Getting a Grip

Getting a Grip

Peter A. Reynolds

Copyright Peter A. Reynolds 2013

Smashwords Edition

For everyone who has messed up

About this Book

When Jennifer fails to stop a young man falling from a cliff, both he and her self-esteem hit rock bottom. It's typical Jennifer - her whole life has been spent screwing up. Her teachers gave up on her, her best friend patronises her, and her boyfriend is two - probably three - timing her.

But as guilt threatens to send Jennifer over the edge, she is faced with a new challenge. For the second time, despite her fears and failings, it's down to Jennifer to save a life.

Contents

Title

Copyright

Dedication

About this Book

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Author’s Note

Also by Peter A Reynolds

About the Author

Contact the Author

One

I go for a ride sometimes on my bicycle. In the morning. Before work. Four, five o'clock. Well you don't get the comments then, do you? Blokes winding down their car windows and everything. Maybe it's just the tandem, I don't know.

Anyway, it's nice then: dew on the grass. Sometimes you get that low mist, like dry-ice. Then the sun comes up and it’s wonderful. Clifton is beautiful. Especially the gorge. Great curtains of rock. Sort of creased and gashed. And plants sticking out half way down. If the tide's out you can see the mud banks at the bottom, with the river slithering through like an eel. And when the tide’s in the water shimmers like a great strip of kitchen-foil. It was like that, the gorge looking at its most beautiful, on the day it happened.

There's a sign: DANGER – CLIFF EDGE. Well that’s my regular stop. I always get off the bike there. Have a look at the river. Listen to the birds. Fix my bra. One way, at a comfortable distance, you've got the town. I mean it's quiet at that time, hidden by trees, muffled by a mile of grassy downs. And the other way, if you climb onto the bottom rung of the fence and look across the gorge, you can actually see fields. With little dots. They're cows. Cool, huh?

It used to be my favourite place.

I didn't hear him at first. Well, he wasn't shouting ‘Help!’ or anything. He must have given up trying. It was a squeak, almost, the first sound I heard, like a rusty door hinge.

I thought it was an animal. A fox. Or a rabbit. Something. I don't know. I stayed quiet. I thought I might see it run under the fence. I waited, as quiet as I could, as the seconds ticked by.

And then I heard an anguished voice and knew absolutely and horribly that it wasn’t a fox.

‘Please somebody come!’

It sounded like a little child. Lost perhaps.

‘Please...’

It came from where the fence is closest to the edge. I didn't run. I crept. Slowly. Because I didn't want to be seen. Whatever, whoever it was, I didn't want them to see me.

‘Someone...’

Because I didn't know what I'd find. There was something frightening about the voice. It sounded naked. I looked along the fence both ways, into the bushes.

I didn't think to look down.

‘Help me! Help me!’

He must have heard me. The voice was suddenly stronger, directed. I could just see his arms. One hand was cupped over a knobble of rock. The other hand was moving like a spider, sideways, slowly, finger by finger, hunting for a grip. I stared, transfixed at its motion.

‘Hello? Hello?’ He was screaming now. Real, desperate screams. ‘For God's sake, somebody help me!’

I wrapped my arms round the top of the fence and gingerly leaned out. Terrified eyes, white circles in the dark earth that smeared his face, latched onto me, begging for help. A boy. Maybe twenty years old. There was blood round his nose. Grit in the spittle between his teeth. When he spoke his full lips shook uncontrollably.

‘Please! Please! I can't hold on! I can't hold on!’

‘What shall I do?’ I asked in a small, distant voice.

‘Can you reach me?’

The rock didn't drop straight down, not like the edge of a table. It sloped, more like the chute of a slide in a playground. Only where the soft safety of the bark chips should have been, there was nothing. Just air.

I unhooked one arm and with the fence pressing into my belly, leaned out as far as I dared. There was perhaps only a metre between us. I tried to close the gap but I could feel my balance shifting, my feet losing traction. As I yanked myself back, the shadow of my splayed hand slid across his face.

‘It’s too far,’ I whimpered.

‘Then climb over!’

I winced. He was holding on to his life with one hand and he was the one directing operations. Doubtfully I stepped onto the middle rung and swung a clumsy leg over the fence.

The height clutched my stomach like a lift in free fall. The edge was so close! My legs started shaking. I couldn't stop them. I couldn't stop them! I stared at the river, blinking, trying to drive out the drunk feeling in my head. ‘I can’t do it,’ I said weakly. ‘I'll fall.’ And as I dropped back onto the grass, my legs proved the point by crumpling under me.

From the other side of the fence came a sharp intake of breath and an agonised animal squeal. It subsided into quiet sobbing. ‘Please…’ he whispered.

I rolled onto my belly, clumsily beat away the grass and nettles, pushed my head under the rusting steel bars and, like a maggot, squirmed down the slope of earth and stones until my left hand, fastened round the bottom rail, allowed me to go no further. I racked my free arm towards the boy. The space between our fingertips was no bigger than a paperback.

‘Stretch!’ he screamed.

‘I am stretching!’ I screamed back. Instantly a crushing guilt welled up. It was impossibly unfair to be rude to someone in his position. ‘Sorry. I didn't mean to shout.’

‘Ah!’

His head bobbed. He was trying to look down, his foot scrabbling against the rock.

I wriggled backwards. ‘Hang on, I'll get some rope.’

The ineptness of that remark made me screw up my eyes. Of course, I meant ‘hang on’ in the sense of ‘I’ll be a moment’ not as a reminder that he shouldn’t let go. I was pretty sure he’d worked that out for himself. I looked back to apologise but he was still looking down, kicking for a foothold.

I pushed myself up and gazed across the silent green swath of parkland and the grey deserted road encircling it.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I haven't got any rope. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!’

‘Do something. Please. Something!’

I looked at the ground, the trees, the clouds, sick with panic, willing my brain to work.

‘I'll call the police. No, the fire brigade. It’s nine, nine, nine, isn't it? Course it is,’ I jabbered. ‘I'll go and phone. I’m sorry.’

‘Don't!’

I spun back.

‘Don't leave me.’ He was sucking air, frantic. ‘I can't—’

My hands shot out involuntarily as I screamed.

‘NO!!!’

His foot must have lost its hold I suppose. I’m not sure because I couldn't see his feet. His hand slid over the rock. He dug in his nails and found a clump of grass. He stopped sliding. He was hanging by a clump of grass.

I looked into his face, not daring to look away, not daring to blink. Willing him to hold on.

And then the earth gave way and he slid out of sight.

Not smoothly, there was a lump of rock. His chin caught it. He didn't scream. At least I didn't hear him. There was just the sound like a horse's hoof on the road as his head was flicked back. And then he was gone.

And I was alone.

Thinking about my old maths teacher: standing over my desk, staring down with tired, disappointed eyes, asking me something about dropping a stone down a well. Apparently, by some magic, counting the seconds before the splash was supposed to tell me the depth of the shaft. Of course I didn’t have a clue how to get the answer. So I ended the suffocating silence in class the only way I knew how – with a guess so random that all the smart kids, including my best friend Hilary, couldn’t suppress their sniggers.

I stared into the rugged beauty of the gorge while my whole body shook and shook. Typical me, I thought. If I’d paid a bit more attention in class, I could have counted the seconds before his body hit the ground and worked out the height of the cliff.

Two

And then I felt a stabbing pain in my guts and knew my bowels were going to open.

I scuttled into the bushes, pulled down my joggers and knickers, squatted hurriedly and inexpertly, reached for a branch to steady myself, discovered it was a sodding holly bush, swore and, still shuffling to find my balance, shat noisily and copiously onto the earth. I looked out through the utterly inadequate screen of leaves, my face burning with humiliation, terrified that someone might see me.

When the cramps eased, I searched my pockets. Mercifully, I found a tissue. Screwing up my face, I did the best I could with the small, crumpled, frayed square of paper, hoisted my clothes, and stepped from the undergrowth as nonchalantly as a woman can with spots of crap staining the ankles of her leggings.

I took a quick look around to check nobody had seen me, and fled. I ran clumsily to the tandem, lugged it around in a frantic little dance that left me with a bloody graze down my shin and, standing on the pedals to squeeze the maximum force from my enfeebled legs, raced home.

The first thing I did when I got inside my flat was close the curtains. I didn’t want anyone to see me and connect me with what had happened. Of course, realistically I knew it was unlikely anybody was going to peek in – I live on the second floor and the window cleaner gave up on me years ago – but still I drew the curtains until there was just a narrow slit of light. I stepped back into the shade, leaned against the wall and exhaled slowly.

After the heart-pumping effort of the ride home, everything now seemed to go into slow-motion. I undressed with heavy limbs and stepped into the shower. Half way through soaping myself I seemed to lose interest. I stood with my hands pressed to the wall of the cubicle, letting the water cascade for minute after minute on my bowed head.

When I finally towelled myself dry it was just before seven. I slipped my dressing gown on, wandered into the living room and sank down on the sofa. My hand made contact with a cushion. I pulled it to my chest and hugged it. And then I stared. At the walls. At the ceiling. At the swirls in the carpet that coalesced, again and again, into the face of a handsome, blood-smeared boy, screaming with fear as he slid away, his retreating hands stretched out to me, begging me for help.

At nine o’clock my phone buzzed. Eventually the ringing stopped and it went to voice mail. It was half an hour before I let go of my cushion and checked the message.

‘Hi, it’s Stephanie. From the florists. Just wondering where you are, Jen. Hope you’re OK. Give us a call.’

I stared at the phone. And say what? Slight problem, Steph. Got this dead lad’s face going round and round in my head. Bit of a balls up actually. Practically killed him. I know, stupid of me. Yes, it is a bit upsetting. No, I’d love to come in. It’s just that with me replaying his death every fucking five seconds, I might mix up my gypsophila with my gerberas.

With numb fingers, I sent a text: Sorry. Migraine. Jen.

Around noon the phone rang again and Steph left another message.

‘Hi Jen. Don’t worry about coming in today, I’ve got Janine. She can do all week. So… you know… when you’re better. No rush.’

So that was how indispensable I was. I threw the phone down. It bounced off the sofa cushion and arced onto the floor. I looked at the phone laying on the carpet for a long time. I didn’t pick it up.

For the next four days I didn’t leave the house. Mostly I didn’t leave the sofa. I got into a sort of routine. I’d wake up, think for sixteen or seventeen hours about the boy that had died in front of me, and then fall asleep with my head on the armrest. Then I’d dream about him.

When I ate I just grabbed whatever was nearest. One day I ate nothing but raw mushrooms. Not especially healthy but given that it could take upwards of an hour to find the motivation just to stand, knocking up a quick Spaghetti Carbonara was pretty much out of the question. Especially as the closest ingredients I had were a Cup-a-Soup and a can of pineapple rings. Mostly I ate cereal. With milk to begin with. Then with sour milk. Then with tap water.

The night I created the recipe for damp cornflakes, the boy screamed so loudly in my dream that I started awake. My living room was dark, lit only by the spill of the street lamp outside. To my horror, the screaming didn’t cease. I felt a panic rising. I shook my head but still I could hear that awful, wailing animal cry. I stood up, blinking