ON THE BRIDGE

I never used to share the aversion to fog that most folk have. To me it was a source of wonder, transforming the whole of our world and marvellously altering our senses of sight, smell and hearing and, thereby, heightening our imagination. And what about our sense of touch? Can it alter that as well? Possibly.

While others would head for their fireside chairs as soon as the fog came down, I would make a point of walking abroad, preferably after dark and ideally when there was a heavy frost so that every twig and spider's web gathered diamonds as the vapours clung and froze. The city became a magic world. Tall buildings would suddenly loom out of the greyness, all sense of space and distance being lost. Sounds, muffled and indistinct, would come from sources invisible behind a floating wall and then, as if entirely detached from the noises they were making, people and carriages would materialise and then disappear, leaving you once again in your own, vaporous cocoon.

There is no sky, no horizon, nor clouds, nor moon nor stars. Only the ground is solid; the rest of the world seems nothing but a shifting veil.

Was it dangerous to be out on such nights? I thought not, reasoning that a clear night would better suit the needs of the footpad whose sharp sight would allow him to distinguish a likely victim a suitable distance away from others who might give assistance. Was I right? I really do not know, but it was a very different encounter that took place as I savoured a foggy evening some three or four years ago.

I had made my way down to the Thames and resolved to cross over upon a certain bridge. I have decided not to name it lest you should be unwise enough to try to repeat my experience. I would strongly advise against such an attempt but if there is one thing that my profession has taught me it is that many a piece of good advice is not followed. As I reflect on that, however, it occurs to me that I myself often do things that I would strenuously advise others never to do, so I can hardly be too critical of those who are similarly incautious.

I stepped out onto the bridge. The flagstones beneath my feet were smooth and damp and the sound of my footfall on them died quickly and softly among the heavy curtains of fog. The water murmured below.

Suddenly I saw, standing motionless in my path, the figure of a woman. Two steps brought me to her and, although she was smiling, I was all at once overwhelmed by a deep feeling of anxiety for her.

First impressions are often the most enduring and I have thought back so many times trying to visualise once more the figure that stood before me. She appeared young, possibly no more than seventeen or eighteen years old, pallid, but breathtakingly beautiful and with a slim, lithe form that her outfit, which reluctantly covered her, did little to conceal. In the back of my mind, I noted, and saved up for future reference, that her style of dress seemed just a little, but oddly, old fashioned.

She was a streetwalker, that much was clear, but there was none of the grossness or coarseness in her appearance that makes most of her sisterhood so repellent. Her opening gambit was "It's a dark night, Sir."

I said in reply something to the effect that she would be better off at home - she replied, puzzlingly I thought at the time, "Oh I can't leave the bridge Sir." I protested that this was an awful night for her to be out abroad.

She laughed out loud and laid a hand on my arm. At least I believe she actually touched me, and yet it seemed in a way that she did not and that her hand merely hovered above my arm without any actual contact. But I felt an immediate physical sensation. I have been a participant at experiments with the "electricity" and this experience was, save for the absence of sharp pain, rather like the jolt of an electric shock that travelled from my arm into the rest of my body. It almost stunned me; it was extraordinary and, in a way, thrilling.

Now as a gentleman passes through the various stages of his life he reaches a point where to be thrilled in this, or any other way is a rare and memorable thing. I am sure many of you gentlemen here know exactly what I mean.

She murmured in a low voice, a very candid description of the services she offered. I tried not to blush, summoned all my dignity and remonstrated with her for throwing away her beautiful young life in this deplorable way. Her manner subtly changed. She could see that I would never be a potential customer, and she became almost conversational. She could not see why I was "taking on so". She loved the life and she described an existence of pleasure, frivolity and sensuality that seemed positively Parisien, even Polynesian.

I feel sure that something made me look away, perhaps a noise from behind the foggy walls around us, but for whatever reason, look away I did and when my glance fell back upon her I remarked to myself that perhaps she was not quite as young as I had at first imagined. There was just the hint of a line or two at the corners of her eyes and of shadow beneath them and her clothing, at first sight merely vivid and coquettish, was also slightly threadbare.

She shivered and her shoulders hunched a little. I asked her if she was cold and if she would care to have my cloak. Her reply was curious. "Is it cold sir? I don't feel it". How could she not? It was below freezing and she wore neither coat nor hat nor gloves. Or did she? In fact, just as I remarked to myself upon the absence of these necessities, I spotted that she was, in fact, wearing delicate lace gloves - how could I not have noticed that before? They appeared slightly grubby.

I suggested that she should repair to some eating house, or similar establishment to take the good meal that she seemed in need of and she laughed again, this time more wistfully, and explained that she had to make a living and that she would have to stay where she was. She said again that curious phrase "Anyway Sir, I can't leave the bridge."

I thought to give her some money, - no Sir, not for her trade! It seemed desperately important that she should get out of that place and that night. But something made me turn to go. As I did, she called out "Sir!"

To my retreating back she began to explain, as if confessing to me, that her life was in fact not all joy. I had turned fully away from her but turned back once more to face her and saw, to my horror, that those shadows under her eyes were not shadows at all, they were bruises. How could I not have seen that before? Perhaps there had been some subtle alteration in the light. And her face, as well as being bruised was most distinctly not in the first flush of youth; still beautiful but in a more haggard, fragile way. I smelt strongly her scent - it seemed redolent of lily of the valley. - Dear God, I smell it now - is she here? No,.. no - it has gone, no, she is not here.

I tried to pay heed to what she said, marvelling all the while at the slippery grasp I had managed to keep on my powers of observation.

She said that the man who "looked after" her, "My Bill" she called him, had found that there was a more lucrative market, now that she was not a young woman, among those men who liked to mix their pleasures with violence. It frightened her, and, of course, caused her pain. Sometimes she managed to distract them from this awful taste by behaving in a more and more depraved manner herself, but of late this seemed only to encourage, and in their perverse minds, justify their ghastly excesses. She was being beaten and tortured on a weekly basis and was horrified at the physical toll it was taking.

I asked her why, in heaven's name, did she not leave this man? How could she possibly put up with this sort of behaviour? She then explained that she had two little children, both girls, one a few months old and one aged four; "quite old enough, Sir, for him to use". My incredulity at that suggestion was dismissed with a knowing wave of her hand. She told me I knew nothing of the world she lived in. That children younger than that were used in this way, that the sister of this wretch Bill was holding her children and that if she did not obey his frightful commands her children were at his mercy.

I stood, stock still, and the weight of shame and disgust I felt for the vileness of my fellow men made me bow my head in sorrow. I was lost, for a moment, in horrified reverie. I turned away from her again. What dragged my reluctant gaze back to her was a weird tittering that turned into a hysterical laugh. What stood before me now bore no relation to the young woman I had first seen. The outfit was the same, it was clearly the same woman but terribly, dreadfully changed. Something had snapped, or become unhinged. What had been a lithe, assured and seductive young woman now stood, panting like an animal at bay, slightly crouching with eyes darting to and fro.

In her right hand she held a wicked looking knife. Its blade was red and wet. Tucked under her left arm was the body of a small baby, or it could have been a doll for all the sound and movement it produced - but not for one moment did I feel that it was anything but a real child, although probably a dead one. Her voiced was cracked and she raved, not always making perfect sense but I deduced from her rantings that she had not been able to find Bill, but she had done for the sister and, horror of horrors, she had killed the little four year old. She turned on me as I protested at his.

"Well what will happen to her when they hang me? They would use her just like me. Rather this" - and she waved the knife at me. I was struck dumb. She moved towards me, knife in hand and a light of madness shining in her eyes. I don't know if it was the fact that I had not been tempted by her earlier propositioning, or because I had shown sympathy and concern for her but after a few paces she stopped advancing towards me and turned. She ran to her right and leapt upon the parapet of the bridge, given strength and agility, no doubt, by her crazed state and the desperate nature of her plight. She scrambled out to the edge and with a scream, hurled the still silent baby out and down into the river. Then with a final, demented howl she flung herself in its wake.

I remained motionless and horrified, facing out in the direction she had jumped. That part of the mind that ticks away mechanically while the rest is paralysed by the emotions told me, as I stood there, that I had heard no sound of her hitting the water. But I put that down to the distorting effect of the fog that still swirled around. What should I do? Rescue was out of the question - the Thames flows swiftly and no boatman would be able to catch her, let alone see her at this time of night and in this weather. Inform the authorities? Yes, but that would be very much after the event, by which time the two bodies would be miles away, joining the sad stream of flotsam generated by this cruel city.

Eventually, thinking that there was nothing that I could immediately do but to return home, I turned around.

There she stood, in the very spot where I had first seen her, once more, looking fresh-faced and youthful.

As I fled from the bridge, I heard her say "It's a dark night Sir".