Shatter Read Free Page B

spectators have gathered beneath umbrel as and coats. Some have scrambled up a grassy bank to get a better vantage point.
    Rain bounces off the tarmac, exploding in miniature mushroom clouds before coursing through gutters and pouring off the edges of the bridge in a curtain of water.
    Ducking under the barricades, I begin walking across the bridge. My hands are out of my pockets. My left arm refuses to swing. It does that sometimes— fails to get with the plan.
    I can see the woman ahead of me. From a distance her skin had looked flawless, but now I notice that her thighs are crisscrossed with scratches and streaked with mud. Her pubic hair is a dark triangle: darker than her hair, which is woven into a loose plait that fal s down the nape of her neck. There is something else— letters written on her stomach. A word. I can see it when she turns towards me.
    SLUT.
    Why the self-abuse? Why naked? This is public humiliation. Perhaps she had an affair and lost someone she loves. Now she wants to punish herself to prove she’s sorry. Or it could be a threat— the ultimate game of brinkmanship— ‘leave me and I’l kil myself.’
    No, this is too extreme. Too dangerous. Teenagers sometimes threaten self-harm in failing relationships. It’s a sign of emotional immaturity. This woman is in her late thirties or early forties with fleshy thighs and cel ulite forming faint depressions on her buttocks and hips. I notice a scar. A caesarean. She’s a mother.
    I am close to her now. A matter of feet and inches.
    Her buttocks and back are pressed hard against the fence. Her left arm is wrapped around an upper strand of wire. The other fist is holding a mobile phone against her ear.
    ‘Hel o. My name is Joe. What’s yours?’
    She doesn’t answer. Buffeted by a gust of wind, she seems to lose her balance and rock forward. The wire is cutting into the crook of her arm. She pul s herself back.
    Her lips are moving. She’s talking to someone on the phone. I need her attention.
    ‘Just tel me your name. That’s not so hard. You can cal me Joe and I’l cal you…’
    Wind pushes hair over her right eye. Only her left is visible,
    A gnawing uncertainty expands in my stomach. Why the high heels? Has she been to a nightclub? It’s too late in the day. Is she drunk? Drugged? Ecstasy can cause psychosis. LSD. Ice perhaps.
    I catch snippets of her conversation.
    ‘No. No. Please. No.’
    ‘Who’s on the phone?’ I ask.
    ‘I will. I promise. I’ve done everything. Please don’t ask me…’
    ‘Listen to me. You won’t want to do this.’
    I glance down. More than two hundred feet below a fat-bel ied boat nudges against the current, held by its engines. The swol en river claws at the gorse and hawthorn on the lower banks.
    A confetti of rubbish swirls on the surface: books, branches and plastic bottles.
    ‘You must be cold. I have a blanket.’
    Again she doesn’t answer. I need her to acknowledge me. A nod of the head or a single word of affirmation is enough. I need to know that she’s listening.
    ‘Perhaps I could try to put it around your shoulders— just to keep you warm.’
    Her head snaps towards me and she sways forward as if ready to let go. I pause in mid-stride.
    ‘OK, I won’t come any closer. I’l stay right here. Just tel me your name.’
    She raises her face to the sky, blinking into the rain like a prisoner standing in a exercise yard, enjoying a brief moment of freedom.
    ‘Whatever’s wrong. Whatever has happened to you or has upset you, we can talk about it. I’m not taking the choice away from you. I just want to understand why.’
    Her toes are dropping and she has to force herself up onto her heels to keep her balance. The lactic acid is building in her muscles. Her calves must be in agony.
    ‘I have seen people jump,’ I tel her. ‘You shouldn’t think it is a painless way of dying. I’l tel you what happens. It wil take less than three seconds to reach the water. By then you wil be travel