Strangers on a Bridge: A gripping debut psychological thriller!. Louise Mangos
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Название: Strangers on a Bridge: A gripping debut psychological thriller!
Автор: Louise Mangos
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
isbn: 9780008287948
isbn:
I winced with pain as I stepped gingerly down the stairs. In the kitchen I filled the kettle and took the cereal packet and two bowls out of the cupboard for the boys. Glancing at the clock on the oven, I saw it was later than I thought and hurried as best I could back upstairs to wake them. Oliver would be cross he hadn’t been woken early enough. He hated to be late for anything, even school. Leon, on the other hand, would be grumpy he had been woken at all.
As I knocked quietly at the boys’ doors, the phone rang. I returned to my bedroom and answered quickly, if only to stop the shrill noise from making my headache worse. I had assumed it would be Simon calling from the airport, making sure the household was up and about. I croaked a greeting.
‘Hello?’
‘You sound not good.’
Manfred. I really couldn’t deal with talking to him just then, and wanted to get him off the line. I should probably have cut him off. But I felt I should say something.
‘I’m not well, Manfred. I have a sore throat and a headache. It hurts to talk. I’m busy getting the boys ready for school. I’m still not sure how you got my numbers, but please, it’s really best you don’t call here.’
‘I could come and care for you. Alice, you must not forget that I owe you my life. It is, how you say, my obligation to you.’
‘Manfred, I…’
‘I can make a good hot soup, a drink. You must take liquids if you are not well. Stay in bed. I can be there in a moment.’
‘Please, Manfred, leave me alone just now!’ My throat burned as I raised my voice. ‘This is not the time. You’re mistaken about my being able to help. Go to see a doctor. Find someone to talk to. I really don’t feel I can help you.’
The phone slipped back into its cradle on a film of sweat. The product of my anxiety rather than my illness. It didn’t take long for guilt to flood in on my frustration and misery.
Leon shuffled along the hallway, pyjamas in disarray and hair in a lopsided wedge only a pillow could design.
‘Is everything okay, Mum? I heard you shouting. You don’t sound like you’re doing too good, you know.’
‘No, I’m not well. I don’t sound like I’m doing too well, Leon. It’s late. You’d better hurry and get ready for school.’
‘She’s not too sick for a grammar lesson,’ he mumbled, shuffling to the bathroom.
I went to check on Oliver. He’d already perceived an edge of tension.
‘It’s okay, Mum, I’m getting up,’ he said with forced cheerfulness. Of the two boys, Oliver was much less inclined to invite conflict. I was grateful.
‘I’ll see you downstairs,’ I said, and went down to the kitchen to prepare myself a tisane.
I was at least relieved to know my silent caller hadn’t been Manfred. There would be no reason for him to suddenly engage in conversation if he’d been the one making all those spooky calls before. But in my wretched state, I would have preferred to have the crackling static of a silent caller than to actually talk to Manfred now.
Then I felt really bad, wondering how harsh I’d sounded on the phone. He hadn’t deserved that. There was always a worry the thread holding him to life was still delicate. Here was a sad human being who had fixed on the idea I could somehow help him.
Even though I’d already told him this was way beyond my psychological capabilities.
JUNE
My influenza lasted six days from start to finish. I had never felt so helpless before. It required superhuman effort to get out of bed for the first three mornings, and as soon as I had packed the kids out of the door, I crawled back to bed with a hot honey-lemon drink and handful of paracetamol. Simon called from London at lunchtime on the first day, sounding sympathetic when I explained I was ill. After our conversation, I pulled the phone wire out of the wall and only plugged it back in when the boys walked through the door after school. The battery in my mobile phone died and I chose not to charge it. I decided I could live without it, despite my earlier conviction that I should run with it in case of an emergency. The only person I truly needed to keep in contact with was Simon, and he could call me on our landline at the end of the day.
Midweek, after the boys had left one morning, the phone next to the bed rang before I’d had a chance to unplug it. I glanced at the caller display. No ID. It could have been Simon. He knew I was ill, would expect me to answer. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk to him either. Out of some perverse impulse to punish myself, I stood watching the phone to see how long it would ring. It clanged and jangled around my stuffy head, and when it finally stopped, the roaring silence was almost more disturbing. Long after I had unplugged the wire from the wall, I could still hear the phantom echo of ringing, matching the pulsing of my temple.
Simon arrived back from London at the weekend, and was perplexed to find me still ill. I had always been the stalwart of the family, able to function whatever my dilemma. Rendered helpless by the flu, my uselessness depressed me. He took over household duties, providing the boys with food, and tried unsuccessfully to delegate tasks to them. But he couldn’t take any time off work. For the first time, I was really aware of how much work he had on at the moment. I wanted to talk about my own concerns over the past days, but they seemed so trivial compared to his workload. It was easy for me to keep quiet, keep the peace.
Simon took to sleeping on the fold-out sofa in our little home office with the excuse that he couldn’t afford to fall ill in the middle of his current project at work. He brought me tea and soup and sat on the edge of the bed before going off to his quarantined space. But in my fevered state, I read far more into this separation, and irrationally wondered whether this was an excuse to distance himself from me, irrespective of whether I was contagious. He was behaving like a husband with a lover.
By the time he moved back to our bed halfway through the following week, I had become used to sleeping alone. My irrational anxiety at having him return to our marital bed was exacerbated by the fact that there was an unidentifiable thing between us I hadn’t talked about: I’d met Manfred a couple of weeks before for a coffee to make sure he was doing okay and, rather than solving his problems, might simply have opened a new can of worms.
An anti-cyclone settled over the Alps, and the beautiful spring days were set to last. The bilious strands of clogging phlegm finally diminished in my chest, and I was keen to get back into my running routine.
For my first run, I started out gently, cutting across the meadow dotted with young fruit trees to the north of the house. I took time to appreciate the view of our village below. The church spire commanded a matriarchal position, surrounded haphazardly by steeply gabled buildings, all rendered toy-like from this distance. Smoky wisps floated lazily upwards from the chimneys of the few homes still requiring heating during the clear nights.
As I jogged along the path, a prickling sensation crept up my neck. In that sure and certain human trait of premonition, I knew I was being watched. But when I looked around me, I couldn’t see a soul. A breeze stroked the tips of the fresh new grass in the field, and a flurry of petals fell like snow СКАЧАТЬ