A woman jumped off that bridge today. When they pulled her out of the river her hands were swollen and bruised, and her skin had turned a milky white. Her eyes had rolled back in her head like marbles and her coat was hanging off one arm. The rest of her clothes had been twisted round. Theyd lost their shape and they werent doing her any favours.
She jumped off the bridge because she was on the run from the Mafia. Three burly men with bushy moustaches had chased her through the city, puffing and sweating through their itchy suits, swinging hairy fists and reaching for their guns. She was a glamorous gangsters moll, living the high life, turning a blind eye. Until the champagne soured on her lips and the palaces and mansions lost their shine. So she took the money and ranin red Jimmy Choos and a classic Prada evening dress. (If only her life so far had encouraged her to be practical.) Blind with panic, she saw them coming and took the only way out.
No. She dived off the bridge because she was addicted to risk. Bungee jumps, parachuting, white water raftingyou name it, shed done it all. She spent two years and all the credit she could raise travelling round the world in search of something Bigger, Higher, More Exciting. She didnt want to swim with dolphinsshe swam with sharks, shivering with the thrill of it, and the thrill of telling people about it afterwards. Today the water had been winking at her, glistening cobalt blue and silver. If she stood on the railing she could see almost her whole reflection, ankle to forehead, in the shimmering surface: the water was always on the move, just like her. Before she jumped she recited her good luck charm. If I dont survive, she whispered to the wind, then this is how I want to die.
Actually, she was just making things even. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. She hadnt meant to kill him, so she sacrificed herself in penance. She hoped to be swallowed by the water, engulfed and absolved at the same time. Everything smelt of death nowof blood and tyres and petrol and tears. And Chablis. She couldnt walk down a street or go past a school without feeling the warm mushiness of a young boys broken skull. And she couldnt do anything without feeling the scars, the two blood red sores his mother had pierced into her head, from all that looking. After she jumped it would all be over, and she would be clean again.
She jumped off the bridge because her heart was broken. Its the oldest story in the world, the one everyone thinks theyve lived. She always said shed kill herself if he left her but he didnt believe it. Well this will teach him, wont it? Now he can have a turn at feeling sick every day, of being dragged down by a weight in the pit of his stomach, until each step feels like walking through glue. She hadnt asked for muchjust to be loved. In return she would cook for him, clean for him, look after him. Isnt that what hed promised, all those years ago? On the happiest day of her life, when she cried when he said his vows and something deep inside her breathed a sigh of relief. Well this is what you get for destroying a personblood on your hands. This would be an act of revenge.
She leapt off the bridge out of superstition. They had all done ither mother, her grandmother, her great-aunt. They had all died at 49. Well, shed lived a good, full life, and this was where it ended. If she turned 49 tomorrow shed be condemning herself to a debilitating illnessbreast cancer like her mother, a stroke like her aunt. Anyway, she had no idea what being older than 49 could be like. That only happened to other people. Shed done everything she wanted -travelled, had a good career, flown in a helicopter above the city. And this was the way to liveto pre-empt death, prepare for it, not to let it strangle you from behind. Of all the methods, her research had led her to think of drowning as the best. The lack of oxygen in the water is meant to get you high (once you get over the not-breathing). She flicked off her sandals and wiggled her toes in the sun for one last time.
No. There was no reason for jumping off the bridge. No one reason anyway. Its just that she had never had a starring role in her own life, and things had been going grey for a while. It wasnt dramatic, just a gradual, seeping greyness, like a dirty sponge.
She didnt leave a note. She wont be missed and there will be no-one at the funeral. Her final act was an anonymous gift to all the other anonymous people who live here. Shes become an anecdote. When her would-be rescuer heaved her up he did it legs firstfleshy white skin against high-visibility waistcoat. He retched and then took a picture on his camera phone.