The Bridge

by Stuart Prebble

  Her response took him by surprise, and he wondered how to row back. “I know. Of course. As you say, any normal person would be. It’s just that—”

  “Just nothing. I’m upset. Don’t worry. You need to get off home.” She said “home” with an emphasis that underlined that her home was not his. He waited for a few moments to try to absorb what had happened and to allow the spat to die down. He was confused and anxious not to part on bad terms.

  “Tell you what,” he said finally, “why don’t I stay tonight and get off early in the morning.”

  At first Alison was reluctant to acquiesce, her body remaining stiff and unyielding, but then gradually she seemed to soften. “Sorry,” she said finally, her shoulders visibly relaxing as she spoke, “that’s a nice thought, but we’ve got no food in the apartment. We’d have to go out.”

  * * *

  The bars and restaurants in the center of Brighton were always busy at weekends, but as they went out into the streets it seemed to Michael that there were even more people about than usual, and there was something resembling a buzz of excitement in the air. Barroom TVs, which were usually switched to sports or music channels, were tuned to twenty-four-hour news instead, and every few seconds the wail of police sirens drew customers close to doors and windows to see what was happening outside.

  The couple was close to giving up and buying takeout when Alison remembered a bistro in a nearby lane which was run by a French couple and had no TV. She noticed that the streets appeared to be populated by a greater-than-usual number of groups of young men, and maybe it was just her imagination, but it seemed as though many of them were wearing blue jeans and T-shirts. Occasionally one member of a group would dart across a road, as though fleeing, and the others in the crowd would cheer and shout, “There goes the Madman! After him!”

  “Fucking morons,” Michael said, shaking his head.

  They felt a sense of relief and refuge when they entered the relative calm of the restaurant. Alison had eaten there before and was on friendly terms with the couple who ran it. She greeted the owner, Claude, by his first name, and they were shown to a small table in a quiet spot farthest from the windows. Straightaway Claude’s wife, Renee, came over to take their order.

  “Something happening outside it seems?” said Renee. She wore a black leather skirt and a T-shirt with red and white hoops for the sake of the tourists, but there was nothing staged about the accent. “There seems to be lots of noise. What is it all about?”

  “There’s been an incident on the pier. Haven’t you seen the news?” asked Michael. “Just like what happened on Waterloo Bridge a few weeks ago. Some mad bloke started grabbing kids and throwing them over the side into the water.”

  A length of white string attached to her belt saved her writing pad from hitting the floor as Renee gasped and used both hands to cover her mouth. “Oh, but that is terrible. Here? In this town?”

  “Yes, just at the pier, a few hundred yards away,” said Michael. “Bloke wearing a red scarf, jeans, and a white T-shirt apparently.”

  Just as last time, in Greenacres, the incident drew people into conversation, and two women sitting at the next table seemed to want to join in. Both were in their midtwenties and were dressed and made up, ready for a big night out.

  “Has there been any news of the kiddies?” asked a woman with dyed-blonde hair and heavy mascara. “When we came out they were saying that a couple of them were going to be okay, but one was in a bad way.”

  Alison had her back to their table and made no effort to turn around. Michael felt a twinge of anxiety that her reluctance to respond might give offense and so sought to fill the gap. “We haven’t heard anything more recent than that,” he said. “That was what they were saying when we left home about half an hour ago.”

  Michael and Alison both ordered galettes and drank white wine, which they consumed to the accompaniment of the more or less continuous sound of emergency vehicles screaming back and forth in the streets outside. The events of the last hours had cast a long shadow over what had been a lovely weekend for both of them, and Alison in particular seemed to have withdrawn into her own thoughts. Michael made several further attempts to lighten the conversation before eventually giving up, accepting that they would eat their food in silence.

  Three or four more couples came and went in the course of the next hour, and Michael noticed that the blonde woman at the next table was glancing in their direction and speaking to her friend. He caught the same gestures two or three times and said nothing, but then he saw that they were preparing to leave and the woman was approaching their table. Michael had no time to alert Alison before she was alongside.

  “Sorry to bother you”—the accent was more south London than south coast, and she was directing her words to Alison—“but I know you, don’t I? It’s Lizzie, isn’t it?”

  Alison had been looking at Michael, and for a moment she did not turn her head or acknowledge the interruption. The situation was just at the point of becoming embarrassing, and Michael was about to speak when Alison turned to face the woman.

  “Sorry,” she said. Michael thought that her tone was awkward, and her smile seemed forced. “I think you’ve got the wrong person. My name’s Alison.” The woman did not respond straightaway but continued to look directly back at her, as if trying to decide whether or not she was right. “That happens to me quite a bit,” Alison was continuing, and Michael wondered whether the Australian lilt in her accent sounded if anything a little more pronounced than usual. “I must have one of those faces that people think they know.”

  The woman continued to stare back at Alison without speaking and seemed about to persist when suddenly she changed her mind. She stood upright and spoke again.

  “OK, sorry, love. My mistake. Yeah, you’ve probably just got one of those faces. Sorry to have bothered you.” The woman turned to look at Michael with an expression he found difficult to decipher and returned to join her friend. He watched them leave the bistro and head into the street.

  FOUR

  Rather than risk another surprise which might have the same outcome as before, Michael thought it best to warn his grandmother that he was bringing someone new to see her. On the evening following the incident at Brighton Pier he went to Greenacres with the intention of telling her about his new girlfriend and preparing Rose for the idea of a meeting.

  In the first two or three weeks after she first moved into the care home, Michael had visited his grandma every day after work and twice each weekend. Initially he had in his mind that he would continue with this pattern, but it quickly became clear that work commitments would make that impossible. When he began to feel that she was settling into her new home, he allowed the number of his visits to reduce, usually to twice during the working week—dropping in quickly in the late evening—and once at the weekend. More recently his regular trips to the coast, or otherwise the visits from Alison to Kingston, meant that he missed seeing his grandma on either Saturday or Sunday. He didn’t feel too good about it, but if Rose had noticed his decreasing attentions, she had not mentioned it.

  She was not in her room when he arrived at Greenacres, and he went straightaway to the dayroom which was shared by all the residents. The space was light and airy and looked out over a small but well-kept garden. In a far corner a television was playing On Golden Pond at a volume Michael would have found equivalent to torture had he been forced to endure it. Immediately he saw his grandmother sitting at a small table with three other people, playing cards. It seemed to be a game of bridge, and Michael watched for a few minutes and was happy to see the smile which spread across her face as she put down what was obviously the winning card of the hand. It was clear that she was on good terms with the other players and it gave Michael a boost to see Rose enjoying herself. How weird it was, he thought, that her condition seemed to vary from entirely lucid and apparently carefree on one day to a state of evident torment on the next. One of the group looked across and spotted Michael st
anding in the doorway, and he was further gratified to see her beaming smile turned in his direction. She excused herself from the table and walked slowly towards him, arms outstretched in welcome. They embraced as usual, but when he hugged her he noticed that she felt just a little more frail. They returned to her room where she made tea for two, taking her own good time over every element of the process. After ascertaining that she was well and in good spirits, Michael introduced the subject which had been on his mind.

  “If it’s OK with you, Grandma, I’m going to bring someone to see you on Saturday. She’s a new friend of mine, a girlfriend.”

  This was the first mention he had made of Alison in the weeks since he had originally brought her to Greenacres, and Michael was relieved that she showed no indication of recognition or recall. A second chance to make a first impression, as Dr. Williams had said. This was one of Rose’s good days, and the prospect of the visit seemed to please her.

  “Oh, well, that will be lovely, dear. Perhaps we can see if we can get some cake, if it’s a special occasion.”

  Michael smiled broadly at the idea of taking tea and cake with his grandma and Alison together. He still felt an echo of the trauma from his first attempt to introduce Alison to Rose, and he was surprised to find a small tear forming in the corner of his eye. He wiped it away before Rose noticed.

  One of the ancillary staff who cleaned and tidied the rooms knocked on the door to bring in the flowers Michael had left at reception, following the house rule. Esme was among the people who had been most welcoming to his grandma when she first arrived at Greenacres. At first it had seemed a strange and slightly forbidding place, and Michael had made sure to express his gratitude to her. Esme was in her fifties, large and black, with a big warm smile, and when Michael first greeted her by the name on the brooch pinned to her uniform, she pointed out that it was “Ez-may,” not “Ez-mee,” but that if it was all the same to Michael, she’d just be calling him “sweetheart.” Michael confirmed that he was happy to be called sweetheart. He discovered that Esme had a particular fondness for Quality Street chocolates, and so Michael always made sure that his grandma had a bowl of them on her bedside table and that he refilled it regularly.

  Esme had arranged the flowers in a plain glass vase, six white lilies with a hint of pink—his grandmother’s favorites—and their fragrance instantly went into battle for ascendancy over the more familiar smell of antiseptic.

  “Would you be kind enough to put them over there please, Esme?” said Rose. “Next to the daffs.”

  “You’re a very popular girl today,” said Esme, moving the daffodils to one side to make room. “We’re going to run out of vases if you get any more admirers.”

  “They’re lovely, Grandma. Where did they come from?”

  Michael glanced at Rose’s face and saw immediately that the question seemed to have made her uncomfortable. He wondered whether perhaps his grandma had an admirer among the older gentlemen in the care home and was momentarily unsure whether to repeat the question, when Esme spoke next.

  “She’s a very popular lady, your grandma is.”

  “Michael has a new girlfriend apparently, Esme, so it looks like you’ve lost your chance.” Esme had told Rose early on what a handsome grandson she had, and it was now a running joke among the three of them that romance was in the cards. Michael noticed the deft change of subject by his grandma, but chose not to pursue the matter.

  “Oh, I’m just biding my time,” said Esme. She had produced a yellow cloth from a pocket and was flicking dust from the top of the sideboard. “He’ll come to his senses and see what he’s missing in the end.”

  Fifteen minutes later Michael said goodbye to his grandma and promised to come in again later in the week. He was on his way to the car park when he saw Esme at the far end of a corridor. She was walking slowly away from him, and for a moment he was undecided, but then turned and increased his pace to catch her. He was still a few steps behind when he spoke up.

  “Thanks for taking such great care of Rose, Esme. She seems to be having a better day today, and I know she loves having a good laugh with you.”

  “Your grandma is a lovely woman.” Esme’s face broke into a smile. “It’s no trouble whatever to sit and chat with her. I’d do it all day if it wouldn’t get me into trouble.”

  “I was pleased to see those other flowers in her room. Where did they come from, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Esme seemed unaware of any mystery. “Oh, they’re from that woman who comes to see her now and again. I’ve only seen her in the distance, but I haven’t met her. I assume she’s an old friend or neighbor of your grandma’s. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” said Michael. “It’s just that I can’t get here as often as I’d like, and I thought I was her only visitor, so it’s great if she gets to see someone else.”

  “Your grandma isn’t lonely, Michael. That’s the best thing about a place like this. On her good days she is a great mixer with other people. She’s very popular. On her bad days, she’s…” The words trailed away, but Michael nodded. He did not need her to complete the thought.

  Michael’s cell phone pinged as he reached the car park, and he hoped it was a message from Alison. He was disappointed to see that it was from Stephen, his boss at the postproduction house, asking him to report for work early in the morning. URGENT. NEED YOU IN. NEW FAST-TURN-ROUND SHOW FOR CHANNEL 4 was as close as it came to an explanation.

  His main responsibility as a runner at the Hand-Cutz postproduction house in Soho was to fetch and carry for the producers and directors who used the place for editing programs for television. Everyone in the media seemed to need a lot of maintenance, and the demands of running back and forth, carrying skinny lattes or sushi, kept him busy. His deal with the management was that he could spend any spare time at the back of one of the two sound-mixing studios, watching the engineers at work. Michael had studied media at A level, and his ambition was to be a sound mixer for TV and maybe eventually on feature films, with a long-term dream of Hollywood. He was only too well aware, however, that there was a lot of competition for his current job, in what was anyway a highly competitive industry. Lots of people wanted the opportunity to progress in the business, so it was important to stay on top of his game. UNDERSTOOD, he texted back, SEE YOU AT 7:30.

  * * *

  The fast-turnaround commission turned out to be an hour-long news special about the hunt for the Madman. It would be produced by Matterhorn, which specialized in quick-response current-affairs programming. The production team had been gearing up over the weekend anyway and so had been able to move quickly when the latest incident occurred on Sunday. First rushes were already in and being ingested into the editing system, and the director wanted to view the new material shot to date as well as some footage from the archive. When Michael went into the off-line suite at 7:45 to ask if anyone wanted breakfast, the director was watching footage shot in the streets around Brighton Pier shortly after the incident. It showed a lot of the groups of young men who had caused such irritation to Alison and himself, and once again he noted the high proportion of them who were dressed in jeans and T-shirts.

  “I was in Brighton on Sunday evening,” Michael said. “Everyone seemed to be behaving like total idiots.”

  The director appeared to be completely absorbed. “Huh? Did you say something?”

  “I was just saying that I was down in Brighton when all this happened. On Sunday.” The director still gave no indication that he had heard or absorbed Michael’s words. “As a matter of fact I got a good up-close look at the bloke who did it, and I think I recognized him. He looked a bit like you, actually.” Michael waited for a reaction, but there was none. “So I assume you don’t want breakfast then?” he said, and went to the next suite.

  The demands of the last-minute production meant that Michael was required to work overtime every day that week, which meant in turn that he would be unable to keep his promise to get back to Greenacres be
fore the weekend. He telephoned and spoke to the receptionist, who said she would pass his message on to Rose, but that she seemed perfectly content and was at that moment playing cards with her usual group of friends.

  The Channel 4 show was on schedule for delivery for broadcast on Friday evening, and Michael was able to free up some time to observe in the dubbing suite while the commentary was recorded. This was the moment when the whole production came together and one of the things he most enjoyed about working in television. The team had been allowed access inside the police operation hunting the killer, and the producers had brought in a criminal profiler from America called Professor Aaron Miles to give his view about the psychology of what he persisted in calling “the perp.”

  “The murder of children by drowning is the eighth-most-likely method of killing,” said Miles. “The most common motive is where you have a father who has become estranged from his partner and is angry that he is being denied access to the children. It’s as though the perp is saying, ‘If you can’t have them, no one is going to have them.’” The professor put on his specs and glanced at his notes before continuing. “The most recent similar case in America involved twenty-seven-year old Arthur Morgan, who picked up his five-year-old daughter, Tierra, from her mom, telling her they were going to the movies. He stopped the car off the Schoolhouse Road bridge over Shark River in Wall Township, tied his daughter to a car jack to weigh her down, and threw her off the bridge into the water. He told the court he could still hear her crying as he drove away, and after the verdict, he was caught on camera winking at the prosecution. He got life.”

  “And is it always men who do this?” asked the interviewer.

  “Usually but not always,” said Miles. “In 2005 in the San Francisco area, a twenty-three-year-old woman named Lashaun Harris stopped her car next to Pier 7 and threw her three sons, all between one and six years old, into the bay. She said that God had told her to send them to heaven. Only one of the bodies was ever recovered. And it’s been less than ten years since Andrea Yates in Houston, Texas, was convicted of drowning all five of her children in the bathtub. In both cases the juries brought in verdicts of insanity.”