it on the ground in front of Alfie, who jumps up and eagerly snatches it out of the air. And then Mac’s all over him like a rash. “Good boy, good boy, Alf,” he says, ruffling his back.
I hold the key between my finger and thumb. “God he’s good,” I say, looking at Alfie.
“Told you. He’s ex-police. Didn’t make it through his training, but he’s good enough for us. He’s probably taken us to the exact same places where Jackson’s been since he left the pub.”
“He must be scared. If he’s been to all those places, imagine how jittery he must be.”
“I know,” says Mac. “We’re onto something now; we’ve got to keep looking.”
We come to the walkway across the River Nuff, which leads to the library and the parking lot at the back of the Playhouse. Alfie leads Mac over it and to the right, along the bridleway toward the old stone bridge, which crosses the river a little farther down. That’s when the grip of dread clenches me like King Kong’s fist. Alfie is taking us along the river. What if he takes us down the bank? What if he takes us to a body? What if Jackson’s dead? Oh God, oh God, oh God.
And I can’t breathe and my chest is tight and I’m walking behind the dog and I know it, I know we’re going to find Jackson with his face all puffy and bloated. And it’s going to be my fault. It’s going to be like finding Grandad all over again, only a million times worse, because when Grandad died, there was only me and Mac who really cared. This time, there’s going to be photographers and journalists, not to mention hundreds of thousands of fans giving a whole big shit about this. It’ll be the end of everything. My hot breath hits the cold air faster and faster. For the first time in ages I don’t reach for the moon rock. I grip Jackson’s key instead and I pray.
But then I see a man, wearing a white T-shirt, sitting on top of the stone bridge directly opposite the walkway. Sitting on the bridge, like he’s going to jump into the greeny-brown water below any second now. Mac and Alfie have carried on down the walkway.
“Wait!” I call after them, still watching the figure on the bridge. He’s spinning an empty glass bottle in his palm. “That’s him,” I say to Mac. “That’s Jackson. And the vodka bottle.”
“Oh God,” says Mac, coming back toward me on the walkway, dragging Alfie behind him while Alfie’s pulling the other way. “The empty vodka bottle. What is it with him and bridges?”
“I think he’s going to jump.”
“You can’t kill yourself, jumping in there,” says Mac, almost laughing. “The bridge isn’t high enough. And the water’s only two feet deep.”
“I’ll handle this, OK?” I tell him, and begin walking down the rest of the path toward the bridleway that runs along the river at the side of the library.
“What are you going to say to him?” says Mac. I turn around and shrug, but keep walking.
“It’s OK, Mac. I know what I’m doing.”
I don’t know what I’m doing, as usual. I don’t have a single clue what I’m going to say. I’ve seen it in movies. People on building ledges. People on bridges. People with guns against their heads. What does the negotiator say to stop them from jumping or pulling the trigger? I can’t think straight. I’m not in a movie and I’m not an actor. I’m on a tiny stone bridge across the River Nuff in a tiny market town in Somerset and I’m sixteen years old. What the hell do I know?
I stand on the bridge, watching him for the longest time, like he’s a figure in a glass case at a museum. A glass case teetering on the edge about to shatter into more pieces than I can imagine. Something quacks on the bank.
“Jackson?” I say. “I’m Jody.”
He looks at me, then snaps his head to look back down at the water. “Where. Am. I?”
“Nuffing-on-the-Wold.”
“Where the hell is that?” He rolls the empty vodka bottle along the wall next to him.
“Somerset. In England. Y-y-you
I hold the key between my finger and thumb. “God he’s good,” I say, looking at Alfie.
“Told you. He’s ex-police. Didn’t make it through his training, but he’s good enough for us. He’s probably taken us to the exact same places where Jackson’s been since he left the pub.”
“He must be scared. If he’s been to all those places, imagine how jittery he must be.”
“I know,” says Mac. “We’re onto something now; we’ve got to keep looking.”
We come to the walkway across the River Nuff, which leads to the library and the parking lot at the back of the Playhouse. Alfie leads Mac over it and to the right, along the bridleway toward the old stone bridge, which crosses the river a little farther down. That’s when the grip of dread clenches me like King Kong’s fist. Alfie is taking us along the river. What if he takes us down the bank? What if he takes us to a body? What if Jackson’s dead? Oh God, oh God, oh God.
And I can’t breathe and my chest is tight and I’m walking behind the dog and I know it, I know we’re going to find Jackson with his face all puffy and bloated. And it’s going to be my fault. It’s going to be like finding Grandad all over again, only a million times worse, because when Grandad died, there was only me and Mac who really cared. This time, there’s going to be photographers and journalists, not to mention hundreds of thousands of fans giving a whole big shit about this. It’ll be the end of everything. My hot breath hits the cold air faster and faster. For the first time in ages I don’t reach for the moon rock. I grip Jackson’s key instead and I pray.
But then I see a man, wearing a white T-shirt, sitting on top of the stone bridge directly opposite the walkway. Sitting on the bridge, like he’s going to jump into the greeny-brown water below any second now. Mac and Alfie have carried on down the walkway.
“Wait!” I call after them, still watching the figure on the bridge. He’s spinning an empty glass bottle in his palm. “That’s him,” I say to Mac. “That’s Jackson. And the vodka bottle.”
“Oh God,” says Mac, coming back toward me on the walkway, dragging Alfie behind him while Alfie’s pulling the other way. “The empty vodka bottle. What is it with him and bridges?”
“I think he’s going to jump.”
“You can’t kill yourself, jumping in there,” says Mac, almost laughing. “The bridge isn’t high enough. And the water’s only two feet deep.”
“I’ll handle this, OK?” I tell him, and begin walking down the rest of the path toward the bridleway that runs along the river at the side of the library.
“What are you going to say to him?” says Mac. I turn around and shrug, but keep walking.
“It’s OK, Mac. I know what I’m doing.”
I don’t know what I’m doing, as usual. I don’t have a single clue what I’m going to say. I’ve seen it in movies. People on building ledges. People on bridges. People with guns against their heads. What does the negotiator say to stop them from jumping or pulling the trigger? I can’t think straight. I’m not in a movie and I’m not an actor. I’m on a tiny stone bridge across the River Nuff in a tiny market town in Somerset and I’m sixteen years old. What the hell do I know?
I stand on the bridge, watching him for the longest time, like he’s a figure in a glass case at a museum. A glass case teetering on the edge about to shatter into more pieces than I can imagine. Something quacks on the bank.
“Jackson?” I say. “I’m Jody.”
He looks at me, then snaps his head to look back down at the water. “Where. Am. I?”
“Nuffing-on-the-Wold.”
“Where the hell is that?” He rolls the empty vodka bottle along the wall next to him.
“Somerset. In England. Y-y-you
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