Praise for Phaedra Patrick

‘A wonderfully hope-filled story’

Sarah Haywood, bestselling author of The Cactus

‘A gem of a book. I loved it’

Sarah Morgan, Sunday Times bestseller

‘A story of self-discovery’

Hello!

‘Wonderful… the perfect summer read’

Woman

‘A charming story with thought-provoking themes’

Candis

‘A feel-good story with oodles of charm’

Daily Mail

‘This book is a balm for the soul and the heart’

The Sun

‘A gorgeous journey’

Heat

‘An unforgettable story’

Harper’s Bazaar

‘As charming and witty as the title suggests’

My Weekly

‘We love this sweet story about self-discovery’

Take A Break

‘Eccentric, charming and wise, this will illuminate your heart’ Nina George, author of The Little Paris Bookshop

PHAEDRA PATRICK studied art and marketing and has worked as a stained-glass artist, film festival organiser and communications manager. She is a prize-winning short story writer and her debut novel was translated into over twenty languages. She lives in Saddleworth with her husband and son, where she writes full time.

Also by Phaedra Patrick

The Library of Lost and Found

The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper

Wishes Under the Willow Tree

The Secrets of Sunshine

Phaedra Patrick

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Phaedra Patrick 2020

Phaedra Patrick asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © May 2020 ISBN: 9780008237684

Version 2020-04-30

Note to Readers

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 Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008237677

To my family and friends

Contents

Cover

Praise

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

The Lilac Envelope

1. A Locked Heart

2. Pizza Boxes

3. Small Shoes

4. Pink Fridge

5. Angel House

6. Earring

7. Message

8. Chocolates

9. Green Bottles

10. Office

11. Sheet Music

12. Campfire

13. Carl’s Letter

14. Stitches

15. Mosaic

16. Swing

17. Dinner

18. Ice-Skating

19. Ghosts

20. Chains

21. Padlock

22. Biscuits

23. Pineapple

24. Swimming

25. Park

26. Bench

27. Family

28. Pigeons

29. An Unlocked Heart

30. Project Padlock

31. Wedding Day

32. Last Dance

33. Liza’s Letter

34. The New Bridge

Acknowledegments

Extract

About the Publisher

The Lilac Envelope

The night before

As he did often over the past three years, Mitchell Fisher wrote a letter he would never send.

He sat up in bed at midnight and kicked off his sheets. Even though all the internal doors in his apartment were open, the sticky July heat still felt like a shroud clinging to his body. His nine-year-old daughter, Poppy, thrashed restlessly in her sleep in the bedroom opposite.

Mitchell turned on his bedside lamp, squinting against the yellow light, and took out a pad of Basildon Bond notepaper from underneath his bed. He always used a fountain pen to write – old-fashioned, he supposed, but he was a man who valued things that were well constructed and long lasting.

Mitchell tapped the pen against his bottom lip. He knew what he wanted to say, but by the time his words of sorrow and regret had travelled from his brain to his fingertips, they were only fragments of what he longed to express.

As he started to write, the sound of the metal nib scratching against paper helped him block out the city street noise that hummed below his apartment.

Dearest Anita,

Another letter from me. Everything here is fine, ticking along. Poppy is doing well. The school holidays start soon and I thought she’d be more excited. It’s probably because you’re not here to enjoy them with us.

I’ve taken two weeks off work to spend with her, and have a full itinerary planned for us – badminton, tennis, library visits, cooking, walking, the park, swimming, museums, a tour of the city bridges and more. It will keep us busy. Keep our minds off you.

You’ll be amazed how much she’s grown, must be almost your height by now. I tell her how proud I am of her, but it always meant more coming from you.

Mitchell paused, resting his hand against the pad of paper. He had to tell her how he felt.

Every time I look at our daughter, I think of you. I wish I could hold you again, and tell you I’m truly sorry.

Yours, always,

Mitchell x

He read his words, always dissatisfied with them, never able to convey the magnitude of guilt he felt. After folding the piece of paper once, he sealed it into a crisp, cream envelope, then squeezed it into the almost-full drawer of his nightstand among all the other letters he’d written. His eyes fell upon the slim lilac envelope he kept on top, the one addressed to him from Anita that he’d not yet been able to bring himself to open.

Taking it out, he held it under his nose and inhaled. There was still a slight scent of her violet soap on the paper. His finger followed the angle of the gummed flap and then stopped. He closed his eyes and willed himself to open the letter, but his hands began to shake.

Once more, he placed it back into his drawer.

Mitchell lay down and hugged himself, imagining Anita’s arms were wrapped around him. When he closed his eyes, the words from all the letters weighed down upon him like a bulldozer. As he turned and tried to sleep, he pulled the pillow over his head to force them away.

1
A Locked Heart

The lovers who attached their padlocks to the bridges of Upchester might see it as a fun or romantic gesture, but to Mitchell, it was an act of vandalism.

It was the hottest year on record in the city and the morning sun was already beating down on the back of his neck. His biceps flexed as he methodically opened and squeezed his bolt cutters shut, shearing the padlocks off the cast-iron filigree panels of the old Victorian bridge, one by one.

Since local boy band Word Up filmed the video for their international smash hit ‘Lock Me Up with Your Love’ on this bridge, thousands of people were flocking to the small city in the north-west of England. To demonstrate their love for the band and each other, they brought locks engraved with initials, names or messages and attached them to the city’s five bridges.

Large red-and-white signs that read No Padlocks studded the pavement. But as far as Mitchell could see, the locks still hung on the railings like bees swarming across frames of honeycomb. The constant reminder of other people’s love made him feel like he was fighting for breath. As he cut off the locks, he wanted to yell, ‘Why can’t you just keep your feelings to yourselves?’

After several hours of hard work, Mitchell’s trail of broken locks glinted on the pavement like a metal snake. He stopped for a moment and narrowed his eyes as a young couple strolled towards him. The woman glided in a floaty white dress and tan cowboy boots. The man wore shorts and had the physique of an American football player. With his experience of carrying out maintenance across the city’s public areas, Mitchell instinctively knew they were up to something.

After breaking away from his girlfriend, the man walked to the side of the bridge while nonchalantly pulling out a large silver padlock from his pocket.

Mitchell tightened his grip on his cutters. He was once so easy and in love with Anita, but rules were rules. ‘Excuse me,’ he called out. ‘You can’t hang that lock.’

The man frowned and crossed his bulging arms. ‘Oh, yeah? And who’s going to stop me?’

Mitchell had the sinewy physique of a sprinter. He was angular all over with dark hair and eyes and a handsome dorsal hump on his nose. ‘I am,’ he said and put his cutters down on the pavement. He held out his hand for the lock. ‘It’s my job to clear the bridges. You could get a fine.’

Anger flashed across the blond man’s face and he batted Mitchell’s hand away, swiping off his work glove. Mitchell watched as it tumbled down into the river below. Sometimes the water flowed prettily, but today it gushed and gurgled, a bruise-grey hue. A young man had drowned here in a strong current last summer.

The man’s girlfriend wrapped her arms around her boyfriend’s waist and tugged him away. ‘Come on. Leave him alone.’ She cast Mitchell an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, but we’re so in love. It took us two hours and three buses to get here. We’ll be working miles away from each other soon. Please let us do this.’

The man looked into her eyes and softened. ‘Yeah, um, sorry, mate,’ he said sheepishly. ‘The heat got the better of me. All we want to do is fasten our lock.’

Mitchell gestured at the sign again. ‘Just think about what you’re doing, guys,’ he said with a weary sigh. ‘Padlocks are cheap chunks of metal and they’re weighing down the bridges. Can’t you get a nice ring or tattoo instead? Or write letters to each other? There are better ways to say I lov—well, you know.’

The man and the woman shared an incredulous look.

‘Whatever.’ The man glowered and shoved his padlock back into his pocket. ‘We’ll go to another bridge instead.’

‘I work on those, too…’

The couple laughed at him and sauntered away.

Mitchell rubbed his nose. He knew his job wasn’t a glamorous one. It wasn’t the one in architecture he’d studied hard and trained for. However, it meant he could pay the rent on his apartment and buy Poppy hot lunch at school each day. Whatever daily hassle he put up with, he needed the work.

His workmate Barry had watched the incident from the other side of the road. Sweat circled under his arms, and his forehead shone like a mirror as he crossed over. ‘The padlocks keep multiplying,’ he groaned.

‘We need to keep on going.’

‘But it’s too damn hot.’ Barry undid a button on his polo shirt, showing off unruly chest curls that matched the ones on his head. ‘It’s a violation of our human rights, and no one can tell if we cut off twenty or two hundred.’

Mitchell held his hand up against the glare of the sun. ‘We can tell, and Russ wants the bridges cleared in time for the city centenary celebrations.’

Barry rolled his eyes. ‘There’s only three weeks to go until then. Our boss should come down here and get his hands dirty, too. At least join me for a pint after work.’

Mitchell’s mouth felt parched, and he suddenly longed for an ice-cold beer. A vision of peeling off his polo shirt and socks and relaxing in a beer garden appeared like a dreamy mirage in his head.

But he had to pick Poppy up from the after-school club to take her for a guitar lesson, an additional one to her music class in school. Her head teacher, Miss Heathcliff, was a stickler for the school closing promptly at 5.30 p.m., and it was a rush to get there on time. He lowered his eyes and said, ‘I’d love to, but I have to dash off later.’

Then he selected his next padlock to attack.

Towards the end of their working day, Barry sidled up to Mitchell and wiped his brow. He crouched and packed up his toolbox before staring at his mobile phone. ‘Brilliant, a lady I’ve been messaging can meet me for a drink.’

Since Barry had lost three stone at Weight Whittlers, he’d discovered the enticing world of dating apps and was now like a dog let off its leash. Mitchell had long since given up advising him quality was better than quantity when it came to women.

‘You have another date?’ he asked. ‘And we’re not supposed to finish work for another five minutes.’

Barry smiled proudly. ‘Five minutes doesn’t matter, and going out beats sitting on my own all night. Tonight’s lucky lady is Mandy.’ He side-glanced at his friend. ‘Maybe you should get back out into the wild, too. Start to live a little.’

Mitchell shuddered. ‘I’m fine as I am, thanks, just me and Poppy.’

If he ever thought about going out with someone new, his head spun: getting dressed up, meeting someone in a bar, making light conversation, laughing politely at their jokes, debating who was going to pay for the drinks, going through that excruciating moment when you might offer to see them again, moving in for a kiss or not. And that was on top of the babysitting logistics, because his few family members lived miles away. Before he even went on a first date, he could already picture first arguments, awkward silences and accusations at him for being emotionally frozen. And the line ‘I’m a single dad to a nine-year-old girl’ wasn’t an ideal conversation starter. He looked at his watch. ‘You go enjoy yourself,’ he said. ‘Have a pint for me.’

‘Will do,’ Barry shouted over his shoulder as he walked away.

Mitchell stared at his own trail of padlocks and at Barry’s petite pile on the other side of the bridge. A couple of lads from the Maintenance Team pulled up and began to shovel up the scrap metal. Mitchell gave them a wave and rushed off along the street that followed the edge of the river.

As he hurried, he didn’t notice the clustered rows of black-and-white Tudor shops, or the intricate carvings on the twin towers of Upchester cathedral, the tallest building that loomed over the medieval walled city. He didn’t stop to admire the glistening River Twine that gushed fiercely a few metres lower besides him, or the architecture of the five bridges that spanned it. He had given his own nickname to each of them.

The Slab was a drab concrete construction on the far side of the city. Built in the 1970s to ease traffic flow, it was more useful than attractive and, in Mitchell’s opinion, spoiled the aesthetics of its surroundings.

Vicky was the next one along, the Victorian bridge he and Barry had been working on that day. It had handsome stone arches and ornate panels depicting flowers and leaves. It connected the cathedral on one side of the river to the library on the other.

When he reached the third bridge along, his palms itched as he spotted dozens of fresh padlocks hanging there. This was the oldest bridge in the city, with parts of it dating back to the fourteenth century. Mitchell christened it Archie, because it had three pale stone arches.

The newest bridge had been commissioned to celebrate the centenary of Upchester’s city status. Due to open soon, Mitchell named it the Yacht. It was supermodern, all sleek white railings and thin white struts that looked like the laces of a lady’s corset, securing two tall white masts to the road.

He called his favourite bridge Redford, because of its red bricks. It was a sturdy construction, erected one hundred and fifty years ago. It might look dull and traditional, but it did its job.

As he crossed over Redford, the people he passed came at him in twos, like animals boarding Noah’s Ark. They laughed and kissed with abandon, and Mitchell picked up his pace, finding it painful to witness.

He still saw Anita sometimes, catching glimpses from the corner of his eye of her copper-brown curls in a crowd or a flash of her favourite tomato-red coat. Every time he felt as if someone had stabbed his heart. His breath would catch, and he’d crane his neck to look for her, desperate to see her one more time.

As he strode on, Mitchell noticed a woman standing in the middle of the bridge’s pavement. Her dress was vibrant, a daffodil yellow. Everyone else was heading across the bridge, but she was stationary, absolutely still, so people had to part and move around her. As Mitchell drew closer, he noticed her nose had a bump on the bridge that made him feel an immediate kinship with her. Her walnut curls reminded him of Anita’s hairstyle.

Her warm, familiar smile seemed to say, Oh, fancy seeing you here. But he was certain he’d never seen her before. He couldn’t help staring at her, as if catching sight of his own reflection in a shop mirror and doing a double take.

As they caught each other’s eyes, a wash of colour circled his neck, but he found it difficult to look away.

You’re still in love with Anita, remember?

Mitchell’s eyes fell upon the sweep of her collarbone and her shoulders, before stopping on the shiny thing in her hand. It was large, heart-shaped and glinted intermittently gold and then white in the late afternoon sunlight.

A padlock.

He gritted his teeth as the woman stepped towards the railing and stooped to secure her lock. After straightening back up, she tossed its key into the river and peered down at the water. She brushed her hair back with her hand then patted her ear. Her forehead furrowed and she spun around on the spot, searching on the pavement. She then looked over the railing at the narrow ledge on the other side.

Mitchell wondered what she’d lost, but told himself he didn’t have time to help her to find it anyway.

His view of her was obstructed by a young man carrying a large shiny shovel on his shoulder and a few other passersby. When he saw the woman again she was leaning over the railing on her tiptoes, reaching for something on the other side. Her fingers padded around and she raised a leg off the ground, pointing her foot to balance herself as if performing a ballet move.

A feeling of worry reared up inside him at her precarious position. ‘Hey, be careful,’ he called out.

His view was interrupted again by a large group of students traipsing along. When they had passed, Mitchell stared at the spot where the woman had stood. Except she was no longer there.

He saw a flash of her yellow dress through the railings, vivid in the rushing river below.

‘Damn,’ he said out loud.

And in that split second, all thoughts of Anita flew from his mind. He dropped his toolbox to the ground, ran and swung his legs over the railing with ease.

When the base of his back caught against the ledge on the other side, he knew a jolt of pain should accompany it, but Mitchell didn’t feel anything as he crashed down into the violent water.

2
Pizza Boxes

Mitchell had never been a strong swimmer. He hadn’t been that great at any sports or classes in school, except for physics, where he loved learning about fulcrums, loads and motion. He and Poppy used to enjoy swimming sessions together until recently, when she got out of the pool after a couple of lengths, arms folded. ‘I like swimming with Mum better,’ she said. ‘This isn’t as fun. You always set targets for me.’ And she hadn’t wanted to go to the pool with him since.

As Mitchell plunged into the river, icy cold water gushed over his head and plugged his ears. When he stopped sinking, he pushed upwards and broke to the surface with a gasp. He squinted and saw the woman in the yellow dress was twenty metres or so in front of him, being sucked along by a strong torrent. She flailed her arms, clutching at the air, before her head disappeared underwater.

People along the street at the side of the river slowed to stop and watch, gaping down at the crisis occurring in front of them. Mitchell was only vaguely aware of them as he kicked off his shoes and began to swim.

He arched one arm and then the other, kicking his legs as quickly as he could. After every few strokes, he fixed his eyes on the woman as she was swept along. ‘Hold on,’ he called out, spitting out the bitter water that filled his mouth. ‘I’m coming for you.’

He urged himself onwards, but although he was using all his strength, it felt like he wasn’t moving anywhere. He clenched his jaw as the river tugged him backwards, like it had strong arms wrapped around his thighs. The young man who drowned last summer had lost his battle against the currents that swirled forcefully beneath the surface.

Mitchell pushed himself to swim harder, trying to find a rhythm with his limbs. One-two, one-two, one-two. He lost all sense of the geography of the city. All he could see was greyness sloshing around him, and a circle of yellow fabric in front of him like a beacon.

Fear made him focus. The dread of not reaching her, not managing to save her, pushed him onwards.

Pain seared across his shoulders, and his throat tightened so much his breath was shallow through his nose. He told himself he was getting closer to her, mind over matter, but he wasn’t really sure.

After what seemed like forever, he spotted a fallen tree, split by lightning in a storm, that hung over the river at a right angle. The flow of water suddenly pulled the woman towards it, and spindly branches stuck out like daggers to greet her. Mitchell watched as she became entangled in them, and then she was gone from his sight.

He thrust his face into the water, swimming harder than ever before. All he could see was blackness until he felt something sharp scrape his arm, and he was there alongside the tree. Next to her.

A section of her dress had snagged on a branch and the rest of it billowed around her.

He fought against the branches to reach her and took her into his arms. While treading water, he gently lifted her chin with his fingers. ‘Are you okay?’ he spluttered. ‘Can you talk?’

Her lips moved, but she didn’t reply. Her face was ashen and strands of her wet hair hung down over her eyes.

‘Try to hold on to me, if you can. I’m going to swim and get us both to safety.’

Mitchell unhooked her dress from the tree and managed to recall snippets of the few lifesaving sessions he’d watched Poppy have at the pool. He helped the woman to lie on her back and, after cupping his hand under her chin, he swam backwards, pulling her along with him.

Fortunately, he found a calmer current that assisted their movements.

The riverbank was lower on one side than the other, with a long grass verge in front of a series of waterfront bars. Mitchell headed towards them, his eyes intermittently flicking between the woman’s face and his destination.

‘We’re nearly there,’ he said. ‘Only a bit further. You’re doing so well.’

A few people stood, clutching pints of beer and staring at him as if he was competing in a swimming race. The edge of the river shallowed and Mitchell pushed himself forwards onto the grass and pulled the woman out of the water. She lay in his arms with the back of her head pressed against his chest. ‘You’re okay. You’re safe,’ he blurted with relief.

They stayed there together, his arms wrapped around her as the blazing sun warmed their cold bodies.

The woman’s eyes were shut, but her eyelashes danced against her cheeks and she smiled serenely.

This moment, being here with her, reminded Mitchell of the contradictory mixture of stillness and exhilaration he felt when Poppy was born, when he first held her in his arms. Anita had smiled at him weakly and he had wanted to burst into tears and laugh at the same time, as exhaustion, joy and responsibility sent his feelings into a tailspin. When he looked down at the woman, he pictured Anita with her damp curls pressed against her forehead. The closeness to this stranger, her body in his arms, was both tender and unnerving and his hand shook when he brushed her hair away from her eyes.

She squinted against the daylight. ‘What happened?’ she rasped. ‘Where am I?’

‘My name is Mitchell Fisher. You were standing on a bridge in Upchester, attaching a padlock. I think you dropped something and were looking for it. You leaned right over the railing and fell.’ He held his breath for a while. ‘You could have got yourself killed.’

She smiled weakly and reached up to take his hand. Their wet fingers entwined tightly. ‘I’m so clumsy recently. I don’t make a habit of this, honestly. I usually just knock glasses of wine over or forget my door keys.’

Mitchell liked how she managed to find humour in her situation. ‘So long as you’re safe. Do you think you’re ready to try to stand up?’

She crooked one knee, then frowned in pain. Her head slumped back against his chest. ‘Not yet.’ She looked up at him, and again he felt a tug of something for her. It caused more memories of Anita to trickle back and he didn’t want to think of her, not here and now. The shame he often felt could bury him like an avalanche.

‘I do know you, don’t I?’ she said.

Mitchell looked away. ‘I don’t think we’ve met before.’ He wondered if her fall was causing her confusion, but as he opened his mouth to reply, a hand clamped down on his shoulder. A man with a thin moustache and horn-rimmed glasses stood above him.

‘I’m a doctor. Can I help?’ the man said.

Mitchell nodded gratefully, and he slipped his fingers away from the woman’s hand. He cradled her head and helped her to lie down flat on the grass, then he shuffled backwards out of the way.

The doctor crouched down. ‘What happened?’

The woman swallowed but didn’t reply.

‘She fell into the river, and I jumped in to help her,’ Mitchell said.

‘How long was she in for?’

‘Ten or fifteen minutes, I think. I don’t really know.’ His sense of time had flown and his stomach plunged when his watch showed 5.40 p.m.

His attention snapped back to Poppy. She was at school and he was very late. He’d also left his toolbox on the bridge. ‘Sorry, I have to go,’ he said to the doctor and the woman.

Mitchell stood up and took a few unsteady steps along the grass verge in his soggy socked feet. He hunched away from the well-meaning pats that rained down on his back. When a couple of mobile phones appeared, he resisted the impulse to bat them away.

He told himself the woman would be fine. She was with a doctor.

Heart thumping, Mitchell thrust a hand into his trouser pocket and tugged out his own phone to call the school. But the screen was blank and tiny bubbles emerged from the camera hole.

He limped to where the grass verge ended, made his way back up onto the street and headed towards Redford to quickly look for his toolbox. When he reached midway along the bridge, he stood in the rough spot the woman in the yellow dress had fallen.

He searched frantically around for his tools and his shoulders sagged when he realized they’d gone, perhaps stolen.

When he looked back over the railing, he saw the woman and doctor were heading in his direction. The sun made her wet dress shine like gold, and a thought struck Mitchell like a lightning bolt.

I don’t even know her name.

He looked at her again and his pull towards her was magnetic. But she was over thirty metres away from him, and he had to get to the school.

He would rush past and ask what her name was.

He had to know.

He turned and saw a cyclist whizzing along the pavement towards him at great speed. Pizza boxes were piled high on the handlebars. Mitchell tried to jump out of the way, but the bicycle smashed into him, knocking him to the ground.

As boxes went flying in the air, Mitchell heard the thwack of his own head on the pavement. Pain bloomed and his vision blurred. Someone shouted for an ambulance, and legs surrounded him like trees in a forest.

When he strained to raise his head, a hand pressed his shoulders back down.

Mitchell wasn’t sure how long he lay there for, but through a set of fleshy knees in long khaki shorts, he thought he saw the swish of a yellow dress.

Then he closed his eyes and everything went blank.

3
Small Shoes

While he was out cold, Mitchell dreamed.

It was another kiln-hot summer day where the air shimmered and people gathered in the pub for shelter from the sun. A woman with copper curls pushed in next to him at the bar.

‘A pint of cider, please,’ she said, even though it was Mitchell’s turn to be served. She glanced at him and pressed a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, sorry, you were next?’

He shrugged, a little irritated. ‘It’s fine.’

‘No, it’s not. Really. The barman was cutting into a lime and the smell always reminds me of this holiday I went on to Ibiza in my early twenties. It was supposedly cool to drink beer from a bottle with a slice of lime sticking out of the neck. Even though I didn’t like the taste, I drank it for a whole week and…’

Mitchell laughed despite himself. ‘I once forced myself to drink the same thing at a barbecue because my friends liked it.’

She returned his smile. ‘Anyway, what I’m trying to say is sorry, and can I get you a drink?’ When he started to protest against her offer, she jokingly placed her elbow in front of him. ‘I’ll get this,’ she said to the barman.

She wasn’t his usual type, with a round face and messy red hair when he was usually attracted to brunettes. But when she grinned at him, he liked how her eyes crinkled at the corners in a fan shape.

Mitchell asked for a cider, too, and they carried their drinks outside together, grumbling about the hot weather, and sat down at the only free table. She told him her name was Anita and she was waiting for a friend who was always late.

She raised her glass at him. ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’ He clinked his in return.

When Anita pressed her lips against the glass, she savoured every sip of the fizzy amber liquid as if it was the finest champagne, and Mitchell realized he actually fancied her. She was the kind of person who could find adventure in the simplest of things.

A delicious sensation tingled in his chest as he thought about where their conversation might take them both.

Mitchell closed his eyes as he drank his cider. However, when he opened them again, his glass had vanished from his hand. The table and the pub were no longer there. Anita had gone, too.

He woke up and found himself woozy and sore, lying on a hospital bed. There was an electronic beeping sound to his right, and a cannula tube taped to the back of his hand. He wore a starchy, patterned gown and a wristband with his name on it.

He forgot about his dream and tried to sit up. ‘Poppy,’ he cried out.

A bag with an Upchester Hospital logo sat on a chair beside his bed and he could see his clothes were folded inside it. On top of the small table next to him, his keys, wallet and mobile phone were sealed inside a plastic bag that was foggy with condensation. He stretched to reach for it, but realized a nurse was pointing a finger at him from the end of the bed.

‘Leave that alone,’ she ordered.

Mitchell tried to sit up again. ‘You don’t understand—yow!’ A pain shot down his spine and he screwed his eyes shut.

‘What do you think you’re doing, sweetheart?’

Mitchell opened one eye and took in the nurse’s blue uniform, tight black curls and steely brown eyes. ‘Sorry, but I need to get out of here,’ he said. ‘I’m late to get my daughter from school. She’ll be worried…’

‘Even if you have a dinner date with the queen, I’m not letting you go anywhere.’ Her name badge said Hello My Name is Samantha and it made her sound friendlier than she looked.

He clawed at the neck of his gown. ‘I’m absolutely fine, honestly.’

‘That’s for me to say, not you. As it stands, your oxygen levels, temperature and blood pressure are okay. You’ve had a CT scan, and the good news is you’ll be fine.’ She tapped the side of her own head. ‘You’ve had a couple of stitches.’

Mitchell felt like he’d been battered with a meat tenderizing hammer. He reached up to feel the spongy softness of gauze taped above his right ear. ‘Poppy’s only nine, and she has a guitar lesson. What time is it?’ When he saw a wall clock displayed 7.25 p.m., his insides cramped. ‘I have got to go.’

He imagined Poppy staring expectantly at her watch as the other kids were picked up from the club and she was left behind. She’d be twitchy, frightened even. Exactly the same as the fateful day Anita didn’t arrive to collect her.

‘You need to calm down,’ Samantha ordered. ‘Won’t her mum have things covered?’

Mitchell wondered why she’d assume this. He tried to reply, but the words stuck in his mouth. ‘No. She’s…’

Samantha crossed her arms expectantly.

‘There’s only me.’ Mitchell looked down at his hands. ‘Poppy’s mother… well, she died.’

Samantha unfolded her arms and fiddled with her name badge. ‘I’m very sorry,’ she said softly. ‘I’ll find out what I can.’

Mitchell nodded. ‘Please.’

He’d never fully settled on how to describe Anita. She wasn’t his wife because they weren’t married, and they’d never got engaged. The word partner sounded like a business arrangement, and soul mate was too soppy. Girlfriend was too young, and the mother of my child suggested Poppy was the result of a one-night stand. He usually called her Poppy’s mum.

If he ever had to explain his circumstances, he often found himself consoling people, rather than the other way around.

‘You weren’t to know…’

‘I’m sorry to tell you…’

‘It’s one of those things…’

What he really wanted to say was, ‘Imagine being told you’ll never feel sunshine on your skin ever again. That’s what life is like without her. And every minute and hour of each day, I feel like it’s my fault she’s no longer here.’

But he kept this to himself.

He tried to picture himself as an armadillo, curled up against the world and displaying an armoured shell. Even though three years had passed, he still needed this protection.

Samantha returned a few minutes later. ‘Your friend Barry Waters is listed as an emergency contact at the school. I understand he picked up your daughter and took her to her music lesson.’

‘But that will have finished…’

‘That’s all I can tell you, I’m afraid.’ Samantha passed him a small paper cup that contained two round white tablets. ‘Are you allergic to paracetamol? Do you feel sick at all, or dizzy? Any memory loss? Do you know where you are?’

‘In prison?’ He eyed the pills with suspicion. ‘I’m totally fine, genuinely. Do I really need to take these? Don’t I have to sign something to agree to it? What are the rules about these things? I just want to leave.’

She looked at him disparagingly. ‘Just take the tablets, please, Mr Fisher. You’re not going anywhere until I say so. Those are my rules.’

Half an hour later, Barry arrived. He wore faded double denim and his chest hair spewed out from the open neck of his shirt. ‘I’ve seen you looking better, mate. You feeling all right?’

‘I’m fine.’ Mitchell strained forward. ‘But how’s Poppy? Is she okay? Was she upset?’

Barry moved the bag off the chair and sat down. ‘No need to worry. The school called me when you didn’t show up and they couldn’t reach you. The hospital found some council ID in your pocket and rang me, too, to say you’d been brought in. I collected Poppy from school and told her you’d been in an accident but were fine. She was a bit shaken, though still wanted to go to her music lesson rather than for a burger with me. She had an appointment card with the teacher’s address on it.’ He reached in his pocket and handed it to Mitchell before looking around him. ‘God, I hate these places.’

Mitchell did, too. He refused to think about the last time he was here in the hospital with Anita. The memories were beginning to seep back and he tried to banish them by talking quickly. ‘Thanks. I’ve not met Miss Bradfield properly yet, just spoken to her on the phone.’

‘She’s really nice and said it’s no problem if you’re late to pick Poppy up. She’ll feed her, too.’ Barry leaned down and deposited a pair of shoes on top of Mitchell’s bedsheets. ‘I’ve brought you some dry ones.’

Mitchell turned one over. ‘Thanks. Um, they’re two sizes too small.’

‘They’re good shoes, though, got nice laces. I’ll leave them anyway. Do you know you’ve been on the local news?’

Mitchell gaped at him. ‘On TV?’

‘Online.’ Barry located a photo on his phone of Mitchell sitting on the riverbank dripping wet, his head bowed. ‘The reporter called you the Hero on the Bridge.’

‘That’s rubbish, anyone would have done the same.’ Mitchell pictured the woman in the yellow dress standing on the bridge, wearing her enigmatic smile. He wondered again why she thought she knew him. ‘What did they say about the woman? Is she okay? What’s her name?’

‘It only really mentions you. This stuff gets updated all the time, though.’ He put his phone away. ‘You really don’t need this drama in your life, do you?’

‘I’ve spoiled your evening and lost my toolbox,’ Mitchell said glumly. ‘You had a date lined up.’

‘Nah, it’s fine. I had a quick beer with Mandy before I got the call about you. She was nice, but…’ He squirmed. ‘I’m seeing Megan later. I’ve met her before, but it was messy. We had a great time, until her husband rocked up and wanted to take the party back to his place. Totally awkward.’

Mitchell stared at him in disbelief.

Barry held a palm up. ‘I didn’t go,’ he said defensively. ‘Anyway, I’m meeting Tina tomorrow. She’s an artist.’

The number of women’s names spilling from Barry’s lips made Mitchell’s temples throb. ‘Good luck, Casanova,’ he said.

Barry stayed with Mitchell a while longer before excusing himself to meet Megan. ‘I’ll ask around about your toolbox,’ he said. ‘Make enquiries.’

‘Thanks, the tools cost me a packet.’

After Barry left, Mitchell lay in bed, stewing and urging Samantha to reappear. When she eventually returned with a clip file and paperwork, she removed the tube from the back of his hand and stuck a plaster on it. ‘Yes, you do have to legally sign these papers to discharge yourself,’ she said and handed him a pen. ‘You have an appointment at the clinic here next week to have your stitches removed. I’ll give you a leaflet about concussions to read. Your back is bruised and might be sore for a while.’

Mitchell closed the curtains around his bed and sat down heavily on the mattress. His polo shirt still had patches of dampness and felt strangely stiff. After pulling on his trousers, he stuffed his keys, wallet and phone into his back pockets.

The realization of what he’d done was beginning to dawn on him.

He wasn’t a hero at all. He was a stupid person for putting himself in danger, when the outcome could have been a lot worse.

If he hadn’t felt a flicker of interest for the woman in the yellow dress, he would have walked on by and not seen her fall. He wouldn’t have spotted the padlock in her hands. Helping her had triggered a chain of events he wished hadn’t been set in motion.

A sob suddenly reared inside him, threatening to break out like a lion’s roar, and he gulped it away. He dropped Barry’s shoes to the floor and tried to stuff his foot inside one of them, even though he knew it wouldn’t fit. When he bent down to pick them back up, tears blurred his eyes and he clutched the shoes to his chest like a child with a teddy bear.

It was his job to put Poppy first and he’d let her down.

As he pulled back the curtain from around the bed and stepped beyond it, he took a pained breath.

When he shuffled off the ward, guilt clenched his gut that he’d been able to help a stranger, but not Anita.

4
Pink Fridge

Mitchell eased himself into a taxi outside the hospital and asked the driver to take him across the city to Miss Bradfield’s house. Anita had always spoken of arranging for Poppy to take extra music lessons and the teacher came highly recommended by another parent. She gave independent lessons in the evening, as well as her daytime job teaching in several local schools, including Poppy’s school, Hinchward primary.

As his damp trousers squeaked against the leather car seat, Mitchell watched the red illuminated digits of the taxi fare rolling higher and higher. The cost distressed him almost as much as his aching body.

Budgeting for him and Poppy was always tight. Things like family days at theme parks, lunch without thinking about the bill and popcorn buckets at the cinema were resigned to the past. Now he scoured the internet for cheap things for them to do together. He had discovered that strolls in the countryside, making cheese sandwiches and attending free events in libraries were just as much fun, and provided the opportunity to chat with Poppy more. Or it meant he could try.

Sometimes Poppy still swung his hand in hers, chitchatting away about school and new songs her friends had downloaded. Other times she wore a cloak of sadness that he couldn’t break through.

‘I want people to like me,’ she said when she moved to Hinchward after Anita died. ‘Not just be nice to me because Mum’s gone.’

And her words had seared into him, making his guilt bloom like dye in water.

When Mitchell slid out of the taxi, he clamped Barry’s shoes under one arm and looked up and down the road. There was a curve of pretty small white houses, many with hanging baskets bursting with colourful flowers. He felt a pang of envy that they had small front gardens, when his own apartment didn’t have any outside space.

When Mitchell rang Miss Bradfield’s doorbell, he placed one foot on top of the other in an attempt to disguise the fact that he wasn’t wearing shoes.

The woman who answered the door wore large red-and-white spotty earrings that reminded him of toadstools, and had rows of black dogs on her white shirt. Her brown hair had streaks that shone purple like a beetle shell when she moved her head.

‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Poppy’s dad? I’m Liza Bradfield.’

‘Yes, I’m Mitchell Fisher. I’m so sorry I’m late.’

‘It happens, though maybe not this late.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Come inside.’

He followed her into a glossy powder-pink kitchen that looked like something a child would design. Poppy sat at the dining table.

‘Are you okay?’ He rushed towards her.

‘You’re really late, Dad,’ she said, her bottom lip trembling. Her straw-blonde hair snaked into a waist-length plait, with wispy curls along her hairline. She was going through a blue clothes phase, not wanting to wear her more girlish pink things any longer. When she stood up, she launched into a ferocious hug, her fingers clutching his back. ‘Don’t ever do that again.’

They held each other until she dipped her head and pulled away.

Miss Bradfield smiled at them, as if watching a play.

There were chunky fish fingers piled on Poppy’s plate like Jenga blocks with no vegetables to be seen, and her drink was a shade of chemically enhanced orange. A ginger wiry-haired terrier sat on the floor, wagging its tail at him.

Mitchell was too tired to make small talk and wanted to go home. If he hadn’t had an accident, Poppy wouldn’t be eating and drinking this stuff.

Poppy guzzled the orange liquid. ‘Hmm,’ she sighed, as if it was the best thing she’d ever tasted.

Miss Bradfield picked up her dog and held it, legs dangling, under one arm. ‘You finished it all, yay.’

‘It was so good. Thanks.’

Miss Bradfield turned to Mitchell. ‘Poppy’s done great. She was a bit upset at first, but I played her some classical music. A sonata can soothe the soul.’ Her voice had a lyrical quality, as if she sang some of her words.

‘I can’t thank you enough,’ Mitchell said.

‘We learned how to hold the guitar and practised a few notes. She’s a natural, I can tell.’

He wondered if she said this to all her pupils. ‘We should go and leave you in peace.’

The dog leaned forward and licked the back of his hand, its wide pink tongue leaving a shiny trail on his skin.

‘Ah, Sasha likes you,’ Miss Bradfield said in surprise. ‘That’s rare, you know, her taking to a man like that. She’s choosy – used to bite one of my exes. Drew blood sometimes, ha. A better judge of character than me.’

When she lowered the dog to the floor, Mitchell wiped his hand on his trousers.

He glanced at her fridge, covered in a scrapbook of photos. He spotted Miss Bradfield posing in front of the Golden Gate Bridge, the Eiffel Tower and a purple VW campervan. She was accompanied by two other women, one who looked startlingly similar to the woman he helped from the water. He rubbed the space between his eyebrows and wondered if a bump to the head could bring on hallucinations.

‘So, you had an accident?’ Miss Bradfield said. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m in one piece.’

‘Didn’t you jump into the river to save someone?’

‘It was nothing,’ he said, wondering how much Barry had told her. ‘We mustn’t keep you any longer…’

She picked up an apple and bit into it leisurely. ‘You’re an architect, right? Clever?’ she asked between crunches. ‘Poppy told me you designed the new white bridge, the one that looks like a yacht?’

Poppy slid her eyes guiltily to the ceiling, and Mitchell felt his cheeks burn. He’d left his job in architecture when Anita died, and he hated to think about his involvement with the new bridge for many reasons.

‘I no longer practise,’ he said. ‘I changed jobs and work for the council now instead. No out-of-office meetings or travel.’

Miss Bradfield’s eyes swept to the Maintenance Team logo on his chest. ‘Ah, okay,’ she said lightly.

Poppy carried her plate and glass over to the sink.

Miss Bradfield sped over to her. ‘Now, you leave those for me to wash. Have you got room for ice cream? I have vanilla, strawberry or both.’

‘I love strawberry!’

‘Great choice.’

‘We have bananas and apples at home,’ Mitchell said. He picked up Poppy’s blue Word Up schoolbag.

‘I have sugar sprinkles,’ Miss Bradfield said. ‘And caramel sauce.’

Poppy shot him a pleading look.

Mitchell shook his head and zipped up her bag. ‘It’s past nine o’clock. Let’s do that some other time.’

‘When?’ Poppy said immediately. ‘Next week?’

‘We’ll sort something out, okay?’ Miss Bradfield said. She placed her hand behind her head and fanned out her fingers to form a crown. ‘Remember what we learned, Poppy? Always be a pineapple.’

‘Stand tall, wear a crown, but be sweet on the inside,’ Poppy added to her quote with a smile. She moved away from the sink and took her bag from Mitchell. ‘Thanks for looking after me, Miss Bradfield.’

‘Oh, call me Liza outside school. And just look at Sasha’s sparkly eyes. She’s missing your dad already.’

Mitchell headed for the front door, desperate to sink into his own sofa. ‘Thanks again,’ he said.

‘No problem, Mr Hero. Shall I call you a taxi?’

‘It’s fine, we’ll walk.’

‘Um, you’re not wearing shoes, Dad,’ Poppy said.

Mitchell curled his toes. Their apartment was around two miles away, but he didn’t carry credit cards and there was only a five-pound note left in his wallet. ‘I fancy some fresh air,’ he said.

Poppy wilted against the door frame. ‘Pleeease. I’m so tired, and I’ve got my bag to carry.’

Miss Bradfield pursed her lips. ‘If you need a little money?’ she said quietly. ‘You can pay me back, along with the lesson money. It’s eighteen pounds for a half-hour lesson. Not as cheap as other teachers, but I’m good.’

Damn, Mitchell had forgotten about that, and he would have to pay her more for looking after Poppy. If he’d been alone, he’d be stubborn and limp home in his socked feet.

However, he reluctantly agreed to Miss Bradfield’s offer and she phoned and ordered a taxi, before covertly slipping him a ten-pound note. ‘Call me tomorrow, let me know you’re okay,’ she said.

He reached for the latch on the door. ‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Just to check. Or for a chat. Poppy said you’re on your own…’

His cheeks flushed with embarrassment. ‘I’m really okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back in work tomorrow, as usual.’

Mitchell saw Poppy’s and Miss Bradfield’s eyes meet, unconvinced.

‘I think the cab is here.’ He raised his chin and pulled the door open, glad when a breeze outside cooled his fiery face. ‘Thanks again, for everything.’

5
Angel House

The shadows cast by the setting sun made the crumbling white bricks of Angel House look almost pretty. The 1920s building had originally been built as commercial offices for a detergents company and was named after its most popular cleaning fluid, Angel Liquid. It had been converted into apartments in the 1990s and retained its name.

Mitchell and Poppy lived at the top of the building in the eaves, where the ceilings sloped at acute angles. The roof slates soaked up the heat in summer, turning the place into a sauna, and in winter it was as cold as an igloo. The landlord described it as a penthouse, but it was more like an attic.

Mitchell started to rent the apartment four years ago as a weekday base away from home to be closer to his job at Foster and Hardman Architects. Work had been difficult to come by in the rural area he, Anita and Poppy lived in, and Anita wanted to remain close to her job teaching art at a local school, and her friends. They’d both lost their parents before Poppy was born, so these connections were important to her.

Mitchell was initially reluctant to stay in the city, but Anita assured him it was a more sensible option than commuting four hours a day. His work contract was for only eighteen months, and he’d be home three nights out of seven.

He initially liked that the apartment was uncluttered by family life. There were no piles of books and clothes on the stairs, or lipstick marks on towels or toys littering the floor. He could go to bed when he wanted, at 8 p.m. with a book or after a late-night movie. He discovered Minecraft on his iPad and sat up for hours crafting virtual bridges and buildings.

He often had to work over the weekends, too. At these times, when he and Anita didn’t see each other for up to a fortnight, they wrote letters to each other.

He wished he had shared her same eloquence for words. Her joie de vivre shone through in each letter she sent him, and his heart leaped when he found them waiting for him in the lobby or in his mailbox. Poppy sent him crayon drawings and small notes, and her handwriting flourished from the extra practice.

In return, Mitchell’s letters were practical and concise to prevent the stresses of work showing through. As his workload increased, the passion for his job faded, and so did his words home. But the money was good, and he was doing it for his family to have a better life. The foundations he laid now would strengthen their future.

Mitchell prayed to himself that the Angel House lift was going to be working, or else there were five flights of stairs to climb to the apartment. He just wanted to clamber into bed and go to sleep so he could be productive at work the following day. He could ask around to try to find out what happened to the woman in the yellow dress and put his mind at rest.

A fresh wave of exhaustion hit him when he saw Carl, the live-in concierge, mopping the chequered floor of the lobby. Carl was occupying the role to cover for his uncle, who was looking after a poorly relative overseas. In Mitchell’s opinion, Carl was overly keen on his new job. He greeted the residents too eagerly, with a big smile and many questions. In his mid-twenties, Carl’s hair was butter yellow and he wore a white shirt and tie underneath his khaki overalls. He could often be found folding origami shapes out of coloured paper.

‘Evening,’ Carl said, looking grateful to have someone to talk to. He rested his arm on top of his mop. ‘You two are out late. Do you have school in the morning, young lady?’

Poppy gave him a tired smile. ‘Yep.’

Carl reached into the breast pocket of his overalls and passed a tiny green paper crane to her. She cupped it gently in her hands. His eyes then swept down to Mitchell’s socked feet. ‘Why are you carrying your shoes, Mr Fisher?’

Mitchell flexed his toes, too fatigued to reply properly. He groaned inwardly as he saw the Out of Order sign on the lift.

‘I have a letter for you.’ Carl darted eagerly across the lobby towards his tatty oak desk. He moved a few origami frogs to one side and picked up a pink envelope. ‘A lady on the third floor asked me to give you this. Is it your birthday?’

‘No.’ Mitchell reached out to take it, but Carl kept it pincered to his chest.

‘I can see hearts through the paper,’ he said. ‘Very romantic.’

Mitchell whipped the envelope from Carl’s grip. He placed a hand on Poppy’s back and urged her towards the door to the stairway. ‘Thank you.’

Carl called after him, ‘I have another letter here, too, Mr Fisher. This one’s for me. I wonder if you could just—?’

However, Mitchell had already opened and closed the door behind him. He looked up the stairs spiralling above them.

Poppy glanced back towards the lobby. ‘I think Carl wanted you to look at his letter, Dad.’

‘Why would he want me to do that?’

She shrugged a shoulder. ‘Don’t know.’

‘Well, I’m sure he’ll find someone else to do it,’ Mitchell said as he mounted the first step.

After reaching the apartment, Mitchell panted as he unlocked the door. Even though the sun was almost down, the apartment was still baking hot. The small rooms were sparsely furnished, with stripped wooden floors. He’d bought the bare minimum of sleek Scandinavian-style furniture to kit the place out. In his sitting room, there was a three-seater sofa with a textile print featuring block-printed stags, and a coffee table that looked like a tree stump with rings in the wood. In Poppy’s bedroom, there was a shiny white bed, desk and wardrobe that he’d hastily bought and assembled from Ikea.

When Poppy dropped her schoolbag on the floor of the hallway, pieces of paper pinned to corkboards on the walls fluttered like butterfly wings – recipes, an exercise itinerary, Poppy’s school timetable and the diary of their activities he’d planned for the school holidays. Whenever Mitchell thought of new plans of action, he wrote them out neatly and pinned them here. After Anita died, he’d become obsessed with planning his and Poppy’s lives. There was a beauty to structure, like mortar between bricks, holding things together.

‘That’s not the right home for your bag, is it?’ he said.

Poppy picked it back up, huffing as if it was really heavy. She pushed it onto its allocated labelled shelf in the storage cupboard. ‘Okay?’ she asked blearily.

‘Good. A tidy house is a tidy mind, even though it’s technically an apartment.’

‘Yes, Dad.’

The handwriting on the pink envelope was indigo, with large looping letters. Mitchell opened it up and winced when he saw the hearts on the card that Carl mentioned.

Dear Mitchell,

My name is Vanessa and I live on the third floor. I hope you don’t mind me writing to you, but I saw you online, on the local news, and recognized you from our apartment block. What you did is totally admirable. Bravo, you!

If you’d like to pop over for a bottle of vino or coffee sometime, feel free to knock on number 25.

Love,

Vanessa xx

Poppy peered at it excitedly over his shoulder. ‘That’s nice of her.’

‘It’s kind of weird,’ he said. ‘How does she even know my name?’

‘Maybe from Carl?’

Mitchell felt prickly at Vanessa’s attention. She’d put two kisses and used the word love.

He often thought he’d been born in the wrong era and belonged to a more old-fashioned time instead. He couldn’t understand why hooking up with someone you’d only just met was called getting lucky. What was lucky about having a stranger in your home and being intimate before you even knew their surname?

He’d been on only a few dates since Anita died and throughout them he felt as if he sweated guilt through his every pore.

He knew Isobel through work, and she was obsessed with Spain. They’d met for tapas and, although the dishes of food were tiny, Mitchell couldn’t eat a thing. Isobel didn’t notice and devoured his portions anyway.

Beatrice was an intellectual. She wore black-framed glasses that made her look like a 1950s scientist. Her favourite word was existentially and she had learned her periodic tables at the age of seven. She said Anita’s death was lamentable and, at the end of the night, invited him back to her place.

Mitchell still felt ashamed that he’d succumbed to her offer.

After eighteen months without Anita, his body had ached to be close to someone else. He wanted the comfort of listening to another person’s breathing as they slept beside him, even if it was for only a few hours.

Afterwards, in bed, he and Beatrice talked sleepily about their favourite seasons and things they liked to do on Sun days. But a voice in his head told him he shouldn’t be here, that it was far too soon.

After napping for a while, Mitchell had sat up in bed and pulled on his shirt. ‘Sorry,’ he said into the darkness of the early morning. ‘I have to dash. I had a lovely time.’

‘Me, too,’ Beatrice murmured with a smile in her voice.

Mitchell paused, wondering what the etiquette was here, if he should ask to see her again. But Beatrice spoke first. ‘Please make sure the front door is closed properly when you leave.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘It sticks sometimes.’

‘Sorry,’ Mitchell whispered, stubbing his toe against her bed as he slipped out of her room. And when he hurried away from Beatrice’s apartment, he said, ‘Sorry,’ once more, this time to Anita.

Now he gripped Vanessa’s card in his hand. ‘I won’t go around for coffee. She might be a serial killer,’ he joked at Poppy, trying to get her to agree. But she shook her head at him very slowly.

‘She might just be lonely, Dad,’ she said. ‘Like you.’

Mitchell stared at her for the longest time. ‘How can I be lonely when I have you?’ he said and kissed the top of her head.

Later that night, Mitchell moved stiffly around Poppy’s bedroom, putting her books away, reminding her to put her worn clothes in the laundry basket and to choose her clothes for the next day. As she changed into her pyjamas in the bathroom, he picked up his favourite family photo of him, Anita and Poppy at the top of Conwy Castle. Poppy had insisted they climb each of its towers, and afterwards they’d rewarded themselves with huge ice creams.

After Poppy finished cleaning her teeth in the bathroom, she jumped up onto her bed. ‘Hop on, Dad,’ she said, and Mitchell placed the photo back down.

Poppy’s bedroom had ceilings that met in a point, so it resembled the shape of a tent. A large window built into the slope of the roof opened outwards, so she could stand on her bed and poke her head and shoulders through it.

They stood on the bed next to each other and looked out of the window at the night sky and the twinkling lights of the city. Laughter rang from the late-night cafés below, and at the edge of the silvery rooftops a pigeon lay huddled in the nearby gutter.

After they’d breathed in the night air for a while, Mitchell said, ‘Come on, Pops, it’s bedtime.’

She walked her fingers along the warm roof slates. ‘I miss our garden.’

‘This is kind of outside space,’ Mitchell said, his eyelids growing heavier.

‘I could make daisy chains, and friends came over to play.’

‘I loved it, too, but we go to the park. You see your friends at school.’

‘It’s not the same.’ She dropped down to her knees on her bed and sat with her head bowed. She picked up her floppy black cat, the last toy her mum had bought for her. ‘Can we go home one day, Dad?’

Mitchell shut his eyes and felt the same way. He missed their house and how Anita’s bras tangled up with his socks in the laundry basket. She sang when she smoothed new sheets onto the bed. He wished he could lounge outside on warm evenings and drink cider with her again.

He shut Poppy’s window, leaving a small gap, and sat down on the bed beside her. He took her hand in his, knowing the city apartment wasn’t ideal for a young girl. ‘I couldn’t afford to pay the rent on the house with only my wage coming in, especially after I switched jobs. Plus, living here I get to spend more time with you.’

She cocked her head and played with the bow around the cat’s neck. ‘One day, I’ll get a job. Then I’ll buy our old house,’ she said with a wobble in her voice.

It was his impossible dream to buy one, too, and he turned off her main bedroom light. ‘Come on, Pops, it’s been a long day. You get some beauty sleep.’

‘I’m beautiful enough. Mum says so.’

‘And I agree, but you still need to sleep.’

Poppy turned and lay on her side. When she pulled her sheet up over her nose, her eyes shone with tears.

‘Hey, what’s wrong?’ He dipped his head closer to her.

She gave a small sniff. ‘Will the woman you helped be okay?’

‘Yes, she’ll be as right as rain,’ Mitchell said, trying to convince himself as well as Poppy. He picked up her plait and gently brushed the end of her nose with it. ‘I left her with a doctor.’

She peered up at him. ‘What’s her name?’

‘I don’t know. I wished I’d asked her. But look, get some sleep and we’ll chat in the morning.’

She was quiet for just a second. ‘Was she pretty?’

Mitchell cleared his throat. ‘I didn’t notice.’ But in his head, the woman smiled at him on the bridge and he saw the sunlight kissing the tip of her nose. He thought of Barry’s words, not to invite drama into his life, and knew it was good advice. He tugged Poppy’s sheet down to expose her face and her words tumbled out.

‘I thought you weren’t coming to get me from school. You said you’d never be late, but you were, and Mum did the same thing…’

Her words made him sway. ‘The woman was in danger, and I was there.’

‘I know, but…’ She swallowed a sob.

Mitchell gathered her into his arms and they sat together in the dark. He held her until she grew drowsier and heavier in his arms. When her breathing slowed, he kissed her forehead and helped her settle under the covers before he stood back up.

As he moved away Poppy said quietly, ‘No one saved Mum.’

Her words felt like a thump to his gut, and he gripped the door-frame. ‘People tried to…’

He waited for her reply, but it didn’t come as she drifted off to sleep. His footsteps were leaden as he walked back to his own bedroom and fell onto his bed, fully clothed. He took Anita’s sealed lilac envelope out of his bedside drawer and held it to his chest, still unable to open it.

After pulling out his notepad from under the bed, he clumsily took the top off his pen. He propped his head up with his hand and began to write.

Dearest Anita,

Something happened today and I wish you were here, so I could talk to you about it. I helped a lady who fell, but I wasn’t there for you…

His words stopped as a fog descended on his brain. Mitchell pushed himself to write more, but could only manage two additional words.

Love always

Then the pen slipped from his fingers, and his eyes fell shut as he slipped into a deep slumber.

6
Earring

The next morning, Mitchell woke with alarm. His bedroom was brighter than usual, and his eyes shot open when he saw the time on his watch. He was already two hours late for work. He was still wearing his clothes and, when he kicked off the bedsheets, his writing pad skidded to the floor.

Across the corridor, Poppy snored lightly as he hobbled into her room.

‘Pops,’ he hissed. ‘Poppy.’

When she didn’t stir, he reached out to touch her shoulder. He calculated he could make her a late breakfast, rush her to school and make it there before lunchtime. Then he could go into work.

But tomorrow was the last day of the school year and the lessons would be winding down. He knew deep down that, last night, Poppy wasn’t okay.

And he wasn’t okay, either.

He had leaped from a bridge, saved someone, been knocked unconscious and woken in hospital. He tried to survey it all technically and without emotion, but he couldn’t deny his body felt like it was filled with wet sand.

Even though his brain urged him to wake her, Mitchell brushed a lock of hair off Poppy’s cheek and he decided to leave her in bed. He made himself a bowl of muesli and sat alone at the dining table to eat it. He noticed the light bulb that hung down above his head was dusty and didn’t have a shade.

Whenever Anita used to visit, she would say the place looked like a bachelor pad. At the time he thought it was amusing, but now it felt rather tragic.

Instead of browsing the national news on his iPad as usual, Mitchell opened the Upchester News website. If Barry had seen a photo of him online, there might be an image of the woman in the yellow dress, too. He felt a desperate need to find out if she was okay.

On the main page, there was a photo of the bridge and he read the large sub headline: Man Saves Woman from Raging River.

He shook his head at it in dismay. I didn’t save the woman, I helped her. The water wasn’t raging.

The piece was written by someone called Susan Smythe and was full of theatrical words such as selfless and courageous and dashing – words he didn’t associate with himself. Thankfully the article didn’t mention his name, but it didn’t give the name of the woman in the yellow dress, either.

He read through it twice and his concern increased. Perhaps she’d ended up in hospital, too. He felt annoyed with himself for not making enquiries while he was in there.

When he scanned the last sentence of the article, he sucked in a breath.

Have you attached your own padlock and why? What would you say to the Hero on the Bridge? Write in and you could win £200.

There was another square image below this, featuring a large red triangle. When Mitchell clicked it, a video played. The air around him chilled as he watched himself sitting by the river edge. His polo shirt clung wet to his body and he hadn’t realized how slim he’d become.

The woman in yellow sat in front of him and bent her head, so he couldn’t see her face. The film ended with a zoomed-in frozen image of her eye and ear on the screen. Her earring was the shape of a large gold cactus that he hadn’t noticed when he’d helped her.

Somehow, she seemed to look straight at him and Mitchell rubbed his fingers together, wanting to reach into the screen. ‘I hope you’re okay,’ he said quietly. ‘Who and where are you?’

His thoughts were broken by footsteps thudding along the hallway. ‘Aargh, Dad,’ Poppy yelped, her dressing gown hanging off one shoulder. ‘I’m late for school.’

He waved a hand to calm her down. ‘It’s okay.’

‘But I’ve missed my bus.’

‘It’s not the end of the world.’

‘Tell Miss Heathcliff that.’

He gently took hold of her shoulders. ‘I don’t feel well enough to go into work today,’ he said, the words sounding alien to him. ‘I’m taking the day off, and so are you.’

Poppy gaped at him. ‘What?’

‘I was going to wake you, but you needed to rest after last night.’

She chewed the side of her cheek. ‘Sorry, Dad.’

‘You don’t need to apologize. How do you feel today?’

‘Starving.’

‘Well, why don’t you have some cereal while I call the school? I’ll tell Miss Heathcliff you’ll be back in tomorrow. I’m sure she’ll understand.’

‘Will she?’

‘Leave it to me. You could take a nice bath after breakfast.’

Her words were cautious. ‘But don’t we have a plan?’

Mitchell glanced across at his schedules in the hallway. ‘Not even one action point,’ he said, ignoring his uneasiness.

‘Great.’ Poppy grinned as she picked up the muesli box.

Mitchell’s mobile phone screen was still blank, so he used his landline to call his boss. He explained he’d been in an accident and needed to rest up.

Russ already knew about Mitchell’s hospitalization from Barry and agreed with his time off. He was committed to the city council’s mantra of providing a supportive working environment for all, and he loved to win trophies and awards to prove it.

‘Has the woman I helped come forward?’ Mitchell asked.

‘No, and let’s hope she doesn’t,’ Russ said. ‘We don’t want any negative stories kicking around before the centenary celebrations. Someone falling from a bridge is not good for the city’s image, might raise health and safety concerns. So do not, I repeat, do not say anything to the press, or put stuff on Twitter or Facebook. We need it to settle down, nice and quiet. You got that?’

Mitchell decided not to mention the online news article. ‘Loud and clear,’ he grumbled, shifting on the sofa. ‘I never use social media anyway.’

After her bath, he let Poppy eat a bowl of Coco Pops for her lunch, just this once. He insisted she drink a glass of milk.

He sat next to her at the table and jiggled his leg, unused to convalescing.

Poppy pushed her empty bowl away. ‘I got some homework yesterday and it’s deadly boring.’ She began to recite the assignment in a singsong manner. ‘Produce a piece of work during the school holidays to celebrate Upchester’s centenary of city status. It has to include photos and more than one quote.’

Mitchell liked projects, especially the planning stages. He secretly relished helping Poppy with her schoolwork, and his juddering leg stilled. ‘You could write a story about the architecture of the city bridges,’ he said. ‘Did you know the concrete one is called a beam bridge? It’s the simplest kind, like a tree chopped down and placed across a river.’

‘You’ve told me before.’ She rolled her eyes teasingly. ‘It’s my homework. Did you look for the lady on the internet?’

He nodded. ‘I found a short video.’ Mitchell played the clip and showed Poppy the text about the competition.

‘That’s rubbish,’ she said. ‘You can’t see her properly.’

‘I know.’

‘And no one will write in.’

The landline phone rang, and Poppy stared at it suspiciously. Mitchell once overheard her talking about it to her school friend Rachel, as if it was invented in the Dark Ages.

‘I’ll get it,’ he said and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello.’

‘Mr Fisher?’ The lady’s voice was breathless and he wondered if Vanessa had got hold of his phone number.

‘Um, yes?’

‘It’s Miss Bradfield.’

‘Oh, hi,’ he replied. ‘If you’re calling to see how I am, I’m absolutely fine.’

‘But you’re off work?’

‘Well, yes.’

There was a moment’s silence. ‘Look, I know this is a big ask,’ she said. ‘But can you come over to my place? Like ASAP.’

He frowned. ‘What, now?’

‘Yes. I’d like to talk to you. I have ninety minutes free before my next lesson.’

Mitchell didn’t feel like traipsing across the city today, even though she’d been so helpful. He wondered if Poppy had left something behind at her house. ‘We kind of have plans.’

‘Oh,’ she said dejectedly. ‘Only I’ve just watched a small film of you online, and I need to ask you something. It really can’t wait.’

‘About the film?’

‘About the lady in the film.’ She paused, as if carefully considering her next words. ‘I think the woman you rescued might be my sister.’

‘Don’t use your posh voice, Dad,’ Poppy whispered as they stood waiting for Miss Bradfield to answer her door. They’d taken a bus across the city and got here within forty-five minutes of Miss Bradfield’s call. ‘It’s embarrassing.’

‘What posh voice?’

‘The one you use on the phone and in expensive shops.’

‘I never go into expensive shops.’

‘Just speak normally, okay.’

Mitchell had started to recite words in his head to see if he did pronounce them in a grander manner, when Miss Bradfield opened the door. She was wearing red shorts with a frayed hem, and a blue-and-white striped shirt. Her feet were bare. ‘Glad you could come over,’ she said.

‘Hi.’ Poppy fanned her hand behind her head. ‘Pineapple.’

Miss Bradfield returned Poppy’s gesture. ‘Come in and get comfy.’

Poppy jumped inside with both feet. ‘I wasn’t in school today,’ she said.

‘She stayed at home with me for a bit of recovery time,’ Mitchell explained. He covertly gave some money to Miss Bradfield to cover the taxi fare and music lesson.

‘We talked about my homework, though,’ Poppy said. ‘The history of Upchester. Yawn.’

‘Well, history can be can be anything, even something that happened five minutes ago. Only boring people get bored.’ Miss Bradfield led the way through the pink glossy kitchen and out into a small yard. A book lay flat on her striped deck-chair and a small guitar was propped against the wall. Poppy picked it up, strummed it then held it up in one hand like a rock star.

Sasha trotted over and flopped onto her side with her head on Mitchell’s shoe.

‘She lubs you.’ Miss Bradfield smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. In fact, Mitchell thought she looked a lot paler than she did yesterday. ‘Can I get you guys a drink?’

Poppy smacked her lips. ‘I loved that orangey stuff.’

‘We’d both like a glass a milk,’ Mitchell said.

Miss Bradfield reappeared a few minutes later with three glasses of frothy yellow liquid. Poppy’s glass sported a pink paper umbrella and Mitchell’s a green one. ‘I made banana milkshakes, so everyone is happy,’ she said.

After sucking nervously on her straw, she reached behind her cushion and passed a couple of photographs to Mitchell. ‘These are of me with my two sisters.’

The first shot showed three brunette women, laughing and raising cocktail glasses to the camera. Miss Bradfield stood in the middle wearing her aviator sunglasses. The woman on the left sported a black top and a striking gold pineapple pendant. ‘This one is Naomi, my younger sister. And I think you helped my older sister, Yvette.’ Miss Bradfield tapped the pretty lady to the right of the shot.

Mitchell’s mind raced at the potential coincidence of it being her. He couldn’t be certain, because the woman’s face was partially hidden by a cocktail glass. But her chestnut curly hair was similar. He looked at the next photo and this time he could see her more clearly. Her dark eyes, her smile. He could picture her in his arms again.

It was her.

Relief tidal waved over him that he’d found her. ‘Yes. Yvette.’ He found he liked saying her name.

Miss Bradfield stared at him and stood up abruptly. She glanced at the photo again before rushing back towards the house with a stumble.

Poppy stared after her. ‘What’s the matter, Dad?’

‘Hmm, I’m not sure. Will you keep an eye on the dog while I go and see?’

Poppy scooped Sasha into her arms. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll look after you.’

He found Miss Bradfield standing in the kitchen, staring at the photos on her fridge.

‘Sorry.’ She shook her head. ‘This is all super weird. I recognized Yvette’s earring first, in the clip. I bought them in Mexico for her birthday. They’re golden cacti and she wears them a lot. I bought Naomi a gold pineapple necklace, too. It’s great when you buy something and the person likes it, isn’t it? Makes you feel good inside.’

Mitchell could recall the woman’s yellow dress, her eyes and her smile. However, he felt a sliding sensation inside him that something wasn’t right. ‘Have you heard from Yvette since she fell?’

Miss Bradfield looked down at the floor. ‘The thing is—’ She jumped as the doorbell chimed and she glanced at her watch. ‘Oh, what? It’s too early for my next pupil.’

She made her way to the door and stopped dead when she saw two people behind the frosted glass. ‘It’s Mum and Naomi,’ she hissed. ‘What are they doing here? Mum’s supposed to be staying at Naomi’s place tonight.’

‘It’s okay,’ Mitchell said. ‘Maybe we can catch you next week—’

Miss Bradfield shot out a hand and gripped his arm. ‘No.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘You stay.’

Mitchell stared down at her fingers.

She let them slowly fall away. ‘Sorry, it’s just that—’

The doorbell sounded again, twice.

‘Look, let me just get that. Patience isn’t one of Mum’s virtues. You and Poppy can wait in the lounge. It’s nice in there, quite glam.’

‘Um, okay.’

Mitchell opened the door to a small, cosy room with a striped carpet. There were gold-framed paintings of cherubs on the walls and various instruments sat under the window. He called Poppy back inside and she skipped along the hallway to join him.

‘What?’ she asked.

He ushered her into the room. ‘We’re waiting in here for Miss Bradfield.’

‘We can call her Liza. She said so.’ She plopped down on the sofa.

Mitchell heard the front door open and the sound of kisses planted loudly on cheeks. After a few moments, a large lady bustled into the room. She had dyed raven-black hair set in coarse waves, and she wore an overlong purple shirt over white linen trousers. Her gnarled fingers were like roots of ginger and adorned with chunky gold rings. Mitchell saw she shared the same dark eyes as her daughters. ‘I insist on meeting your friends, Liza,’ she said.

Miss Bradfield followed her in and mouthed Sorry to Mitchell in an exaggerated manner. Another woman, whom he recognized as Naomi, entered as well, and gave him a warm smile.

‘And who do we have here?’ Miss Bradfield’s mother asked Poppy as if she were a toddler. ‘How old are you, honey? What instrument do you play and what grade are you on?’

Miss Bradfield stepped forward. ‘Mr Fisher and Poppy popped by to talk about some, um, school stuff,’ she said. ‘Guitars, sheet music, that kind of thing. They aren’t stopping.’

Miss Bradfield’s mother held out her hand toward Mitchell. ‘I’m Sheila,’ she said. ‘Seeing as Liza hasn’t introduced us properly.’ After Mitchell shook it, she refocused on her daughter. ‘Do you know your shorts have threads hanging from them, Liza? They’re a disgrace.’

‘Yes, Mum. It’s kind of fashionable, you know.’

Naomi took hold of her mum’s arm. ‘Let’s go to the garden, and we’ll get you a nice glass of water.’ She led her out of the room.

‘I’m almost ten,’ Poppy shouted after them. ‘I’m learning the guitar. No grades, yet.’

There was a bustling noise in the kitchen and the sound of a tap running. When Miss Bradfield returned, she semi-closed the door behind her. ‘Sorry about that. Naomi’s had a burst water pipe at home, so Mum can’t stop there. The spare bed is all wet. She’s insisting on staying with me instead, which is not what I need. A sure way to bring on a headache.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Now, tell me how you came to save my sister, Mr Fisher.’

Mitchell explained how he saw Yvette fasten a padlock then lean over the railing, looking for something. He mimed swimming motions and explained how he’d also ended up in hospital, omitting the detail about being hit by a pizza delivery bike so he didn’t sound like an idiot. ‘I don’t know what happened to her after that. I didn’t even know her name until you told me.’

Miss Bradfield sat down, massaging her temples in a circular motion. ‘What on earth was Yvette doing on the bridge? Why didn’t she call me? This is so strange.’

Mitchell didn’t say anything, assuming her questions weren’t meant for him.

She raised her head. ‘Aren’t those padlocks on the bridges supposed to be love tokens or something?’

‘People call them love locks. They leave names or messages on them.’

‘Hmm, I’d never think to do that.’ She twirled a thread on her shorts around on her finger until it snapped.

‘Is there something wrong, Miss Bradfield?’ Mitchell asked her cautiously.

‘Oh, just call me Liza.’

‘Told you,’ Poppy chirruped.

Mitchell shook his head to show her this wasn’t the right time. ‘Okay, Liza. And please call me Mitchell.’

‘Well, Mitchell.’ She found a small smile. ‘The thing is, Yvette went missing almost twelve months ago. Vanished.’

His forehead wrinkled. ‘Um, missing?’

‘She disappeared in July last year. And you’re the only person I know to have seen her since.’ She said it as if it was an accusation or a challenge to him.

Mitchell closed his eyes, trying to make sense of this. ‘Disappeared?’ he repeated.

‘Walked out of her life without a word. Didn’t let Mum, Naomi or me know about it.’

He searched for something to say. ‘Do the police know about this?’

She sighed, exasperated. ‘The police won’t treat her as a missing person because she writes to me sometimes. So, they wouldn’t be interested that you saw her. Too busy with burglars and petty theft and fights in bars…’

‘Liza, Liza.’ A voice rang through from the back garden.

‘Duty calls.’ Liza shrugged. ‘Will you get back in touch with me if you think of anything—’ Her words choked up. ‘Anything at all that might help me find her again?’

‘Of course, though I’ve told you all I know,’ he said.

She nodded slightly. ‘In two weeks, Yvette will have been missing for exactly twelve months. I want her home by then. I promised Mum. A year is too long without my sister. We’ve got to get her back.’

Mitchell’s head ached as he tried to think what he could possibly offer. ‘Yvette attached a padlock… There could be something written on it.’

Her eyes lit with hope. ‘Really?’

‘Sometimes there are only initials on the locks, or nothing at all,’ he reconsidered out loud, not wanting to raise her hopes.

‘But if there is, it could be a clue.’

‘Finding it again will be like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

Liza rubbed under her eye. ‘Will it even still be there?’

‘It may have been cut off,’ Mitchell said. Then he thought about how slowly Barry worked. ‘But yes, it probably is.’

‘Then I need to see it.’ Liza sat upright. ‘You’ve brought us a fresh lead, Mitchell. Will you help me to find that lock?’

Mitchell shifted uncomfortably at her ask, a knot forming in his stomach. He didn’t need any more complications in his life. But when he looked over at Poppy, her eyes urged him to say yes. Her words about no one being there to help her mum felt branded into his brain. Maybe he could do something this time around.

‘Okay,’ he said reluctantly. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

7
Message

Mitchell was usually like a coiled spring, ready to take up his bolt cutters and get to work. However, today his movements were slower because of his sore back and aching limbs. He felt glum rather than determined when he saw all the locks stretching out in front of him. When he trudged over to Redford, he found Barry working there.

Barry cut through a shackle and kicked the lock across the pavement. He rubbed his neck and stared at his mobile phone before he noticed Mitchell. ‘I can’t work in this heat,’ he groaned. ‘Just look at the amount of locks now. We need a drastic solution here.’

Mitchell surveyed the railings and for the first time ever, the size of the task removing the locks felt overwhelming. ‘A stick of dynamite might be the only option,’ he said.

‘It’s all down to you and me, mate. Russ isn’t going to help us.’

The word impossible appeared in Mitchell’s head and he ordered it to go away. All he could do was set to work and keep going. ‘Do you have any spare bolt cutters I can use?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, but they’re a bit rusty. I’ve asked around about your missing toolbox, too, but no luck. We could stick a note to the railing and see if anyone replies. I’ve got paper, a pen and sticky tape.’

‘That’s very organized, for you.’

Barry shrugged self-consciously. ‘Tina the artist said I should try out some landscape drawing, but that’s not going to happen.’

As the two men walked along Redford, Mitchell glanced at the river, and a shiver ran down his spine. The water wasn’t gushing as quickly today, but it looked cold and gun-metal grey. He thought of Yvette Bradfield’s smile and the gold heart-shaped padlock glinting in her hands.

We did share a connection, didn’t we? How does she know me?

‘I found out the woman I helped is Liza Bradfield’s sister Yvette,’ he told Barry. ‘But she’s been missing for almost a year, and the family have no idea where she is.’

Barry blew from the corner of his mouth. ‘Wow. Mind blown.’

‘I know. And now Liza wants me to find Yvette’s lock. She hopes it might provide a clue to her sister’s whereabouts.’

‘Can’t they put something on Facebook?’

‘I think they want to keep things in the family.’

Barry stared at the thousands of locks on the railings. ‘Hmph, you’ve got no chance.’ He picked up a thick black pen and wrote on a piece of paper ‘Lost toolbox (shiny metal). Award for safe return.’ ‘We should add your phone number to this,’ he said.

‘My mobile’s not working, and I don’t want to put my home number.’

Barry rooted around in his toolbox and handed a gnarled plastic mobile to Mitchell. ‘It’s a spare one, a bit bashed, but it works okay. You may get calls from random women looking for dates. Not that it’s a bad thing.’

‘Yes, it is. And I’m still going to look for Yvette’s lock.’

Barry put his hand on his hip and looked around. ‘I’ll help you,’ he said. ‘It’s easier than cutting them off, and I’ll tell you about Enid.’

‘Another lucky woman?’

Barry nodded proudly. ‘A dog stylist.’

‘I thought you didn’t like dogs.’

‘I like cats better, but she looks great in her photo.’

Mitchell moved the conversation on by describing Yvette’s lock to Barry. He tried to remember roughly where she’d fastened it.

‘At least it’s a different shape to the norm,’ Barry said as the two men crouched down on the pavement. They worked methodically, examining locks on a stretch of railing, one by one.

‘Are you sure we’ve got the right place?’ he asked after a while when they failed to find it.

Mitchell was beginning to doubt himself, too. ‘Let’s try further along.’

As he picked up another padlock, he became aware of someone standing behind him.

‘Are you him?’ a voice said. ‘The Hero on the Bridge? You look like him.’

Mitchell and Barry looked up to see a young woman clutching a fake Mulberry mustard-coloured satchel. She had an ice-blonde straight bob and wore a white blouse with a large bow at the neck. Plasters were stuck to the back of her heels, where her half-size-too-small designer court shoes had chafed.

Barry stood up and smoothed his hair. ‘Barry Waters,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

She gave him a withering look. ‘I meant him.’ She held her hand out towards Mitchell. ‘I’m Susan Smythe.’

Mitchell recognized her name from the online article. He straightened himself up and tentatively returned her handshake.

‘I’m a journalist,’ she said. ‘Well, in training.’

He retracted his hand. ‘We don’t know anything about Word Up,’ he said dismissively. ‘We get asked about them all the time.’

‘That’s not why I’m here.’ Susan’s eyes glistened as she took a tissue out of her satchel, giving her nose a blow.

‘Hay fever?’ Mitchell asked warily.

‘I’m gathering myself. I’m a bit, um… I’m rather upset.’

Barry took a step to the side. ‘Time for my break,’ he said and sidled away. ‘Catch you later.’

Mitchell waited for Susan’s sniffling to stop. She stuffed her tissue back into her satchel and moved the strap higher on her shoulder. ‘I wrote a piece about you for the Upchester News channel. Your name is Mitchell Fisher, right?’

He nodded reluctantly.

‘I recognized your, um…’ She eyed his face.

‘My courageous and dashing nature?’ he quoted from her article.

‘I was about to say your eyes. I came to give you something.’ She opened her satchel again and took out a batch of ten or so letters fastened together with a purple rubber band. ‘These. They arrived this morning. I, um…’ Her tissue reappeared, and she spoke to herself through clenched teeth. ‘All I want to do is come up with a great story, and I messed up. Again.’

Mitchell was surprised to feel a touch of paternal-like concern towards her. There was something about her determined demeanour that reminded him of Poppy. ‘I’m sure you’ve done nothing of the sort.’

She gave him a self-depreciating smile. ‘My first week on the job, I spilled coffee on a politician. During the second week I got stuck in a traffic jam and missed an interview with Brad Beatty.’

‘Brad who?’

‘The lead singer of Word Up. For my triple whammy I wrote an article about you jumping from the bridge and didn’t include your name. I asked the general public to submit their stories and didn’t publish an email address. The news channel address was printed online, so people sent letters instead. And, here they are.’ She proffered them to him.

Mitchell thought of all the envelopes stuffed in his nightstand drawer and he raised a palm. ‘Thank you, but I have plenty of my own.’

Susan kept her hand outstretched. ‘My boss warned me not to mess up again. I thought you could help me out.’

‘Um, how?’

‘Perhaps by reading these letters and selecting a winner for the competition? They’re all addressed to you, anyway.’

He shook his head. ‘Sorry, I want to move on from what happened.’

She gave a defeated sigh. ‘I suppose I’ll just throw them away, then. Or leave them on my boss’s desk, where he’ll use them as coasters. He’s more interested in the sport and crime stories.’

Mitchell glanced at the letters in her hand. He’d so enjoyed receiving the ones Anita sent him in the past. He wished he’d kept them to remind himself that she did love him, once. With some reluctance, he took the letters from Susan and hoped there weren’t any featuring red hearts among them.

The top envelope was textured and white, already opened, so he slid out the letter and read it.

Dear Sir/Madam,

My neighbour read your story about the heroic man on the redbrick bridge, and I felt compelled to write and tell you mine.

I was nineteen when I met Douglas and he was twenty-two. We met on the same red bridge, many years ago. The Second World War had just ended and the streets rang with cheering and laughter, as the entire city celebrated. Strangers kissed strangers and didn’t care who watched.

I first saw him standing in the middle of the bridge in his army uniform. He looked so handsome and tall, like a matinee idol. Our eyes met. He said hello and I smiled back. For a while we were like small birds, a little shy of each other. But then he took off his hat and scooped me into his arms. I’d never kissed a man before and my first time was definitely the most memorable.

Afterwards, Douglas apologized. ‘I got caught up in the moment,’ he said. ‘I usually treat ladies with respect.’ But I really didn’t mind. He insisted on walking me home and shook my father’s hand. ‘May I request your permission to take your daughter out one afternoon for tea, sir?’ he asked, and I tried not to smile, for we were already acquainted well.

My father was a kind man and he liked Douglas straightaway. When we eventually got engaged and married, he was delighted to have a new gentleman addition to the family. I wonder if he’d have felt the same if he had seen us kissing on the bridge!

My father died many years ago and Douglas passed on six months ago, God rest his soul. Today, I hung a padlock on the bridge in his memory. I’m almost blind now and use a cane, but I still felt Douglas beside me. ‘Chin up, old girl, give me a kiss,’ he said, and I laughed to myself. I suppose anyone who saw me must think me a foolish old woman, alone and chuckling. Yet inside I felt nineteen again, and there’s nothing foolish about that. At my age, it’s really rather lovely.

With kind regards,

Annie Rogerson (Mrs)

The letter in Mitchell’s hands felt heavy with a lifetime of love, something he and Anita would never get to experience. An ache rose in his chest that she’d never write to him again. She wouldn’t get to read his own apologetic words and his throat tightened. ‘It’s a fine letter,’ he managed to say. ‘What should I do with it?’

She shrugged at him. ‘It belongs to you now. You’re its keeper.’

‘I told you I have enough of them,’ he said and slipped it back with the others under the rubber band. ‘I am really busy.’

She looked at him sadly. ‘You jumped into the water to help someone. I thought you’d be a nice guy. It’s up to you, but it would help me out immensely.’

Mitchell thought of Anita again and shame bubbled inside him. She’d probably encourage him to do this. ‘This is only two days’ worth of letters, right?’ he confirmed. ‘More might arrive?’

‘I expect so.’

‘And you’d like me to read them all?’

Susan fiddled with the fastening on her satchel. ‘Only if you want to.’

Mitchell gave a small nod. ‘Well, okay then.’

‘See, I knew you’d be a good guy,’ she said. Bidding him goodbye, she grinned as she walked away.

When Barry returned from his break, he stared at the letters in Mitchell’s hands. ‘Are you really going to read them?’

Mitchell nodded. ‘I told Susan I’d do it.’

‘She wouldn’t know if you didn’t.’

‘I would know.’

The two men resumed their positions next to the railings and began to examine the padlocks again.

After a while, Mitchell picked up a lock and time stood still. It was gold, large and heart-shaped. ‘I think I’ve found it!’ he said to Barry excitedly. He read the words engraved into the metal.

MY HEART IS ALWAYS YOURS.

‘What does it say?’ Barry asked.

When Mitchell told him, his voice cracked but he couldn’t explain why. He ran a finger over the sharp ridges of the letters and read them over and over. It sounded stupid, but he felt the words could be meant for him.

Barry handed him the rusty bolt cutters. ‘Here you go.’

Mitchell didn’t take them. He had removed thousands of padlocks off the bridges of Upchester, but this one was different. ‘I can’t cut it off,’ he admitted eventually.

‘Why not?’ Barry demanded. ‘You got a cramp or something?’

‘No, I just think Yvette’s lock should stay on the bridge, where she wanted it to be. The message must mean something, and I don’t want the lock to be broken. Liza will want to see this, too.’

Barry scoffed at him. ‘When you go back to hospital, you should get your head checked out, mate. That bump is doing weird things to your mind.’

Mitchell touched the plaster above his ear. ‘I’ve got an appointment soon.’ When he stared at Yvette’s padlock again, he felt like wrapping his fingers around it to keep it safe.

As he looked around him, at all the locks fastened to the bridge, he thought of how others saw them as love tokens. He tried to resist but couldn’t stop himself from glancing at a few padlocks and reading their words.

TM. MARRY ME? PV

TRISH AND PETE XXX

WORD UP, FOREVER

HONEYBEE LOVES WASP

An unnerving picture flashed into his head, of a mountain of locks abandoned on a scrap heap with their messages rusting and flaking away. He found himself wondering if Honeybee might be a beekeeper. Were they a man or a woman? What kind of person called themselves Wasp?

He reminded himself he was being paid to remove the locks, not consider the people who hung them there. However, as he reached out for Barry’s bolt cutters, his fingers were stiff and unresponsive. The locks had always been an irritant to him, just a way to earn a living, but now he wondered if his job cutting them off was like removing flowers from a grave. He thought about Annie’s letter and how her eyes met with Douglas’s on the bridge. Just as his own had done with Yvette’s.

Get a grip. They’re only chunks of metal.

Before he carried on working, Mitchell tried to call Liza to tell her he thought he’d found Yvette’s lock. When she didn’t pick up, he presumed she was busy at work and left her a brief message.

He tried to get on with his job, but with each padlock that broke and fell to the pavement, his mood shifted lower. The stitches above his ear itched and Barry’s rusty cutters took double the time to cut through the lock shackles. He didn’t feel his usual sense of satisfaction.

When 4.15 p.m. came, he’d had enough of work for the day. He wanted to see Poppy and try to catch Liza at Hinchward if she was working there. ‘I’m finishing now,’ he said, shoving the bolt cutters back into Barry’s toolbox.

Barry stared at him. ‘You’re forty-five minutes early.’

‘It won’t make much difference.’

Barry’s mouth fell open.

Mitchell kicked his padlocks into a heap and stuck the batch of letters into his back pocket. He wished Barry a good date with Enid, and when he walked away from the locks on the pavement, a strange sense of attachment to them washed over him.

As he made his way towards the school, Mitchell opened a few more of the envelopes and read snippets of the letters inside them along the way.

Dear Man on the Bridge,

My wife and I read about your courageous act, jumping from the bridge, and we both think you deserve a medal. We have two teenage sons and hope they grow up to be as helpful as you are. There are so few role models these days…

He opened a very short one from an eight-year-old named Matthew, which started:

Dear Sir,

I am writing to you because you are very brave and because my mum says I have to learn my writing more because I need to write better or I can’t have a phone…

Another came in a flowery envelope with a thank-you card inside.

My name is Alicia and I’m writing to say the Hero on the Bridge has restored my faith in men. Well, almost. Four months ago, my husband took our dog for a walk and never returned. I’ve had a downer on him and all blokes since, but this guy has shown maybe there are some decent people still out there in the world. Do you know if he’s single? I’ve got the dog back and am MOVING ON with my life.

As Mitchell read their words, an unexpected warmth spread over his body that his impromptu act had initiated this outpouring of support. People were opening up and sharing their stories with him, a stranger, and the molecule of pride it sparked inside him was something he hadn’t felt for a long time.

Finding it tricky to read and walk at the same time, he pushed the letters back into his pocket and promised himself he’d read the rest of them later.

Mitchell exited the city centre and noticed how the sun sparkled crystal-like on the surface of the river. He smiled at a couple of teenagers who shyly held hands.

And, as he walked on, he wondered where Yvette Bradfield could possibly be, and why his pulse quickened whenever he thought about her.

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