Shatter Read Free

swimming pools. There are radio reports of flooding in the Malago Val ey, Hartcliffe Way and Bedminster. Warnings have been issued for the Avon, which burst its banks at Evesham. Locks and levees are under threat. People are being evacuated. Animals are drowning.
    The quadrangle is washed by rain, driven sideways in sheets. Students huddle under coats and umbrel as, making a dash for their next lecture or the library. Others are staying put, mingling in the foyer. Bruno observes the prettier girls without ever making it obvious.
    It was he who suggested I lecture— two hours a week and four tutorials of half an hour each. Social psychology. How hard could it be?
    ‘Do you have an umbrel a?’ he asks.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘We’l share.’
    My shoes are ful of water within seconds. Bruno holds the umbrel a and shoulders me as we run. As we near the psychology department, I notice a police car parked in the emergency bay. A young black constable steps from inside wearing a raincoat. Tal , with short-cropped hair, he hunches his shoulders slightly as if beaten down by the rain.
    ‘Dr Kaufman?’
    Bruno acknowledges him with a half-nod.
    ‘We have a situation on the Clifton Bridge.’

    Bruno groans. ‘No, no, not now.’
    The constable doesn’t expect a refusal. Bruno pushes past him, heading towards the glass doors to the psychology building, stil holding my umbrel a.
    ‘We tried to phone,’ yel s the officer. ‘I was told to come and get you.’
    Bruno stops and turns back, muttering expletives.
    ‘There must be someone else. I don’t have the time.’
    Rain leaks down my neck. I ask Bruno what’s wrong.
    Suddenly he changes tack. Jumping over a puddle, he returns my umbrel a as though passing on the Olympic torch.
    ‘This is the man you really want,’ he says to the officer. ‘Professor Joseph O’Loughlin, my esteemed col eague, a clinical psychologist of great repute. An old hand. Very experienced at this sort of thing.’
    ‘What sort of thing?’
    ‘A jumper.’
    ‘Pardon?’
    ‘On the Clifton Suspension Bridge,’ adds Bruno. ‘Some halfwit doesn’t have enough sense to get out of the rain.’
    The constable opens the car door for me. ‘Female. Early forties,’ he says.
    I stil don’t understand.
    Bruno adds, ‘Come on, old boy. It’s a public service.’
    ‘Why don’t you do it?’
    ‘Important business. A meeting with the chancel or. Heads of Department.’ He’s lying. ‘False modesty isn’t necessary, old boy. What about that young chap you saved in London? Wel -
    deserved plaudits. You’re far more qualified than me. Don’t worry. She’l most likely jump before you get there.’
    I wonder if he hears himself sometimes.
    ‘Must dash. Good luck.’ He pushes through the glass doors and disappears inside the building.
    The officer is stil holding the car door. ‘They’ve blocked off the bridge,’ he explains. ‘We real y must hurry, sir.’

    Wipers thrash and a siren wails. From inside the car it sounds strangely muted and I keep looking over my shoulder expecting to see an approaching police car. It takes me a moment to realise that the siren is coming from somewhere closer, beneath the bonnet.
    Masonry towers appear on the skyline. It is Brunel’s master-piece, the Clifton Suspension Bridge, an engineering marvel from the age of steam. Tail ights blaze. Traffic is stretched back for more than a mile on the approach. Sticking to the apron of the road, we sweep past the stationary cars and pul up at a roadblock where police in fluorescent vests control onlookers and unhappy motorists.
    The constable opens the door for me and hands me my umbrel a. A sheet of rain drives sideways and almost rips it from my hands. Ahead of me the bridge appears deserted. The masonry towers support massive sweeping interlinking cables that curve graceful y to the vehicle deck and rise again to the opposite side of the river.
    One of the attributes of bridges is that they offer the possibility that