Deathkiss

A shit bridge, Alex Doyle thought as he considered jumping off it to his death. Victorian. Brick arch construction. Corbelled brickwork pilasters. A 450mm high parapet wall. Easy to climb. Easy to leap from. The road seemed a short way down. There were plenty of higher bridges around, he could think of a much better one in neighbouring Folkestone, but Pearle was from Dover, so here it had to be. For most of his life he’d conned people out of their money. The gift of the gab, they called it. Gab. What a bullshit word. He’d never liked the term. Silver-tongued, that was better. For the last ten years Doyle had trained himself to be terse. To talk to as few a people as possible. To make no friends. To avoid his parents. To stay away from old haunts. To give back. Make good. Die an honest man. He shuffled his loafers closer to the edge. It’s time.
Staring down at the road, wanting his end, Doyle conceded that dying wasn’t easy. People only did it the once, after all. Most were pretty good at eschewing it. Looking both ways when crossing a road to make sure a vehicle didn’t mow them down. Steering clear of walking under ladders. Gulping down antibiotics when an infection took hold. Avoiding bathing with electrical objects close by. He opened his mouth and let the rain fall in. The droplets tasted of freedom, like cool ocean spray frothing across a time-worn shore, hinting of something exotic, something better.
Peace.
Jump.
A lazy mist billowed invitingly beneath him. Its nebulous tendrils slithered across the road and oozed between the lines of parked cars on both sides of the street and probed the thresholds of each door along the parallel terrace of Victorian houses. For a while he watched it roll, his back stooped with the breeze, calm hands buried deep in pockets. His wallet nudged his hand. Earlier in the day he’d cut up the bank cards and thrown them away. Now it contained £200 in crisp notes, nothing more. No photographs, not even of her. His key fob that had contained two keys, one to the front door of his cottage in Roquebrun, the second to a discarded attaché case left under the bed of the motel he’d stayed in last night, had been dropped down a drainage gully outside Dover Priory Train station just a few hours ago. They would, of course, identify his body regardless. DNA. Prints. Dental records. Shit, they’d have his ID established in hours. Alex Julian Doyle. 32 years old. Caucasian. Born in Aldershot, Hampshire to Sam and Hilary. No siblings. Seven outstanding speeding convictions and wanted in eleven countries across the globe for extorting the rich. Plenty of misdemeanours to his name and many more that had gone unreported, the victims too ashamed to go to the police.
Well, they can have me now.

A little dizzy, he closed his eyes. Tempted fate to finish the job it had started ten years ago. The nip in the late September air troubled him, brought on by the gelid darkness and stubborn rain that had fallen since dusk. It struck him as strange, that seconds from his death such a trivial matter should concern him, the breeze, but it did. The taste of brandy lingered on his breath, consumed half hour ago inside a pub he’d never seen before or would ever see again. The Duke’s Inn. A pretty forgettable gin mill and a pretty forgettable life. Many times he’d passed through Dover, destination Paris, Brussels, Berlin, a top class hotel, a champagne dinner, dressed in a suit that had cost a four figure sum and wearing a watch more expensive than the average Joe’s family saloon. Back in the days when greed had owned his soul. It had taken Doyle a long time to right those wrongs. Not with the victims, fuck they’d deserved their misery, but definitely the last few years had seen some kind of karma check. I’ve made amends, he reminded himself. UNICEF. NSPCC. Red Cross. Church collection trays. Surprised waiting staff. A hobo with an emaciated Alsatian. Yep. For certain I’ve made amends.
Opening his eyes he inched forward, the tips of his polished loafers suspended midair. Dying wasn’t the problem. Making sure he finished the job was. Ending up a vegetable in a wheelchair. Shit.
No thanks.
The road needed to break every bone in his body and crack his skull into two so his brain splashed like soup across the highway. Two seconds then splat. Three seconds at the most. Why did people fear death anyway? Doyle had once. Back when things had mattered. When there had been something to lose. Doyle didn’t believe in God, in angels or demons. The end came soon enough. Everything before was just random energy. No one would miss him and his death would earn people a living. The emergency services that scrubbed him off the road. The detectives that investigated his death. The coroner that examined his remains. The funeral parlour charged with dealing with those remains. A lot of money in the dead. On the downside for the economy no flowers, no cards, no wake for a local hotel to profit from. A dog barked. At least Doyle thought he heard one.
Whoa.
He tumbled, not forward but down, collapsing atop the parapet, the brickwork wet from a night of rain, the heavy air moist, Doyle not concentrating, his mind drifting. Tired. Drained. Detached. A desperate hand grappled for purchase but it didn’t stop his legs from slipping over the edge, his right knee smashing against immovable brick. A pathetic moan escaped his lips. Rain oozed through his fingers, one hand keeping him from falling. An odd sensation swept over him, as if he was already plunging to the ground but without ever reaching it, as if in slow motion, whilst at the same time his brain raced at F1 speed and anticipated bone-shattering, organ-splitting pain, that micro-second of awareness before the great unknown claimed him for eternity. For a moment his mind turned black. Blood, all nine pints of it seemed to rush to his head, momentarily drowned his thoughts. Adrenaline fired through his limbs. But no crash. Fingers stayed firm.
Fuck.
Peering down at the tarmac he doubted landing feet first would kill him. Fuck no. Not even close. This isn’t what he wanted. Smashing his legs and pelvis to pieces, rupturing his internal organs, ending up paralysed for the rest of his days, at the mercy of poorly paid carers. Swallowing down a deep breath, he swung his right arm up over his shoulder and grabbed onto the parapet with his other hand. He kept himself fit, jogging three times a week, each time completing a minimum of seven kilometres, and between all the cardio he performed several different weight circuits to continually challenge every muscle in his body. There was fuck all else to do. He hated books. And silence. And sleep. Keeping fit, eating and drinking - that was it, his whole fucking day. With ease he heaved himself back over the parapet and rolled onto his back. Rain pelted the train track and shingle. Thick cloud smothered the stars. No glittering farewell tonight. It felt colder. The breeze had picked up.
Maybe that’s why I lost my balance?
Back on his feet he brushed down his suit. Stupid thing to do, he knew it, considering what a mess his broken body was soon going to make of it, but he continued anyway, out of habit, born from a lifetime of wanting to look his best. Well, there’s the practice run, he thought.
Better go head-first next time.
He stepped to the right, patted the bricks to make sure they were well bonded together, then lifted himself back on top of the parapet. Stood tall if not proud. Wished he’d knocked back a few more brandies at The Duke’s Inn. Not because he needed the courage but just because it tasted so magnificent in his mouth. Booze. Fucking stuff. Up until tonight the last time he’d imbued any alcohol was six years ago. Once a drunk always a drunk. Once a crook always a crook. So now he was stealing his own life away. No one was going to miss it.
Especially me.
The malefic mist had thickened. It smothered the cars and shrouded the little houses. Its lambent tendrils climbed the bridge and rolled along the tracks. A nearby street lamp gave off a strange albescent glow. The woman appeared below without sound, running, long dark hair, black trousers and jacket. Carrying something in her hand close to her body. She kept her head down and stayed close to the cars. In a hurry this late at night. Doyle couldn’t help but feel a little aloof, smug even. Watching from high above like some detached entity as life struggled on below him. As if already such puerile, temporal concerns were beneath him. Life. Always a struggle. He shook his head. If she’d been a minute later he could have landed on her head. He continued to watch as she ran through the mist. She turned her head, looking behind her as though anxious at what might be following, and Alex Doyle’s heart exploded inside his chest.
Pearle?
Just a flash of the girl’s face, barely a second, at night, from distance, but enough to infuse every cell in his body with fresh purpose. His hands curled into fists. His throat tightened. The cold air turned to fire inside his lungs. She glanced away again and then everything else about her echoed the love that had been murdered ten years ago to this very day. Her height, her slender build, even the way she ran. That gorgeous black hair he used to love burying his face in. Doyle opened his mouth, ready to shout out her name, but snapped it shut when two men appeared beneath him. Big guys. Dressed in matching suits. They too held something in their hands. Doyle scowled through the rain.
Guns.
He ducked down, reflexes honed by years of misadventure, as if the two of them were hunting him, but the pair continued deep into the mist oblivious of his presence. Chasing the girl.
Chasing Pearle.
Blood dribbled from his left hand. He barely acknowledged the wound.
Of course it can’t be Pearle. She’s dead. I held her limp body in my hand. Kissed her cold lips. Stared into her lifeless eyes…
It was her fault. She’d wanted more, they’d been on a roll, cleared £170,000 in under six months. He’d wanted a break, a week or two in the Canaries. Some time to enjoy the fruits of their immoral earnings.
She’s dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.
The brume swallowed her form, the two men hot in pursuit, heavier on their feet, both remarkably similar in size and comportment and both with short blonde hair. Doyle jumped down onto shingle and hurried back to the embankment he’d climbed half hour ago, expecting never to return. At the bottom of the slippery rise he scaled a chain-link fence with barbed wire twisted across its top and broke into a sprint, the two gorillas faint silhouettes in the distance. Blood now poured from both Doyle’s hands, scored by the unforgiving teeth of the barbed wire, but all he cared about was following the girl that echoed his long, stolen love.