Poetic Justice

by R. C. Bridgestock

  As each step took him a little closer, he was pleased that, so far, his movements hadn’t brought about any untoward responses from the jumper. As he got nearer, his pace slowed. The dark figure, facing away from Dylan, didn’t budge. He was now within shouting distance, but he assumed wouldn’t be heard over the wind.

  He could see that the person was clinging on to one of the parapet’s ornate decorations. Clothed in a dark hoodie and jeans, the figure’s facial features were concealed and Dylan couldn’t make out whether the person was male or female. Not that it mattered. He crept a little nearer and began negotiations slowly, exactly as he’d been taught.

  ‘I’m here to help you. Whatever has happened, we can sort it. Just come down from there and let’s talk, eh?’ He spoke loudly, without actually shouting, so as not to startle the jumper and cause an accidental fall.

  Without turning around, the figure confidently released one hand from its grip on the Maltese cross and flicked two fingers at him.

  The fact that whoever it was had decided to engage in discourse, however abusive, was at least an acknowledgement of his presence. Dylan was pleased. He tightened his overcoat lapels around his neck and pulled up his collar.

  ‘You may not want me here, but I can assure you I’m not going anywhere. Whatever the problem is, we can sort it. There is no need to do this.’

  All the while as he talked, Dylan took small steps forward – a slight shuffle now and again – and he soon found himself just a metre away from the skinny individual, the trainer-clad feet now at the same height as his shoulder. Allowing him to come so close was a good sign, but he wouldn’t test his luck any further, for now.

  The ledge on which the jumper was perched above him was dangerously high. Dylan felt a few cold splashes of rain on his face. Suddenly, he felt the urge to move negotiations forward at a quicker pace.

  ‘Whatever the problem is, I can help. Talk to me.’

  There was no answer. Dylan shivered.

  ‘Aren’t you cold up there? Do you need a hot drink or anything? I know I do. Come down and talk to me.’

  The lonely figure didn’t flinch when a fierce gust of wind threatened to catch them both off balance. It was the kind of wind that forewarned Dylan that a storm was about to unleash its pent-up fury.

  Instead of being afraid, the jumper looked up towards the heavens, seeming to relish the sting of the droplets of water.

  ‘If you fall, the likelihood is that you won’t die, but you will be seriously injured and in a hell of a lot of pain,’ Dylan said. ‘That’s why there’s an ambulance down there.’

  He shuffled just a fraction nearer as he spoke. The move was unchallenged. He was just about an arm’s reach from the person who hadn’t yet said or done anything other than flash the ‘V’ sign at him and look up at the sky. A true player would have stepped over into the end of time before now – wouldn’t they?

  Just because the jumper wasn’t responding didn’t mean Dylan would stop talking. Perhaps him talking was what was taking attention away from the idea of going over the edge. He was in no doubt that the outcome of a jump would in fact be instantaneous death, but he preferred to frighten the figure with the thought of a grim survival. If jumpers thought they were going to experience a great deal of pain, he had been taught, it might possibly make them think twice about making the final move.

  As he stood there, chilled to the bone, Dylan was acutely aware that the hooded figure was going to become colder, hungry and weaker and could slip, faint or go over accidentally at any time, especially as the wind speed was increasing at such a fast rate.

  ‘Why not come back to this side of the bridge and have a fag or a coffee? Just while you think about things. I know you can’t see a way through whatever problems you have right now, but there will be one. Let me help you find it.’

  Dylan moved from one foot to the other as he craned forward, desperate to make eye contact, but the hood totally shielded the solitary soul’s face from his view. He could feel a frustration growing within him, becoming as strong as the fear of the wind that threatened to take the jumper with it.

  Please don’t rain, he thought, just as a blanket of rain began to drape the horizon. Within minutes it was pelting down in unrelenting torrents. The bare bits of his skin grew cold and his clothes became soaked through. He could see the dark figure above him wobbling from side to side and he feared the movement was unintentional.

  ‘If you go over,’ he shouted, taking a different tack, ‘I’m going to get such a rollicking because I’ve failed.’

  Half an hour had passed and though the rain began to abate at last both were now shivering and shaking uncontrollably.

  ‘I lost my wife recently, my daughter is ill, and my whole world as I knew it has fallen apart,’ he said, in a quieter, softer tone. ‘I’ve probably reached the lowest I ever could … Everything I loved has been taken away in the blink of an eye.’ He paused. ‘Turns out I’ve been living a lie; nobody ever really knows what another person is thinking or feeling. But things will change; they will get better. Let me help you. Let me help you sort out whatever the problem is.’

  He paused again, coughed and shivered. ‘I’m here getting piss wet through like you because I want to help you, not judge you. So, why not come down? Let’s both go get a hot drink and have a chat and sort things out, eh?’

  The person on the bridge was clearly now soaked through and it was obvious to Dylan that it would be a few degrees colder up on the ledge than where he was standing. He coughed again and suddenly the figure turned towards him, the movement causing a heart-stopping unsteadiness. He recognised the wobble. And the face.

  ‘Dad? Please help me. I’m frightened,’ whispered Isla.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘Isla?’ Dylan’s voice cracked with shock.

  Isla was leaning out over the ledge, looking down and holding on to the cross with only one hand. The other hung loosely by her side. Dylan watched as she slowly shut her eyes.

  His heart was palpitating so hard and fast that he thought it would burst. Light as she was, her weight might still take him hurtling over the edge with her if he reached out, but he had to try to save her. Dylan moved forwards as swiftly as a striking snake, rulebook forgotten, grasping her cold, wet, slippery hand in his before gravity took over.

  A short command burst from his lips, laced with such power and energy it made the hairs on his own arms stand on end. The eyes that turned to meet his in response were wide and unfocused. Isla blinked and was suddenly possessed by an aura of unnatural calm. With a tug on the bottom of her hoodie, Dylan spun her towards him and his foot slipped on the wet pavement.

  Too surprised to scream, Isla saw Dylan’s face distort as he flung her to the ground. The force had knocked him backwards. He was winded from the impact of the fall, but leapt up to ensure that she was safe, sprawled out yards from him. He had brought his daughter back from the brink of certain death.

  Dylan crawled across to her and knelt down by her side, totally drained. An emergency siren blared in the distance. When Isla didn’t respond to his touch, he scrambled to pick her up. Shivering uncontrollably, she pulled her knees up to her chest and huddled up into a ball. Grief rumbled through her like a bulldozer without brakes rolling down a hill. Her entire body shook, as she sobbed to flush the pain away. He placed his strong arms around her and pulled her to her feet. Her knees buckled and he held her tightly, soothing her with encouraging words.

  ‘It’s all over, Isla. You’re safe. You’re safe now, I promise,’ he muttered, staggering to the barrier with her, where they would be afforded a little shelter. Sitting with their backs against an iron girder, Isla clung to him as if he were the only person in the world that could save her from herself.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry …’ she sobbed, burying her head in his shoulder.

  ‘It’s okay, you cry. Let it all out. It’ll help.’

  He pulled her closer to him and placed a hand on her head,
gently stroking her hair. ‘I thought you were at the clinic. You’re the last person I expected to be up here.’

  ‘They gave me pills … I heard voices. They told me I needed to die … it’s my fault Mum’s dead. I couldn’t bear it. She’s always there, whether I’m awake or asleep … calling me to go to her.’ Isla looked up at him. ‘Then I heard your voice, Dad. It was stronger than hers. You said you could help me … that you weren’t going to leave me. I don’t want to die, Dad. I don’t want to die.’

  Dylan looked away, tears welling up in his eyes and snaking down his face, despite his attempts to hide them from her. ‘Shush … shush …’ he soothed. ‘It’s okay, it’s okay.’

  Isla gazed up at him through blurry eyes and blinked. He brushed away her tears. His hands were incredibly gentle. She had never seen him cry before and it frightened her.

  The bridge was still closed. Dylan became aware that nothing would move until he gave the command. Isla shivered and sneezed. Dylan spoke softly. ‘I think we need to think about moving, don’t you, before we get hypothermia?’ There was a moment of silence. ‘You okay with that?’ he asked.

  Isla hiccupped and moved away from the security of his arms. She gave him the fleeting ghost of a smile and gently nodded. Only as she released her grip on his hand did he feel a stickiness on his skin and realise how hard her nails had been digging into him, enough to produce blood.

  As they stood up, she kept hold of his arm tightly so as not to fall and he held her upright. ‘I’m here with you, don’t worry,’ he reassured her.

  His eyes were sympathetic yet showed no pity, thank God. She didn’t need pity.

  Glancing over her head, Dylan could see a semi-circle of pedestrians at the mouth of the bridge, waiting. He also saw the unmistakable flashing light of the ambulance as it wove in and out of the stationary cars to get onto the bridge and closer to them. Finally, the ambulance pulled to a stop, the doors swung open and the paramedics jumped out.

  Dylan stood at the open door as the medics helped Isla into the back. Her eyes were sunken and her skin grey, and a sliver of blood was running down her face from a cut to her forehead that he hadn’t noticed before. The youngest paramedic on the scene, who couldn’t have been much older than his daughter, looked at Dylan in a questioning way and he gave her a nod to let her know he was okay.

  ‘Nothing else required at this time,’ Isla heard Dylan tell PC Mohammed via his radio. ‘I will be accompanying the young female to the hospital and I’ll update the control room later.’ He had no intentions of telling them anything else while Isla was still in earshot.

  While Dylan was sitting in the rear of the ambulance however, next to the paramedic who had draped a foil blanket over Isla, he explained who he was and that the patient on the stretcher was his daughter. He reached out for Isla’s hand, but instead of taking it in hers as he’d hoped she would, she turned away.

  The paramedic gently placed a hand on Isla’s shoulder. Instantly, the terrified girl snapped her head around, recoiling from the touch. She seemed unaware of what was happening and that worried Dylan.

  ‘She’s going to be just fine, aren’t you, Isla?’ the paramedic said. Dylan nodded his head, but he saw something in the paramedic’s eyes, something that betrayed the message of reassurance. He knew she wouldn’t be fine, far from it. In fact, nothing would be fine for a long time to come.

  Dylan was well aware that being sectioned under the Mental Health Act was not for the faint-hearted, but he had been around long enough to know that once the doctor recommended urgent hospitalisation for an assessment and treatment after a suicide attempt, there was no alternative. From experience, he knew that Isla was already heading down that road.

  ‘I don’t want to stay in hospital,’ she sobbed. ‘Please let me come home with you, Dad,’ she pleaded.

  With a heart that felt as if it was breaking afresh, Dylan stepped out into the silent corridor, passing rooms occupied by sleeping patients, Isla’s desperate screams following him all the way. The sanitary smell hanging in the air made him want to gag. His strides became shorter as he hurried towards the exit. He shook his head, trying to clear Isla’s cries from his head. He needed air.

  ‘Don’t leave me! I hate you! I wish I were dead!’ were the last words he heard before passing through the corridor’s double doors into a waiting room. He sat down on a chair and put his head in his hands. When he closed his eyes to try to stave off his headache, all he could see was Isla’s frightened, trusting eyes as the nurse had injected her with strong medication to calm her down. It’s for her own safety,he repeated to himself over and over again. He sat up straight, throwing his head back. How could he do this to her? But he knew he there was no alternative if he wanted her to stay alive.

  After a few minutes, Dylan sensed someone looking in his direction. The soft patter of footsteps could be heard heading his way.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ asked a kindly voice.

  Dylan looked up to see an elderly lady with the word ‘VOLUNTEER’ stitched to her overall.

  ‘Come, let me get you some dry clothes, maybe a hot cup of tea and perhaps some hot food?’

  Dylan forced a smile. ‘No, I’m okay really. I don’t need … My colleague will be here to collect me soon.’

  Not believing a word, the volunteer kept her beady eye on him from her station.

  Dylan’s mind was still spinning with a multitude of thoughts when PC Cane pulled the Traffic car up outside the house he’d once shared with Kay and Isla. There was a strange car in the driveway and Dylan gave his companion a puzzled look. Cane handed him a set of keys.

  ‘DS Banks told me to give you these, sir, saying you might need them.’

  Dylan got out and watched Cane turn the Traffic car in the road to head back to the station. The headlights shone directly into the Anderson’s house, and he hoped that it wouldn’t wake them and signify his return. He turned to walk up the pathway to the front door and saw that rain was falling again, shimmering down past the street lamp in an orange haze, before splashing onto the paving stones.

  He was grateful for the help and foresight of his colleagues. It was all he could do now to put one foot in front of the other; the closer he got to the house, the longer it seemed to take and the more he dreaded going in, but he reached the front door eventually. He put his key in the lock and turned the handle, finally opening the door into the black abyss that had been his home.

  His clothes hit the bathroom floor, he turned on the water and stepped into the shower. He allowed the water to cascade over his head and cleanse his fatigued body, but he knew that nothing could cleanse his tired spirit. As he soaped himself, his thoughts went back over the events of the day. He was beaten; but he would not let it show. The water ran down his face, mingling with tears.

  He was drying himself when the telephone started to ring. He quickly crossed the room to answer the call.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. The line went dead. Cradling the receiver to his face he felt his whiskers, rough and making his face itch. Could it have been Isla?He sat on the bed, watching the phone and silently willing it to ring again, but after a few minutes when it became obvious it wasn’t going to, he picked up the receiver and dialled HQ control room to give them the result of the incident.

  He was assured by the inspector that the incident log, which had been running since they had first been notified of the person on the bridge, had now been updated. ‘I am sorry to hear the news,’ the inspector said sincerely.

  Dylan was in the bathroom brushing his teeth when the phone rang again. He wasn’t in the mood for people messing him around and after the third call he took the phone off the hook. His mobile was on his bedside table should anyone need him.

  As he lay down on the wrinkled sheets he wondered if Kay had slept in their bed with Kenny Fisher. Fatigue quickly gave way to merciful sleep and Dylan was spared any further thoughts.

  Rudely awoken by the familiar sound of cats fighting, Dylan wondered
what time it was. How long he’d slept he’d no idea. He looked at the clock. It was midnight. Launched haplessly back to consciousness, he tried to settle back to sleep, but, try as he might, he found it difficult to clear the chatter in his head. He lay for a while, eyes wide, listening to the silence and watching the flickering glow from the street lamp reflected on the ceiling.

  Gradually, he began to take note of the beating of his heart and eventually the thoughts running through his head stilled as he allowed his body to sink into the soft warmth of the bed.

  A cool breeze skimmed his cheek but, being neither quite asleep or awake, he didn’t question where it came from. He shivered and, annoyed at being disturbed, pummelled the pillow, sank his head back down on to it and turned on his side. He pulled the duvet up tight, under his chin. At first, all was quiet and still and he felt himself relaxing again when, as if from a distance, the sound of Isla’s voice exploded into his consciousness.

  Dad! Please come, it cried.

  Dylan drove to the hospital. It was still raining but it was the fog that made the drive surreal. He felt as though he was driving through time. A flood of memories filled his head, flashing through his mind like an old movie: images of Isla’s first day of school, Christmas mornings and bonfire nights. Where had time gone? In his mind he constructed a strongly worded letter to the clinic where she had been a voluntary resident. Anger rose in him. He would demand to know how she’d managed to walk out loaded with the cocktail of drugs they had prescribed, and why they hadn’t thought of ringing him immediately to say she had disappeared.Weren’t they supposed to have been monitoring her twenty-four seven? Wasn’t that the reason for her being there, to be in safe hands?