The Man on the Bridge

The man on the bridge, the man on the brink.

Where I live is beside the river,
which I especially like when the
water is a calm, deep green, reflecting
the trees at dusk. Spotting oystercatchers
brings me luck.

I watch night-time double-deckers above
me, illuminated from the inside,
on the bridge.

I no longer bother to go to bed;
not since the wheel fell off my car three weeks
after it was serviced. Instead, from the
settee, I have seen gulls flying behind
me, heading in the direction of Mars
at first light.

But I was feeling strangely restless when
I looked out early one Sunday morning.
Perhaps the tawny owl brought me out of
that no-man’s-land between being awake
and asleep.

It was still dark, blustery, autumnal.
A piece of the picture made no sense—seemed
wrong. I scrunched my eyes, adjusting to the
murk. Then I instinctively telephoned
999.

“There appears to be a man on the bridge,”
I told the police operator.
My conversation with her became a
long one, as we waited for her colleagues
to arrive.

“A woman is with him—his partner by
the sound of it,” I said, describing
any developments as best I could.
“They are tussling. Now she is screaming.”
“Actually, I think I can hear that,”
the operator said.
“Yes, you probably can,” I replied.

He was this side of the barrier—
the suicide side—silhouetted
against streetlamp orange, swaying wildly
in the wind and lashing rain, his arms
crucifixion-like.

I have seen a few things in my life.
Never a man plummet to his doom.
Personally, I would prefer a
Virginia Woolf-style wading into
the river.

“Will there be a dead thump,” I wondered
inwardly, hearing it, “or more of a
high-velocity watermelon
exploding on concrete effect?” I winced.

“Think of the kids!” his partner cried out
to no avail; the man’s mind was made up.
She pleaded with the gloom: “Please, someone call
the police!”

At that point, the police van came crawling
warily across the bridge. The woman
fell silent.

So too did the wind, suddenly dropping.
It was as if everything was being
held in the palm of a giant hand.

The officers ascertained the man’s name,
asking for a chance, carefully coaxing.
Eventually, they hauled him out of
no-man’s-land.

A ringing telephone—a thank-you from
the police—jolted me back to the edge
of my drifting. Though “very poorly” (that,
I had already deduced), the man was
safe—cared for.

Afterwards, I remember the relieved
laughter of the officers on the bridge,
which merged with the whistling of birds, and a
gentle rain.