…

  Chapter Forty-Five

  There was something to be said about the old horse-to-water fable. In my case, I could take Manfred back to the bridge, but I could not make him jump. Suddenly so calculated, it had come to me after his abuse of Oliver, through my deep-red fury. To come full circle back to the beginning. A suicide all the same. Just not his choice.

  This was my plan, but could I really carry it off? I had to be strong. Despite what we were constantly being spoon-fed through popular culture, the idea of taking another human life was abhorrent. The vast majority of us were never genetically predisposed to murder. How could I ever imagine I would be capable of committing such a crime?

  But roaring visions kept flashing before me. My failed marathon, my teetering marriage and what had happened to Oliver, all making me even more determined to be rid of Manfred from my life. The police would be of no help, I was sure of that now. There was no hope of healing him. The world would be better off without him. I had to believe I could do this thing.

  Once the boys had gone back to school after lunch that Tuesday afternoon, I stood in the kitchen, gripping the sink with nervous uncertainty. Grateful thoughts of my plan failing battled continuously in my mind with those of it actually working. I took a deep breath, rubbed my hands together and set to work.

  Carefully removing the foil cap, I eased the cork out of a bottle of Ripasso with a newly purchased corkscrew. A strong wine with the sweet undertones of the Amarone grape. Out of habit, I sniffed the top of the open bottle to make sure it wasn’t corked and stood it on the kitchen counter. I combed my hair back from my face with my fingers. Glancing out of the kitchen window with unease, I moved the bottle to the kitchen table, away from the afternoon light and prying eyes searching through the panes.

  In a mortar and pestle usually reserved for the crushing of dried chillies or coriander seeds, I popped the remaining pills from Manfred’s packet of Quilonorm medication.

  An afternoon pharmaceutical lesson with Google had taught me that by mixing Manfred’s lithium-based pills with alcohol I would be producing a potentially lethal cocktail. Throwing in a handful of anti-inflammatory tablets I still had from my injury – medication that could be obtained anywhere over the counter – would further strengthen the potion.

  As I tipped a slurp of wine into the sink to make space, the aroma of red wine flooded the kitchen. I carefully funnelled half the powder into the bottle. It slid silently into the wine, the liquid rising steadily up the glass neck as I added more. Specks of white dust clung to the top of the bottle. I sniffed the opening, surprised I could still smell wine. Sacrilege to tamper with a stunningly good vintage. I wished I could share the irony with Simon, and chuckled nervously as a wave of hot anxiety washed over me. The drops I licked from my finger after I’d dipped it in the bottle left a bitterness on my tongue. I had transformed my bottle of vintage Ripasso into a dodgy, cheap plonk.

  I leaned against the sink as a wave of remorse came over me. I kept repeating to myself that this was for the best. It was what he’d wanted that day back in April. It had been his decision.

  Reaching for the cork, I lay it lengthways and sawed a thin line along its length with the breadknife. I then worked the cork back into the bottle, using the heel of my palm to push it flush to the lip. I carefully folded the foil wrapper over and around the top.

  I glanced at the clock as I clicked my backpack closed. Almost 4.00 p.m. Simon would be getting ready to leave the office early tonight after his trip back from London. I didn’t want to be around when my boys all came home.

  I had no idea if this would work. For a start, I didn’t know whether Manfred would drink any wine, doctored or not. What if he was a wine connoisseur? Imagine his retort:

  ‘What are you trying to do, poison me?’

  If Manfred had stayed around to witness my outburst outside the house the day before, he would sense a burning anger in me. If he had an iota of common sense, he couldn’t possibly believe I would ever willingly have a relationship with him. But madness produces its own brand of irrationality.

  I had to rely on him assuming that Oliver would be too proud, scared or embarrassed to say anything to me about his actions before I arrived on the scene the day before.

  I willed all these advantages on to my side. This time I needed Manfred to follow me. I had to be strong. I had to overcome an entrenched loathsome repulsion regarding my own actions. I had to lure this monster, without creating suspicion, make him believe his intentions would bear fruit, without suspicion. This thing I was doing was more than my own personal justice. I must not falter from my path. I remained clear of head, silently begged for focus, swore it was right, believed it wholeheartedly.

  But I was fully aware that the truth might contaminate me, rather than make me righteous.

  Never get between a mother and her young, or there’ll be big trouble.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  A teepee of glowing twigs and branches shifted and settled, sending a fan of dancing sparks up into the forest canopy. The fire collapsed into its own pile of suffocating ash. I wondered if anyone had seen the light of the flames from the village across the lake.

  Manfred lay awkwardly against the log, leaning heavily into my body, his coat bunching up between us against my thigh. His hair was matted up around the sweatshirt he wore. His head dipped at an angle towards me. I pursed my lips and puffed gently through them, longing to blow not just a stray hair but this whole day a million miles away, to be carried on the sparks up into the heavens.

  I dared not move any other part of my body. I couldn’t see Manfred’s face to know whether he was still watching the dying embers. The empty wine bottle lay on its side near the cinders. I pushed it away from the edge of the fire with my foot, scuffing my boots with white ash. Despite trying to remain still, the movement caused my upper body to shift slightly and Manfred’s head slipped down to the crook of my right elbow. With a quickening heart I realised he was asleep. A stone wedged in my throat.

  ‘Manfred?’ I called quietly.

  No movement, no sleep twitch or sudden arousal from slumber. I called again more loudly and moved my elbow twice up and down. His head bounced against my arm. He still didn’t wake, but released a short snort of breath. I
shuffled away from him and turned to lower his head onto his coat, gathering the material to create a makeshift cushion on the ground.

  I put my hands to my mouth in a mixture of wonder and horror. His face was relaxed, almost angelic. His scruffy hair now lay across his folded jacket and his square jaw was slack, giving the impression of fuller lips. His menace had flown, leaving the image of innocence. I reflected that the distance between what we want and what we fear is sometimes only the width of a pine needle. But I could never forget what he had done.

  This was surely the beginning of the end. It all seemed so simple, so horribly facile to implement. And while the wait with Manfred beside the fire had seemed like an eternity, time now rushed in at me. I swallowed nervously. I thought I might be sick, took a series of deep breaths to calm myself, silently repeating a mantra: This is the best thing for everybody.

  I had no idea whether this cocktail of pills would actually kill Manfred, but I knew from my experience with outdoor alpine activities that the cold was a sneaking, silent killer. Once the body’s temperature lowered to a level where the anatomy no longer functioned, each part of it slipped into eternal slumber, eventually turning the brain off like a light going out. Dying in the cold was apparently the least painful or traumatic of all the ways to go. The pills should ensure that Manfred wouldn’t wake up.

  Standing away from him, I could barely see in the last glow of embers. His arm had flopped to his side. Two fingers lay inside the plastic picnic wine beaker, as though he would pick it up any moment and use it as a finger puppet to tell a joke. His hand looked uncomfortably bent, the fingers pressing cruelly on the rim of the plastic glass, but it didn’t disturb him from his slumber.

  He was beyond merely sleeping.

  And finally, finally, I let a sense of victory lift my spirits. I had done this for the people I loved. There was nothing more important.

  I would protect my family at all costs.

  As the breeze dropped and the embers no longer reflected on the forest canopy, my eyes adjusted in the cold indigo shadows.