Leaper08 - Copy

Leaper: A short story by Terry Shine. 2009

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Leaper: He was halfway across the bridge, driving without thinking, going with the traffic flow, lulled into near somnolence by the warmth inside the car and the wistful sadness of the Mahler that enveloped him. His gaze rested on the glowing red rear lights of the black Saab which merged sleekly into the night as it travelled at a constant fifteen metres ahead of him. The music prompted mental images of a tragic, overwrought Dirk Bogarde, drifting hopelessly through Visconti’s fetid Venice. His reverie was broken by something that caught his eye. Immediately to his right, from the parapet as he passed, he thought he caught a fleeting glance of a human form for an instant before it dropped away. It must have been imagination, a trick of light and shadow. Dr Jacob Elstrom reached into the small tray beside his left hand and by touch selected one of the smooth round white pearls of peppermint it contained, to soothe his senses as he continued on his way.

Hetti Lonnberg was angry with herself. It had not been a good day. All she wanted to do was get home as quickly as possible. Work had not gone well. She had found it hard to concentrate. It was uncomfortable trying to sit sideways at her desk, and in a moment of absentmindedness she had lost a mornings work. With an inadvertent click of the mouse she had dispersed a set of important drawings out into the ether, and made her architects vision of a new sports arena disappear. The little Anna or Ben growing inside her had had a restless morning. For the first time the intermittent but insistent kicks and bumps of her first baby induced in Hetti a sensation of nausea spiked with fear. There was the irreversible fact another being was growing inside her, and a reminder the day of the birth was coming closer and there was nothing she could do about it. There was no rescheduling, no cancellation, no project review option available. This

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commonplace event, childbirth, was anything but when it became a first time personal experience. Hetti suffered a few moments of real panic.

It took all Hetti’s self-control to stop her from blasting on her horn to scatter the cars in front of her so she could put her foot down and carve her way through the double line of steadily moving obstructions blocking her way. Her impatience evaporated when she saw him. She didn’t know for sure it was a male figure, but made that presumption when she saw him carry out his obvious intention. Hetti held her breathe as an instant tantalisingly stretched itself. He stood on the metal rail, balanced briefly, illuminated against the darkness into which he faced by the lights of the bridge and passing cars. Alone, aloof and almost monk like in appearance because of the pale green or grey hooded sweat top that obscured his face, he stepped off into the void. Hetti began to brake, but then released the pedal as the car immediately behind blared its objection. She looked in her rear view mirror to observe the driver two cars back was stopping and holding up the traffic. Shocked by what she’d seen, but unable to do otherwise, Hetti continued on her way.

Peter Sorenson noticed the individual from a distance. The person stood immobile beside the metal rail, holding on to it with both hands, while staring down towards the river. Suddenly, in one athletic movement they had leapt up onto the rail, and then after a momentary pause had simply stepped off into space. Peter reacted instinctively. He stopped his car, got out and rushed to the barrier. He looked down but could only see reflections of the lights around him. Those from the bridge, the work lights and those illuminating the giant crane of the shipyard seemed to slither restlessly on the cold, shifting surface of the oil black river. As he peered down, trying to locate the floating or swimming body he expected to see, he began to doubt himself. Could he have imagined it? No! Had the person had time to reach the shore? No! Could they have sunk like a block of stone? Not unless weighted down. They hadn’t seemed to be impeded by weights when

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jumping from the bridge.

A few of the drivers in the lengthening queue behind him got out of their cars and joined him at the rail. A heavy-set man with cropped blonde hair, wearing a dark blue overcoat stood beside Peter. ‘I saw him jump’ the man offered. ‘What a selfish bastard! Look at all the trouble he’s caused.’ He gestured towards the lengthening string of car headlights stretching behind them. A few drivers began to move into the outside lane joining the stream of vehicles that slowed to look before accelerating away. ‘I don’t think we can judge.’ said Peter. He leant over and looked down again. ‘I can’t see anything moving.’ Another man appeared carrying a powerful flashlight. He began to cast its beam across the surface of the water. ‘We’d better call the police’ said Peter producing his mobile phone from his pocket. He dialled 90000. ‘Hello. My name is Peter Sorenson. I’m on the bridge over the Gota river and I’ve just seen someone jump off. ‘ ‘Are you driving or are you on foot?’ asked a male voice. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m telling you someone has just jumped into the river. What has driving got to do with it?’ ‘Are you in a car? Do you know the person who jumped? Were you with them?’ ‘I have no idea who they are.’ Said Peter impatiently. ‘It was just a person, male or female. I’m not sure? ‘That’s O.K. Mr Sorenson. Give me your details. We are getting other reports of the incident as we speak. Stay where you are. Police and Ambulance are on their way.’ Peter automatically recited his address, home and cell phone numbers, and social security number. By the time he had finished giving the police officer the details that would reveal his whole life history the sound of sirens could be heard approaching in the distance.

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Erik Rilke lay stretched out on his sofa, naked except for a pair of black boxer shorts and the heavy divers watch on his left wrist. The hot shower he had just taken had turned the exhaustion of a frenetically busy day into a sensation of warm indolence. He checked the time and used the remote control to turn on the TV. Newsreader Anna Mikkelsen was introducing the programme. Her image was soon replaced by a short sequence of tape segments. Her voice continued to summarise the news stories she was about to present in greater detail. Erik was still able to visualise Anna in his minds eye. The honey blonde hair cut boyishly to flatter the Slavic loveliness of her face. Her broad forehead, the pert nose with the sprinkling of freckles that could not be seen on camera because of makeup, but Erik knew were there. The intense pale emerald of her eyes, the broad lipped smile and the voice that sounded as if it were produced by vibrating cords of velvet.

His reverie was broken. Erik sat up. There it was on screen. What he’d been waiting for. The bridge. The headlights of the cars slowly passing the four or five police vehicles whose blue emergency lights were sweeping the scene. A man was being interviewed about what he had witnessed. The images were from the TV stations news team. What about his own pictures? They had used them. His footage had been edited in. He clapped his hands with glee. Really dramatic sequences shot from the riverbank. The helicopter eased in low over the bridge and hovered. Its floodlight cast a broad circle of illumination across the surface of the water. The police boat repeatedly crossed the river from side to side, its own searchlight probing the deep shadows along the riverbank. A police officer gave instructions to colleagues. The commingling breath of the group looked like condensing steam rising above them in a scene illuminated by torchlight and regular pulses of flashing blue. Erik was thrilled to see the dramatically atmospheric images he had captured shown on screen.

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Anna reappeared. She was explaining the police had not yet found a body. Erik sniggered. They wouldn’t would they? Stupid cunt! He was going to show the new Mrs Carlson the price of betrayal. Imagine! Marrying a cop! The woman he had worshipped for two years, the one who had written so sweetly to thank him for his own letter of congratulation when she had won the National Television Award for journalism. The thought his heroine, whom he had filmed reporting with such courage from Iraq and The Congo, was defiling and wasting herself; throwing herself away, without even giving him the chance to properly declare his love, or to show he was worthy of her. They had shared so much. The horror of the sight of burnt and mutilated corpses, the anguish of survivors and the fear of deadly danger to themselves. He had held and hugged her. Gently brushed away her tears. She did not know it yet but she had already begun to pay.

Things had gone much better than he had expected. His plan had worked without the slightest hitch. His jump from the bridge had been perfect. He had pulled off the hooded fleece as soon as he surfaced and let it drift with the tide. That would cause some confusion when they found it. The shore had been reached in less than ninety seconds. He had recovered his rucksack from under the bridge, towelled off the wetsuit, thrown on his motorcycling leathers over it, put on his boots, and taken out his compact Sony DV camera, which he hung by its strap around his neck. Slipping through the shadows he’d returned to his bike on the back road leading to the Shipbuilders yard. Within seven minutes of hitting the water he had been on the bridge recording the scene as the police arrived, and then followed them down to the riverbank.

The drive from the bridge to the television studio had taken about fifteen minutes. Erik recalled running into reception without taking off his newly purchased helmet. Peller, one of the security team who knew Eric very well was on desk duty, but had no hope of recognising Eric as he had ignored the guard’s instruction to remove his helmet. With his voice muffled by a thick woollen scarf,

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Eric insisted the DV tape contained in an envelope heavily sealed with tape and with the words ‘First Communication From Leaper’ written on it was urgently expected and had to be delivered to the news editor as quickly as possible. Obviously when Nikki Randers had seen the news value and quality of the anonymous tape he’d been unable to resist using it. Erik had rushed out of the lobby and returned to his bike. He knew security cameras were observing and recording his visit and departure, but the false number plates would ensure no fingers of suspicion would be pointed in Erik Rilke’s direction. Nobody would be able to discover the identity of the mystery courier when the need, as it soon would do, arose.

Anna said goodnight. Erik smiled to himself and murmured his own goodnight in reply as he used the remote control to put the TV in standby mode. He stood up and walked through to the smaller spare bedroom of the two, which along with the living room he had just left, a tiny kitchen and shower room, made up his 6th floor apartment. The equipment he needed was laid out neatly on the single bed. The obvious and eccentric Andy Warhol wig. Sunglasses. The clown mask. The roll of metallic grey sticky tape, and newly purchased black tracksuit and anorak with its large hood were ready to be packed in the rucksack. The hunting knife with its thick, serrated twenty-five centimetre blade, and bone handle, nestled in its belted sheath.

As he had shown tonight, everything was down to careful planning. Tomorrow evening after her news broadcast Anna might spend a while in the canteen with colleagues, chatting and smoking her one daily cigarette. She might, if she was tired, simply leave the studio and make straight for her car, which would be parked in its assigned spot in the underground car park. Disguised in his wig, clown mask and sunglasses Erik would be waiting in his hiding place behind a pillar. As she opened the driver’s door he would emerge, show her the knife and force her across into the passenger seat. He would then drive her across the

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same bridge, the scene of this evening’s drama, and on until they reached the narrow turnoff into the forest and the abandoned wooden hunters hut he had already prepared for their visit. He would take her inside, tape her hands together and bind her to the single chair in the middle of the dusty wooden floor. He did not want to have to tape her mouth, but would if she insisted on making any noise beyond a compliant whisper.

Erik would then set up his camera and tripod. He would tell her the previous nights story had been a hoax. That she had been set up like a fool. He would then record her humiliation, and deliver the tape to the studio as before. What a story! Anna Mikkelsen kidnapped. What kind of ordeal was our wonderful Anna, having to endure? Let them wonder. Let them speculate. He would enjoy taking part in discussions at the studio, observing his colleagues as they swapped theories about who the crazy kidnapper might be. Never knowing he was not so crazy but there amongst them and laughing at them. Further episodes of Anna’s bound degradation might follow, this time to be left for collection at various locations notified to the police and newspapers with the demand they be broadcast or their sobbing little heroine might have to die.

If she hadn’t already guessed who he was, Erik would eventually remove his disguise and reveal himself. He would tell her how much she had hurt him. He would explain why she had to be punished for marrying that fucking cop. What a sweet irony it would be if her husband of only a few months were put on the case. What if he had to help in the desperate search to find his wife before…. before it had to end? Erik was intrigued more than surprised to find he had taken the hunting knife out of its sheath, and was gripping it firmly in his hand. It was obvious to him now. Anna Mikkelsen was going to have to die.

END.

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