The Bridge

'Sorry.' The word was simple, and well meant, but as Peter turned round to his brother, it was obvious it wasn't going to be taken that way.

'Oh, you're sorry, are you. And that makes it all right, all this, you, me, everyone, is fine, because you're sorry?' The way he looked at Michael, it should have been anger, but it wasn't, after everything he had done, there was so much pain that the rage should have flowed so easily. He felt like he should hit him, that that would be the right thing, but he couldn't muster that. He couldn't manage anything, only a frown, a sneer of disdain, maybe pity, but definitely not anger. 'Why? I mean, why, what was it all for. Couldn't we have talked, just talked, instead of all this,' and with a sway of his arm indicated the scene. The bridge, a road bridge, a constant stream of traffic, whose noise purposely moaned on and on, ceaselessly, and yet below, moving with so much more force, the water flowed out to sea, a beautiful tranquillity, here and there the wind whipped up a faint wave, only for it to die as quickly. And here on the pavement, the brothers who, despite the situation, still loved each other as much as ever, though never before had they disliked so much, here they stood.

'I know I was wrong. But it wasn't like that. It wasn't like that at all. I'm here now, can't you see that there is something important that I have to say. Please listen to me.' Michael's impassioned plea didn't have far to go to break down his brother's defences. Peter wanted to understand, more that he wanted to punish his brother.

'Fine.'

'You remember that day,' as he spoke, he noticed that Peter avoided eye-contact, the way people do when they are trying not to forgive you, 'that day when it happened. I'd driven back from work, just clinched a deal, and so I needed to relax, let the stress ease out. I drove here. Parked my car at the lay-by and walked to the middle of the bridge. It used to remind me of before, the water below, the waves, ripples, a faint spray, but so much bigger than then. You remember, Millfield, we went up to the stream, the valley, and we'd each take a boat, made out of old newspaper, folded and stuck however we thought was best at the time, and we'd place them as high up the stream as we could, just after that little waterfall.' Peter had a faint smile, a smile of remembering happier days, easier days, days when life wasn't the toil and tedium of work, but the carefreeness of youth. 'You, being the oldest would go first, put your's in the centre, then you'd lean over and put mine in, and we'd rush down the stream, and see whose survived the longest. We'd see mine, pass by, then wait, and wait and wait, and yours never ever got there, it always crashed, or collapsed or something, and you'd get angry, and throw stones at mine and sink it. Maybe it didn't always happen like that, but a good few times, if I remember. So I'd get upset, and storm off, down stream, until I reached the bridge, the stream now was more of a river, having been joined by several other brooks and the likes. And with this extra water, and increased speed, there would be a kind of rapids effect, the white water rapids of Millfield' there was a faint smile, almost unnoticeable on Michael's face. 'And I'd sit there on the bridge, watching the water, and the anger would subside, I'd hate you less and less as each drop of water flowed. Eventually the anger would be no more than a passing memory, a fragment of another life, everything would be fine, and off home we'd walk.

'Ever since then, water's had that calming influence, so it made sense to come here. I just leant on the rail watching, staring, relaxing. Then I heard the voice, from my right. I turned and there she was, in the moonlight, not beautiful, but attractive, she must have been around twenty five, twenty six, she called to me, I forget what she called. But I walked towards her, she was standing leaning over the railings, looked like she'd been crying. She talked to me, said how she was all alone, and she couldn't take it any more, how things were going from bad to worse. I couldn't just let her cry, so I tried to calm her, tried to get through to her that there always someone who loves you. But she wasn't having it. She said she was alone. Then she asked me how I got here, like she just wanted something else to talk about, so I pointed to my car in the lay-by, and as I turned back to her she was gone. Then I heard the scream. From below, she was falling, down, into the water. I don't what know happened next, or why, but I guess I must have jumped, I liked her, she was upset, she needed help, I should help her. And as I fell, I heard the scream still, but it changed, it wasn't a scream, it was laughter. I looked up, she was still on the bridge, and I was falling, falling, and above me that goddess of retribution, my nemesis stood laughing. Then it all went black, and I found myself back up here, walking, and walking, I couldn't leave, it seemed like I wasn't allowed to move from the bridge, and then in my head I knew, I knew all about it, I couldn't leave the bridge until someone replaced me, until someone else jumped from the bridge.'

Given the situation, Peter listening to his dead brother, he was inclined to believe anything. 'And? what of it? so you killed yourself by accident, big deal. So I'm not angry at you, what difference does it make now, you're still dead.'

It was the truth, but there was more, there was a reason. 'I just had to tell you, no matter what happens on this bridge in the future, no matter who jumps off, no matter how old or young, stranger or friend, you should not try to save them. Don't even think about it. Please.' There was a loving in his voice, a brotherly tone, and he hoped Peter would take notice. Just then, a hundred yards or so down the bridge, Michael spotted a man, a jogger. With a surge of energy, only possible with being dead, he sprinted towards him.

'Wait!' Peter shouted back, but he was already too far away, and too determined to care. Peter ran after his brother. He knew what was going to happen, and somehow he had to stop it. He saw Peter reach the jogger, he saw a barge as they collided, and then in a split second he saw his brother fall over the side. 'No!' even though he knew his brother was already dead, didn't mean it wouldn't hurt him as much, to see him fall. The jogger stood shocked. There was a man falling to his death and it was his fault. With a rush of guilt he flung off his shoes and reached for the support bar. 'Stop!' it was Peter again. 'Don't do it.'

'I've got to, it was my fault.'

He was going to tell him it was all a trick, but he knew it wouldn't work. 'I'll go.' He clambered over the railings, standing upright, 'he's my brother.' He fell.

As the water approached rapidly, he felt his body turning, turning to look upwards. And as he faced the bridge, he saw it. Everything. A phantasmagoria of images, the ones that had lost, the one that gave up hope long ago, the ones that don't belong. All the faces of past ghosts, they stood their. And he knew he'd see his brother. If he looked hard enough he'd be there.

He saw him, he stood by the railings, a tear of ghostly salinity trickled down his face. He was mouthing words. Peter could hear them in his head. 'Sorry' he kept repeating. But the water was hit too quickly, and as he struggled for air, the images of his life appeared before him, and yet they seemed so distant, so unreal. Like a mere spectator, not participator. And as the last life-sustaining molecules of oxygen reached his brain he made one final act. One final statement to whoever was listening. 'Forgive him, forgive Michael.' He could have asked for forgiveness for himself, for forgiveness for the other people, but no, he asked for his brother. And as the last of his life left him, he smiled. He was happy. For some bizarre reason, he was happy. He'd done the right thing. The Bridge would stop claiming it's victims. All it needed was someone not to be angry as they died, someone who would forgive...

The Bridge had lost.

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Page last updated on 12th November 1998

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