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by Karen Goldrick

It is still dark, when Lee Kum comes to the bridge to fish. There is a light, high over the middle of the bridge, underneath which is a long wooden seat. He sets one rod against the rail to the left of the seat, and another to the right. He sits, and sips luke warm tea from a thermos.

Perhaps he will change his name. David. Or Brian. His brother Lung now only answers to Kevin. The black sky fades and the silhouettes on the water become boats. If there are no fish soon, he will have to go to the markets.

The light is off and Garry runs onto the bridge. He blows plumes of fog before him as he runs in two three out in two three out his feet his arms his breath his heart all united in rhythm. He sees only the path ahead, neither right nor left, and in the still dark can only see a few paces.

In two three out in two three out there is something ahead. His eyes are blurry with sweat so maybe it is nothing two three out in two three out and the something merges into one line which will not go away two three out why doesn’t somebody move it two three out and almost without realising his feet collide and he tumbles to the ground in a tangle of wood line and bait. His knees scrape across the gravel. There is a shout and somebody comes to help but he pushes them away. Why didn’t somebody move it?. He tries to stand but the line still strangles his leg. It will not break, and merely slices the palm of his hand. Then there is a flash of steel in the early light and someone cuts him free. He runs off, two…three… but his breathing is ragged and the rhythm is lost. It is not until he reaches the end of the bridge that he feels any pain.

Earnest McDonald passes him as he struggles up the hill. Earnest shakes his head.

“C’mon Missy,” he says to the small poodle at his feet. Like Earnest, her once dark curls are touched with grey, as if by the strokes of a paintbrush. They walk to the seat, as they do every morning, and sit to watch the glow of the rising sunlight on the hills across the bay. Earnest notices the broken fishing line discarded on the grass. He rolls it up and puts it in his top pocket. Missy places her paws on the seat and he lifts her up beside him. Together they watch the hills, and seem not to notice the increasing morning walkers joggers and the noise of the cars behind them, who have switched their lights off for the day.

The seat is empty again when Kate begins her crossing. She holds the rail with both hands, and pulls her massive legs, one after the other, up the slope which meets the bridge. Here she pauses and huffs and wheezes, still clinging to the rail. She will need help. She waits, and watches the hopefull seagulls fly around boat masts. Eventually a woman crosses the bridge from the other side. This woman wears a baseball cap, and dark glasses, and pushes a large pram with three wheels. Kate waits until the woman is almost across, and has started to move her pram up on the grass so they might pass, then steps across her path.

“Help me cross the bridge?” she wheezes, and grabs the women by the arm. Surprised, the woman stops.

“Oh,” she says, and looks at her watch and up to the sun. But Kate has already begun her slow walk, and she has no option but to turn the pram and follow.

“We’ll have to be quick,” she says, the flushes with the foolishness of it.

“’E cut me leg open, didn’t he,” Kate replies. “Said ‘e ‘ad to cut it open, didn’t ‘e. See.” She jerks her long billowing skirt up and the woman can’t help but look at the large bandaged leg, like a tree trunk. Large purple veins climb the good leg, and she wonders how they support the huge wheezy bulk above, then pushes the guilty thought away.

Their progress is slow, overtaken by runners, by cyclists, by power walkers and by prams. Eventually they reach the end of the bridge, and the rail stops.

“I’ll have to leave you here,” the woman says, looking at her watch again.

“’E give me some pills, didn’t he. Said I had to have them.”

“Will you be OK?”

“’E give me the pills. Had to cut me leg, ‘e did. See.” Again Kate lifts her skirt.

“I’ve got to go.” The woman pulls her arm free and turns the pram. She doesn’t look back until she’s nearly across. When she does she sees Kate stumbling down the gravel path which leads to the bay. The woman reassures herself that there are plenty of passing walkers and joggers to help, and looks away.

The sun is high. The is an almost perceptible easing of the passing traffic. Eadie wipes a few drops of sweat from her brow, and wishes she had a hat. She pushes a shopping trolley laden with blue plastic shopping bags, each tied in a knot. The seat is free, and she eases the trolley up on the grass and sits. Seagulls arrive.

“Piss off,” she says. “I’ve only enough for myself.” She struggles for a while with a knot, and wishes her nails were still long. Finally it is free, and she takes a can of coke and two thick pieces of bread wrapped in plastic. The bread is a few days old, and each mouthful is washed down with the warm drink. The crusts are too hard, and reluctantly she offers them to the gulls, who fight over them. She brushes the crumbs from her jacket, and uses a handkerchief to clean her face.

The hill at the end of the bridge is long and steep, but if she takes it then she can afford a swim and a shower at the pool. But where will she leave her trolley?

Reluctantly she stands, and pushes her trolley back to the path. She will go around the bay, and settle for a toilet block and a wash in the sink. Two young girls walk towards her, each holding a small mobile phone and pressing the small buttons on the keypad with their thumbs. They are intent on their task, and do not see Eadie, so again she pushes her trolley up the grassy verge to let them pass.

Donna is texting Lil. She’d rather be texting Ben, Lil’s brother, and wonders if somehow he’ll know. Her thumb is stiff but she will not change hands.

After the two girls leave the bridge there is a time, a short space of time when the bridge is empty and the cars have stopped. Half a dozen pigeons roost in the grass near the seat, enjoying the afternoon sun. Their rest is short. Two girls slouch onto the bridge and plonk down in the seat, sending the birds skyward. One sips on a Redbull, then hands it to the other.

‘Hold this. No slurping,” she says. She straightens her legs and leans back into the seat until her jeans are loose enough to allow two fingers into the front pocket. After some swearing her fingers draw out a Swiss Army knife knife. She stands and walks around the seat.

“What you up to, Lu?” asks her companion.

“Shush. And don’t spill that drink.”

The girl called Lu starts to scrape away at the green paint with the tip of her knife.

“How do you spell Luscious?” she asks.

“L. U. S. C…”

“Na. Lush as in lush.”

“Yeah,” says her companion as she takes a sip from the can. There plenty of people walking running riding by, but no-one stops them.

“What you got?”

“Lu is a lushous babe!”

“Go get ‘em girl.”

They both jump up, and Lu pushes over a nearly empty bin as she walks past. The wind picks up a chip packet and sends it somersaulting into the path of a cyclist. It clips his wheels, and is momentarily caught in the spokes, then snaps free. Although the chip packet doesn’t slow him, he has to peddle almost to a stop because there are four walking in a row across the path in front of him. Two small white dogs run ahead on the end of extendaleads. The cyclist rings his bell. One. Two. One of the women turns her head, but no-one moves over. So he cycles in a slow zigzag in first gear until he gains the road at the other end of the bridge. He has lost all momentum, and will likely have to walk up the hill.

The sun in the west behind the hills has drivers and walkers alike squinting in the harsh golden glare. Then, just as the glare reaches and unbearable peak, it subsides behind the hills, and there is a silent communal sigh of relief. Headlights on now. The lamp above the seat soon takes over. No-one has time to sit. All in to much of a hurry to get home watch the news eat dinner. A couple walk, hand in hand, and let the excellent red wine they had with dinner slow them enough to notice the lights glow on the dark water. Fishing boats chug back to their moors, and join their silent companions. The traffic eases. There is one jogger, pushing cold air in front of her as she runs. One cyclist, head down. Then, for a while, just the water and and the soft ring of rope on mast.

Belinda and Craig walk unsteadily to the seat and sit down. Belinda thinks she might be sick, and wishes the ground would stay still. She wonders if Joe noticed her leave the club.

“That bitch,” she says when she can control her mouth enough to speak.

“Yeah,” Craig repliers, dragging back on his cigarette and willing to agree with anything just for the privilege of accompanying her.

Maybe Joe is looking around the club for her. Thinks she’s gone to the toilet. Wants to apologise. But she keeps seeing his face in Hers. That bitch! The vision will not leave. She pulls Craig over to her and kisses him hard on the lips. Surprised, he drops his cigarette which tries to find life in the damp grass, then is smothered. She kisses him and kisses him, but still the vision does not leave and at last she gives in and pulls back, and is sick all over the chair and the grass. Now Craig stands up and wishes he could go back to the club. Maybe her friends can come and clean her up. He can hear the faint duff duff of the speakers over the water and knows if he is not back soon the bar will close.

“C’mon,” he tries to pull her up but all she can do is lie down on the seat and close her eyes. He’s probably not strong enough to carry her. So he pulls the packet of cigarettes out of his top pocket and leaves. The occasional car on the road behind cannot see her. Only the moon, a small crescent, and not hanging around long enough to find out. Finally she stands, hot and thirsty, and staggers to the rail. She thinks she might be sick again, but eventually realises she won’t. There is no noise now from the club. The lights are out. She begins the long walk home.

It is still dark when Lee Kum arrives to fish. The seat is soiled so he must stand. He sets his rods against the rail, sips his tea, and thinks about the name Peter, or Hannibal. he looks to the East, and wonders if that runner will trip over his line again. But as the morning lightens the sky, there is no sign of him, and Lee decides to head for the markets. He packs away his rods, and walks off, past an old Man and a dog, and a cyclist, and watches someone row in a canoe across the Bay.