Warning!

This story is for *adults only*. If you are offended by discussion of adult themes, do not read.

Sunday 28 October 2007

1. Jumper's Hump

1. Jumper's Hump


The river Great Onsford snakes it’s way across three hundred and fifty miles of English countryside before it reaches the town of Brentwich, by which time it has gorged itself on several tributaries and has become quite torpid, no longer the fresh young stream of its youth, but a fat sludgy mass. In response to this quite unflattering visitor, Brentwich turns its back, growing and evolving away from the river, distancing itself as a teenager will their own parent so that the river flows only through the old industrial district, well away from trendy nightclubs and chestnut-lined avenues. To be fair, it’s not as though Brentwich has many of these - you far more likely to find an avenue lined with broken televisions and stained mattresses than you are one with chestnut trees - but the thought was there. Really, the river was much better left out of sight. The floating shopping trolleys only served to remind the inhabitants that theirs was a town with a great deal of rubbish. Not that it was only rubbish which could be found floating on the slimy surface. There were far less pleasant things to find.

There was only one main bridge which united the two halves of Brentwich’s industrial sector. This link curved up at the river’s widest point to a height of forty metres above the Great Onsford’s high tide, spanning over two hundred metres, a grand achievement of Brunel’s Britain. It was given the grotesquely absurd name of Freedom Bridge. Far more common among the local populace, however, was its affectionate nickname - Jumper’s Hump.

If you wanted to kill yourself in Brentwich (and chances are, if you lived in the town long enough, you probably would at some point) then Jumper’s Hump was simply the most fashionable way to go. In the past year alone, there had been twenty two jumps from the bridge, seventeen of which were ‘successful’. The most likely cause of death was internal bleeding - ribs shattering upon impact and piercing multiple internal organs. Drowning was secondary. Of those unfortunates who were unsuccessful , nearly all were shown to have smashed ankles and femurs, taking months of healing and rehabilitation to learn how to walk again (“Yes Mr Enslow, you can have another go at the Hump, but first we’ve got to practice our exercises, now haven’t we?”).

There were seasonal changes, of course. Summer was comparatively suicide-free. There was even a tally kept by locals as to how many days in a row Jumper’s Hump had gone without a jumper - ‘85 DAYS - NEW RECORD’. February was peak time, the seasonal equivalent of a bad hangover. Christmas was also especially prominent. There’s nothing like the festive spirit to drive someone over the edge.

And so it was on this night, at 10.04pm on Saturday the 23rd of December, that eighteen year-old Michael Clements arrived at the corner off Jumper’s Hump with the single, clear purpose of plunging himself into the blackness and ending his life.

The yellow-lit streets glowed with a crystalline sharpness Michael had never noticed before. He didn’t walk - he floated, just as he soon would along the river. What a wonderful feeling: for once to have a purpose; for once to walk out the front door of his family’s home and know he would never come back; for once to have somewhere he was supposed to be. He trembled with the anticipation. Michael Clements was going places - possibly all the way to the harbour.

In preparation for this momentous evening, Michael had actually taken care with his appearance, bathing himself with the same reverie in which a Muslim washes before prayer. He let the water turn cold, closed his eyes and slipped under the surface, pretending it was the Great Onsford and smiling at the safe, womb-like feel. Only his mother’s banging at the door - “Michael, hurry yourself up, Parkie’s on soon! Whatever are you doing in there?!” - forced him to wrench himself out like a newborn and take the first aching gasp. He fingered his black hair into place, put on his favourite black t-shirt and black jeans, and zipped up his best black hoodie. A dark priest.

“You going out somewhere?” Mother called, craning her head from watching Parkinson, her tone more surprised than questioning.

Michael nodded.

“Oh. Well, don’t be out too late, alright?”

Michael opened the door.

“Michael? Enjoy yourself.”

Michael closed the door behind him.

And now, as he walked/floated along Burton Street, for the first time in a long time Michael really was enjoying himself. Indeed, there was even a barely perceptible spring in his step, and an almost-smile kept twitching at the corners of his mouth which every now and again he gave into under the disguise of chewing his fingernails.

Working at her late-night café and half-way through pouring a cup of tea, Sylvie Bolton noticed with some amusement the black-clad youth bouncing past her window. She smiled to herself, Bet he just lost his cherry, then went back to milk and two sugars.

She was wrong, of course, but then Michael couldn’t have been more giddy as he neared the corner to Freedom Road than if he had lost his cherry, and the excitement was building up as he got nearer to the bridge. It was as though he had finally been dealt the card he wanted, ‘Go straight to the Bridge, do not pass Go, do not collect £200’. Just one more corner….

The first thing he noticed were the blue lights pulsing out at the yellow darkness. The second thing was the fluorescent yellow tape stretched across the road. The third was the small crowd gathering around the policeman at the front. Michael’s heart sank. Even though he knew life had thwarted him again, the message hadn’t reached his legs yet, which kept on going towards the barrier where the jolly policeman was explaining the situation (gossip) to the concerned (nosey) gathering.

Apart from Michael, only one other person stood apart, sucking on the stub of a cigarette and sitting on the bonnet of a car parked on the other side of the road, his silently amused face flashing yellow and blue.

5 comments:

ShoLeigh said...

Me first! =D I love your descriptive writing, you're awesome with words. I can't wait for the next bit. I already feel attached to Micheal!

Pam said...

Tis a humbing experience to read your work, Tony, for honest and true...Tis beautiful in it's darkness.

thewynd said...

Always a little humor laced into your work. One of the things I truly love about it. We can find some sort of humor in even the darkest of things.

Really looking for ward to more.

Anonymous said...

Newbie,this was wonderful! Beautiful writing, great details, and wonderful comedic inserts! You drew me step by step to this wonderful story! Loved it!

Eve said...

Truly, this is so wonderful that, you don't need pics. You continue to amaze me with your talent! The writing is hauntingly descriptive, and I could picture every detail in my mind. Please let me know when the next part is posted!!!!

Damn, Tony...I love your work!