Shatter (2 page)

The silence stretches out, fil ing the air above their heads, drifting like strands of web in the warm air.

A voice from the darkness fil s the vacuum. ‘She had a stroke.’

I recognise the voice. Bruno has come to check up on me on my first day. I can’t see his face in the shadows but I know he’s smiling.

‘Give that man a cigar,’ I announce.

The keen girl in the front row pouts. ‘But you said there was no brain damage.’

‘I said there were no
obvious
neurological deficits. This woman had suffered a smal stroke on the right side of her brain in an area that deals with emotions. Normal y, the two halves of our brain communicate and come to an agreement but in this case it didn’t happen and her brain fought a physical battle using each side of her body.

‘This case is fifty years old and is one of the most famous in the study of the brain. It helped a neurologist cal ed Dr Kurt Goldstein develop one of the first theories of the divided brain.’

My left arm trembles again, but this time it is oddly reassuring.

‘Forget everything you’ve been told about psychology. It wil not make you a better poker player, nor wil it help you pick up girls or understand them any better. I have three at home and they are a complete mystery to me.

‘It is
not
about dream interpretation, ESP, multiple personalities, mind reading, Rorschach Tests, phobias, recovered memories or repression. And most importantly— it is
not
about getting in touch with yourself. If that’s your ambition I suggest you buy a copy of
Big Jugs
magazine and find a quiet corner.’

There are snorts of laughter.

‘I don’t know any of you yet, but I know things about you. Some of you want to stand out from the crowd and others want to blend in. You’re possibly looking at the clothes your mother packed you and planning an expedition to H&M tomorrow to purchase something distressed by a machine that wil express your individuality by making you look like everyone else on campus.

‘Others among you might be wondering if it’s possible to get liver damage from one night of drinking, and speculating on who set off the fire alarm in Hal s at three o’clock this morning.

You want to know if I’m a hard marker or if I’l give you extensions on assignments or whether you should have taken politics instead of psychology. Stick around and you’l get some answers— but not today.’

I walk back to the centre of the stage and stumble slightly.

‘I wil leave you with one thought. A piece of human brain the size of a grain of sand contains one hundred thousand neurons, two mil ion axons and one bil ion synapses al talking to each other. The number of permutations and combinations of activity that are theoretical y possible in each of our heads exceeds the number of elementary particles in the universe.’

I pause and let the numbers wash over them. ‘Welcome to the great unknown.’

‘Dazzling, old boy, you put the fear of God into them,’ says Bruno, as I gather my papers. ‘Ironic. Passionate. Amusing. You inspired them.’

‘It was hardly Mr Chips.’

‘Don’t be so modest. None of these young philistines have ever heard of Mr Chips. They’ve grown up reading
Harry Potter and the Stoned Philosopher
.’

‘I think it’s “the Philosopher’s Stone”.’

‘Whatever. With that little affectation of yours, Joseph, you have everything it takes to be much loved.’

‘Affectation?’

‘Your Parkinson’s.’

He doesn’t bat an eyelid when I stare at him in disbelief. I tuck my battered briefcase under my arm and make my way towards the side door of the lecture hal .

‘Wel , I’m pleased you think they were listening,’ I say.

‘Oh, they never listen,’ says Bruno. ‘It’s a matter of osmosis; occasional y something sinks through the alcoholic haze. But you did guarantee they’l come back.’

‘How so?’

‘They won’t know how to lie to you.’

His eyes fold into wrinkles. Bruno is wearing trousers that have no pockets. For some reason I’ve never trusted a man who has no use for pockets. What does he do with his hands?

The corridors and walkways are ful of students. A girl approaches. I recognise her from the lecture. Clear-skinned, wearing desert boots and black jeans, her heavy mascara makes her look raccoon-eyed with a secret sadness.

‘Do you believe in evil, Professor?’

‘Excuse me?’

She asks the question again, clutching a notebook to her chest.

‘I think the word “evil” is used too often and has lost value.’

‘Are people born that way or does society create them?’

‘They are created.’

‘So there are no natural psychopaths?’

‘They’re too rare to quantify.’

‘What sort of answer is that?’

‘It’s the right one.’

She wants to ask me something else but struggles to find courage. ‘Would you agree to an interview?’ she blurts suddenly.

‘What for?’

‘The student newspaper. Professor Kaufman says you’re something of a celebrity.’

‘I hardly think…’

‘He says you were charged with murdering a former patient and beat the rap.’

‘I was innocent.’

The distinction seems lost on her. She’s stil waiting for an answer.

‘I don’t give interviews. I’m sorry.’

She shrugs and turns, about to leave. Something else occurs to her. ‘I enjoyed the lecture.’

‘Thank you.’

She disappears down the corridor. Bruno looks at me sheepishly. ‘Don’t know what she’s talking about, old boy. Wrong end of the stick.’

‘What are you tel ing people?’

‘Only good things. Her name is Nancy Ewers. She’s a bright young thing. Studying Russian and politics.’

‘Why is she writing for the newspaper?’

‘ “Knowledge is precious whether or not it serves the slightest human use.” ’

‘Who said that?’

‘A.E. Housman.’

‘Wasn’t he a communist?’

‘A pil ow biter.’

It is stil raining. Teeming. For weeks it has been like this. Forty days and forty nights must be getting close. An oily wave of mud, debris and sludge is being swept across the West Country, making roads impassable and turning basements into swimming pools. There are radio reports of flooding in the Malago Val ey, Hartcliffe Way and Bedminster. Warnings have been issued for the Avon, which burst its banks at Evesham. Locks and levees are under threat. People are being evacuated. Animals are drowning.

The quadrangle is washed by rain, driven sideways in sheets. Students huddle under coats and umbrel as, making a dash for their next lecture or the library. Others are staying put, mingling in the foyer. Bruno observes the prettier girls without ever making it obvious.

It was he who suggested I lecture— two hours a week and four tutorials of half an hour each. Social psychology. How hard could it be?

‘Do you have an umbrel a?’ he asks.

‘Yes.’

‘We’l share.’

My shoes are ful of water within seconds. Bruno holds the umbrel a and shoulders me as we run. As we near the psychology department, I notice a police car parked in the emergency bay. A young black constable steps from inside wearing a raincoat. Tal , with short-cropped hair, he hunches his shoulders slightly as if beaten down by the rain.

‘Dr Kaufman?’

Bruno acknowledges him with a half-nod.

‘We have a situation on the Clifton Bridge.’

Bruno groans. ‘No, no, not now.’

The constable doesn’t expect a refusal. Bruno pushes past him, heading towards the glass doors to the psychology building, stil holding my umbrel a.

‘We tried to phone,’ yel s the officer. ‘I was told to come and get you.’

Bruno stops and turns back, muttering expletives.

‘There must be someone else. I don’t have the time.’

Rain leaks down my neck. I ask Bruno what’s wrong.

Suddenly he changes tack. Jumping over a puddle, he returns my umbrel a as though passing on the Olympic torch.

‘This is the man you
really
want,’ he says to the officer. ‘Professor Joseph O’Loughlin, my esteemed col eague, a clinical psychologist of great repute. An old hand. Very experienced at this sort of thing.’

‘What sort of thing?’

‘A jumper.’

‘Pardon?’

‘On the Clifton Suspension Bridge,’ adds Bruno. ‘Some halfwit doesn’t have enough sense to get out of the rain.’

The constable opens the car door for me. ‘Female. Early forties,’ he says.

I stil don’t understand.

Bruno adds, ‘Come on, old boy. It’s a public service.’

‘Why don’t
you
do it?’

‘Important business. A meeting with the chancel or. Heads of Department.’ He’s lying. ‘False modesty isn’t necessary, old boy. What about that young chap you saved in London? Wel -

deserved plaudits. You’re far more qualified than me. Don’t worry. She’l most likely jump before you get there.’

I wonder if he hears himself sometimes.

‘Must dash. Good luck.’ He pushes through the glass doors and disappears inside the building.

The officer is stil holding the car door. ‘They’ve blocked off the bridge,’ he explains. ‘We real y must hurry, sir.’

Wipers thrash and a siren wails. From inside the car it sounds strangely muted and I keep looking over my shoulder expecting to see an approaching police car. It takes me a moment to realise that the siren is coming from somewhere closer, beneath the bonnet.

Masonry towers appear on the skyline. It is Brunel’s master-piece, the Clifton Suspension Bridge, an engineering marvel from the age of steam. Tail ights blaze. Traffic is stretched back for more than a mile on the approach. Sticking to the apron of the road, we sweep past the stationary cars and pul up at a roadblock where police in fluorescent vests control onlookers and unhappy motorists.

The constable opens the door for me and hands me my umbrel a. A sheet of rain drives sideways and almost rips it from my hands. Ahead of me the bridge appears deserted. The masonry towers support massive sweeping interlinking cables that curve graceful y to the vehicle deck and rise again to the opposite side of the river.

One of the attributes of bridges is that they offer the possibility that someone may start to cross but never reach the other side. For that person the bridge is virtual; an open window that they can keep passing or climb through.

The Clifton Suspension Bridge is a landmark, a tourist attraction and a one-drop shop for suicides. Wel -used, oft-chosen, perhaps ‘popular’ isn’t the best choice of word. Some people say the bridge is haunted by past suicides; eerie shadows have been seen drifting across the vehicle deck.

There are no shadows today. And the only ghost on the bridge is flesh and blood. A woman, naked, standing outside the safety fence, with her back pressed to the metal lattice and wire strands. The heels of her red shoes are balancing on the edge.

Like a figure from a surrealist painting, her nakedness isn’t particularly shocking or even out of place. Standing upright, with a rigid grace, she stares at the water with the demeanour of someone who has detached herself from the world.

The officer in charge introduces himself. He’s in uniform: Sergeant Abernathy. I don’t catch his first name. A junior officer holds an umbrel a over his head. Water streams off the dark nylon dome, fal ing on my shoes.

‘What do you need?’ asks Abernathy.

‘A name.’

‘We don’t have one. She won’t talk to us.’

‘Has she said anything at al ?’

‘No.’

‘She could be in shock. Where are her clothes?’

‘We haven’t found them.’

I glance along the pedestrian walkway, which is enclosed by a fence topped with five strands of wire, making it difficult for anyone to climb over. The rain is so heavy I can barely see the far side of the bridge.

‘How long has she been out there?’

‘Best part of an hour.’

‘Have you found a car?’

‘We’re stil looking.’

She most likely approached from the eastern side which is heavily wooded. Even if she stripped on the walkway dozens of drivers must have seen her. Why didn’t anyone stop her?

A large woman with short cropped hair, dyed black, interrupts the meeting. Her shoulders are rounded and her hands bunch in the pockets of a rain jacket hanging down to her knees.

She’s huge. Square. And she’s wearing men’s shoes.

Abernathy stiffens. ‘What are you doing here, ma’am?’

‘Just trying to get home, Sergeant. And don’t cal me ma’am. I’m not the bloody Queen.’

She glances at the TV crews and press photographers who have gathered on a grassy ridge, setting up tripods and lights. Final y she turns to me.

‘What are you shaking for, precious? I’m not that scary.’

‘I’m sorry. I have Parkinson’s Disease.’

‘Tough break. Does that mean you get a sticker?’

‘A sticker?’

‘Disabled parking. Lets you park almost anywhere. It’s almost as good as being a detective only we get to shoot people and drive fast.’

She’s obviously a more senior police officer than Abernathy.

She looks towards the bridge. ‘You’l be fine, Doc, don’t be nervous.’

‘I’m a professor, not a doctor.’

‘Shame. You could be like Doctor Who and I could be your female sidekick. Tel me something, how do you think the Daleks managed to conquer so much of the universe when they couldn’t even climb stairs?’

‘I guess it’s one of life’s great mysteries.’

‘I got loads of them.’

A two-way radio is being threaded beneath my jacket and a reflective harness loops over my shoulders and clips at the front. The woman detective lights a cigarette and pinches a strand of tobacco from the tip of her tongue. Although not in charge of the operation, she’s so natural y dominant that the uniformed officers seem more ready to react to her every word.

‘You want me to go with you?’ she asks.

‘I’l be OK.’

‘Al right, tel Skinny Minnie I’l buy her a low fat muffin if she steps onto our side of the fence.’

‘I’l do that.’

Temporary barricades have blocked off both approaches to the bridge, which is deserted except for two ambulances and waiting paramedics. Motorists and spectators have gathered beneath umbrel as and coats. Some have scrambled up a grassy bank to get a better vantage point.