Strangers on a Bridge: A gripping debut psychological thriller!

Strangers on a Bridge: A gripping debut psychological thriller! Louise Mangos She should never have saved him. When Alice Reed goes on her regular morning jog in the peaceful Swiss Alps, she doesn’t expect to save a man from suicide. But she does. And it is her first mistake.Adamant they have an instant connection, Manfred’s charming exterior grows darker and his obsession with Alice grows stronger.In a country far from home, where the police don’t believe her, the locals don’t trust her and even her husband questions the truth about Manfred, Alice has nowhere to turn.To what lengths will Alice go to protect herself and her family?Perfect for fans of I See You, Friend Request and Apple Tree Yard. Praise for Strangers on a Bridge‘As well-plotted and high-anxiety-inducing as any Hitchcock flick. 5 stars.’‘GREAT read, fast, with a number of twists and turns that you don't see coming!’ Janice Lombardo‘a really enjoyable read’‘outstanding’‘a truly impressive, accomplished debut novel’‘a brilliant thriller’‘Obsession, suspense and twists… what more do you need? Fantastic debut .’ Strangers on a Bridge LOUISE MANGOS HQ An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018 Copyright © Louise Mangos 2018 Louise Mangos asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. E-book Edition © August 2018 ISBN: 9780008287948 Version: 2018-05-23 For Chris, for always believing in me Table of Contents Cover (#u1ddac396-c16b-56a4-806f-4a144991c34e) Title Page (#u9fea0d7a-f24f-5549-962b-cc8699e6bb9d) Copyright (#u6e9fd9d9-0217-5982-8095-92883b2eb0eb) Dedication (#u0467ca49-a641-55d0-92b8-e52e0f1cf5c0) Chapter One (#u08354106-3312-5591-9d28-a7ffa2a7daf9) Chapter Two (#ub6004b81-ba58-5ba6-b0a5-2a2ecd908c42) Chapter Three (#u71774db4-3387-55a2-a51c-36d9a00b9413) Chapter Four (#u5684f41f-6610-55d1-ab00-e0ebd8a24a6c) Chapter Five (#uf2e67073-3275-534c-8906-2a60bad6a3ac) Chapter Six (#u29f68ab6-ec7e-5947-bf17-df272d1c12f8) Chapter Seven (#uab1d99d1-7c72-5eeb-8454-eb9a7432b346) Chapter Eight (#ue8c377fb-e188-552c-9782-b464781304a3) Chapter Nine (#uee13d5d8-4fb3-5bcc-b1a3-683324550370) Chapter Ten (#u741b893c-1efc-5eda-9262-162633b46eb8) Chapter Eleven (#u349f755c-973b-5e22-915b-b9c5292c0a98) Chapter Twelve (#u00a2652b-5bb1-54b7-8628-748fba371365) Chapter Thirteen (#u190bfd98-07bb-520c-b863-d22294fe6d18) Chapter Fourteen (#u37fc9ce1-ecfa-52fb-a6d8-9f235781997d) Chapter Fifteen (#u843aa356-4e78-5508-b71a-7eaf13f448b5) Chapter Sixteen (#u6cf98f70-dbd2-5ac9-95b9-98013de4f616) Chapter Seventeen (#u53cbe210-eeed-5f20-ac81-99002b82fbec) Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventy (#litres_trial_promo) A Letter From The Author (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter One (#u5de377ad-5b0e-55a8-9ca7-822d3683bbba) APRIL I wouldn’t normally exercise on the weekend, but several days of continuous spring rain had hampered my attempts to run by the Aegerisee near our home during the week. The lake had brimmed over onto my regular running paths, turbid waters frothy with alpine meltwater. The sun came out that morning, accompanied by a cloudless blue sky I wanted to dive into. Simon knew I was chomping at the bit. He let me go, encouraging me to run for everyone’s peace of mind. He would go cycling later with a group of friends when I returned home for domestic duties. I chose a woodland track from the lowlands near the town of Baar, and planned to run up through the Lorze Gorge beside the river, continuing along the valley to home. A local bus dropped me at the turnoff to the narrow limestone canyon, and I broke into a loping jog along the gravel lane, which dwindled to a packed earthen trail. Sunlight winked through trees fluorescent with new leaf shoots, and the forest canopy at this time of day shaded much of the track. The swollen river gushed at my side. Branches still dripped from days of dampness as the sun dried out the woodlands. I lengthened my stride and breathed in the metallic aroma of sprouting wild garlic. The mundane troubles of juggling family time dissipated, and as I settled into my metronome rhythm, a feeling of peacefulness ensued. The sun warmed my shoulders as I ran out from the shade of the forest. I focused on a small pine tree growing comically out of the mossy roof shingles of the old Tobel Bridge. Above me, two more bridges connected the widening funnel of the Lorze Gorge at increasingly higher levels, resembling an Escher painting. Before I entered the dim tunnel of the wooden bridge, I glanced upwards. A flash of movement caught my eye. My glance slid away, and darted back. A figure stood on the edge of the upper bridge. In a split second my brain registered the person’s stance. I sucked in my breath, squinting to be sure I had seen correctly at such a distance. Oh, no. Don’t. Please, don’t. The figure stood midway between two of the immense concrete pillars rising out of the chasm, his fists clutching the handrail. His body swayed slightly as he looked out across the expanse to the other side of the gorge, the river roaring its white noise hundreds of feet below him. Birdsong trilled near me on the trail, strangely out of place in this alarming situation. At first I was incredulous. How ridiculous to think this person was going to jump. But that body language, a certain hollowed stiffness to his shoulders and chest, even from a distance, radiated doom. Unsure how to react, but sure I didn’t want to observe the worst, I slowed my pace to a walk, and finally stopped. ‘Haallo!’ I yelled over the noise of the river. My voice took some time to reach him, the echo bouncing back and forth between the canyon walls. Seconds later his head jolted, awoken from his reverie. ‘Hey! Hallo!’ I called again, holding my arm out straight, palm raised like a marshal ordering traffic to halt at an intersection. I backtracked a few metres on the trail, away from the shadow of the covered bridge, so he could see me more clearly. A path wove up through the woods on the right, connecting the valley to the route higher up. I abandoned my initial course and ran up the steep slope, having lost sight of the man somewhere above me. At the top I turned onto the pavement and hurried towards the main road onto the bridge, gulping painful breaths of chilly air. My heart pounded with panic and the effort of running up the hill. The man had been out of my sight for more than a few minutes. I dreaded what I might find on my arrival, scenarios crowding in my mind, along with thoughts of how I might help this person. As I strode onto the bridge, I saw with relief he was still there on the pavement. I was now level with him, and no longer had to strain my neck looking upwards. Fear kept my eyes connected to the lone figure as I approached. If I looked away for even a second, he might leap stealthily over the edge. Holding my gaze on him would hopefully secure him to the bridge. ‘Hallo…’ I called more softly, my voice drowned by the sound of the rushing water in the Lorze below. I walked steadily along the pavement towards him. Despite my proximity, this time he didn’t seem to have heard me. ‘Gr?ezi, hallo,’ I said again. With a flick of his head, he leaned back again, bent his knees, and looked ahead. ‘No!’ The gunshot abruptness of my shout broke his concentration. My voice ricocheted off the concrete wall of the bridge. He stopped mid-sway, eyes wide. My stomach clenched involuntarily as I glanced down into the gorge, when moments before I had been staring up out of it. I felt foolish, not knowing what to say. It seemed like a different world up here. As I approached within talking distance, I greeted him in my broken German, still breathing heavily. ‘Um, good morning… Beautiful, hey?’ I swept my arm about me. What a stupid thing to say. My voice sounded different without the echo of space between us. The words sounded so absurd, and a nervous laugh escaped before I could stop it. He looked at me angrily, but remained silent, perhaps vaguely surprised that someone had addressed him in a foreign language. Or surprised anyone had talked to him at all in this country where complete strangers rarely struck up a conversation beyond a cursory passing greeting. His cheeks flushed with indignation. I reeled at the wave of visual resentment. Then his eyes settled on my face, and his features softened. ‘Do you speak English?’ I asked. The man nodded; no smile, no greeting. He still leaned backwards, hands gripping the railing. Please. Don’t. Jump. He was a little taller than me, and a few years my senior. Sweat glistened on his brow. His steel-grey hair was raked back on his head as though he had been running his fingers through it repeatedly. His coat flapped open to reveal a smart navy suit, Hugo Boss maybe, and I looked down to the pavement expecting to see a briefcase at his feet. He looked away. I desperately needed him to turn back, keep eye contact. My hand hovered in front of me, wanting to pull the invisible rope joining us. ‘I… I’m sorry, but I had this strange feeling you were considering jumping off the bridge.’ A nervous laugh bubbled again in my throat, and I hoped my assessment had been false. ‘I am,’ he said. Chapter Two (#u5de377ad-5b0e-55a8-9ca7-822d3683bbba) Immeasurable seconds of silence followed the man’s admission. My brain shut out external influences. A blink broke the rift in time. Sounds rushed back in – the swishing of an occasional passing vehicle, gushing water in the river below, the persistent tweeting of a bird, like the squeaky wheel of an old shopping trolley. ‘Now you’ve stopped me,’ he said. ‘This is not good. You should go away. Go away.’ But the daggers in his eyes had retracted. I held his gaze, trying not to blink for fear of losing the connection. Many clich?s entered my head. In desperation I chose one to release the tension. ‘Can we talk? I know things must be bad. But maybe if you talk it through with someone…’ I shrugged, unsure how to continue. Perspiration cooled my body, and I shivered. Pulling the sleeves of my running shirt down to my wrists, I rubbed my upper arms. Wary of the abyss at my side, I took a step closer to the man. He didn’t speak, but stood upright, and raised his hand as though to push me away. He turned briefly to look into the depths of the gorge, and I grabbed his arm firmly below the elbow, gently applying pressure. His gaze at first fixed on the hand on his arm, then rose again to my face. He studied my furrowed brow, and the forced curve of my smile. ‘Please. Let’s talk,’ I said. I had no magical formula for this, but I sensed my touch eased the tension in his body. My nails scraped the material of his coat as my grip on his arm tightened. He slumped down to sit on the pavement with his back to the bridge wall. I closed my eyes briefly and puffed air through my lips. Step one achieved. No jump. Traffic was sparse on a Sunday. One car slowed a little, but kept going. No one else was curious enough to stop. The regular swish and thump each time a vehicle drove over the concrete slabs echoed between the walls of the bridge. We must have looked like an odd pair. Me dressed in Lycra running pants and a bright-yellow running top, the man in his business attire, now looking a little dishevelled. The laces on his black brogues were undone. I stared at his feet, and wondered if he had intended to remove his shoes before he jumped. ‘Can I help?’ I asked, crouching down. The man looked at me imploringly, hands flopped over his knees. The strain of anguish had reddened the whites of his eyes, making his irises shine a striking green. ‘I don’t know,’ he said uncertainly. ‘Well, let’s start with your name,’ I said, as though addressing a small child. ‘Manfred,’ he said. There was no movement towards the traditional Swiss handshake. Still squatting, pins and needles fizzed in my feet. I kept one arm across my thigh, the other balanced on fingertips against the pavement. ‘Mine’s Alice, and I’m sorry, I don’t speak very good German…’ ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I speak a little English.’ I snorted involuntarily. It was the standard I speak a little English introduction I had grown used to over the past few years living in Switzerland, usually made with very few grammatical mistakes. The tension broke, and relief flooded through me. He would not jump. I sensed my beatific smile softening my expression. Manfred looked into my eyes and held my gaze intently, absorbing the euphoria. I turned to sit at his side, blood rushing back to my legs. His gaze followed my movement, a curious glint now in his eyes, and his lips parted slightly, revealing the costly perfection of Swiss orthodontics. Leaning back against the wall, the cold concrete pressed against my sweat-dampened running shirt. I extended my legs, thighs sucking up the chill of the pavement. Our elbows touched and he drew in his knees, preparing to stand. I laid my hand on his arm. ‘You must not do this thing. Please…’ He looked at me, tears pooling briefly before he swiped at his eyes with the back of one hand. ‘You stopped me.’ ‘Yes, I stopped you. I don’t want you to jump, Manfred.’ ‘You…’ He scrutinised me. ‘It’s messy,’ I said. Manfred’s gaze travelled from my face, looking at the dishevelled hair I knew must be sprouting from its ponytail, down to my legs stretched in front of me. ‘Taking your life,’ I continued. ‘It’s messy. Not just the – you know…’ I made a rising and dipping movement with my hand. ‘Trust me, I’ve been there.’ ‘You… wanted to jump?’ Curiosity animated Manfred’s voice. ‘Not jumping, no. God forbid. A failed attempt at overdose. A teenage stupidity after a heartbreak. But I wasn’t going anywhere on a dozen paracetamol.’ I’d never told Simon this, and I bit my lip at the admission. I remembered the ‘mess’ I had caused: a hysterical mother, a bruised oesophagus, a cough that lasted weeks after the stomach pump, embarrassing counselling that all boiled down to adolescent drama. ‘Whatever has happened to make you do this, people will always be sad. You will harm more individuals than yourself. Not just physically,’ I continued. Manfred hissed briefly through his teeth. ‘Ja, guet,’ he said, the Swiss German ‘good’ drawn out to two syllables. Gu-weht. He stared at a point below my face. I knew he was watching the pulse tick at the base of my throat, the suprasternal notch. The place where Simon often placed his lips. I blushed, and zipped my running shirt up to the collar. His gaze shifted back to my face. A slip of a smile, and then a frown. ‘I cannot live with myself any more. I cannot live with who I am, what I do. What I have done,’ he said. The back of my neck tingled. ‘But it doesn’t solve the problem for other people,’ I interjected. ‘It creates more. There must be another way to work out your… your problems. Your life is precious. Your life is sacred and will be special to someone.’ His lips formed a small circle. ‘My life is…’ ‘Precious. Valuable. Prized. A good thing, not to be thrown away,’ I reiterated. He smiled tentatively, siphoning my relief, feeding on my compassion. I felt my euphoria returned to me, delivered on a platter of… what? Gratefulness? No, it was something else. My mouth went dry. Chapter Three (#u5de377ad-5b0e-55a8-9ca7-822d3683bbba) He shifted his body. My hand moved on his arm as he lifted a finger to wipe the dampness from under his eye. I wanted to reach out and hold his hand, relieve his sadness. He reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a pair of glasses. He pressed them onto his face, and the rectangular black rims gave him even more of an executive look. I wondered what dreadful mistake had led him to the bridge. The stereotype of a man on the brink of financial ruin. ‘We have to get you out of here,’ I said as I pushed myself off the pavement and knelt in front of him. ‘Did you drive here? Do you have a car nearby?’ He shook his head, and looked down to the pavement. ‘Do you have a phone on you? Is there someone we can call?’ I asked more gently. As he gazed up at me without answering, I looked down at his feet. I tied his shoelaces, feeling his eyes on me as I performed this task, putting him back together. Rocking onto my heels, I reached towards his hand, and stood slowly. Manfred stared at my wrist, hypnotised by the contact. His hand, at first limp in mine, strengthened its hold. Pressing my lips together into a flat smile, I dipped my head in encouragement, and pulled him to his feet. I felt like brushing the dust from his jacket, handing him his non-existent briefcase like the caring wife, and sending him on his way to his high-powered job at some investment bank. But I knew he wasn’t ready to be left on his own. I kept hold of his hand to encourage him along the pavement, if only to get him off the bridge. As we walked towards a distant bus stop, I relaxed as we left behind the chasm of this man’s destiny. Manfred seemed to realise this too, gazing up into the bright sky. I was unsure whether the dampness between our palms was mine, or his. ‘Where are you leading me? This was not my plan,’ he said. ‘It’s okay. You’ll be okay. Let’s go.’ I smiled again, encouragingly. ‘Will you come with me to the bus stop? I don’t think I should leave you alone, but are you okay with that?’ Manfred’s lips tightened into a line. I knew I should keep him talking. But what the hell do you say to someone who’s just tried to throw himself off a bridge? I shivered now, both from my rapidly chilling body and the influence of the adrenalin wearing off. My upper chest whirred unhealthily, and I coughed. ‘Come!’ My tone was falsely boisterous, trying to convince a small child to share an unwanted excursion. ‘It’s not far to the bus. At least we can get out of this damned cold.’ Manfred frowned. In his smart suit and coat, he was unlikely to be feeling the deceptive spring chill with this blue sky and sunshine. Attempting to stop my trembling, I clenched my jaw, and had trouble speaking. It was hard to focus on the timetable once we reached the stop. The next bus to Zug was in over an hour’s time. I couldn’t wait that long. I’d freeze. ‘This way,’ I said as we crossed the road to check the timetable for the bus going the other way, back to Aegeri, towards home. Ten minutes. Thank God. As we waited, our hands fell apart. I fiddled pointlessly with my ponytail, tucking wild scraps of hair behind my ears. I rubbed my arms, occupying my fingers, trying to forget the connection of our palms. There was a steel bench, but I chose not to sit on the cold metal. Manfred stood within a pace of me, moving with me when I walked to the other end of the shelter. I was tempted to sidle up to him, absorb his body warmth. I had to remind myself he was still a stranger, despite what we had been through moments before. Instead I leaned against the glass wall to shield myself from the wind. Having held his hand for so long, I almost regretted the rift, but detected the return of some confidence in his demeanour. ‘You’re cold,’ he said simply, but didn’t offer me his coat or his jacket. I wasn’t sure I would have taken it anyway. I wouldn’t have wanted to infuse the post-sport odour of my body into the lining of his Hugo Boss. I recalled the executives at the advertising agency where I used to work in London. They’d never been part of the group of employees who sought out my psychological counselling in the HR department. My experience there had extended only to office arguments, secretaries complaining they had been treated unfairly, and personality assessments. Studying a potential suicide scenario in college was one thing. Being faced with a true-life victim was something else altogether. I wished Simon were there to allay my uncertainty. Even the company of my chatty running partner, Kathy, would have been welcome. I imagined she would have made light of the situation, distracting Manfred with her chirpy Northern-English accent. I wanted so desperately to bring this man out of his despair. The whining of a large diesel motor interrupted my thoughts. We climbed on the bus, Manfred now complying without resistance. I used the change in my money belt to purchase two tickets from the driver, strangely relieved I wouldn’t have to ask Manfred for money, and accompanied him to a seat near the middle. As the bus pulled away and picked up speed, we gazed out of the window. The vehicle turned in a wide arc, up towards the next village, every metre taking us away from the bridge. On the last hairpin bend before the valley disappeared from view, Manfred looked briefly back in the direction of the gorge, and nodded once, almost imperceptibly. He turned back to stare at the road ahead, then surprised me out of my thoughts. ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked. I honestly didn’t know. I was making this up as I went along. ‘I need to get a warm jacket or something,’ I said. ‘And I don’t think you should be on your own right now. We’ll decide what to do after I get myself sorted at home, pick up my handbag, keys and stuff. We can use my car. I need my phone and then we can decide, Mister… um… Manfred.’ He seemed to accept this short-term first step and drifted back to gazing out of the window. I did the same, chewing my lip. I was impatient to see Simon. ‘You live in Aegeri? You’re not a tourist?’ Manfred’s delayed curiosity further reinforced my relief. It was as though he had joined me on the bus and asked whether the seat next to me was free. A passenger making polite conversation. ‘My husband works for a small trading company whose financial offices are in South London. He was offered a posting at the head office in Zug a few years ago, so we moved out here. I’m afraid I haven’t learned much German since I’ve been here. We were supposed to be here for two years, but they asked him to stay.’ ‘You like Switzerland?’ Manfred asked with an edge to his voice, something between confused pride and disdain. I wondered again what had brought him to the bridge. Perhaps a failing in the machine that yielded Swiss bureaucracy. ‘It’s a beautiful country. It took me a while to get used to your… customs. But I love the rural alpine contrast to the city. I used to work in human resources at a busy advertising company, so this is a different world.’ I gazed out of the window at newly budding cherry trees blurring past, among fields strewn with the last of the spring crocuses. ‘I think our language is difficult to learn for the Ausl?nder,’ he said. ‘It was hard for me at first,’ I admitted, recalling a misunderstanding with our local electrician. ‘Our family was considered somewhat of a novelty when we arrived in the village. I set up something I call the Chat Club, where mums of the boys’ friends could improve their English.’ ‘You have good Dialekt. Easy to understand. Not like some American accents.’ ‘Thank you. And I can tell you learned your English from a British teacher.’ I smiled, almost forgetting why we were there. ‘Switzerland is a multilingual nation. We have four official languages, but you will see, English will become our allgemeine language.’ ‘It feels like the idea of a universal language is a long way from reaching our little village. I was hoping to learn some German in return for my teaching efforts,’ I continued. ‘But I was outnumbered. It never seemed to happen. My kids learned really quickly, though. Starting with some not-so-pretty language in the playground at school.’ ‘Then they have learned two languages. High German in the classroom and Swiss German outside school,’ he said. I nodded, and remembered when I heard Swiss German for the first time, a more guttural dialect with a sing-song lilt, interspersed with much throat clearing and chewing of vowels. ‘The language barrier was much more of a challenge for me. But the priority of the Chat Club is to practise speaking English. I barely have chance to improve my own German-language skills beyond sentences of greeting and consumer needs. My compulsion to help has not been reciprocated… returned.’ Heat rose to my face as I remembered the things I had done wrong at the beginning of our move to Switzerland, impeding my integration into the community. It had taken me a while to get my head round some of the country’s pedantic customs. I realised I’d been blabbing to Manfred, overly enthusiastic as a result of this rare opportunity to speak to someone socially in my own language outside the family. I folded my hands in my lap and looked at the passing houses as we entered the outskirts of the Aegeri Valley. As the bus drove past some woodland, the sudden darkness revealed the image of our two faces in the window, heads bobbing in unison with the movement of the vehicle. Manfred continued to look at me. I swallowed, and pulled my gaze away from his reflection to the front of the bus. What was I getting myself into now? I felt a little lost in this situation. But it would have been unthinkable for me to have ignored this man and run on ahead up the valley. He was hurting enough to have wanted to take his life. Here was a scenario I had been half-trained to deal with and, alien as it seemed, I would try my hardest to find the right solution. ‘End Station,’ announced the bus driver. ‘Final stop, our stop,’ I said, standing up. ‘I live just outside the village. It’s a pretty walk.’ Stepping from the bus, we headed away from the village centre, our increase in altitude affording an unimpeded view of the lake. Sunlight glinted off the water in shards. ‘This is one of Leon’s favourite views,’ I said as Manfred turned enquiringly. ‘My eldest son. He loves the view, but hates the fact that he has to walk to school every day.’ I was making light conversation, trying to separate Manfred’s thoughts from earlier events. He said nothing, and his silence after our conversation on the bus felt awkward. ‘It is incredibly beautiful,’ I reiterated, then changed the subject. ‘Do you live locally? Close by?’ He gave a slight shrug and a movement of his head that said neither yes nor no. His eyes, now clear and inquisitive, looked at the lake, and I could tell he was appreciating the view, as the ghost of a smile touched his mouth. I bit my lip and looked back towards the water. When we arrived at the door of the old Zuger house of which our duplex apartment was a part, I hesitated. I knew the fundamental rule was not to leave Manfred alone, but I was cautious enough to not want this man inside my home. In the porch was a bench where the kids usually sat to take off their muddy boots or brush snow from them in winter. ‘I need to get a few things. Just wait here. Take a seat. I’ll be as quick as possible. I’ll be right back.’ I tried a cheerfulness that sounded empty. ‘Okay?’ I put my hand on his shoulder. Manfred nodded uncertainly and sat on the bench. I could tell his confusion and confidence were fighting each other in waves. I took a breath, and knew I definitely wasn’t equipped for this. I hoped more than anything that Simon would be at home to support me, to talk to this stranger who I had accepted as some kind of personal responsibility. Together we would have a better chance of helping him. But as I crossed the threshold to our apartment, I knew immediately no one was home. Chapter Four (#u5de377ad-5b0e-55a8-9ca7-822d3683bbba) The door was unlocked, as always, security considerations not a priority in our safe Swiss world. The place offered the kind of muffled stillness where motes of dust were the only sparking movement through the strips of midday sunlight now streaming down the hallway. No breathing bodies. A hurried note scribbled on the back of an envelope told me Simon had departed on a bike ride with his mates. He had dropped the boys with friends of theirs before heading out. The spidery scribble indicated he was mildly pissed off I hadn’t been home when I said I would. My first reaction was guilt, then a flash of irritation as I imagined him hurrying the note, not stopping to consider I might have sustained an injury or had a problem on my run. I unclipped my running belt and let it drop to the floor, prising off my running shoes. I was still cold, and wished I could stay in my warm, cosy house. I ran the tap at the kitchen sink and took several big gulps of water straight from the flowing spout to quench my thirst. After grabbing a fleece jacket, I pulled the car keys off the hook. Picking up my mobile, I swore I wouldn’t run without it again, despite its bulk and fragility. I stabbed Simon’s number on the keypad. ‘Come on, come on.’ The ringing tone went on and on, eventually switching to his voicemail. ‘Honey, please call me as soon as you get this message.’ I imagined Simon pushing his cadence to the maximum along some winding alpine road, changing positions in the peloton as his turn came to draft the others, phone ringing unheard in the tool pouch under his seat. Placing the mobile in my pocket, I leaned over to pull off my socks and slipped my slightly sore feet into a comfortable pair of pumps. I was wary and didn’t want to taint my hands with a decision that might lead Manfred back down the path of self-destruction. I was no experienced psychologist, and had never really used my skills in the remedial sense. This man needed help I could not give. Above all, my lack of mastery of the language meant I didn’t have a great deal of confidence when it came to approaching anyone in authority on this matter. And it was Sunday, the obligatory day of rest. Along with washing-hanging and lawnmowing bans, the police were also entitled to a day off. They might not be around to save lost souls on bridges. I wasn’t sure who I would find to help. I glanced in the hall mirror, registering my post-sport mussed look, and hurried down the stairs to the main door. Manfred was still sitting on the bench with his head lowered, but his body language had changed. My mood brightened as I noticed the squaring of his shoulders, the set jaw, and his hair neatly combed. He was cleaning his glasses with a tissue pulled from a packet lying next to him on the bench. His head was no longer poised in despair, but in a position of concentration, performing the simple task with an air of purpose. I had been expecting more empty looks and the shell of a wretched soul. The change in these few minutes was remarkable. Humility and purpose were evident, and I smiled broadly at his return to life. ‘I cannot believe I am so dumm, so stupid,’ he said, continuing to carefully polish a lens. ‘What was I thinking?’ A huge wave of relief washed over me. Part of me still wanted to help, but part of me wanted to turn my back on this situation now I was home. I selfishly wanted my weekend back. I wanted a hot shower and a cup of tea. I wanted to make up for my absence from our family Sunday when everyone came home. As Manfred stood up, on impulse I put my arms around him and hugged him. ‘Welcome back,’ I said with relief. As I felt the pressure of his arms gently hugging me back, with his palms on my shoulder blades, a blush rose to my face. I cleared my throat and released him awkwardly. ‘Is there somewhere I can take you? Would you like to use my phone to call someone?’ I asked, reaching for the mobile in my pocket. He shook his head slowly. ‘No, I’ve no one to call. I don’t know, but I think I’ll go home.’ ‘Is there… someone at home who will help you?’ A muscle ticked above his jaw as he clenched his teeth and a small sigh escaped his lips. ‘No, actually. On second thoughts, perhaps that is not such a good idea.’ I began to feel awkward about Manfred being in such close proximity to the house. His case needed to be reported; he should talk to someone. ‘Will you drive with me in my car?’ He looked at me, green eyes shining behind his glasses, brows slightly raised in an expression of complete trust. He fell into step beside me as we walked to the garage where our Land Rover was parked. He waited while I started the car. After reversing out of the garage, I indicated he should get in. ‘It’s okay, you can leave the garage door open,’ I shouted through the open passenger window as he stood for a moment wondering what to do. Manfred nodded once. He took off his coat and folded it carefully over his arm, then undid the middle button of his jacket before climbing into the car, as though sitting down to a meeting at a conference table. As I drove along our rough driveway, he glanced around the interior of the car, and I followed the direction of his scrutiny. A set of tangled headphones, an empty bottle of Rivella, one football shinpad and various sweet wrappers were scattered over and between the seats. ‘Bit of a state,’ I said. ‘Two boys. Untidy boys.’ Manfred nodded. ‘I have a boy,’ he said. Oh. His expression revealed sadness, but not the despair I had seen on the bridge. I stared back at the road. He didn’t elaborate, maintained a steady composure. I wasn’t sure if I should ask something. I released the breath I had been holding. ‘We need to find you someone to talk to,’ I said tentatively. ‘If you don’t feel you can talk to anyone in your family, perhaps someone else, a doctor, a friend…?’ ‘When my English will be better I can talk to you,’ Manfred stated. The irony of the sudden grammatical error made me smile and without thinking I retorted, ‘You mean, when my English is better…’ I waved my hand apologetically as I realised how patronising I sounded, and when I looked at him, he was smiling. I wondered if he had made the mistake deliberately. He paused before saying: ‘Yes. Nat?rlich. Sorry.’ ‘Where is home?’ I asked. ‘Home… was in the next canton, in Aargau. I don’t think I can stay there. My wife is not… with me. She… she died.’ ‘Oh! I’m so sorry.’ ‘That was long ago,’ he said with a matter-of-fact tone. ‘My… my sister now looks after my boy. He is a student. But I don’t have a very good relationship with my son.’ He hesitated. ‘They don’t expect me back. I have broken that bridge.’ I was momentarily confused. ‘Oh, you mean burned that bridge; that’s the saying in English.’ I wondered if he had left his sister and son a note. And I found it ironic that a bridge had found its way into the conversation. He needed professional help straight away. I was hoping not everything would be closed on a Sunday. ‘No, I will not stay there,’ he said again as I glanced at his face. ‘But it is okay, don’t worry. You are helping. Thank you, Alice.’ It felt strange to hear him say my name for the first time. My hands gripped the wheel a little harder. In the neighbouring village, I pulled into a parking space in front of Aegeri Sports, where we hired the boys’ ski gear each winter. ‘Wait here. I’ll be a moment,’ I told Manfred as I climbed out of the car. The tiny suboffice of the Zuger Polizei was situated between the sports shop and a tanning salon. But as this was Sunday, as expected, it was inevitably closed. The hours were marked on the police station’s door like a grocer’s: Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons between two and four, Saturday mornings from nine until eleven. It might as well have said Citizens of Switzerland: criminal activity and social needs should be limited to these times. I glanced at Manfred, reflections of trees streaking light and dark across the windscreen, obscuring my view. He leaned forward, unsure what we were doing here as the police station’s sign wasn’t visible from where he sat. I looked away quickly, chewing my cheek. I realised I should have dialled 117 from home, but I hadn’t been confident enough to explain my situation in German to the emergency services. Anxiety tumbled my gut. Mostly because of Manfred’s potential reaction if I turned him over to the police. I was sure he wouldn’t be happy about that. I resigned myself to driving him to the hospital twenty minutes away in the valley. That would mean twenty more minutes in the car with him. Chapter Five (#u5de377ad-5b0e-55a8-9ca7-822d3683bbba) As I climbed back into the car Manfred looked at me curiously. I started the engine and drove off without telling him why we had stopped. He didn’t notice the sign for the police station as we pulled away. ‘Manfred, you really need to talk to a medical professional, a psychologist,’ I said. ‘But you are a mother too. You will know the problems families have. You will understand. I was serious before when I said I think you can help.’ ‘Is this only to do with your family? Your late wife? Your son?’ I asked gently. I’d crossed the line, asked the question that had been in my mind since I first saw him in his business suit on the bridge. Why would he be dressed like that on a Sunday? ‘There is a reason we met today, Alice. I realise that now. There is a reason fate chose you to save me on that bridge. We have a connection. I know you feel it.’ I forced my gaze forward for fear of giving a false message with my eyes. ‘I know you’d like to help,’ he said after a moment. ‘I can’t help you, Manfred. I’m not a doctor or a nurse or a person remotely qualified to help you in your situation,’ I lied. ‘I can barely help my own kids when their team loses a game of football.’ As the road curved down towards the valley, I shifted in my seat when I realised our journey would take us over the Tobel Bridge. At the next junction, I took the left fork without saying anything to Manfred, retracing our bus journey back through the other village, a minor detour from the main road to Zug. To avoid the place Manfred had stood and contemplated his demise only hours before. Despite seldom finding myself behind the wheel of our car, I felt I never wanted to set eyes on the Tobel Bridge again. ‘Manfred, you need to talk to someone in your own language. There will be people at the hospital who can help you deal with the conflict going on in your mind and your heart. I cannot help you. I cannot.’ ‘You told me you’d thought about taking your life too, once. Do you think you would still do that if your husband and sons didn’t want you to be a part of their lives any more?’ ‘No, of course not!’ I said spontaneously, thinking what the hell kind of question is that? ‘I’m not the same person I was when I was a teenager.’ ‘But you don’t know until you’ve been there,’ said Manfred, looking away from me to the passing suburbs of Zug. Why did I suddenly feel he had turned the tables, was interrogating me somehow? Testing me. Making me say things I couldn’t qualify. My agitation increased as I realised he must be playing mind games with himself after a decision he couldn’t unmake. What would the scenario have been if I had arrived ten minutes later? I put my hand to my mouth. Manfred put his hand on my arm, and my heart thumped. ‘It’s okay, Alice. It’s okay,’ he said, as though I was the one he had just rescued. The clicking indicator echoed in the car as I turned towards the hospital. I shook my head, to try to shift the image of a body dressed in Hugo Boss, sprawled under the bridge, from my mind. I drove past the visitors’ car park and drew up next to an ambulance near the entrance to the emergency unit. I undid my seatbelt and was about to open the door, but Manfred hadn’t moved. ‘Please do this for me, Manfred. Please.’ I felt like I was bargaining with him to humour me. I couldn’t help thinking I no longer had any control of this situation. He sighed, unclicked his seatbelt, opened the door and stood beside the car waiting for me as I took the key and grabbed my wallet from the console. At the reception, the glass window framing the front desk displayed a disorganised array of notes. Post-its and mini-posters rendered the administrators almost invisible to visitors, furtively encouraging patients to take their emergencies elsewhere. There was a row of plastic tube chairs lined up against the wall. The waiting area was empty. ‘I don’t need to be here, Alice,’ he said. ‘We’re wasting these hard-working nurses’ time.’ I rolled my eyes, something I did at least once every day with my kids. ‘Did you forget where we’ve just come from?’ I whispered. His eyes widened, glistening behind his lenses, and his brows furled into an expression of hurt. I took his elbow as an apology and led him to one of the chairs, where he sat down and crossed an ankle over his knee. The receptionist gave me the silent answer of a horseshoe smile when I asked if she spoke English. I sighed. I had no idea what the word for suicide was in German. I had visions of a macabre series of charades. I tried my halting German. The nurse looked blankly at me until I mentioned the T?belbr?cke. At that point she meerkatted to attention with a sharp intake of breath. She knew the bridge. It was notorious. ‘This man needs a psychiatrist, a psychologist, someone to talk to.’ The nurse explained that psychiatric help wouldn’t be available on a Sunday, but she was now aware that Manfred genuinely needed care. As he wasn’t willing to cooperate, she asked me to fill in some details on a form. She slapped a pen down on top of a clipboard, and slid it across the counter. I reluctantly pulled the board towards me. The pen in my hand hovered over the form, my mind in a jumble, trying to comprehend the German words. ‘What’s your name, Manfred? Your surname?’ I asked. ‘Sir…?’ Manfred immediately swapped his belligerence for confusion. ‘Your surname, your family name,’ I repeated. ‘Guggenbuhl,’ he said sullenly. How the hell do I spell that? ‘I’m sorry,’ I explained to the nurse. ‘It’s difficult for me to do this, as it’s not my mother tongue… I don’t even know this man. Can you help him?’ She sighed, but to my relief took the clipboard away. She asked for my personal details in the event of a police follow-up. She looked at my details on the paper I pushed across the counter. ‘If you have a mobile number, can we have that too?’ I nodded, scribbled down the number, and I was suddenly free to go. The last of my charity had long since expired. I wanted to go home. Manfred stood up as I made to leave, but I seated him emphatically with a downward motion of my hand, the mistress trying to regain control of her dog. ‘You’re in better hands now,’ I said sympathetically. Manfred stared at my hands. ‘I think you do know me. You are the key. My Retterin. My saviour. You can help me,’ he said quietly. ‘Someone here can help you much more than I can, Manfred.’ He held out his palm, and I suddenly felt bad about leaving him. I hesitated and shook his hand. Since our hug in the porch outside our building, I wasn’t sure I should touch him again, not trusting either of our reactions. The seal of a handshake put official finality on the departure. But as I was about to pull away, Manfred brought his other hand to the outside of mine. ‘You will understand, Alice.’ As he smiled at me with what I assumed was gratitude, a flush tingled at my throat. The yawn of space that opened between us as I turned to go was both cleansing and disturbing. Manfred smiled resignedly at me from his chair as I backed out of the sliding doors of the emergency room. I walked back to the car, wondering what Simon would think about my experience, but more than anything anticipating a cup of tea and a hot shower. Scalding water pounded the back of my neck and shoulders. The crusted salt of dried sweat dissolved into the shower basin. I hung my head and let my arms flop, enjoying the release of tension, inhaling the whorls of steam rising up around me. I wondered again what had driven Manfred to the point where he was ready to jump. I’d felt down at times. Dealing with the isolation of being an only child, that stupid mistake as a teenager when my attempted suicide was considered an attention-seeking exercise, a bout of postnatal blues, or the loneliness I’d felt when Simon started travelling, and the kids were still so young, and I had no one to talk to for weeks on end. But even under the worst of circumstances, such as those Manfred had hypothesised about, I couldn’t do it. Because of the shame, the selfishness. All those hurt and confused souls wondering if it was their fault. The mess I had tried to convey to Manfred he would leave behind. I couldn’t burden anybody with that. And jumping off that godforsaken bridge? It would be the worst possible scenario for me, with my inherent fear of heights. It was either the ultimate thrill or the ultimate nightmare. And neither was plausible in my world. I closed my eyes, knowing I was wasting water, but unable to move from the ecstasy of cleansing. I smiled as I thought of Simon, who would soon be home from his ride. From the start we’d been the perfect fit, the perfect couple. Although we stood by our individual opinions, we both ultimately wished for the same things for the family, and were fulfilled by what life had to offer us. My forced independence in our foreign world had made our love stronger. Simon would be preparing for another round of business trips over the next few months as his new project developed, but I felt balanced and content in my foreign space now. Although I thought I could relate to Manfred’s despair, I couldn’t think of anything that would drive Simon and me apart, and I couldn’t imagine what had happened within Manfred’s family to lead him to that bridge. Chapter Six (#ulink_2e6f7799-e152-52dc-9a12-f7e80d777915) I was still drying my hair as they came piling through the door, and the boisterous presence of cherished humanity made me smile. My family was home. I could sense their body heat spreading to various rooms; smells, noises and movements as familiar as my own. I headed downstairs and wandered into the kitchen where Oliver was making himself a jam sandwich. ‘Hey, sorry, guys, I know I haven’t been here all day, but I’ve had quite an experience,’ I said, kissing the top of Oliver’s head. ‘This better be good,’ Simon said, not unkindly, as he came through from the sitting room still in his bike gear. He reached into the fridge for a beer. ‘Saracens are beating Sale. I missed the first half, and they’re just about to restart.’ Simon’s Sunday afternoons watching cable, his reward for the morning’s workout, were only satisfying if a rugby match was airing. ‘I stopped a man jumping off the Tobel Bridge this morning,’ I said. ‘He was about to commit suicide.’ Oliver gaped at me with his eyebrows raised, and a dollop of strawberry jam dropped onto the kitchen counter. ‘Wow, that’s a pretty impressive excuse,’ said Simon. ‘Where’s the guy now? Floating down the Lorze?’ Behind Simon, Oliver giggled. ‘Come on, I’m serious. This isn’t a joke,’ I said. ‘It was scary. I kind of took him under my wing. Eventually took him to the hospital.’ I was about to say more, indignation fading at the lightness of Simon’s comment. I could see in his eyes that he didn’t want to discuss suicide in front of the children, but his words only emphasised how confused I felt at that moment. Had I done all I could to help? Simon placed his beer bottle on the kitchen counter and put his arms around me. ‘Are you okay, Al? I guess that messed up your Sunday,’ he said quietly. I nodded silently and leaned my head against his shoulder as he rubbed my back. I closed my eyes and breathed in his familiar musky smell. ‘I’ll put the kettle on, a nice cuppa will do it,’ said Simon, sounding vaguely like my late mother. ‘We wondered where you’d gone with the car,’ he continued, taking a mug out of the cupboard and snapping open the caddy for a teabag. And then, as an afterthought: ‘If you were at the Tobel Bridge, how come you came all the way back here to drive him to the hospital? How come you didn’t just get on a bus down to town?’ Of course, this is what I should have done – I realised that now. My initial joy at regrouping with the family had turned from annoyance that Simon had no idea of the situation I’d found myself in, to a pang of guilt for the anguish I might cause him if he knew how much Manfred had latched on to me. I glanced at Oliver. It certainly wasn’t a conversation to be had in front of the boys. ‘I don’t know really. All I could think about was keeping warm, getting some dry clothes, but not leaving the poor sod alone,’ I said, watching Simon pour boiling water into my mug. ‘I made him wait outside in the porch.’ ‘The usual good Samaritan,’ chirped Leon as he joined us in the kitchen, the main reason I’d been on the bridge already forgotten. ‘We had to walk back from the Freys, Mum. You had the car,’ he continued with a pubescent whine. ‘Which doesn’t happen often, young man. It wouldn’t hurt you to walk home more – it’s hardly a Himalayan expedition,’ I replied in mock anger, ruffling his hair and lightly squeezing his shoulder. We had reverted to the usual family banter. Simon would undoubtedly ask me later to elaborate, but for now I needed a little time to work out why I didn’t feel good about the afternoon’s outcome. After dinner, I stood at the sink absently washing a pan. The kitchen at the rear of the house offered a view across the garden to the barn and a track to the farm on the right. I could see the car parked in the garage, engine ticking away after its day of labour. I remembered I’d left my mobile phone sitting on the dashboard. Someone coming along the hallway broke into my thoughts. Seconds later, Oliver came in, cupping a handful of pencil shavings for the bin. I slid the cupboard under the sink open with my foot, my hands immersed in suds. Oliver attempted to deposit his stash, most of it fluttering to the floor. His fingers were dangerously smudged with pencil graphite. I pointed to his hands ‘Wash, please!’ Oliver dipped his hands into the sink, and before I could protest ‘Not here’ he asked, ‘Mum, why would someone want to kill themselves? What happened to that man that he wanted to die? Do you think he lost a pet or something?’ I smiled. My youngest child was growing up, but I still clung with maternal pleasure to his naivety. Oliver had always been my little saviour. The family all knew how important my running was to me. I wasn’t winning county competitions any more, but it was a part of my life not even motherhood could diminish. They could forgive a few dust balls under the furniture for the peace of mind my sport brought me. It’s my drug, I used to say. I need my fix. Physically, it certainly was a fix, the feelgood effect of endorphins kicking in as I arrived home sweaty and pleasantly spent. After heated and fruitless discussions about homework, school problems, weekend activities or helping around the house, Oliver would occasionally bring my running shoes wordlessly to the kitchen, breaking the tension. The supplier bringing my elixir in a syringe. At eleven years old, Oliver was too young to have experienced heartbreak, or the hormone imbalances that could lead to dark despondency. And a depression that made someone question the worth of their own life? Hard to explain to a child that it was probably all to do with chemicals. Despite the textbooks, I had a hard time understanding it myself. ‘People who want to kill themselves have a sickness in their heads, in their minds,’ I said, drying a pan and clattering it into a cupboard. ‘It’s like a terrible sadness, and often there’s no explanation, which makes the sadness harder to understand.’ Oliver cocked his head to one side, thinking. As he was about to ask another question, the phone rang. He left the kitchen distractedly, returning to his room. I answered the phone. A friend of Leon’s needed to check up on a homework assignment due at school after the weekend. Exasperating teenagers! It’s a bit late to be rushing through it now. ‘Leon!’ I shouted up the stairs, flipping the tea towel over my shoulder. ‘Ben’s on the phone!’ ‘I’ll take it up here!’ he shouted faintly. I waited until I heard their voices connect in Swiss German on the bedroom extension before placing the kitchen phone back in its cradle. I hoped at least he had remembered the assignment. I suddenly felt very tired. I gathered a bag of rubbish to take out to the communal bins and fetched my mobile phone from the dash of the car. I closed the garage door and walked slowly back to the house, continuing up the stairs of our duplex to start my evening ritual. Simon was at the computer in the office, fine-tuning some last-minute details of the presentation he was to give in London the following week. I could see my eldest son hunched over his messy desk, scratching his head with confused irritation. This gave away the fact that he had indeed forgotten the assignment. ‘Just as well Ben called,’ I said, leaning against his doorway. ‘And turn on your desk light or you’ll go blind, my love.’ As Leon mouthed the oft-spoken words in synch with me, I glanced around at the teenage chaos in the room. The usual end-of-weekend clear-up hadn’t yet taken place. In the morning when the two boys deigned to get out of their pyjamas, every available article of clothing was hauled from their cupboards with dissatisfaction, the chosen uniform generally the one at the bottom of the pile. The scene resembled a jumble sale recently hit by a tornado. The phone rang again. I pointed silently but meaningfully at the disarray of clothes and backed out of Leon’s room. ‘No peace for the wicked.’ I sighed loudly as I headed towards our bedroom, leaving Leon twirling a pencil between his fingers and swivelling in his chair. ‘It’s probably Ben again, Mum. Can you tell him I’ll call back in a few minutes? I just need to get my ideas down on paper.’ ‘Ideas?’ I called back over my shoulder. ‘I thought this thing was supposed to be finished by tomorrow.’ I reached for the phone. ‘Hallo, Reed,’ I announced, the upward intonation at the end of my surname really implying: Speak now, Ben. I’m tired and it’s late to be calling. Silence. A static crackle. Silence. ‘Hello?’ I asked, with a more polite and distinctly English accent. Sounded somehow long-distance. Perhaps it was my aunt who lived in the States. ‘Hellooo,’ I said persistently. Still nothing. I had no time for this. I put the phone down. My contentedness at being home now transitioned to an aching head and dragging need to sleep. I went to the office and stood behind Simon, then put my arms over his shoulders and around his chest, smelling the musty bike-helmet aroma of his hair. ‘Phew. Haven’t you showered yet? Honey, I’m so pooped. I could never have imagined today’s events would take so much out of me,’ I said. ‘Are you okay?’ Simon asked kindly. ‘Why don’t you just go straight to bed? I’ll see to the boys. Tell me all about it tomorrow, okay?’ I gratefully mumbled my thanks, having known he would suggest it, and went to brush my teeth. Exhausted, I lay down in bed, closed my eyes and begged for the escape of sleep. It wouldn’t come easily. When I heard Simon come in, shed his clothes and go through the usual nightly routine, my throat closed with the heat of gratefulness for this simple familiarity. As he shuffled under the covers, he laid his hand on my head and gently kissed my shoulder. ‘I love you, Al,’ he whispered. And the lump in my throat finally gave way to tears. I let out great sobs, simultaneously attempting to suppress them to avoid being heard by the boys. As I turned onto my side, Simon gathered me to him, shushing me like a baby, pressing into my back in our usual spooning position. ‘Crikey, Al. Hey. It’s okay. It’s okay now. It’s the shock. That’s it, get it all out. My poor baby.’ He crooned these soothing words as I cried, until my tears were spent, and my breath returned raggedly to normality. My eyelids were hot and gritty. And as sleep finally grabbed me, I reflected on the irrationality of the emotions I was now experiencing. I couldn’t stop wondering where Manfred was now. Who was looking after him? My tears were for him, for his despair, and for the relieved gratitude I felt at having been able to stop him from jumping. Chapter Seven (#ulink_b3542388-6751-54fc-a2c3-34c0d6d49459) ‘The irony is, when Kathy and I have run there before, we’ve often wondered about finding a body under the bridge.’ It was early the following day, and I hadn’t slept well. I’d had a recurring dream about a body falling from the Tobel Bridge. The first time it bounced like a ragdoll on the ground, and I woke with a start. The second time the body stretched into a marvellous swan dive and swept up through the forest like Superman, disappearing over the ridge of the canyon. The third time the falling image repeated itself over and over, never quite reaching the ground. After that I dared not go back to sleep. Simon and I dodged each other through our breakfast routine like some ritual dance. He kissed my head and patted my backside as I paused to take the milk out of the fridge. A memory of how we couldn’t keep our hands off each other at the beginning of our relationship sprang to mind, and I trailed my hand across his shoulder as he passed. His butter knife clattered into the sink, and the coffee machine whirred, clicked and trickled his morning pick-me-up into a minuscule cup. The kitchen filled with the delicious aroma of a rich Arabica blend, and my thoughts returned to the bridge. ‘Kathy read about a woman who took her life last year in the local paper, and we were so glad it hadn’t been us that found her. We’d run there a few days before. The paper said Tobel Bridge is a suicide hotspot,’ I said. ‘That would explain the flowers and candles I sometimes see clustered on the pavement there on my drive to work,’ said Simon. ‘Don’t you think that’s kind of weird? I think the relatives or loved ones should leave those trophies where the body lands, not up on the bridge. Surely the soul departs down below, at impact.’ I shuddered to think of witnessing a jump. To think of Manfred jumping. ‘They need a wider audience to see their pain, Al. Better a string of commuters on their way to and from work than the occasional runner and mountain biker.’ ‘You have to wonder what goes through someone’s mind when they jump, between takeoff and the final lights-out. I wonder if anyone has ever regretted their decision in the moment it takes to fall?’ ‘Some people make stupid decisions every day,’ said Simon, and I swallowed. ‘But that one would be pretty final. No going back.’ He crunched into his toast. I shook my head, attempting to eliminate the thought of a jumper realising with horror they had made a terrible mistake in that split second before hitting the earth. I imagined them wanting desperately to turn back the clock, hoping an invisible force would lift them back onto the bridge, plant their feet securely on the tarmac. That could have been Manfred. ‘There would be no chance of survival at that height,’ I said absently, sipping my tea. Simon licked a buttery finger and pushed his chair away from the table. ‘Al, I’m not sure what you were thinking, but can you tell me again why you came home first? I feel like we have another case of a rescued mongrel here, not just a clinical experiment for a psychology assignment. You and your hare-brained SOS help routines. Florence Nightingale or Mother Teresa, I’m not sure which.’ I had relished his jovial mood this morning, and wanted to treasure the light feeling between us for a little longer. But as he said this, my stomach heaved. I hoped I hadn’t made a huge mistake. I put my hand on his arm. ‘I thought you might be home. This was beyond anything I’ve ever experienced at college or work. I thought a male influence would help. We would have had to wait over an hour for the next bus down to Zug. I was so cold by then, I knew I had to change my clothes.’ Simon nodded nonchalantly, accepting my logic. ‘Well, I’m very proud of you, Al, for saving that guy’s life. He should be grateful. It’s a terrible thing, suicide. But it’s good there are professionals taking care of him now. I know you’re concerned, but there’s only so much you can do for someone with such an unstable disposition.’ He gave me a concerned smile. Once the kids and Simon had been packed off to school and work respectively, I thumbed through the local phone directory for the number of the police station where we’d stopped the day before. ‘Zuger Polizei. Reto Schmid.’ The brevity and gruffness of the voice when he picked up on the second ring threw my confidence. I’d written down a few words in case I couldn’t get the message across. ‘Sprechen Sie Englisch?’ I asked hopefully. ‘Ein bisschen, but you can always practise your German, Fraulein,’ he replied in German. My heart sank. His tone, immediately patronising, was weighted with a message now familiar to my ears. These bloody foreigners should learn to speak our language if they want to live in our community. ‘My name is Alice Reed. I wanted to inform you of a suicide attempt yesterday.’ ‘Ein… was?’ ‘A suicide attempt. Selbstmord Versuch. Yesterday. On the Tobel Bridge.’ ‘Are you sure? Did you, how do you say, intervene?’ ‘Yes, I intervened. I took the man to the hospital in Zug. His name is Manfred Guggenbuhl. I just wanted to make sure someone knew, officially. I wanted… I wondered if you had heard anything about this man. If he’s okay…’ ‘Someone knows at the hospital if you went there,’ he said pointedly. ‘If they make a report, usually they send this to my colleagues in Zug. I was not informed.’ ‘Well, I’m informing you now,’ I said crossly, and heard a sniff on the other end of the line. ‘I mean, I thought you might want to be vigilant, in case he tries again.’ ‘Vigilant?’ ‘Aufmerksam,’ I explained. ‘I know what the word vigilant means, Frau… Reed, gell? But are you suggesting the Zuger Polizei is not… vigilant?’ ‘No… I… You misunderstand. I’m sorry. I just hope… Herr Guggenbuhl is okay.’ Chapter Eight (#ulink_5540e236-44b4-5949-991c-00bd13488ec6) Kathy and I met the next day for our regular Tuesday run. A balmy breeze blew across the lake, a gentle F?hn from the south, threatening to strengthen as the day wore on. We ran slowly up the hill behind the house where the village road narrowed to a winding lane. I took a deep breath and my spirits lifted as I adjusted to Kathy’s rhythm and pace. I could hear her struggling beside me on the steep sections, so I slowed down a little. The road levelled out, following the contour of the valley and, as the trees thinned, we were afforded a magnificent view of the Aegeri Valley with the lake as its centrepiece. Towards the southeast lay the snow-capped Glarner Alps and to the west, through a gap in the hills, the magnificent Rigi rose like a giant anvil through a mauve haze. We decided to continue to the Raten Pass on the easier forest trails skirting the valley. A few clouds scudded across a blue sky, casting the occasional shadow on the newly sprouting grass in the surrounding meadows. As we ran, we chatted about her son, Tommy, and my boys, and the improvement in the weather for running. ‘You’ll never guess what happened when I was running the Lorze route on Sunday. I saw a guy up on the Tobel Bridge about to jump off. I managed to stop him.’ ‘Holy cow, Al, that’s pretty serious! How did you know he was going to jump? Must have been scary. Ironic that we’d only been talking about it last autumn. Remember that woman who chucked her dogs off first, then topped herself? We invented that new word, canicide. But this is no laughing matter. Jesus, what did you do?’ Kathy’s curiosity had slowed us to little more than an exaggerated walk. ‘I ran up that hellishly steep path next to the viaduct and managed to talk him out of the deed on the edge of the bridge. It was pretty weird to think that, if I’d been ten minutes later, I might have found him somewhere at the base of the bridge, maybe even floating in the river,’ I said. ‘Shit, Alice, I can’t imagine. Did you call the police right away?’ ‘I didn’t have my mobile phone with me. We went to the bus. I… We eventually went to the hospital and I left him there. They said someone would take care of him. I called the police yesterday, but it made me so mad they weren’t very helpful. I wanted them to contact him, make sure he was okay, but they didn’t seem to care.’ ‘Wow, Al. Hope the guy’s okay now. You probably saved his life. Good girl!’ I wasn’t feeling convinced about being a good girl. ‘I really hope they took care of him at the hospital, poor sod. Attempted suicide shouldn’t be treated lightly, but I felt like no one was taking me seriously. Of course, he didn’t seem to want help, was probably more humiliated by his failure than anything.’ As we approached a thicket of trees next to a picnic spot near the pass, our mood was lightened by the haunting sound of a trio of alphorns. We stopped in our tracks at the beauty of the music. ‘Can you believe it? I tell you, we’re living in a fairy tale,’ said Kath. ‘It’s not the first time I’ve felt so blessed to live in this country where we don’t have to worry about locking our doors, we can run free in the mountains, and then get the occasional Heidi moment like this.’ I put my hand to my side and dug in my fingers to relieve a stitch that was threatening, before taking a moment to enjoy the evocative music, with the snowy Glarner Alps as the magnificent backdrop. Three old men, dressed in traditional black wool jackets intricately embroidered with edelweiss, had carried their bulky instruments up the hill to this idyllic setting. The melancholic music drifted across the fields. As the music came to an end, a long, hollow, three-pitch harmony fading to silence, I smiled and raised my hands to my mouth in a silent gesture of appreciation. Tears pricked at my eyes, and my throat wobbled with emotion. Kathy broke into a round of applause and one of the men beckoned her over to try the alphorn. After much honking and huffing, we were reduced to girlish giggles, and the musicians shared our amusement. As they began packing their instruments away in their cases, Kathy said, ‘Race you home,’ though she knew I could beat her on any day. We started off at a jog. ‘Speaking of races, when are we going to get you to run this elusive marathon then?’ I asked. Kathy snorted. ‘I’m serious,’ I continued. ‘I know you said you didn’t think you’d ever be able to set the distances in training, but I honestly think you can finish a marathon. It would be so much fun to train together.’ ‘Well, I was considering running Z?rich next April,’ she stated, as though it was something she had never stopped thinking about. ‘Brilliant!’ I said. ‘But, Al, a marathon! You have four under your belt. It will be my first. I’ll be holding you back. You’ve had so much more experience than me. Jeez, you were county champion. How can I compete with that?’ ‘It’s not a competition, Kathy. Well, only on a personal level. I’m keen to see if I can get anywhere near my previous personal best time. My PB. And I’m not thinking of April next year. I’m thinking about something closer. Perhaps one of the autumn races.’ She looked at me incredulously. ‘This year? Oh, Al, I don’t know,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I’ll talk to Matt about it and let you know.’ ‘Come on. If you commit, you must sign up straight away. It’ll give you the incentive to train if you know you have a place waiting for you. I’m going to sign up on Monday. You know Matt would be only too pleased for you to set yourself a big goal.’ ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘You’re serious. Bossy, but serious.’ Earnest dedication to a training programme was needed for such an event, but a little voice told me to persuade her to make the commitment. Our breath now came easier as we loped downhill side by side. ‘If we start a sixteen-week training programme before the school holidays, it’ll be perfect timing for the October race. We can build a pyramid schedule, training up to a run around the Zug Lake six weeks before the race. That’s about thirty-six kilometres. Perfect for the longest run. We can do a weekly speed session at the Zug Stadium track. It’ll be great to keep each other motivated.’ She sighed. She knew I wasn’t going to let it go. We were approaching the turnoff to our home. ‘Okay, look, I’ll try. I’ll sign up too, and hope I can keep up with you. I’m not going to come in for tea this time, Al. I have a lunch with the library committee at the international school, so have to get spruced up for them.’ My phone buzzed as Kathy unlocked her car. We hugged and I pulled it out of my belt as I walked towards the door. Simon must have forgotten something. I looked at the screen, a number I didn’t recognise. Must be a wrong number. I clicked open the message. Thank you. I waved absently as Kathy drove off, with promises to stick to all our run dates as we prepared for our marathon. Thank you. I was confused, couldn’t think who would want to thank me. And in English. Could this be Manfred? It made sense if it was. But my automatic relief that he was okay was short-lived as my heart skipped a beat. How the hell did he get my mobile phone number? Chapter Nine (#ulink_7c1a5ba5-4b68-5684-8844-cecfda7c1303) MAY Leon’s class at school had organised a public presentation about European cultures, and his teacher had asked whether some of the mothers from the Chat Club could help with an English-language exhibit. I was thrilled to be asked, for this was a tiny step closer to being accepted as part of the community. I was helping Leon’s teacher move a folding table in the foyer of the sports hall when the bell rang for the end of school. Children spilled out of the schoolhouse like marbles from a jar. Some of them dribbled into the exhibition and were joined by their parents later. Leon and a friend of his were in charge of one of the exhibits on the other side of the hall. He hadn’t wanted to participate in the English project and had instead chosen an exhibit on Serbian culture with some friends. ‘It’s nothing to do with you specifically, Mum, but it’s kind of embarrassing to be standing with your own mother at an exhibit all afternoon,’ he said when we initially talked about the project. I felt out of place, though. Parents stopped to talk easily to my best Chat Club ‘student’, Esther, and the other woman at our stand, but no one was prepared to speak to me in either English or German. I was still the foreigner here. When I caught Leon’s eye across the hall, he looked away guiltily. He must have known it would have been easier for me if he were by my side. He wasn’t aware I simply wanted to hold on to that mother–child connection before he grew into an adult. As we cleared trestle tables and poster boards away at the end of the day, Leon’s teacher caught up with me, and we crossed the courtyard together. ‘Frau Reed, I didn’t want to talk to you before because we were so busy with the exhibition, but I need to speak to you about Leon.’ My heart sank. Her tone didn’t sound positive. ‘I want to thank you so much for helping with this exhibition. Your input was invaluable.’ She hesitated. I knew immediately she had some bad news for me. The one-minute manager. Praise before the bad news. ‘I don’t know if you are aware, but Leon seems to have lost his way this year at school. His grades are way below the level for his transfer to Gymnasium and he does not seem happy to be at school. He and another boy are being very disruptive in class, and I am afraid they may have been picking on some of the younger students in the primary school during break. I wanted to wait until the end of the school year to see if things improved, but an incident this week means I have to speak to you. This is something the school cannot tolerate, and the school counsellor has asked me on more than one occasion whether we need to address the issue with you, the parents.’ ‘Wow, I knew he was behind on some assignments, but… no, I wasn’t aware. I’m stunned.’ I knew I was distracted at the moment, with the Manfred incident and the decision to run a marathon later in the year. But I didn’t think there were signs I had ignored. Or worse, could I be the cause? This was surely every mother’s fear. Taking a deep breath, I thanked the teacher for making me aware of the situation, and promised to address the issue. Simon and I lay in bed reading, the silence a comfortable familiarity. I finished a chapter before closing the book and placing it on my stomach. ‘Leon’s teacher talked to me at school today. He’s having a few problems with his work and… his social behaviour. I’m finding it very difficult to talk to him at the moment.’ Simon lowered his book and looked at me. ‘Oh, really? What’s up? It sounds like he’s doing great when he talks to me. Is he getting poor grades?’ ‘His grades are pretty bad. He doesn’t get his assignments in on time and he’s doing the absolute bare minimum at the moment. Plus his teacher says he’s been teasing some of the younger kids in the playground. She talked about getting the school counsellor in, to address bullying.’ I waited while Simon absorbed this. ‘That’s not so good, Al. I’ll have a talk to him at the weekend. I’m sure it’s something we can straighten out. Are you okay? I wouldn’t worry. He just needs a bit of nudging in the right direction.’ ‘I’m fine. It’s just a little weird, coming on the back of the suicide thing. I feel like a load of negatives are building up. I didn’t get a very good feeling at the exhibition at school. It’s still so hard to feel accepted by the community.’ ‘Then it’s good you’ve decided to run this marathon. It’ll be great for you to concentrate on a goal for yourself. And Kathy will be supporting you.’ I thought of Kathy and her lifestyle. Endless shopping and lunches with the executive wives. Running was really the only thing we had in common. ‘I’ve got to get some sleep,’ he said, pecking me on my cheek. He rolled over onto his side and turned out his bedside light. It seemed I had been asleep but a moment when the telephone rang persistently on the bedside table. Normally a light sleeper, I dragged myself out of the somnolent depths before reaching across to the phone. The light blinking dully from the number display was enough to allow me to locate the handset in the darkness. ‘Hallo,’ I mumbled sleepily. A static crackle. I was about to return the handset to its cradle when I heard a slow intake of breath. I pushed the phone tightly to the shell of my ear, thinking I had missed something, and heard a subsequent exhalation. ‘Hello, who is this?’ I asked, senses now alert. ‘Mmm?’ groaned Simon beside me, ever the comatose sleeper. ‘Ssshh.’ I pressed the receiver harder against my head, until all I could hear was my own ragged breath roaring from the mouthpiece to my ear. I cleared my throat, and heard a click and the drone of the dial tone. ‘Wrong number,’ mumbled Simon and sank back into slumber. I squinted at the caller-identity screen on the handset. It showed ‘withheld’ which didn’t give me any clues. It could be a mobile phone. Annoyed I had been fully awakened, I shuffled to the bathroom for a pee. The fluorescent light over the bathroom mirror blinded me. I gathered my nightie and sat on the toilet with my eyes half-closed, cursing the boys’ inconsiderateness as my thighs hit porcelain so cold it felt wet. I reversed my crouch, put the seat down, sank back down and crossed my arms on my thighs, absently studying the ceramic tiles of the bathroom floor. Chapter Ten (#ulink_a82b8127-8eaf-5bba-a6ea-795536a4f026) I scrolled back through my messages until I reached the one I assumed was from Manfred. I didn’t have to go far as I rarely used my mobile phone. I opened the message and hovered over the choices available to me. I was about to begin keying a reply when I chose the CALL option. ‘Alice!’ He picked up on the first ring, and his voice made my earlobes tingle. ‘Hi, Manfred, I just wanted to check in with you. Make sure you’re doing okay. I’ve been thinking about you since Sunday…’ I paused, hoping my statement didn’t sound odd. ‘What a coincidence! I wanted to contact you. I have to come to Aegeri at the end of the week. For some business. Will you meet me for coffee?’ ‘Umm…’ I bit my lip. This was a far cry from the guy I’d found on the bridge three days before. ‘It’s okay. I wanted to thank you again. Maybe text messages don’t come across in the right way. Please. One coffee.’ ‘Okay,’ I said slowly. ‘How about ten o’clock on Friday at the Lido Caf?? It’s near the bus st—’ ‘I know where that caf? is. Perfect. We’ll see each other then.’ As I pushed the END CALL button, I felt relieved. He sounded confident. Lively. Not like someone who would return to thoughts of taking his life. As I pulled into a parking space in front of the caf?, Manfred strode towards me. He was wearing a charcoal-grey suit with a white shirt and smart maroon tie, and carried a leather attach? case under his arm. He was prepared for whatever his ‘business’ was in our quiet little alpine village, and he looked rather striking. I felt a little sloppy in my fleece jacket over a T-shirt and a pair of patched jeans, and lifted my hand to my head to smooth my hair as I felt the heat rise to my throat. I stepped out of the car and put out my palm for a handshake. He bypassed my hand and held my elbow, kissing me boldly three times on the cheeks in the traditional Swiss greeting between friends. I blushed as he walked up the steps to the caf? and held the door open for me. I smiled my thanks and walked in. The waitress recognised me and awarded me a curt nod. She glanced past me and beamed at Manfred, her eyes flicking over him in appreciation, and gave him a jovial ‘Gr?ezi!’ We took a table close to the window with a view towards the lake. I ordered a tea and Manfred an espresso. ‘She doesn’t seem so friendly with you,’ Manfred whispered as the waitress walked away. ‘No, I’m not her favourite person. She’s the manageress here, and the mother of twins in Leon’s class at school. They’ve been together all the way through primary school and she still holds a grudge for the things I did wrong when we first moved here. I walked the boys to school for months at first. I didn’t realise it’s taboo here. Part of the kids’ education is learning independence. You’d never let kids so young make their own way to school in England. It’s just not safe. Anyway, she reported me to the school director, and there were words. It’s amazing how someone can keep hold of a bad feeling for so long, especially one arising from something so insignificant. I think it’s more to do with the fact that I’m a foreigner. Anyway, it’s the only decent caf? in the village with a good view, so I tolerate her grumpiness.’ The waitress returned with our order on a tray, and placed the cups on the table. Manfred said something to her in Swiss German. At first charmed by his attention, I caught the words ‘Engel’ and ‘Menschenliebe’ and her smile faltered as she glanced at me. I cringed inside to think Manfred was explaining my good turn the previous Sunday. I was sure this woman’s imagination wouldn’t stretch to thinking of me as an ‘angel’ capable of ‘human kindness’. I concentrated on the cup in front of me, pressing as much flavour as possible out of the weak Swiss teabag. ‘You didn’t need to do that,’ I said as she walked away. ‘You’re probably only making things worse for me.’ ‘People need to know about your goodness, Alice.’ I glanced at him, and he smiled. I wasn’t sure whether he was joking, but I felt strangely flattered. ‘What kind of business are you doing in the village?’ I changed the subject, genuinely curious about his sudden return to confidence after wanting to take his life only days ago. ‘I have a document I needed to sign. The lawyer needed to witness it. I… he lives in a house up the hill. It’s done. I have everything I need. Everything is perfect.’ ‘That’s good. I’m glad you’re so positive.’ ‘You’ve made me realise how stupid my action was. I have rediscovered a purpose in life. That’s why I wanted to thank you today.’ Manfred had already finished his espresso, but my tea was still too hot to drink. He gazed out of the window over my shoulder. ‘I didn’t want to hurt anyone,’ he said, and I recalled my statement on the bridge about leaving a mess. ‘I wouldn’t have hurt them. My w… wise sister. My boy.’ I frowned. ‘They would have missed you.’ ‘You don’t understand. You don’t know why I was there. Last Sunday.’ Having been so curious for the past few days, I wasn’t sure now whether I wanted to know. ‘There was a knife,’ Manfred continued, and I swallowed. ‘For cutting bread. Sharp. Victorinox, good quality. Swiss.’ He paused, and I didn’t know what to say. ‘I never intended to hurt them. Would never have hurt them. But my son, that morning he was driving me crazy.’ I chewed my lip, but forced myself to maintain eye contact. ‘So you see, there was already a mess in my life. I was leaving one behind, and the bridge was to solve that mess. But now I’ve met you, and you have made me see clearly. That’s why I’m thanking you.’ My heart thumped. Manfred’s arm lay next to his cup on the table, and I had the feeling he was going to reach for my hand. To keep both mine occupied, and wishing my tea would cool faster, I took a croissant from the wire breakfast basket on the table and tore off one end. The waitress would shortly clear the tables and prepare them for the lunch crowd. The bread helped ease the burning on my tongue but prevented conversation as buttery flakes filled my mouth. I sprinkled the crumbs from my fingers onto a serviette in front of me, filling the silence with meaningless distracting activity. Manfred watched my every move. ‘Manfred, can I ask you where you got my mobile number?’ I asked when I could finally speak again. His face scrunched into an expression Leon might have used if I’d asked him the same question, as though I was supposed to know the answer. I raised my eyebrows. The pause had given him a couple of extra seconds to answer. ‘At the hospital. I asked if I could have it. In case… you know, to thank you.’ I imagined him persuading the nurse to give him the number. That disarming smile. Those green eyes. Still, they shouldn’t have given it to him. It didn’t seem professional. Very un-Swiss. ‘Have you tried calling on our landline at home?’ ‘No, is that preferable?’ ‘It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re okay. Who did you end up talking to at the hospital?’ He smiled and tipped his head, as though he hadn’t understood the question. ‘I hope they had a psychologist on duty,’ I continued. ‘Will you be having some therapy sessions? It’s really important you continue to talk to somebody about what happened.’ ‘They have a good group of professionals at the cantonal hospital, yes. It’s a smart new facility. Good to see the taxpayers’ money going into something useful.’ ‘It’s not just about the fact that you tried to take your life, Manfred. There is much more healing to be done. You have to start with yourself before you deal with your… family.’ ‘It’s all about talking it out, isn’t it, Alice? This is also good therapy. Talking to you.’ I smiled at him, and glanced at my watch. ‘Oh, I’m afraid I have to go. The boys will be home from school soon and I need to prepare their lunch. I’m so glad to see you’re feeling better. It’s important to keep talking to the professionals. I’m not a very good practitioner.’ He looked at me with a quizzical smile. I reached into my bag for my purse, but he put his hand on my arm. ‘Honestly, Alice, I’m okay. This is on me.’ He spoke as though I was being an overprotective mother, and I hoped he didn’t think I was a prude. It was as though I was suffering more from his suicide attempt than him. I put on my fleece to cover my flustered state. He left a ten-franc note and a few coins to cover the bill and a tip. ‘I came by bus,’ he said as I unlocked the car outside the caf?. ‘So I’ll say goodbye here. Or I should say Uf Widerluege.’ And before I could say anything he kissed me again three times on the cheeks. Uf Widerluege. Not goodbye. But see you again. I hadn’t asked him where he was going on the bus. I wondered what had really gone on in Manfred’s house the morning before he went to the bridge. I felt so sorry for his confusion and conflict. And then I thought what Simon would say. That I was crazy to have even considered meeting with this man. Chapter Eleven (#ulink_2b570960-1b8e-5acd-99d2-03034bc4c840) ‘Mum, where are you going?’ Oliver asked. ‘We’re supposed to be driving to the sports store.’ I had taken a detour off the main road to Zug. ‘Oli, we are going to the store. Just taking a diversion today.’ I sucked in my lower lip. Avoiding the bridge was like suppressing the memory of that Sunday. I hadn’t driven the car anywhere outside the village since then. I made Oliver sit in the back. He complained at first, as he had only recently been allowed to ride up front, but relented when he found a long-lost electronic toy hidden in the depths of the rear seat pocket. He glanced out of the window briefly as we took the detour. After my laconic explanation, he went back to frantically clicking his game. In the store, Oliver chose a new pair of shinpads and begged me to buy him a football shirt to add to the many in his collection. I was too weak to argue that he had enough football shirts. He climbed into the back of the car without prompting, happily clutching his bag. As I started the engine and began backing out of the parking space, he pulled his purchases out of the bag, absently looking at each item. ‘Oh, yeah, Mum, I was supposed to tell you something earlier and I forgot. There was a man outside the school today when we came out for lunch. He said he knew you, and he wanted me to say hello from him.’ My eyes darted to the rear-view mirror, searching Oliver’s face. He didn’t seem concerned, merely recounting an observation. ‘Who was it, Oli? Did he tell you his name?’ I asked lightly. Oliver answered slowly, stretching out his new shirt to look at the logo. ‘That’s the thing. I can’t remember. I only remember he said to say hello to you.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Can you remember what he looked like?’ ‘Um, a bit older than Dad, a bit taller maybe. He had kind of greyish hair.’ He sounded bored. Our eyes made brief contact in the mirror and he began shoving the shirt back in the shopping bag. His eyes glazed over as he looked out of the window. ‘Can you remember what he was wearing? Did he have glasses?’ ‘Nah. Maybe. Don’t know. Too many questions, Mum. He just said to say hello. It’s no big deal, not like I had an important message to deliver, right?’ ‘Was his name Manfred?’ ‘Um… yeah, that was his name!’ ‘Was anyone with you?’ ‘What’s with the twenty questions? Is this a test? Actually, I was with Sara. We walk halfway home together most days. But don’t go thinking we’re an item. That’s totally not happening.’ ‘It’s okay, Oli, I was just curious.’ ‘Anyway, Sara and I always split after the basketball court, and the guy had gone by then.’ Oliver pushed the bag to one side, picked up the electronic toy and continued his clicking. I dragged my eyes back to the road from the mirror, biting my lip. How had he recognised Oliver? Had he seen us together at some stage? I wondered what Manfred was still doing in our village and guessed he had more business appointments there. I shrugged and indicated to turn up the hill towards home. Carrying the shopping from the garage to the house, my mobile beeped. I put the bags down and checked the message. Thanks for coffee the other day. He hadn’t signed it, but I knew it was Manfred. I hadn’t put his number in my contacts because I didn’t think I’d hear from him again. I answered: But you paid. He texted: Thanks for everything that went with the coffee. I assumed he meant being able to talk to me. I wasn’t sure what to reply. You’re welcome seemed too gushy. I texted simply: That’s okay. When he texted back: We must do it again, I didn’t respond. I picked up the shopping and paused to collect the post from the mailbox beside the door. In the parcel section underneath the letterbox lay a bunch of roughly picked marguerite daisies, stalks torn and bruised. Tied together with a stem of barley grass, it looked like a gift a child might leave. I often gave the farmer’s wife a bag of the boys’ outgrown clothes, and on more than one occasion had helped shoo the cattle back behind trampled fences. Their thanks often came in the form of a carton of fresh eggs from the farm. ‘Were the cows out again this week?’ I asked Oliver, knowing he and Leon were often enlisted to help put them back in the field. ‘Looks like the farmer’s kids have left us a gift.’ I took the marguerites with the post. Later that evening, as I began preparing dinner, I studied the flowers sitting in a glass of water on the bench in the kitchen and narrowed my eyes. Chapter Twelve (#ulink_ad6747b7-1dce-5dc1-9898-f1e592db300a) Climbing the stairs to our bedroom that evening, I felt drained. Generally priding myself on self-control, I wondered whether something was shifting in me because of recent events. But as I walked into the bedroom from the bathroom, Simon put down the book he had been reading, playfully pursed his lips and opened his arms to welcome me into a hug. I had been about to spill the beans about meeting Manfred and the coincidence of Oliver seeing him in the village, but filed the thought away for another time. Simon’s suitcase was open in front of the wardrobe, displaying a few half-packed items. I didn’t want to sour the mood by mentioning Manfred. Simon would be leaving in a couple of days for London and wouldn’t be back until the following Saturday. I shed my clothes, letting them pool at my feet, and crawled onto the bed, curling myself gratefully into his embrace. He kissed my hair and moved his hands to gently stroke my back and shoulders. I pressed my lips to his chest and felt his erection pressing against my thigh. I caressed him, and we began our familiar ritual of lovemaking, my passion rising as we touched each other tentatively where we knew the fires would ignite. Simon manoeuvred himself over me, sinking his hips to mine. I gasped with pleasure. He raised his face to the ceiling with eyes closed, exposing a day’s blond stubble on his throat, revelling in the first slide into that special place. My hips rose to him as we moved together. I felt the familiar pressure clenching in my lower belly as Simon’s movement became more urgent. Then a loud beep. My mobile phone. I had left it in my jacket pocket hanging on the back of the door. It caused my already thumping heart to miss a beat. My eyes flew open. Simon stopped moving and looked at me with a frown. ‘Ignore it, Al. Who the hell messages at this time of night? And since when did you become so reliant on your mobile? It can wait.’ ‘I know, it’s okay,’ I whispered. But, of course, it wasn’t okay. Of the few people I knew had my number, none of them would text at this time of night. But then again, it could be a wrong number… Simon resumed his slow lovemaking and closed his eyes again. I concentrated hard on recalling that rising sense of ecstasy, wanting to be right back in my passion. The phone beeped again. It was probably only a repetition of the same message, but I slammed my head back into the pillow. ‘Gah!’ I gasped. The passion drained from me like water through a sluice gate, replaced with a feeling of self-loathing and frustration. ‘Al. Honey, what’s the matter? What’s with the weirdness? If it’s to do with your mobile, can’t you ignore it?’ I shook my head, biting my lip as Simon pulled away. I remembered Manfred telling me he’d got my number from the hospital, and I couldn’t think why he would text me now, unless he was feeling desperate again … ‘Al, you seem so preoccupied at the moment,’ Simon continued gently. ‘Maybe I can help ease your anxiety,’ he added with a smile. He reached for me again, but I put my hand against his chest. My passion had gone, and with a sigh Simon lay on his back. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I whispered. ‘Me too, Alice, me too,’ he said as he patted my hip, rolled over, and turned out the light. ‘I have a long day tomorrow. Let’s get some sleep.’ I turned on my side, hugging my knees. A frustrated tear dribbled across the bridge of my nose. I couldn’t work out why I was feeling so jumpy. When I heard Simon’s regular soft snore, I climbed out of bed and took my mobile phone out of the jacket pocket. I clicked open the message: I miss your wise words. And your arms around me. I should never have hugged Manfred, should never have let him touch me. I thought perhaps I should block his number, for both our sakes. What would Simon think if he found out I’d met him? But not knowing whether he would go back to that dark place without my support was somehow worse than knowing. I shivered. I needed to know he was going to be okay. Chapter Thirteen (#ulink_bf2dcc01-5a20-5b1e-b619-a5f0eb9aea73) ‘I’m sorry, Fraulein, I am not normally allowed to give information about the patients, but I can really say we have no record of Herr Guggenbuhl. I cannot tell you if he was referred to a specialist because his name is not in the system.’ The medical receptionist’s hands lay unmoving on the keyboard of her computer, my eyes willing information out of her. The Post-it notes and papers had been removed from the area around the counter affording a clear view of the office. Manfred Guggenbuhl had become a ghost patient. There was no record of my bringing him in. I was sure I had signed a document relating to his admission. Maybe my German was just too atrocious. Maybe they thought I was a tourist, and hadn’t kept my details, even though I had given my address and telephone number. Surely it wasn’t so unusual to hear English spoken in this canton with so many international corporations taking advantage of its tax-haven status. ‘How about in the hospital patient records? Is there anything?’ I asked, knowing I was repeating a question that had already been answered. The nurse’s hands remained immobile. ‘The hospital’s computer system is linked everywhere. When I type his name, any patient records from all departments will show. This name did not show anywhere. I’m sorry. I am also a little embarrassed to say that we had a few computer problems when the hospital opened,’ admitted the woman. That explained the Post-it notes, now absent from the glass between us. ‘This man attempted suicide that day. He could still be a danger to himself. In any case, he would still need medical and psychological help. You do understand this, don’t you? I can’t believe his case would be treated so lightly, or ignored altogether.’ The nurse looked at me with sympathy, as though I was the one who’d required help. I sighed. ‘I gave my contact details that day. Is it possible someone would have given them out? Mr Guggenbuhl has been calling me, and I’m not sure where he got my number.’ The receptionist looked taken aback. ‘That would not have been allowed. Unless you gave it to him yourself? Perhaps you don’t remember.’ ‘No, I didn’t give him my number,’ I said pointedly. ‘I’m sorry, madam…’ I figured Manfred must have persuaded one of the other nurses to give him my number that day or maybe a few days later. They all seemed like a bunch of incompetents at the moment. Outside the hospital entrance, I kicked a rubbish bin with frustration. A medic walking towards the door spontaneously sidestepped me with a shocked glance, but didn’t say anything. We lived in a country where everything worked, trains always ran on time, letters inevitably arrived in the mailbox the day after they had been posted, insurance payouts were implemented without question. And the average Joe who worked as a civil servant or council clerk knew exactly what everyone was doing at any given time in the hierarchical human ladder that made up Switzerland’s complex functioning administration. But it seemed they had all conspired to defeat me today. Most of all I felt sorry for Manfred, who had somehow slipped through the net to wander, lost in his misery, latching on to me of all people, a confused foreigner who had slipped through the other end of the system. Two flukes in an otherwise perfect utopia. I sat in the car and put my hand to my temple. My skin felt hot and my head had begun to pound. The frustration was beginning to build to an indefinable irritation, and I was losing faith in my ability to help Manfred resolve his issues. Chapter Fourteen (#ulink_ec24621b-b0c0-56a3-a777-ccb79f34577e) Weaving through the trees along the Lorze Gorge, I stumble. The path morphs from packed dirt to cotton wool beneath my feet. I try to speed up, sense someone chasing me. I can’t turn my head. There is a person… someone familiar. The person takes off, spreading great silver wings, flying. It’s an angel. I twist my head, still can’t quite catch the face. A face that is changing… Oh, it’s Manfred. What are we running from together? I turn my head forward again, try to run harder. My feet sink deep into the cushioned softness and I can’t gain purchase on the path. I’m getting nowhere. The next moment I am knocked over, the wind whipped from me, my face pressed down into the spongy earth. I can’t breathe. Waking out of the nightmare, I was at first confused to find I was looking at the ceiling of our bedroom. A great weight lifted from my chest as I gasped, filling my lungs full of air through an aching throat. My eyes were smarting and sore, the place behind my sockets pounding to the rhythm of my heart, clumpy boots stepping across my brain. These, at least, were symptoms I recognised. I had a cold. Simon had already left. I hadn’t heard him. Unusual to have slept through his departure. I was further saddened by the fact that I wouldn’t see him for a few days and that things between us were far from harmonious. I lacked energy, but knew I had to get the boys ready for school. I swung my heavy legs over the edge of the bed and padded to the bathroom. Checking the thermometer, I realised I had a mild fever. Even pressing the monitor to my ear caused discomfort. Every movement made my temples pound. I winced with pain as I stepped gingerly down the stairs. In the kitchen I filled the kettle and took the cereal packet and two bowls out of the cupboard for the boys. Glancing at the clock on the oven, I saw it was later than I thought and hurried as best I could back upstairs to wake them. Oliver would be cross he hadn’t been woken early enough. He hated to be late for anything, even school. Leon, on the other hand, would be grumpy he had been woken at all. As I knocked quietly at the boys’ doors, the phone rang. I returned to my bedroom and answered quickly, if only to stop the shrill noise from making my headache worse. I had assumed it would be Simon calling from the airport, making sure the household was up and about. I croaked a greeting. ‘Hello?’ ‘You sound not good.’ Manfred. I really couldn’t deal with talking to him just then, and wanted to get him off the line. I should probably have cut him off. But I felt I should say something. ‘I’m not well, Manfred. I have a sore throat and a headache. It hurts to talk. I’m busy getting the boys ready for school. I’m still not sure how you got my numbers, but please, it’s really best you don’t call here.’ ‘I could come and care for you. Alice, you must not forget that I owe you my life. It is, how you say, my obligation to you.’ ‘Manfred, I…’ ‘I can make a good hot soup, a drink. You must take liquids if you are not well. Stay in bed. I can be there in a moment.’ ‘Please, Manfred, leave me alone just now!’ My throat burned as I raised my voice. ‘This is not the time. You’re mistaken about my being able to help. Go to see a doctor. Find someone to talk to. I really don’t feel I can help you.’ The phone slipped back into its cradle on a film of sweat. The product of my anxiety rather than my illness. It didn’t take long for guilt to flood in on my frustration and misery. Leon shuffled along the hallway, pyjamas in disarray and hair in a lopsided wedge only a pillow could design. ‘Is everything okay, Mum? I heard you shouting. You don’t sound like you’re doing too good, you know.’ ‘No, I’m not well. I don’t sound like I’m doing too well, Leon. It’s late. You’d better hurry and get ready for school.’ ‘She’s not too sick for a grammar lesson,’ he mumbled, shuffling to the bathroom. I went to check on Oliver. He’d already perceived an edge of tension. ‘It’s okay, Mum, I’m getting up,’ he said with forced cheerfulness. Of the two boys, Oliver was much less inclined to invite conflict. I was grateful. ‘I’ll see you downstairs,’ I said, and went down to the kitchen to prepare myself a tisane. I was at least relieved to know my silent caller hadn’t been Manfred. There would be no reason for him to suddenly engage in conversation if he’d been the one making all those spooky calls before. But in my wretched state, I would have preferred to have the crackling static of a silent caller than to actually talk to Manfred now. Then I felt really bad, wondering how harsh I’d sounded on the phone. He hadn’t deserved that. There was always a worry the thread holding him to life was still delicate. Here was a sad human being who had fixed on the idea I could somehow help him. Even though I’d already told him this was way beyond my psychological capabilities. Chapter Fifteen (#ulink_932b9a74-bd6e-5822-90ba-9fe8db4d516d) JUNE My influenza lasted six days from start to finish. I had never felt so helpless before. It required superhuman effort to get out of bed for the first three mornings, and as soon as I had packed the kids out of the door, I crawled back to bed with a hot honey-lemon drink and handful of paracetamol. Simon called from London at lunchtime on the first day, sounding sympathetic when I explained I was ill. After our conversation, I pulled the phone wire out of the wall and only plugged it back in when the boys walked through the door after school. The battery in my mobile phone died and I chose not to charge it. I decided I could live without it, despite my earlier conviction that I should run with it in case of an emergency. The only person I truly needed to keep in contact with was Simon, and he could call me on our landline at the end of the day. Midweek, after the boys had left one morning, the phone next to the bed rang before I’d had a chance to unplug it. I glanced at the caller display. No ID. It could have been Simon. He knew I was ill, would expect me to answer. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk to him either. Out of some perverse impulse to punish myself, I stood watching the phone to see how long it would ring. It clanged and jangled around my stuffy head, and when it finally stopped, the roaring silence was almost more disturbing. Long after I had unplugged the wire from the wall, I could still hear the phantom echo of ringing, matching the pulsing of my temple. Simon arrived back from London at the weekend, and was perplexed to find me still ill. I had always been the stalwart of the family, able to function whatever my dilemma. Rendered helpless by the flu, my uselessness depressed me. He took over household duties, providing the boys with food, and tried unsuccessfully to delegate tasks to them. But he couldn’t take any time off work. For the first time, I was really aware of how much work he had on at the moment. I wanted to talk about my own concerns over the past days, but they seemed so trivial compared to his workload. It was easy for me to keep quiet, keep the peace. Simon took to sleeping on the fold-out sofa in our little home office with the excuse that he couldn’t afford to fall ill in the middle of his current project at work. He brought me tea and soup and sat on the edge of the bed before going off to his quarantined space. But in my fevered state, I read far more into this separation, and irrationally wondered whether this was an excuse to distance himself from me, irrespective of whether I was contagious. He was behaving like a husband with a lover. By the time he moved back to our bed halfway through the following week, I had become used to sleeping alone. My irrational anxiety at having him return to our marital bed was exacerbated by the fact that there was an unidentifiable thing between us I hadn’t talked about: I’d met Manfred a couple of weeks before for a coffee to make sure he was doing okay and, rather than solving his problems, might simply have opened a new can of worms. An anti-cyclone settled over the Alps, and the beautiful spring days were set to last. The bilious strands of clogging phlegm finally diminished in my chest, and I was keen to get back into my running routine. For my first run, I started out gently, cutting across the meadow dotted with young fruit trees to the north of the house. I took time to appreciate the view of our village below. The church spire commanded a matriarchal position, surrounded haphazardly by steeply gabled buildings, all rendered toy-like from this distance. Smoky wisps floated lazily upwards from the chimneys of the few homes still requiring heating during the clear nights. As I jogged along the path, a prickling sensation crept up my neck. In that sure and certain human trait of premonition, I knew I was being watched. But when I looked around me, I couldn’t see a soul. A breeze stroked the tips of the fresh new grass in the field, and a flurry of petals fell like snow from a row of cherry trees in the upper meadow. As I rounded the barn in the upper field, I heard the occasional shake of a bell inside and thought it a shame the farmer hadn’t let the cows out on this beautiful spring morning. I caught the flash of something in my peripheral vision. Was that a trouser leg, or the flap of a jacket, next to the old plum tree at the end of the farm track? My gaze darted back to the spot, daring the movement to repeat itself. Like scouring the midnight sky for that evasive shooting star. My heart pounded and the breath stuck in my throat. One of the farm cats leapt across the track in front of me from the verge, and I squealed involuntarily. Its tail flicked back and forth as it trotted away, ears turned backwards, advertising irritation. I let out a rush of breath in relief and laughed at my ridiculous paranoia. Observed by a farm cat. Next I’d be suspecting the trees and the grass. I shook my head and ran on up the hill. Adrenalin initially fuelled my progress, but I didn’t get far before my chest began to feel tight and I knew I’d probably pushed my luck on my first time out after recovery. After several pauses, and one dizzy moment when I leaned over with my hands on my knees, I conceded it was time to head home and promised myself I would plan a more gentle reintroduction to fitness by running an easier route next time. Chapter Sixteen (#ulink_59794d32-9b05-5115-98b6-0fb29fe0f64d) I pushed open the door of the police station and stepped inside. A young officer sat at a desk some distance behind the counter, studying a computer. His desk was surrounded with cardboard boxes full of files and books. The nametag on the royal-blue uniform shirt of the Zuger Polizei said R. Schmid. I remembered the name from the day I had called. He seemed surprised to see a visitor as he glanced up from the screen. His hand floated briefly above the keyboard with his palm raised, forbidding interruption while he finished typing slowly with one finger. My confidence began to wane as the seconds passed. ‘Gr?eziwohl, what can I do for you?’ I wasn’t reassured by his informal and jocular manner. I wanted gruffness and officialdom. ‘My name is Alice Reed,’ I said. ‘I called you a few weeks ago regarding a man I stopped jumping from the Tobel Bridge.’ ‘Ah, yes,’ Schmid said. ‘The lady who does not want to practise her German.’ He had that look on his face I had seen before. Communication had been my main worry in my encounters with the authorities. Taking a deep breath, I put on my friendliest tone. ‘Do you remember my report about the man I saw on the Tobel Bridge?’ The policeman tipped his head on one side. ‘This man, his name is Manfred Guggenbuhl. He wanted to jump. You know, suicide.’ I drew my hand comically across my throat, face flushing. A flicker of amusement lit the policeman’s face. ‘Selbstmord,’ I reiterated, patting my handbag to reassure myself the dictionary was there should I need it. Schmid compressed his lips and nodded slowly, bringing his hands together in a steeple of fingers, a gesture way beyond his years. If I couldn’t make him believe I had prevented someone from committing suicide, how was I going to convince him I thought the man still needed help? I haltingly explained the subsequent events, emphasising words I knew in German. The officer’s expression, displaying initial displeasure that I hadn’t tried to speak his language, soon faded to one of irritated boredom. ‘Although I’ve asked him repeatedly, he hasn’t told me he’s sought help, and I’m concerned. It’s important for people who have attempted suicide to have follow-up therapy and, through some strange mix-up at the hospital, I couldn’t find out from them whether he has been assigned psychological help. Is there any way you could intervene? It’s just that… my son has seen him in the village when I haven’t been around, and although he told me he has business here, I’m not sure…’ I thought it strange Schmid hadn’t stood up and approached the counter. The wild thought occurred to me that he was missing his trousers. More likely he wanted to finish his work without the interruption of some foreign woman. ‘Shouldn’t you be taking notes or something? Writing a report of my visit?’ He crossed his arms and leaned back. ‘I’m… I’m sorry,’ I stammered. ‘It just seems to be a lot to remember.’ ‘Well, Frau – Reed, gell? I cannot know yet what you are here to complain about. You are telling me this man did not jump, but neither did you call 117 on the day…’ ‘But I didn’t have my phone with me.’ He carried on as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘…Instead you took him to your home, and you took him to the hospital, so he should certainly be thankful. And you called him to meet for coffee. Surely this is an invitation, how do you say, to engage? Has he been displaying behaviour that makes you believe he is still a danger to himself? Maybe the man who was outside the school is not the same person.’ ‘There’s something else… We’ve been getting some silent calls at home. The two incidents are making me nervous.’ ‘What exactly are you here about, Frau Reed? Herr Guggenbuhl’s well-being, or to report some other fool making joke calls?’ Schmid leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, a further sign I was getting a rejection. He continued. ‘I took the liberty of learning a little about the gentleman in question after your telephone call. He has an unusual name, so I was curious.’ Schmid was now openly patronising. ‘He has an exemplary character, no record, and is well spoken of among his neighbours. He has recently moved to Aegeri and lives in an apartment in the same residence as the Staatsanwalt. It is natural he would be seen around the village. You must be very careful if you are to declare instability in a respected member of our community.’ My jaw dropped and I stood at the police desk dumbfounded. This information almost needed a replay button in my mind to allow me to compute. ‘He lives here? But he lives in Aargau! He has family there…’ ‘This is a small community; people talk to each other, Frau Reed. The man you are concerned about has recently made his home here. He will pay his taxes here. Where he came from and his history are no business of anybody else. He has a right to move where he wants. I think you are being a little overexcited. Perhaps he has been trying to make a normal impression on people as a new resident and you have taken his politeness in the wrong way? If he was still… unwell, there would be evidence.’ The heat of tears prickled. I didn’t want to humiliate myself any more. I turned to leave. ‘Are you moving your office?’ I asked, manoeuvring my way round a pile of boxes. ‘We are preparing to close the office here. Our services will soon be centralised in Zug. We are much occupied with combining the administration and assigning new rotas.’ I wandered back to my car, climbed in and clutched the steering wheel for half a minute until my whitened knuckles began to ache. When I arrived home, I passed the mailbox. The latest gift from the farmer was a small box of Kirsch St?ngeli, tiny chocolate fingers filled with cherry schnapps. I thought perhaps they were going a bit far with their kindness, but appreciated the fact that at least they hadn’t shunned our presence in the community as everyone else seemed to be doing. In the apartment, I went straight to the shower, having worked up an unpleasant sweat with my frustrating police encounter. I turned the water to as hot as I could stand and enjoyed the sensation of the heat on my shoulders and neck. I lathered my hair with shampoo and breathed in the whorls of steam to help ease the tightness in my lungs. I immediately felt better, and knew it wouldn’t be long before I was back to my regular pace and running distances. I made a mental note to be extra affectionate with Simon from now on. I would cook him a favourite meal, offer to give him a massage, try to reconnect where I thought we might have had a misunderstanding about my reactions and decisions regarding Manfred’s attempt to take his life. With summer approaching, I wanted to broach the subject of fixing certain days of the week for marathon training. Tuesday afternoons for a long hill run, Thursdays at the track. If I alternated times, Simon might need to be available to look after the kids after school. I knew he was pleased I had formed a long-term goal to keep me occupied during his long working weeks, so thought he would comply. I stepped out of the shower, towelling my hair. Squeaking a space clear on the fogged-up mirror, I pulled my fingers through damp locks. As I wrapped the towel round my torso, I heard the familiar creak of wood on the fourth stair and figured the boys must be home, or perhaps Simon, to surprise me for lunch. I smiled in anticipation of a complaint about the muggy bathroom, and threw open the door. Steam swirled out after me as I walked barefoot into the hall and stood silently with my head on one side. ‘Simon?’ I called. ‘Are you home?’ Silence. ‘Leon, Oli?’ I shrugged, figuring I must have been mistaken, and headed to the bedroom to open the window where condensation was blurring the glass from my shower. As I opened the wardrobe to pull out a pair of jeans, I heard the latch click on the door downstairs. ‘Simon?’ I called again, and looked over the banister to the empty hall. I must have left the door ajar, the breeze from the open bedroom window pushing it firmly closed. Chapter Seventeen (#ulink_e3a45429-3431-54ae-85c9-79aae83ecde2) Simon sat at the kitchen table sipping a beer and flicking through his latest edition of The Economist. I rattled around in the cupboard for a saucepan and ran cold water into it, preparing to peel some potatoes for dinner. ‘I went to the police today,’ I said. Simon closed his magazine and sat back in his chair. ‘You think they’ll talk to your guy?’ Your guy? I narrowed my eyes. I wondered if Simon had ever taken me seriously about Manfred’s psychological needs. ‘I thought I should urge them to contact him. To make sure he’s okay.’ ‘Is it worth kicking up a fuss about this? I trust your judgement, Al. But are you sure he needs your intervention? Don’t forget you’ve misinterpreted the Swiss in the past. Remember the electrician incident? You’ve got to be sure if you’re going to try and mix yourself up in someone else’s life. He probably just wants to forget about it. Move on, like the rest of us.’ My face reddened. I didn’t like to be reminded of the electrician incident. When we first moved in we were having the wiring of a light fitting altered in the kitchen so the lamp would hang over the kitchen table. I’d thought the electrician was coming on to me. He’d put a hand on my shoulder and said something I didn’t understand with an unusually broad smile. At that stage I understood practically no German, and hadn’t realised he was trying to explain he was the father of one of the boys’ friends at school, and that he’d be happy for our families to get together socially. Boy, had I got that wrong. Especially as this was not a typically Swiss request. I could have benefitted from a little help when it came to integrating. Instead, I ended up complaining to one of the mothers, who happened to be his sister-in-law, making the whole thing worse. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». 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