Perfect Crime. Helen Fields

probably back up a bit.’

      ‘Why?’ the man asked.

      ‘I’m going to jump and I don’t want you to feel responsible. No one else needs to be involved.’

      ‘That’s really thoughtful of you …’ The man left the sentence hanging. ‘That’s the part where you fill in with your name,’ he finished when there was no response.

      ‘Oh, sorry,’ Stephen muttered, feeling foolish and rude. ‘Stephen.’

      He had no idea why he felt the need to comply with social niceties at such a life-changing time. Years of conditioning, he guessed.

      ‘Cool. Good to meet you, Stephen. I’m Rune Maclure.’ Sirens echoed across the expanse of water. ‘That’ll be the police. Do you feel up to talking with them, or shall I ask them to stay back, too?’

      ‘Keep them away,’ Stephen said, taking deep breaths and focusing on the river. The pattern of the water was making him dizzy, or perhaps it was the adrenaline. Either way, he wasn’t sure he could stay upright much longer.

      ‘Feeling unstable?’ Maclure asked.

      He didn’t answer.

      ‘Relax one leg, get your balance back. Is this your stuff down here?’

      ‘Yeah,’ Stephen muttered.

      Maclure reached down to pick it all up, pocketing the keys and mobile, holding the wallet and reading the organ donor card.

      ‘Hey man, you want to be a donor? That’s amazing. Too few people take that opportunity. I can’t believe you’re still thinking about other people when you’re feeling so bad. That’s pretty impressive.’

      Stephen stared at him. The trick of relaxing one leg had worked. He was stable again.

      ‘Probably no point. They might not even find my body.’

      ‘That would be a shame. You look in good shape. Lots of people could benefit from those organs. It’s amazing what they can transplant these days. It’s always the part where it asks if you want to donate your eyes that blows my mind. How weird would that be, waking up after surgery, looking in the mirror to see yourself through someone else’s eyes? Incredible, really.’

      Through the growing crowd of bodies appeared four police officers, talking in whispers on their radios and moving people back, away from what Stephen assumed they’d already be referring to as ‘the scene’. He hated that. Causing a scene. Being the scene. All he’d ever wanted was to blend into the crowd.

      ‘Don’t give it another thought. I can handle them,’ Maclure said, raising his palms in the air in a gesture that said, effortlessly, calm down, I’ve got this. He moved away to speak to the closest of the police officers, greeting her with a handshake.

      Stephen watched him go, wondering why Maclure seemed so relaxed. If someone had been seconds from suicide in front of him, he’d have been frantic. His shoulders weren’t hunched, his voice was so low it was almost inaudible. There was no sense of crisis or hurry about him. He sure as hell wasn’t bipolar, Stephen thought. He’d never been that relaxed or self-assured, not for one single second of his whole bloody existence.

      ‘They’re going to give us some space if you could just do me a huge favour and put your legs back this side of the fence. Not climb down, you have every right to do whatever you want. Stay up there by all means, but I was curious about what I should do with your belongings. Could you spare me one more minute?’

      Stephen rubbed his eyes. One more minute? He’d come to the bridge to stop the pain, not prolong it.

      ‘There must be someone who’d want to know what’s happened to you. Did you leave a note so they can understand how you were feeling? If you did, that’s great. You can give me your address and I’ll make sure it gets to them. If not, give me a name and a number. I’ll tell them you were at peace with your decision, rational, not scared. It’ll make it easier for whoever you’re leaving behind.’

      ‘Why would you think I’m not scared?’ Stephen blurted, the ludicrousness of that suggestion hitting him harder than he liked.

      Suicide wasn’t easy. It wasn’t something you just did as a whim. Of course he was scared.

      ‘I’m sorry, you just seem so … man, I hate to think of you up there feeling that way. Listen, I can’t stop the police for more than another minute and I really want to know what’s going on with you. Just take one step back over until we’ve finished talking. For me, if not for you? You seem like a great guy. Who else would have left a donor card when they’re planning on killing themselves?’

      Stephen considered the options. It was really just jump or take a step back to talk. And perhaps Rosa would want to hear some last words. Their break-up was so recent and raw that she was sure to blame herself. If he did nothing else, he could leave some reassurance that he’d have come to this whether or not the relationship had broken down. The thought of her spending a lifetime blaming herself was intolerable. He might be severely messed up in the head department, but he wasn’t cruel.

      Maclure was standing looking nonchalant, hands in his pockets once more, looking no more excited about life than if he were stood at a bus stop.

      Stephen shifted one leg backwards over the upper railing, to the delight of the crowd, who gave a stadium-style whoop. Turned out that suicide was a spectator sport. Who knew?

      ‘Good for you,’ Maclure said, waving a hand vaguely at the police. ‘Do you smoke?’

      ‘No,’ Stephen said.

      ‘Me neither. I guess it’s a standard play to offer someone in your situation, a cigarette, right?’

      ‘I guess,’ Stephen replied.

      It was laughable really, having such an inane conversation while he stood on the suicide barrier of a bridge.

      ‘So, can you give me a reason why you’re doing this? That’s bound to be what interested parties will ask. Not that there even has to be a reason, I get that. Sometimes it’s just down to a feeling.’

      Stephen thought about it. The truth was somewhere in between. He’d lost the will to live some time ago on a day-to-day basis but, longer-term, he had no faith in his bipolar disorder ever being effectively treated. He looked at the man with all the questions. Good-looking, athletic, black, slim, with a slight beard growth trimmed to maximise the squareness of his chin. The sort of person you both hated and wanted to be, wrapped into one.

      ‘I’m bipolar,’ was the answer Stephen settled for.

      Maclure nodded. ‘That’s a tough one. And the treatment makes you feel like crap on the good days, so you stop taking it, then all the good days become bad days anyway. Is that about right?’

      ‘Something like that,’ Stephen said.

      Only the truth was exactly like that and, annoyingly, he could never have put it that concisely, even though he was the one living it.

      ‘But you’re still alive. You’re making it work. You have a mobile phone, which means you contact people. That’s a great start. This wallet’s pretty thick, which means you’re living a normal life – credit cards, bills, driving licence, I would think, access to cash. You haven’t been reduced to life on the streets. Pretty admirable, given what you’re going through. A lot of people in your situation can’t cope within normal social boundaries at all. You should be proud of yourself.’

      That was certainly a new perspective on his life. Pride. Not something many people could have applied to him, however creative they were. Rune Maclure could talk the talk.

      ‘I need you to tell Rosa that this isn’t her fault,’ Stephen said.

      It was time to get down to business and he wasn’t enjoying standing here in the cold.

      ‘Rosa – girlfriend, I’m guessing. I’ll need a surname if I’m going