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 umbrella over his head. Water streams off the dark nylon dome, falling 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 all?’
‘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 still 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 call 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. Finally 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’ll 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. Tell 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 naturally dominant that the uniformed officers seem more ready to react to her every word.
‘You want me to go with you?’ she asks.
‘I’ll be OK.’
‘All right, tell Skinny Minnie I’ll buy her a low fat muffin if she steps onto our side of the fence.’
‘I’ll do that.’
Temporary barricades have blocked off both approaches to the bridge, which is deserted except for two ambulances and waiting paramedics. Motorists and spectators have gathered beneath umbrellas 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 falls 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’ll kill 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 cellulite 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.
‘Hello. 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 pulls herself back.
Her lips are moving. She’s talking to someone on the phone. I need her attention.
‘Just tell me your name. That’s not so hard. You can call me Joe and I’ll call 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-bellied boat nudges against the current, held by its engines. The swollen 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’ll stay right here. Just tell 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 tell her. ‘You shouldn’t think it is a painless way of dying. I’ll tell you what happens. It will take less than three seconds to reach the water. By then you will be travelling at about seventy-five miles per hour. Your ribs will break and the jagged edges will puncture your internal organs. Sometimes the heart is compressed by the impact and tears away from the aorta so that your chest will fill with blood.’
Her gaze is now fixed on the water. I know she’s listening.
‘Your arms and legs will survive intact but the cervical discs in your neck or the lumbar discs in your spine will most likely rupture. It will not be pretty. It will not be painless. Someone will have to pick you up. Someone will have to identify your body. Someone will be left behind.’
High in the air comes a booming sound. Rolling thunder. The air vibrates and the earth seems to tremble. Something is coming.