BEFORE

The clock on the Audi dash said five thirty in the morning. Outside, patchy sea fret wafted across the estuary. One second foggy, the next clear. At eleven, a customer in Hull was going to be disappointed his new second hand car never arrived.

A short walk would take him to the middle of the Humber bridge. He had driven over many times, but never crossed on foot. This would be his first and last time, once he had completed his goodbye morning stroll.

A black leather jacket lay on the passenger seat. He would put it on when he left. Strolling around in black jeans, white tee and deck shoes before sunrise was a jumper red light. On the radio the UK cost of living crisis, the potential supreme court reversal of USA abortion rights and Russian war crimes in Ukraine mirrored his low mood.

He grimaced: life had left him a dried-out shell of the man he had wanted to be. A great idea for a song, but Springsteen had already written it. The Boss knew how to spin the misery coin. Not that he identified with Bruce’s liberal-bleeding-heart. His childhood hero was Robert Mitchum. Old Bob boasted he had three expressions when he acted: look left, look right and look straight ahead. Never whinged about anything. Simply carried on working, smoking and drinking, until lung cancer killed him stone-dead, so the legend went. Never took himself too seriously.

He opened the glove compartment. A Marlboro Red soft-top pack contained two stale tabs. He had stopped smoking the day his wife took everything he owned, including his self-esteem. He fancied one. Except there were rules about chuffing in the motor. He tucked them into his tee sleeve, like white-middle-class people did when they played at working-class-blue-collar cool. Every macho actor had an inner-Brando fighting to be released.

Yesterday, a Scottish TV and film literary agent rejected him. Her automated email said his script didn’t have a market. Maybe his work was shit, but he deserved a face-to-face. He wasn’t a slush pile gimp. She knew him. They had supped wets, shared laughs and splashed juices when he was almost famous. Perhaps he was getting what he had always deserved. Tomorrow belonged to today, except when it didn’t. The future was unwritten, apart from it was. It was what it was, until it wasn’t. Huh.

‘Come on, don’t be a wimp. What would Bob do?’ He got out of the car. Forgot to put on the black leather jacket. Soon it would be immaterial what he was wearing. Strode out towards the bridge’s centre. Assumed it was the best place to jump. ‘March on, dogs of war,’ he said to himself, misquoting an ancient Alex Harvey lyric. Anyone watching would think he was the incoherent drunken barfly at chucking out time. Every pub had one. He wasn’t going to waste the rest of his life waiting to be that man.

He heard footsteps. He slowed. Saw a woman emerge from the mist. She was wearing a tee and jeans tucked into knee-high black boots. Why was she out so early or up so late? Maybe she was a hooker and lifts back to her Hull Arena pitch weren’t part of the sex-for-cash deal?

Who was he kidding? 

Sex was the last thing on her mind. She was a jumper, surely. Like him. Interrupting his show. Hard enough to throw himself off a bridge, without an audience scoring him for artistic interpretation. 

She smiled as they passed. He walked several steps. Then they both stopped and turned. She was nearly six foot tall. He was six two. She had ‘Ziggy Stardust’ red hair. Pale skin. Wore a cotton ‘CUTE BUT 101% PSYCHO’ tee. She resembled the words, stunning, but off her tits. Probably an addict.

‘Are you planning the same as me?’ she asked. He was too busy catching flies to respond immediately. A beat or two passed. Gulls squawked. The river flowed. The rising sun warmed up the rosy pink sky.

For a moment, he pictured  his ex-wife Caroline standing there before pregnancy, motherhood and a religious cult saved her from her own tedious junky soap opera. ‘What is it to you, if I am?’ 

‘I was here first.’

‘Go on then. I’ll follow you in,’ he said.

But she didn’t go. And nor did he. ‘You first,’ she said, and politely stepped aside.

‘You’ll freeze to death. Save you jumping,’ he said.

‘You’re a real comedian,’ she quipped back.

‘Actually, a part-time actor and sometime comic. I deliver cars to make ends meet,’ he joked, and pulled the soft-top pack from his tee sleeve. Shook the pack. Tried and failed to place the accent. ‘Smoke? I haven’t got a lighter.’

She grabbed a tab. Produced a zip lighter from her jeans. Flicked the gold metal top. A flame danced in front of them. They sparked up. Drew the smoke deep into their lungs. He coughed. She inhaled deeply and slowly exhaled. ‘Were you famous?’

A good question. Was he ever really famous? ‘In my youth, I was Vic Savage, the lead singer, lead guitarist and chief songwriter for the post-punk band Savaged by Sheep. We had two hits. Probably best known for playing tough-guy TV cop Billy Whyte in ‘Northern Filth’. Bloody bugger typecast me out of a serious acting career. Casting directors never saw me as a romantic or comedic lead. Grew a hipster beard. Nothing changed. You?’

‘Crime fiction nobody wants to buy.’

‘That’s a shame,’ he said.

‘I’d earn more filming myself masturbating for masturbators.’

‘Wanking for wankers? Why didn’t I think of that indignity.’ He laughed at the post modern irony. There was always money in sex.

She was perfect honey-trapper material. ‘More a humiliation in my book. Do you have a name?’

‘Owen. Owen Chard. 53. Failed husband and father. There is a long list of people I’ve disappointed in the sack and everywhere else.’  

‘Becky. Becky Letts. 27. Recently widowed, failed crime fiction writer, porn slag.’ 

‘Sorry about your husband,’ Owen said, without asking how her significant other had died. He didn’t want to discover Becky had killed hubby and was about to be arrested.

‘Shit happens,’ Becky said, and kicked a small stone into the dark water below. ‘Here today, gone tomorrow.’ She kicked another off the bridge. ‘Happy one minute. All alone the next. Well, not alone exactly.’

‘Me too,’ Owen said, impressed by the way she rolled meaningless clichés off her tongue. Nobody would miss him. That boat sailed when his ex said he had failed as a husband and a father. Several ships had passed in the night since, but none docked for more than a couple of months before heading off for more exciting adventures.

They looked at each other. Two lost souls about to top themselves.

Becky blew smoke rings. Watched them expand and disperse into the fret. Her impassive face broke briefly into a smile while she toyed with them. Owen was glad she found it funny. He was thinking of ways they could commercialise sex. ‘This is horny,’ said Becky. ‘Extreme heights excite me. Free falling into the unknown is on my bucket-list. Yours?’

Was Becky day release? Had a careless care worker left the door unlocked? She was about to kill herself and she was behaving like she was descending into the Grand Canyon on an adventure holiday. Addicts were irrational once the drugs dominated their lives. He knew from personal experience. From the corner of his eye, Owen saw flashing lights on the north side. ‘I’d drive an Aston Martin to Norway’s Lofoten archipelago. Drink wine under the midnight sun with a beautiful woman with striking red hair and light blue-green eyes,’ he said. He had a plan to delay death and exploit her physical assets.

‘Enough bullshit. Empty words.’

‘We don’t have to jump,’ said Owen, and reached for her cold hand. ‘Why not make our bucket-lists come true?’

‘I am skint. And you can’t even afford a coat.’

‘You can’t afford a bra!’ He half smiled and she half grinned and sucked harder on her cigarette. ‘We could combine our talents and earn some easy money.’

‘How?’

Owen had to make his elevator pitch fast. She was going over as soon as the fag was stubbed out. ‘We honey-trap married men in hotels,’ he replied. Dull PAYE men would want a girl like her. Would dream about a girl like her. Would want to fuck a girl like her. Until they puffed the dust. Consumed by guilt, they would cough up two grand to save their marriages and keep their pensions. He squeezed Becky’s hand. Shuffled his body between her and the barrier. ‘We split the cash fifty/fifty after expenses.’

‘How’s that work? I seduce, you bully?’

‘We pretend we’re married and they pay for our silence.’

‘After they fuck me?’

‘If we get our timing right just foreplay, a bit of touching, snogging, cock teasing.’

‘Before you burst into the room and scare the shit out of them?’

‘We’ll make a great team,’ said Owen.

‘Are you that hard? That tough? That macho?’

‘I am Billy Whyte. Or Billy Whyte is me. One of the two. I am a convincing nut-job when I put my mind to it.’

‘What happens when we get caught?’ 

‘Think Butch & Sundance. Thelma & Louise. Bonnie & Clyde.’

‘They all died,’ Becky said. ‘We should join them.’ She had one last puff on the cigarette and flicked the butt over the rails.

‘We have company,’ he said. Honey-trapping was high-risk, but it was a better than the big sleep. Owen hugged her as she lunged. Elbows dug into his ribs. Arms locked around her body.

‘Let me go.’

‘I can’t,’ Owen said, and knew he could. Pretend she had caught him by surprise at the inquest. Sob from the dock.

‘My choice.’

‘My conscience.’ Becky bit into his arm. Pain shot through his body. He retaliated. Pinched her left nipple. ‘They’ll blame me for your death. Owen Chard will be a social outcast.’

‘Nobody cares about us.’ Becky bit him again. Flailed her head into his face. He stayed low, hoping a lucky hit didn’t damage expensive porcelain teeth he could not afford to repair. She grabbed for his testicles. He kicked her legs. She fell to the ground. He landed on top. She lay motionless. ‘Break my neck, please,’ she whispered. 

‘Stay down,’ Owen hissed into her left ear, his right exposed. He waited for teeth to bite, but, by some fluke, he had knocked the fight out of her.

A bridge patrol vehicle pulled up. A middle-aged patrol officer with a comb-over wound down his window. ‘What are you two doing?’

‘We’re celebrating,’ Owen said, knowing all good lies have truthful foundations. ‘We’ve just got engaged and heights make her horny.’ Owen picked himself up. Grabbed Becky’s hand. Lifted her from the cold stone. The adrenaline rush was over. The fight had exhausted him. He wouldn’t be able to stop her if she tried again. 

‘You’re bleeding,’ said the patrolman.

‘Sorry officer,’ Becky said, looked at Owen, and rubbed her left breast. ‘That really hurt. My boobs are sore enough already without you tearing my bloody nipple off.’

The patrol driver stared at her with sad lustful eyes. ‘Where is your car parked? I’ll give you a lift.’

‘Down by the bridge car park. An Audi with dealer plates,’ said Owen.

‘Climb in the back,’ said the patrolman.

Becky got in first. Owen followed. She whispered for his ears only. ‘No stupid questions. No fuck-buddy games. No falling in love.’

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Keep everything skin deep. Nobody gets hurt.’

Becky nodded, reached into the top of her left boot. Pulled out a flick knife. Placed it between her legs. He heard a click. Saw cold steel shoot upwards. ‘In case you’re wrong and you need to intimidate men, you might need this.’

‘What about you?’

‘I’ve got my own.’

Owen took the blade. Closed it. Realised the ‘CUTE BUT 101% PSYCHO’ could have stabbed him anytime. He was too yellow and weak to kill himself, unlike his TV alter ego, Billy Whyte. Becky was dangerous and unpredictable, like all addicts. One minute up. One minute down. One minute your best friend and lover. The next cutting your throat. Kept you on your toes. Kept you real. Until fate called last orders.