The ghost who owned the footbridge

THE GHOST WHO OWNED THE FOOTBRIDGE




She ran out into the rain and into the darkness, straining her ears for a sound of footfalls coming after her but none came and she realized that was the way it was. Her two dollar scarf that she’d picked up at some yard sale which she went to only to oblige some acquaintance flew back behind her, untwined itself from her collar and glided away in the flying wind. The rain lashed into her coat, driving the frayed stitches deep into her skin and seeped in through the moth holes and drenched her fake designer evening gown. Maybe she was trying too hard to be herself.
The streetlights glared from behind the thick translucent curtain of rain, a glazed phosphorescent halo around their shadowy posts. Her feet splashed through two inches of drain water that some burst pipeline had let into the streets, the splashes drowned in the roar of the rain and the intermittent clashes of thunder. The sky was pitch black and the clouds invisible in the claustrophobic emptiness of the night and she ran with her face raised to the skies but she couldn’t keep her eyes open because of the rain. The sheet of water above her glittered in the soft light like a shower of blessings from heaven, only she knew them for what they really were.
Past the criss-crossing chaotic mess of roadways that the weather had driven empty and the tall apartment blocks behind the thick concrete walls that kept the burglars out and the silverware in, the lines and rows of monotonous houses whose lights were hidden behind heavy linen curtains that seemed as thick… and the night thundered on. The river was right ahead and past the turning. She couldn’t see it because of the rain but she imagined how it would look with the tiny ripples on its ever-moving surface magnified by the storm and she was satisfied. She ran on and felt the hollow toughness of wood beneath her feet replace the cobblestone road as she stepped onto the footbridge and she thrust herself against the railing and slipped down to her knees, pressing her face in through the bars.
She pulled off her ruined black crepe silk hat – the one that had belonged to her mum and the one her mum had given her for Christmas because she wanted to borrow money from her – and tossed it into the waiting depths below. The raindrops trickled from her sad blonde locks onto her face and down her cheeks like misplaced tears that she’d borrowed from the skies because she had none of her own. She turned and sat back against the railings and sighed. The whisper was lost in the rumble of the rain and the wails of the wind.
“I wish…”
And the rain thundered on…




“What do you wish?”
She leapt up, startled, and peered into the darkness. The voice was sad, like her own should sound now, if she spoke, only her voice had lost any emotion it could possibly have held a long time ago.
“I’m sorry, I can’t see you in the dark – I didn’t see you –”
“It’s alright. I didn’t see you either. I just heard you.”
She could make out his silhouette now, kneeling back against the railing just as she was, just opposite. She hadn’t noticed before. She hadn’t looked before. The city lights were strong but dimmed in the rain and dimmed further by the empty dark not-yet-lighted long stretch of unused road between the station and the river. She could hardly see him yet, only a dark form against the spent lights of the city behind.
“Did I frighten you?” He hardly seemed to move as he spoke.
“No – ” She edged forward a little, peering at him through the haze. “I mean, yes. Perhaps a little. You surprised me. ”
“As you did me. I generally don’t expect anyone to be on my bridge.”
“I come here pretty often. I’ve never seen you or anyone else here for that matter.”
“Funny, don’t you think? If the bridge is yours as much as it’s mine, you would have thought we’d be knowing each other, wouldn’t you?”
“At least have had seen each other – ”
She stretched out her hand and her fingers brushed against his jacket – the waterproof polymer felt hardened and yet calm under her touch.
“I have seen you here before.”
She withdrew her hand with a sudden jerk. “Who are you?”
The pause she expected didn’t come. Instead, rough fingers, warm and still dry from being tucked safely under the jacket closed around hers from the other side of the darkness.
“Not who you’re thinking I am, I promise.” His voice was gentler, stronger. “Tell me, do I sound like him?”
She closed her eyes and tightened her grip on his hand, raising her head to the rain. The drops were gentler now; their wild harsh strikes a little less spiteful, a little less wild.
“No – I’m sorry. It’s just that he’s the only one I’ve ever come here with.” And for the first time in fifteen years her voice broke down. “Was the only one I ever came here with.”
And the rain, drumming onto her skin in a frenzied chorus, drummed into her thoughts the lost ties and futile gestures of painstaking adorations, lost promises and treasured vows that served only to, again and again, remind her of the cruelty of false facades of love and the world.
“I’m sorry about him.” The sound of his voice didn’t break off his respectful silence – only seemed to emphasize it.
“He’s gone now… away from who I am…” Then, not quite paying much attention to the incongruity of what she was saying, nor of what he was saying, she broke into a gay laugh. “And I have you. You’re my new ghost.”
“I’m your new ghost and you are mine,” he acknowledged, in a matter-of-fact manner. The rain stopped suddenly, as if cut off by a bout of contentment that did not belong to the night and yet was strong enough to drive it away. She looked up at the clouds, now dark red in the silenced heavens and then brought her eyes down to his chiseled face, his silhouette clearer and formed without the rain, and smiled.
“When will you be here?” she asked.
“Always.”
“When will I be able to see you?”
“Always, now. Whenever you want to.”
“Goodbye then.”
She let go of his fingers and felt them slip away, not quite aware of the feeling of his touch edging away from hers but of the depth of his eyes, as she imagined them, looking into hers in the resolute darkness. Then she turned and ran towards the lights.
Her boots splashed heavily through the waterlogged streets, the sound they were making amplified by the stark silence of a rain-washed night. Her drenched coat weighed her down. The cool breeze that had sprung up after the storm slapped against her cheek and her coat, pushing the warm stitches against her skin and finding their way in through the moth holes, bristling against the silk of her gown. The streetlights looked warm and bright against the blue-orange sketch of the city, somehow inviting. She looked up at the fleeting clouds and the obscure patches of deep blue sky in between, trying to spot the infrequent star.





And, from the storm that had moved ahead, leaving her behind – or had stayed behind and let her move on ahead – a soft growl of thunder reached her ears from the east.
She stopped suddenly. And stared ahead, smiling. And then turned back to face the way she had come. The footbridge stood empty and bare, its wet wooden boards gleaming softly in the light from the city, and her heart fell. She ran towards it, splashing through the street, and closed her eyes to remember. Her footsteps splattered across the rainwater and then onto the hollow wood yet again and she opened her eyes to stare at the emptiness on her bridge.
“Are you there..?” She searched for a name and then realized she didn’t need one. “I want to see my ghost – my ghost who owns my footbridge – ”
“I’m here.”
She swiveled around on her heels. He was standing behind her, at the foot of the bridge, having materialized from some shadowy corner beyond. A smile played across the corners of her lips and she could imagine it being reflected on his.
“On our footbridge.”

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