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 from a row of cherry trees in the upper meadow.
As I rounded the barn in the upper field, I heard the occasional shake of a bell inside and thought it a shame the farmer hadn’t let the cows out on this beautiful spring morning. I caught the flash of something in my peripheral vision. Was that a trouser leg, or the flap of a jacket, next to the old plum tree at the end of the farm track? My gaze darted back to the spot, daring the movement to repeat itself. Like scouring the midnight sky for that evasive shooting star. My heart pounded and the breath stuck in my throat. One of the farm cats leapt across the track in front of me from the verge, and I squealed involuntarily. Its tail flicked back and forth as it trotted away, ears turned backwards, advertising irritation. I let out a rush of breath in relief and laughed at my ridiculous paranoia. Observed by a farm cat. Next I’d be suspecting the trees and the grass.
I shook my head and ran on up the hill. Adrenalin initially fuelled my progress, but I didn’t get far before my chest began to feel tight and I knew I’d probably pushed my luck on my first time out after recovery. After several pauses, and one dizzy moment when I leaned over with my hands on my knees, I conceded it was time to head home and promised myself I would plan a more gentle reintroduction to fitness by running an easier route next time.
I pushed open the door of the police station and stepped inside. A young officer sat at a desk some distance behind the counter, studying a computer. His desk was surrounded with cardboard boxes full of files and books. The nametag on the royal-blue uniform shirt of the Zuger Polizei said R. Schmid. I remembered the name from the day I had called. He seemed surprised to see a visitor as he glanced up from the screen. His hand floated briefly above the keyboard with his palm raised, forbidding interruption while he finished typing slowly with one finger. My confidence began to wane as the seconds passed.
‘Grüeziwohl, what can I do for you?’
I wasn’t reassured by his informal and jocular manner. I wanted gruffness and officialdom.
‘My name is Alice Reed,’ I said. ‘I called you a few weeks ago regarding a man I stopped jumping from the Tobel Bridge.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Schmid said. ‘The lady who does not want to practise her German.’
He had that look on his face I had seen before. Communication had been my main worry in my encounters with the authorities. Taking a deep breath, I put on my friendliest tone.
‘Do you remember my report about the man I saw on the Tobel Bridge?’
The policeman tipped his head on one side.
‘This man, his name is Manfred Guggenbuhl. He wanted to jump. You know, suicide.’
I drew my hand comically across my throat, face flushing. A flicker of amusement lit the policeman’s face.
‘Selbstmord,’ I reiterated, patting my handbag to reassure myself the dictionary was there should I need it.
Schmid compressed his lips and nodded slowly, bringing his hands together in a steeple of fingers, a gesture way beyond his years. If I couldn’t make him believe I had prevented someone from committing suicide, how was I going to convince him I thought the man still needed help?
I haltingly explained the subsequent events, emphasising words I knew in German. The officer’s expression, displaying initial displeasure that I hadn’t tried to speak his language, soon faded to one of irritated boredom.
‘Although I’ve asked him repeatedly, he hasn’t told me he’s sought help, and I’m concerned. It’s important for people who have attempted suicide to have follow-up therapy and, through some strange mix-up at the hospital, I couldn’t find out from them whether he has been assigned psychological help. Is there any way you could intervene? It’s just that… my son has seen him in the village when I haven’t been around, and although he told me he has business here, I’m not sure…’
I thought it strange Schmid hadn’t stood up and approached the counter. The wild thought occurred to me that he was missing his trousers. More likely he wanted to finish his work without the interruption of some foreign woman.
‘Shouldn’t you be taking notes or something? Writing a report of my visit?’
He crossed his arms and leaned back.
‘I’m… I’m sorry,’ I stammered. ‘It just seems to be a lot to remember.’
‘Well, Frau – Reed, gell? I cannot know yet what you are here to complain about. You are telling me this man did not jump, but neither did you call 117 on the day…’
‘But I didn’t have my phone with me.’
He carried on as if I hadn’t spoken.
‘…Instead you took him