Shatter Read Free Page A

someone may start to cross but never reach the other side. For that person the bridge is virtual; an open window that they can keep passing or climb through.
    The Clifton Suspension Bridge is a landmark, a tourist attraction and a one-drop shop for suicides. Wel -used, oft-chosen, perhaps ‘popular’ isn’t the best choice of word. Some people say the bridge is haunted by past suicides; eerie shadows have been seen drifting across the vehicle deck.
    There are no shadows today. And the only ghost on the bridge is flesh and blood. A woman, naked, standing outside the safety fence, with her back pressed to the metal lattice and wire strands. The heels of her red shoes are balancing on the edge.
    Like a figure from a surrealist painting, her nakedness isn’t particularly shocking or even out of place. Standing upright, with a rigid grace, she stares at the water with the demeanour of someone who has detached herself from the world.
    The officer in charge introduces himself. He’s in uniform: Sergeant Abernathy. I don’t catch his first name. A junior officer holds an umbrel a over his head. Water streams off the dark nylon dome, fal ing on my shoes.
    ‘What do you need?’ asks Abernathy.
    ‘A name.’
    ‘We don’t have one. She won’t talk to us.’
    ‘Has she said anything at al ?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘She could be in shock. Where are her clothes?’
    ‘We haven’t found them.’
    I glance along the pedestrian walkway, which is enclosed by a fence topped with five strands of wire, making it difficult for anyone to climb over. The rain is so heavy I can barely see the far side of the bridge.
    ‘How long has she been out there?’
    ‘Best part of an hour.’
    ‘Have you found a car?’
    ‘We’re stil looking.’
    She most likely approached from the eastern side which is heavily wooded. Even if she stripped on the walkway dozens of drivers must have seen her. Why didn’t anyone stop her?
    A large woman with short cropped hair, dyed black, interrupts the meeting. Her shoulders are rounded and her hands bunch in the pockets of a rain jacket hanging down to her knees.
    She’s huge. Square. And she’s wearing men’s shoes.
    Abernathy stiffens. ‘What are you doing here, ma’am?’
    ‘Just trying to get home, Sergeant. And don’t cal me ma’am. I’m not the bloody Queen.’
    She glances at the TV crews and press photographers who have gathered on a grassy ridge, setting up tripods and lights. Final y she turns to me.
    ‘What are you shaking for, precious? I’m not that scary.’
    ‘I’m sorry. I have Parkinson’s Disease.’
    ‘Tough break. Does that mean you get a sticker?’
    ‘A sticker?’
    ‘Disabled parking. Lets you park almost anywhere. It’s almost as good as being a detective only we get to shoot people and drive fast.’
    She’s obviously a more senior police officer than Abernathy.
    She looks towards the bridge. ‘You’l be fine, Doc, don’t be nervous.’

    ‘I’m a professor, not a doctor.’
    ‘Shame. You could be like Doctor Who and I could be your female sidekick. Tel me something, how do you think the Daleks managed to conquer so much of the universe when they couldn’t even climb stairs?’
    ‘I guess it’s one of life’s great mysteries.’
    ‘I got loads of them.’
    A two-way radio is being threaded beneath my jacket and a reflective harness loops over my shoulders and clips at the front. The woman detective lights a cigarette and pinches a strand of tobacco from the tip of her tongue. Although not in charge of the operation, she’s so natural y dominant that the uniformed officers seem more ready to react to her every word.
    ‘You want me to go with you?’ she asks.
    ‘I’l be OK.’
    ‘Al right, tel Skinny Minnie I’l buy her a low fat muffin if she steps onto our side of the fence.’
    ‘I’l do that.’
    Temporary barricades have blocked off both approaches to the bridge, which is deserted except for two ambulances and waiting paramedics. Motorists and