The book may have been open and Grace may have occasionally picked it up and appeared to be reading the words, but her thoughts were determinedly far away from tales of fiction, her eyes scanning the pages from habit. Her childhood, their past, his secrets, all seemed to flit through her mind in the same unordered manner, each thought barging in without invitation or any obvious connection to the last. Eventually she gave herself over to it, closed the book and stared out of the window, allowing more than half a century of recollections to churn unchecked.
‘Excuse me. Is this yours?’
Grace turned to see a young man holding out what looked to be her mobile telephone.
‘You dropped it, I think. It was on the floor.’
She searched through her bag before accepting it. ‘Thank you very much. I had no idea.’
He beamed broadly, a charming white-toothed smile, ‘No problem.’
As he left, Grace placed the phone back in her bag and made certain to fasten it properly.
‘He took it from your bag, you know,’ the wifely half of the elderly couple stated, as firmly as her weakening voice would allow.
Not understanding, Grace replied, ‘Yes, I imagine it fell out when I got my book.’
The old lady mumbled a few words to her slumbering husband and fell silent.
*
A less distracted individual might have noticed that the person behind matched every turn taken. And someone who did not feel that the world they knew had gone, could have been alert enough to sense the tail, taking a twisting route just to see. Normally, a woman like Grace certainly would have; it had be a long while since she had wandered alone in a big city. But not today. Today her sense of vulnerability lay not in her person but in her mind.
So she wandered through Clifton Village to the suspension bridge without the faintest idea that her unhappiness was not the only thing unshakeable. Less than ten steps behind, the form of Ricardo Mancini ambled as she ambled, stopped when she stopped, gazed where she gazed. Perhaps with all his experience, Ric recognised that a preoccupied mind would provide as much cover as following from a greater distance or with more care. Or maybe filled with his own pain, he simply didn’t care.
On the final approach to the bridge, Grace passed by several signs displaying the telephone number for the Samaritans, a final attempt at saving those so crippled by life they were only steps away from the end. She stopped for a moment to read, wondering how many lives they had saved. She knew of one they hadn’t. A familiar feeling arose, not felt in a while. It seemed to poke at her, urging her into an emotion time could not shift but age had taught her to ignore. It was a slow simmering anger, deep inside.
Walking on towards the midpoint of the spanning structure, she peered down at the vast drop, unable to imagine conjuring up the courage to jump. But nothing to do with suicide was a trick, or an illusion. It was possible to feel exactly that wretched, so dreadful, it was not courage but profound despair pushing limbs over rails. Worthlessness; emptiness; hopelessness; all very real for too many people. She supposed that if the suicidal were afraid of changing their minds during the fall, they would not make it over the barrier in the first place. But what if they did? It was horrifying. Grace’s mouth clenched; it was disgraceful that people might end up believing they were utterly alone, so wholly beyond hope that nothing mattered anymore, not even the people they loved. The awful feeling grew.
Grace sighed unsteadily. She could only hope that a decision made was absolute, because in this there could be some comfort, however small. But it couldn’t always be that way, she knew. There was nothing in life that was uniformly the same, not even death. Why did life throw such wickedness at people, whether it was random events ruining all that should have been good, or synapses failing to properly connect and leaving even the nice things in life too complicated to accept? It was dreadful misfortune, either way.
Grace became aware of a young man also on the bridge, walking behind her and now standing nearby in the same manner she was: peering downwards at the brown snake of a river wending through ancient gorge on its way to the Bristol Channel. She watched him for a moment with a half-thought, a hope that he was not planning to become a statistic. A second glance at him decided her. She didn’t think so.
Her attention turned to the view, far-away hills rising up beyond the city limits, pale grey-green in the fading light. After what seemed like only seconds she felt a hand briefly touch her shoulder.
‘I’m sorry. I made you jump,’ the voice said. ‘You dropped something.’
Jump. The word jarred. Grace turned to see a young man holding her gold silk neck scarf. Grace’s first reaction was relief because it was her favourite, but then she was puzzled.
‘Thank you very much. I’d forgotten I was wearing it.’
‘You! What are the chances?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You don’t remember me, do you? I found your phone. Earlier. At the hotel.’ Ric nodded towards the distant building.
Grace let out an apologetic sigh, ‘Ah, of course. Forgive me, I didn’t recognise you, I am so sorry. Thank you. You must wonder what kind of person I am.’
‘Not at all. Glad to have been of help.’
Grace took the delicate scarf and wound it around her neck, ‘Are you staying at the hotel?’
‘Checked out. You?’
‘I’ll probably stay a few days.’ She wanted to add nothing more but felt it would seem rude not to elaborate, ‘Shopping, museums, galleries, you know, that sort of thing. A good restaurant I’ve heard about, maybe.’
‘Sounds nice.’
Grace nodded, unconvincingly.
‘To be honest,’ said Ric, ‘I could do with a few more days myself, but you know how it is, work calls. Actually to tell you the truth … family stuff calls ... you know ...’ He sighed with the staccato of one who had been recently weeping, and looked away.
‘Are you alright?’ For a moment Grace wondered if he was, after all, a suicide risk.
Chapter 8
RIC
Ric hesitated. Drawing sympathy was entirely unintended. The allusion of vulnerability was meant to make Grace think of her own circumstances, to create an opening for her to unburden; it was meant to open up the possibility of resting her broken heart in his strong hands. But his vulnerability had been real and unexpectedly obvious; already the lump was in his throat. His eyes looked from her to the guardrail of the bridge, before resting finally on some unremarkable spot mid-air. Trying to contain himself and control his sorrow in a useful format that might benefit them both was almost too much to bear. Why had Moira died now? Why now, when there was so much he needed to do to win Grace. She might have liked Grace, in a way that she didn’t like others. For who could not?
He tried to speak but made a false start. Taking a breath, lips trembling, he tried again. ‘I lost my sister this morning.’
‘You mean …’
‘Yes.’
Grace’s shock was obvious and for a moment she was silent. Eventually she spoke, very softly, ‘I am so sorry for your loss … it must feel …’ she sighed heavily. ‘It must feel very raw. And I also feel very sorry about any inconvenience I may have caused you, with my phone … scarf. I’m sorry for …’
‘Dropping things?’ He smiled but his mouth had the unsteady tension of a man on the verge of tears. ‘Listen, please don’t worry, it’s been really nice meeting someone so lovely on a day so awful. To be honest I’m not sure it’s even been just one day. It feels like a hundred.’
‘I really am very sorry.’
Ric nodded his thanks and took a moment to find some composure. The strength of this emotional surge had been so unexpected he was fighting hard not to break down. Somewhere, deep inside, in a shady place he could never find means to access fully, he knew his personal devastation could help him reach Grace. But the power of grief was startling. He saw her eyes move fleetingly to the rail and the enormous drop below.
‘No. I w
asn’t planning to do that, although at the moment I am wondering what is the point of anything.’
‘I suppose you must be.’
‘Anyway, thank you. For your kind words.’
‘To lose a sister is horrible. How are your parents? You still have …’
‘Yes, I do. They’re devastated. I’m going there soon. If I can face it.’ Ric tried to rub the tiredness from his eyes with the knuckle of his thumb. ‘Actually this walk was meant to … I don’t know … give me some strength, I suppose. Help me find something to offer them. But I can hardly bring myself to go there. Is that bad? I should want to see them, but …’
‘It’s natural. Your own grief is hard enough to cope with, I expect, without the added upset of seeing theirs. It might help, though. It may sound trite, but sharing can have an amazingly positive effect.’
He nodded, ‘Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. Sort of.’
There was a long pause, an uncomfortable silence.
‘Will you be okay?’ Grace asked, eventually.
Ric again struggled to prevent the aching sorrow from gushing out. ‘Fine. Thank you. I’m sorry.’
‘For what?’
‘You don’t know me and here I am pouring out …’
‘I’m heading back to my hotel,’ Grace interrupted. ‘You’re welcome to come if you feel you need someone to talk to.’ She gestured towards the building, shining its welcome through the rapidly failing light. ‘Or maybe you would like some quiet company? A drink in the hotel bar, perhaps?’
‘You’re not going to cross all the way?’ He pointed to the far side of the bridge.
‘No. Maybe I will tomorrow. What I need is a very early night.’ She smiled. ‘It’s been rather a long day. As you say, it could have been a hundred days and not just one. But a nightcap might be welcome, if you’d care to join me.’
‘That’s kind of you, thanks, but I won’t. I think I’ll keep on walking. It’s a nice evening. I planned to cross the bridge yesterday but never made it, although I don’t think there’s much to see on the other side.’ Softy, softly, he thought, no need to harpoon a butterfly. ‘I’m not ready to stop walking yet. It makes thinking about everything that bit more bearable.’
‘Well, if you’re sure. I do hope everything settles down for you soon; the shock, I mean. It can be very difficult.’ Grace stopped speaking for a moment and looked at him squarely, before continuing, ‘I lost a sister too, so I understand how you are feeling. I know people say that all the time … that they understand … but I really do know how it feels.’
‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.’ Ric felt a sensation of unearthly revelation. Clearly this connection was a sign of destiny foretold. His hand crept into his pocket, instinctively feeling for the copper coin. Grace.
‘Don’t be, and how could you know? It was a very, very long time ago. I learned to live with it, just as you will. I know this is not what you want to hear yet, but the sense of loss does get easier to manage.’
‘Thanks. I’m sure you’re right. Anyway, I should say goodnight and let you go. It was very nice talking with you.’ Ric smiled weakly, and walked on as if he really were crossing the bridge.
‘Goodnight. And good luck with your parents. You’ll be fine.’ Grace started her return to the hotel.
When he thought she was far enough away that she would be unlikely to notice him, Ric turned to wearily continue his pursuit.
But Grace had stopped. She was clutching the rail, as if it might fall into the gorge. Then she started to say something. Not a word was audible to Ric, only the tone. Grace seemed to be accusing thin air, striking out at some grievance. He understood what he was witnessing, and longed to go to her, but knew he could not. She shouted, loud enough now that no one could fail to hear, yelling so the few others on the bridge were compelled to look.
Where are you!
Exactly, he thought. Her question seemed only to lie in the words that formed the sentence; intonation said it was statement. Ric felt his chin wobble
Although part of Ric had hoped it might distract him from his grief to see Grace, the heaviness in his chest and the sickening ball in his stomach had not lessened because of it. Seeing her there, consumed by something he could never fix, made it so much worse.
Yes, he had got himself up and out of the flat and made contact with his new love, but still he felt a terrible sensation creeping about inside his flesh, a toxic substance seeking a way to lodge itself there. The feeling of wanting to rip off his skin was as powerful as the desire to keep the poison sealed in, because he needed to feel something, anything, for fear its easing may mean he was forgetting how much Moira meant. And yet, he hated it.
To pursue Grace when half of him felt to be dying from grief was the hardest thing he had ever done, but his obsession was nothing less than absolute and no amount of misery could smother it. Amongst the awfulness, the torment of love was fixing itself to that of grief, and he was beginning to suspect the two were inexorably connecting. Grace and Moira, nailed together inside him. Moira would have loved to look like her.
Ric was aware his sense of unmitigated loss had him nearing collapse, but he also knew the moment was entirely right to pursue Grace. It simply couldn’t wait, so pursue her he would, selflessly ready to catch this Angel in case she fell, because there was still a small chance she was like the others, that she might not manage to stay in flight alone for long.
*
It had been thrilling for Ric to speak with Grace, despite the tragic circumstances surrounding their discussion, and she more than fulfilled his every expectation. Her warmth astounded him, and the fact that Grace had asked him for a drink was not only astonishing, but also incredibly tempting. He felt certain, though, that it was not an appropriate move to make and that he must tread very carefully when pursuing Angels of this nature. Surely, it should be gentle steps for gentle Angels. For True Angels. Rushing the courtship, even through invitation, might adversely affect the outcome for nothing was certain. At the very least it would make the overall hunt prolonged and difficult. Too short would challenge her fragility unduly. Too long would be wrong. To succeed with Grace, he realised as he watched her elegant form glide through the streets, everything had to be played out flawlessly, because he felt strongly Grace could be the one with whom he must share the rest of his life. His mother had always said that when you know you know, and that was that. Ric was beginning to understand exactly what she’d meant.
Being a refined soul, Grace would yield only if he patted and smoothed the path before her, quietly coaxing his love toward their mutual and tender fate. Her nature was delicate so he must be understated; her emotions were fragile so he must be indulgent; she needed security so he must be guiding. He could feel the same wraithlike aura he always felt when thinking of these things, heightened to an extreme he had never before known. Overwhelmed with yearning, Ric’s subconscious tried to play a trick by suggesting he could read her soul. A step too far, he suppressed the idea. But then this notion of omniscience crept back in a new guise, as he replayed the meeting in the hotel. Surely he had seen an instant affection in her troubled brown eyes? He had seen in them an attraction that for the sake of purity and emotional longevity she must and would repress until he had sufficiently wooed her. Everything Grace said and did, every look cast his way, was an invitation. Ric refused to consider hurrying. Eternal devotion would not and should not be won in a day. It was imperative that the slender layers of love should be united in a way that would endure. She would understand this.
On a less spiritual note, his groin ached and swelled as if directly benefitting from the increased blood flow to his heart. He pictured Grace’s cleavage as she leaned forward to check her bag, the sensual manner in which she wrapped the scarf around her neck, her lips as she searched for words of comfort. He knew he could easily relieve the tension there and then, by pulling the handkerchief from his pocket – hers, taken in the hotel lounge when he took the phone, the scarf, and a
pen – and in the dark solitude of the bridge use it to find release. But for once he couldn’t bring himself to do it. For the first time ever it felt base, as if he would be soiling something pure rather than bonding with a treasure. His mother was right. He knew.
He followed Grace as far as the hotel and made sure she was safely inside before heading off to find his scooter. It was time to face his family and the trauma of the day. Imagining his parents’ house frightened him. It made him nervous, picturing the sea of ancient and distant relatives that would be there trying to offer comfort, some succeeding, some making it worse, all speaking of Moira in terms of whatever gender they could accept. Anything, but transgender. Regardless of their gnawing ignorance, it distressed Ric to think what trouble there would be in these old people’s hearts, as they reflected sadly upon a short life of which most disapproved and all knew so very little.
More than any of this, however, it terrified him to know that he had finally and absolutely met the one that truly mattered. Ric was not entirely blind to the life he had been leading for so long; his shrine was not hidden from visitors by chance. In Grace he sensed something real, and come morning he would again have the pleasure of steering his sweetheart toward a life filled with love.
Chapter 9
ART’S WIFE
The blur of Saturday finally passed, and Art’s wife found herself on Sunday morning world weary and waiting alone for her husband to be released from police custody. Art’s mother had declined to come to the station, preferring instead to succumb to a melancholic stupor, cradled by cushions in the big chair beside the window, slowly suffocating in the thick silence of someone else’s empty home.