by Dan Keeble
The minister entered our wedding date into his diary.
“Now, I must show you our restored tower. The scaffolding came down yesterday. You can be the first to climb to the top. I’m afraid the stairs are rather steep, but the view over the river is breathtaking. I hope you don’t mind heights.”
Sandy squeezed my hand and we held back laughter.
At 2 a.m. the amber mist glowed around the dimmed street lamps. Treading deserted pavements is ideal for shaking off a migraine headache.
The grey iron bridge, silhouetted into two imposing arcs against a three-quarter moon, rippled on the black water below. Herring boats rubbed the wharf, awaiting a morning call to sea. Street traffic had all but gone.
I spied a colour within the ironwork. A muddy yellow, like a builder’s tabard picked out in the gloom. There was a moaning noise on the breeze. A few steps further, and I heard a muffled cry. Someone was sitting on a girder, clinging to the ironwork on the outside of the bridge.
An adrenalin jolt awakened the nerve in a filled tooth. I’d never seen a jumper before. My first thought was there was nothing I could do. At twenty-four, I hadn’t enough life experience to help someone that low. I was tempted to turn away, but was too near to retreat without being heard. If I did, then heard a splash, I would struggle to live with my action.
At the sound of my footsteps, the person turned. Even in the dim, I could see it was a young woman. Long dark hair hung over the back of a mustard coat. She was sitting on a girder with one leg bent.
I froze. Finding it wasn’t a man, my indifferent thoughts changed. Woman in distress. Young man. Heroic action. Admiration. Momentarily, my ego revelled in the situation until reality and shame kicked in. But now what do I do?
I recalled a magazine article. Mustn’t say, ‘Don’t jump.’ Only use positive language. Ask questions. Keep voice low. Listen intently. But, there seemed to be a disconnect between my thoughts and tongue.
“Are you alright?” I called. What an idiot.
All I heard was a sniffle. Out of my depth, I struggled for words.
“Can I help you?” I said. Limp question.
She mumbled something through a restricted throat. I couldn’t make it out.
“You shouldn’t be out this late on your own,” I called. What a stupid thing to say.
I crept forward a few steps, until I was level with her. The criss-crossed ironwork kept a six-foot barrier between us. My mouth became dry, desperately hoping my approach wouldn’t make her do what I feared. I could make out the short figure with an arm wrapped around a stanchion, the other pulling her coat tighter against the breeze. Good, at least she cares enough to hang on. Is it a positive sign?
Her head hung as though exhausted. She found a stronger voice.
“Just go away.”
“I can’t do that,” I said. “No decent person would.” Better words?
In the middle of the bridge, I looked down at the moonlit river and shivered. It was then I remembered, Don’t be afraid to ask them if they are thinking of jumping.
I took a sharp breath.
“Do you want to end it all?”
“You don’t want to know,” she managed.
“Maybe I do,” I said. “Why not tell me? What have you got to lose?” Shit, I can’t believe I said that.
Her head turned and a rounded face about my age bore a puzzled expression. So I swiftly responded.
“Mates tell me I’m a good listener,” I said.
With a persistent effort, and without more inane comments, I managed to find better words to get her to engage, if only to tell me not to get involved.
She spoke softly. The wind blowing down the river masked many of her words, and I realised I would need to climb to her side of the bridge to hear her.
“Look, I just need to come over your side to hear you,” I called.
She gave no response. So, with great effort, I squeezed between the stanchions and over the guardrail to the outer ledge, about eight feet away from where she sat. My eyes darted between her and the deep, dark water thirty feet below. I marvelled at how she had clambered onto the ledge. With each step, my heartbeats pulsed in my neck. I was terrified she would jump. By the time I sat down on the cold girder, my body and voice had taken on a trembling spasm. Fortunately, she was still on the ironwork, but had climbed higher and was now perched on another ledge six feet above. Her arm was still wrapped around the bridge. I mirrored her grip on the metalwork and tried to slow my breathing. It looked like my effort to show support had made the situation worse. I reasoned she would be wary of me, but she must have acknowledged my concern when she said, “I came here to be alone. You don’t need to take on my problems.”
Still struggling to catch all her words, I clambered up to her level. My nervousness grew with each movement. I kept my gaze fixed on her arm wound around the bridge.
“Please don’t move away,” I said. “I just want to talk.”
“Talk about what?” she said.
My whole body was now shaking. Having got this far, I felt an urgency for some bolder words.
“Well, anyone this low who wants to end their life deserves to be listened to,” I said.
“I’m not going to end my life,” she said. “Is that what you think?”
“Then why are you up here?”
No longer sniffling, I find out she is a firefighter. Or rather, was, until she found her partner earlier in the station shower room with another woman firefighter. Facing the prospect of having to give up a partner, career and home, she was simply seeking solitude to escape and think.
“But why here?” I asked.
“I love heights,” she explained. “At the full extent of a ladder, or when I’m standing on the end of the boom of a fifty metre fire crane, looking down on life below, there’s no feeling like it. Now that’s all gone. Up here I feel safe, and away from the world.”
I could just make out her reddened green eyes. She tells me she has nowhere else to go and intends sitting until daylight when she will get a train to her mother’s home. I explain I live locally, and after some encouragement, get her to agree to at least wait in the warmth of my home until the morning. It is then I became aware of my situation.
I discover her name is Sandy, and she expresses gratitude for my concern. Clinging to the ironwork, I extended a hand to encourage her towards me. She stood without effort and ambled over to me, barely bothering to steady herself on the ledge. As she grasped my hand, I looked down at the water. I am amazed at how high I have climbed. Suddenly, I struggled to move. My body was locked, my breathing was heavy, and my arm was clamped around the stanchion like a limpet on a rock.
Sandy took in my situation, and I realised from her experience she has worked out that I don’t do heights. Instead of saying, are you alright, her training kicked in and she said, “Don’t worry, most people have this problem.”
Now I’m the vulnerable one. Her face showed the concern I hoped mine had been showing. How do I cope with this level of shame? Perhaps I should be the one jumping.
“I’m so sorry,” I managed in a pathetic voice while trying to fix a grin.
She put a hand on my shoulder, and her face finds a smile.
“Look, I can’t believe you did this for me. Now we are going down, okay?”
I nodded in embarrassment.
With that, she stepped around me, putting her arm across my back. Almost prising my frozen fingers off the bridge, she moved me a foot at a time as though I was a cat stuck in a tree, until we were off the bridge and onto the walkway.
I stood, brushing imaginary dust from my jacket and apologising, avoiding Sandy’s confident presence, earlier thoughts of heroism now replaced with humiliation.
She touched a small kiss to the top of my bowed head.
“Thank you,” she said. “Which way do we go to your apartment? I think we could both do with a hot drink.”
Dan Keeble hails from the furthest point East in the UK and has enjoyed many successes with online and print publications of poetry, short stories, humour, and more serious articles. He has appeared in Fiction on the Web, Everyday Fiction, Turnpike Magazine, Scribble, Flash Fiction Magazine, Agape Review, and many others on a long journey to a stubby pencil.
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