The Whits

Prologue

It was cold. Angry fingers of wind poked and pulled at his thin t-shirt making another shiver irresistible. Eric adjusted position on his perch and looked out wearily towards the city. This had been a mistake; high ground was not the answer, though he couldn’t now remember what it wasn’t the answer to.

Strobing blues and reds flashed erratically in the darkness. Lurid patterns formed then disappeared in the briefest of moments, as colours collided with the grey oxide metalwork of the bridge. Far below, rows of stationary headlights stretching into the distance like daisy-chains told of the disruption he was causing.

He shivered again.

“At least let me get you a blanket Eric?” a grey-haired man in a brown suit called over, pulling his jacket tight around his torso. “It’s cold up here now. Just while you think – that can’t hurt can it?”

Eric had to admit the offer was tempting. The guy, Dean, said he was a negotiator. Said he was there to help. Eric couldn’t even recall how he’d gotten to this place, let alone what needed negotiating. He was confused, felt unbalanced, but wasn’t suicidal; was he?

For the last hour he’d rambled, more to himself than Dean, and Dean listened with quiet sympathy to the confused mixture of statements and questions; every so often gently affirming Eric’s safety, that friends were worried and wanted him to come home, repeating several times that no ‘good’ answers were going to be found at the top of a bridge in the middle of the night.

“Eric,” Dean called again. “The blanket?”

Dean was on a worker’s platform about ten feet away from the stanchion Eric had climbed over to. Two other guys, both apparently police, stood quietly behind the older man, watching, but saying nothing. There was no way they could get to Eric before he could react, and they knew it. But by the same token, Eric felt trapped. An odd feeling to have when people were trying to help; the sensible option was to go with Dean, but something was stopping him, something was off.

He looked over at the negotiator again. “This isn’t real,” Eric heard himself murmur, beginning to gently rock backwards and forwards.

“This isn’t real.”

Dean saw the change of behaviour and started waving at Eric, trying to re-focus his attention. “Eric. Eric. That isn’t an answer. It’s never an answer. Please. Stay with me and let’s talk. There has to be something I can do to help?”

Stopping his swaying Eric turned his head towards Dean, staring deep into his eyes. “Let me go,” he said simply.

A sincere, inviting smile spread across Dean’s face. “Eric you’re not under arrest. You’ve done nothing wrong. Of course you can go. Let’s just get you down. Warm. Safe. Figure the rest out from there?”

It was Eric’s turn to smile, his features stretched and manic. “Do you think I don’t realise we’ve been here before Dean?” he spat back through the wind, only processing what he’d said as the words fell out of him.

Dean visibly sighed and shook his head. “Then why do it again Eric? Let me help you,” he replied looking down from the platform to the road some 150 feet below. “Please,” he called. “This is no answer Eric. You will not find what you are looking for like this.”

Now focused solely on Dean, Eric’s face contorted; a parade of fear and resolve battling across his features in involuntary response to a body preparing to defy all its natural programming. Adrenalin exploded through his system and energy surged to the cold, aching muscles of his arms, which then bunched for one final act. He pushed forward on that moment’s instinct, and as gravity took his body beyond the possibility of any change of mind, a resolute Eric, who in this last act seemed to remember himself, called back.

“Neither will you.”

Face now expressionless, Dean watched Eric fall. For long moments he remained still on the platform. Finally he shook his head, looked into the black starless sky above him and said, “Reset.”