Consequences (2 page)

 ‘Of course sir,’ she said.

 ‘Right, better get to him. He might go over before I even get there at this rate.’ Dylan saw Tracy’s face blanch. In an instant it was as though she realised that the man threatening to jump might actually do it and she’d be a witness to the incident.

Dylan strode out with urgency in his pace. He could hear the taunts and jeers from the crowd that had gathered behind him.

‘Tell him to jump. Do us all a favour.’ called one. Dylan cringed.

Dylan knew a lot of people hadn’t time for suicides: their view being that some people frantically fought daily to save lives and people attempting suicide were throwing theirs away. Only one member of the public had stepped forward to help Dylan in a similar situation – the brother of a ‘jumper’. Against the manual’s advice Dylan had let him go forward. Within seconds the brothers were like bookends on the flyover both threatening to jump. Fortunately after a couple of hours of ‘double talk,’ they climbed down, but Dylan had learnt an invaluable lesson that day; to stick to the rules.

Thankfully, the further along the bridge Dylan walked the less coherent the voices of the frustrated motorists and on lookers were. He felt the wind in his face. St Peter’s Park and the Sibden Valley came into view and in the far distance the bleak Yorkshire moorland: a spectacular sight, and one he realised he never truly appreciated as he drove over the bridge. Stepping up onto the pavement, he noticed the Victorian iron palisades which had been fitted after a man had been pushed to his death by an unknown attacker. Dylan was pleased it was there, boy did he detest heights. He’d almost reached the ‘jumper’ when he was stopped by shouting.

‘Don’t come any fucking nearer or I’ll go over…I mean it.’ he threatened.

Dylan instantly complied with his demands. He wished he had a penny for every time he’d heard that line before. Since becoming a negotiator he’d heard some horrific stories and personal tragedies from people who were threatening to end their lives, but if they were still there when he arrived, in his experience there was a good chance it was a cry for help; if they were serious they didn’t hesitate. However, if the wind picked up it would take the ‘jumper’ over the edge whether it was intended or not.

This lad now had Dylan’s total attention.

‘I know you’re serious, but I’m here to help,’ said Dylan as clearly and as sensitively as he knew how. ’Will you let me? Whatever the problem is we can sort it out.’

‘Just fuck off,’ the ‘jumper’ insisted, stepping precariously from one foot to the other on the flagstone at the top of a pillar.

Dylan studied the lad, he’d have liked a closer look but he was sure he knew the face. He moved slightly forward hoping it would go unnoticed, and it did. Yes, it was Alan ‘Chubby’ Connor, local robber, burglar, and self-harmer, you name it, this lad had done it all before.

‘Poor sod,’ thought Dylan. He had spent his life in and out of institutions. Dylan pulled up the collar on his jacket. He could feel the cold seeping through his clothing; it was a hell of a lot cooler now. The northerly wind whistled by him sending a chill through his whole body. It might say March on the calendar but spring seemed a long way off to Dylan, from where he was standing.

Chubby’s thin frame was clothed in a short sleeved, grubby t-shirt and jeans.

‘You must be bloody perishing up there.’

There was no reply. However, he did adjust a baseball cap on his head.

‘Perhaps it was an essential accessory these days,’ Dylan thought, if you didn’t have a hoodie.

‘It’s Chubby Connor isn’t it?’ Dylan took two further steps forward without reprimand.

‘So there’s nothing wrong with your eyesight then copper? And no I haven’t done any jobs I want to admit to before I jump – so fuck off.’

Chubby splayed his left hand and Dylan caught sight of a small knife in his right.

‘Don’t do it Chubby, there’s no need, I’m not coming any nearer.’

‘Back off then.’ Chubby held the knife to his wrist. Dylan took a step backwards.

‘Okay, whatever you say.’ Dylan’s raised his palms to show him he was retreating.

A one man crime wave was standing right in front of him. A vote to save him or not, he knew, would definitely have got the thumbs down.

‘Think about performance figures,’ he heard his bosses say. ’What an opportunity you had.’

‘What the hell is all this about, Chubby?’ Dylan said. ’If you’ve done nothing wrong why are you doing this? You must be freezing your bollocks off up there for nowt.’ He shivered involuntarily. Chubby remained silent. Dylan could see him shaking but whether it was fear, cold or withdrawal from some substance he didn’t know. Dylan talked. Hands in his pockets he shuffled his feet in an attempt to keep warm. Chubby remained silent but studious, his pallor noticeably turning blue with cold. Detective Inspector Dylan couldn’t tell whether his words were getting through, he could only hope.

‘I’d rather go over than go back inside.’ Chubby said.

Dylan remained silent but had gained eye contact.

‘People think it’s easy in prison, but it ain’t,’ he continued.

‘Why should you go back inside, Chubby? What’s happened to make you think that? Come on...tell me.’

He didn’t reply but leaned forward to glance over the precipice.

Dylan took the step forward that he’d relinquished earlier and changed tactics.

‘You might die if you go over… but then again you might just be badly hurt and in a lot of pain you know and still end up going inside. Let’s try and sort it, eh?’ Dylan pleaded.

‘Life’s shit...my life’s shit...what’s the point?’ he whimpered.

‘Of course there’s a point...I bet you just haven’t thought it through, have you?...You’re not ill are you?’

‘Why, what you after? A bloody donor card? Tell you what get me one and I’ll sign it for you before I go over.’

‘No...do I ’ell,’ Dylan back tracked quickly.

‘What the fuck is she doing?’ asked Chubby, nodding at something behind Dylan that had caught his attention. Dylan turned to see Tracy walking towards them and signalled her to stop.

‘I asked her to see if she could get some hot drinks for us. I know I need one, don’t you? She’s probably coming to see what we want. Come on mate, you must be cold; you’ve got a purple glow about you. What about a sandwich . . .have you eaten today? What’s the harm in having a drink and a sandwich, eh Chubby?’ Dylan asked.

 There was no response, but Chubby appeared thoughtful. By the look of his gaunt face and the sight of his pronounced ribs he probably hadn’t eaten in days.

‘Well, what do you think Chubby? I’m going to have a drink, so shall I get her to get you one too?’

‘Okay… just a drink...but I’m staying here...don’t think I’m coming down...don’t think I won’t do it,’ he said in a calmer less convincing voice.

‘Coffee okay?’

Chubby Connor rubbed a grimy hand across his brow as he looked at Dylan and nodded. ‘Three sugars.’

Dylan sighed; he knew he’d made progress. ‘Tracy, radio up for some hot coffee as a matter of urgency… I don’t care where it’s from. Just reinforce its urgent,’ Dylan said looking over his shoulder. He was feeling the cold; there was definitely no global warming in Yorkshire.

Tracy stared at him wide eyed and then screamed.

Dylan turned back. ’Shit.’ he shouted, running to the railings. Chubby Connor had gone over the edge.

Bartlett’s Academy for girls was the cream of the schools in West Yorkshire, and Liz and Malcolm Reynolds were delighted when their only daughter, Gemma Louise had been accepted. Dropping her off in her new school uniform had been a proud moment and Liz brushed away a tear, wishing that Malcolm could have been there too. She’d stopped off at Tesco on her way home to obtain the supplies of champagne and strawberries for the afternoon tea party she’d organised for Sunday. Singing softly, she pushed the car door shut with her knee and juggled with a heavy box, as she walked the few yards to her front door. Fumbling with the key in the lock she could hear the telephone ringing. She wasn’t expecting a call but the persistent jingle made her instinctively rush. Precariously, she rested the corner of the box on the telephone table and snatched the phone off its cradle.

‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Damn. Why does that always happen?’ she cried, and quickly rang 1471. Listening to the ringing tone, she smiled at her reflection in the mirror, running her fingers through her newly highlighted hair. She bent closer to the glass to look at her whitened teeth. Wearing the mouth tray of whitening gel had been a bit of a pain but the results were...wow. She giggled, inspecting them closely. Boy was she fortunate to have kept her looks from her photographic modelling days after all she’d been through.

‘The caller withheld their number. Thank you for using this service.’ Liz dropped the phone in its holder. She lifted the box and placed it on the worktop in the kitchen. The telephone rang again. Stopping in her tracks, she swivelled on one foot, glancing heavenward to the chandelier and totted back in her high-heeled boots to pick up the phone.

‘Hello?’ she said, resting the receiver between her jaw and her fur collar as she flicked through the post.

‘That’s better Lizzie…you’ve gotta be quick gal…you never know when it’s going to be important,’ said a man’s mellow voice.

‘Who is this?’ No one called her Lizzie but Malcolm.

The caller dismissed her question.

‘Gemma Lou looked very smart this morning in her smart new uniform, didn’t she? Mmm…just lovely.’

‘Pardon?’ she said, as her gut involuntarily clenched. A hot flush crept through her body and her hand tingled. The man’s voice was quiet, thick but crystal clear. She racked her brain to put a name to it or a place to the accent. He didn’t reply but she could hear his heavy breathing. Liz realised she was squeezing the phone tight and saw the reflection of her white knuckles in the mirror. Who was this creep, this loony? Some ‘paedo’ they warned people about? How did he know their number, her name and, more to the point, Gemma’s? In his silence questions ping-ponged around her head. The mirror in which she had just admired herself now showed her frightened expression. She turned her back on it.

‘What?’ she said, her mouth dry. ’W…what did you say?’

‘You.’ Liz jumped at the growl. ’You heard what I said. Listen, I’m not a crank. Gemma must get her looks from you coz it definitely ain’t from Mal.’ He sniggered. ‘At the moment, she’s at school. Do as I say and she’ll remain there.’ Goosebumps appeared on Liz’s arms.

‘What do you want?’ she asked, not recognising her own voice as it rose in pitch. ’Speak to me…or I’ll hang up,’ she demanded.

‘Don’t fuck with me….’ he snapped, ‘or, little lady, you might just live to regret it. I’m watching you.’ Liz’s eyes flew around the room. There were no windows in the hall, which was the centre of their opulent Georgian home. So where was he watching from? She ran to the door and turned the key with desperate, trembling fingers. Had she opened any windows in the house? Were the deadlocks on the back door? She couldn’t breathe.

‘Liz…Liz look, just be a good girl; take off that fur coat…it does nothing for your figure love. Go into the lounge and sit down on your nice new leather settee. You need to calm down.’ She stood rooted to the spot in disbelief. Where the hell was he?

‘Do it.’ he screeched. She jumped.

‘I’m sorry…please, please, just don’t hurt us.’ She keeled over as if she had been punched in the stomach, trying to disentangle her self from the coat’s sleeves. She was sobbing now, quietly. She staggered, dropped the fur coat to the floor in the sitting room wanting so much to just hang up the phone, but not daring to disobey.

Liz loved her lounge. An elegant Chinese rug sat in the middle of the solid oak wood floor, and upon it stood three huge beige Italian soft leather sofas. She’d chosen gilt Laura Ashley light fittings and lampshades with crystal droplets. The sun coming from behind a cloud suddenly burst through the full wall of windows that were framed with plush deep red velvet curtains making the room feel snug, until now. She stumbled like a zombie and sat on the edge of a cushion. Should she hang up? Drive to the school? Ring the police? Thoughts raced through her head, but she was under his control.

‘I’ve done what you’ve asked.’

‘I know…’ he whispered.

Liz’s eyes scoured the room out through the windows to the garden beyond. Where was he?

‘What do you want? Why are you doing this?’ she asked.

‘Be quiet and listen.’

Liz held her hand to her forehead trying desperately to think what would be best to say. She daren’t move; like a rabbit in a car’s headlights, she was frozen.

‘Firstly,you tell nobody about my call, do you understand…no one at all, because I’ll know.’

‘Yes...yes,’ she said. She gulped. Tears threatened. Where was Liz, the strong, confident woman who had coped with so much, she asked herself.

‘Later this morning you’ll contact your bank manager at Lloyds.’

‘Yes...but...but how do you...which?’

‘Never you mind,’ he interrupted, ‘...you just tell him that you’re calling to warn him that you’ll be with drawing a substantial amount of cash...soon. The amount and the day you’ll confirm, when I’ve decided.’

 ‘But...I can’t. My husband deals with the money… you’ll have to speak to...’

‘You stupid, stupid bitch,’ he shouted so loud in her ear that she almost dropped the phone. ’Don’t try playing games with me. We both know that he won’t be home for a long time yet, now don’t we? Not even on day release.’ Liz gulped hard. Who the hell …? How did he know so much?

 ‘Do as you’re told, or next time it won’t just be the Koi. I’ll be in touch. And remember, I’m watching you.’ The phone went dead.

‘What do you mean? Wait.’ she shouted. The dialling tone burred in her ear. Liz raced along the hallway to the downstairs bathroom and bolted the door. She was safe. Her head was reeling. She leaned forward, grasping the basin and looked into the mirror. What on earth was she going to do? She felt nausea rise within her.