Among the Missing aka Across the Bridge

prefabricated cabin. The door on the river side was padlocked, but at the back he found a small, warped door, locked and jammed tight with damp. It was soft with rot and sagged against his shoulder when he pushed it. After several heaves, the lower of its two hinges split from the frame and he was able to squeeze through. The place was unfurnished and comfortless, cold and dirty, but it was a roof for the night and out of the wind. By the moonlight through the smeared windows he saw there was a stove and some fuel, but he had no matches. He curled up on the floor and lay listening to the sounds from the bridge; the motors and sirens had faded to remote purrs and squeals that mingled with the river flowing close by outside. Yet the fright and injury of the day reached into him, or maybe he had brought it with him, and suddenly his heart, a berg of ice, seemed to shatter and burn within his chest. He began to shiver violently, and he curled tighter, trying to tell himself this was physical stress, nothing more. A fragment of his first aid training came back to him: When people experience trauma, one of the first things to go is the ability to fend for themselves. It calmed him to realize that he was fending for himself, to a degree; at least he had found shelter. But why, he thought, was he steeling himself at all against the disintegration of his heart? Let it burn, let it melt. Let it even break again, if only he might no longer be alone.

It was cold, so I hurried. In Invermuir village, the main road was jammed with traffic bound for Netherloch and Inverness, but the other side, heading west to Fort Augustus, was choked, too. I don’t know why I set off in the direction of the bridge, but I walked eastward along the roadside into the night, at a pace hardly slower than the crawling line of cars. There were emergency vehicles stationed here and there with their lights flashing and policemen standing in the middle of the traffic, attempting to keep it moving. Drivers were sounding their horns and turning around, maneuvering back and forth and sending up plumes of exhaust, headlamps looming and crisscrossing the darkness with restless beams of light.

I kept away from the glare as much as I could and moved on through the smoky drifts of petrol fumes, my head down. Knots of stranded people had gathered at the village bus stops and cars were stopping to give them lifts, but I couldn’t risk joining them, looking lost and in need of help. I had watched my car go into the river, I had seen myself die; I ought to be gone, invisible forevermore. Until I had time to think and reestablish myself, somewhere and somehow, as another person, I had to learn how to have no presence at all, to move among people with the stealth of a ghost. I must be alive to no one.

Soon I no longer noticed the cold. I felt newly light and unhindered, exhilarated by having accomplished so conclusively and tidily the bringing to an end of my life with Col. But I also felt left behind, as if my true fate had gone forward and was enacting itself in advance of me, somewhere up ahead. I had to rejoin my life, or rather meet up with myself again and make another life. This was another reason to hurry.

I took a pathway off the road that led down to a walkers’ trail along the river, where the air was leafy and quiet. I had no flashlight, but the road ran parallel above and the lights of cars washed through the trees, showing me my way. From time to time the traffic thinned and the way cleared for wailing emergency vehicles. A few miles before Netherloch, the riverside path fizzled out, so I joined the road again.

I walked on, still not knowing why I was going in the direction of the bridge, but walking with purpose. Was I seeking out the broken gate in the hedge that led down to Stefan’s trailer? Not consciously. I was keeping disconnected in my mind any daytime memory of the road and the murky, illogical contours of the night landscape.

But it was getting late. More and more cars drove on past me, and I grew tired. Netherloch was still miles away, and I had to spend the night somewhere. I pulled my hat down over my ears, tucked my chin into my scarf, and waited at the next bus stop I came to. Within a minute a car stopped. It was driven by a woman about my age who had two teenage girls with her. They were doing their best to get to Inverness, and I was welcome, she said, to go with them. I was looking a bit shocked, was I all right? And wasn’t it a terrible thing that had happened?

I thanked her and got in the back. I was just cold and tired, I assured her, and gave her some story about my car breaking down and leaving it at the roadside because I preferred to walk rather than wait for rescue with the roads so jammed, but I’d underestimated the distance to Netherloch. She told me I had no chance of getting a room there for the night, the radio said the town was packed out. I’d do better going on to Inverness with her, however long it took. We crawled along; the two girls fell asleep, and to avoid conversation I pretended to as well, turning my face to the window and keeping my eyes half-closed.

It was only when I saw the lights of the service station up ahead that I realized I was returning to the trailer. All the hours I had been walking, I had been holding tight to myself a belief that Stefan and Anna were among the people who’d got out of the river alive. But I had to make sure they were safe. I had to talk to Stefan. He had lost the car that had cost him all the money he had, and I couldn’t alter that, but I had to divide the money with him. I would explain why I couldn’t part with all of it; as a father, he would understand. But I wanted to give him half of it back, to ease his loss. I made excuses to the woman about needing a bathroom and got out at the service station.

I walked back to the broken gate and down the track. The trailer was dark and shut up. There was nothing strange about that, I told myself. They might not be back yet; they could be still in one of the temporary first aid stations near the bridge. Or they might be in hospital, as a matter of routine. Of course they wouldn’t be here. I felt foolish, staring through the dark at the closed door. I imagined it opening and Stefan appearing at the top of the steps, looking suspicious and puzzled until he recognized me, and then I realized what an odd sort of rescuer I must look. Sweat was running down my body and through my hair, and I was shivering. Nausea swept over me again, as it often did when I was hungry. But my hand thrust in my pocket was clutching the envelope with the money; pleasure was welling up inside me as if I had already seen the relief on Stefan’s face. Of course there couldn’t be anyone inside the trailer, but I walked carefully across the stones, up the steps, and knocked on the door.

Nobody came. I waited, and the nausea grew worse. I tried the door handle. It opened into blackness and silence, and I was afraid, yet I wanted to go in. The night outside was suddenly no place to be; I needed walls and a roof, I needed shelter even if only this: precarious, thin, leaking. I stepped up into the doorway and peered inside. I could smell the soapy, vinyl smell from yesterday and also the bitter tang of cigarettes. Nothing moved, but in the darkness I knew there was something warm and alive. My heart was thumping like knuckles against the back of my ribs, bone against bone, and I took a breath to say something, but I doubled over instead, and retched. My mouth filled with saliva and bile. I spat on the floor, and as I was trying to stand up straight again, a flashlight snapped on. Instantly its beam lurched away and upward, and I felt it come down hard on my head and shoulders, and then a hand was hauling me upright by the hair. A woman’s screams filled the trailer, the flashlight fell with a clunk, and its beam played jaggedly on her kicking feet and jerked over the ceiling and walls. I was trapped. I couldn’t get out of the trailer or away from the screaming. Then the slapping and punching started.

I couldn’t speak. Even if I could have explained, or got any words out at all, she wouldn’t have heard. Fists and arms and feet were flying in a rolling beam of light, and through the screams she was spitting out words over and over, telling me to get out, go away, leave her alone. I held her off as best I could until, shielding my head, I managed at last to stand up straight and face her. I was taller than she was. I stopped her next blow by grasping her wrists.

“Stop! Please stop! I didn’t mean any harm,” I said. “I’m sorry. It’s okay. Please! Please-”

My voice cracked suddenly. The woman stopped screaming and stared at me, and then she burst into tears. I wanted to say more, but I couldn’t. Keeping hold of one of her wrists, I scooped up the flashlight at my feet and shone it at her. In the shaking light, her face was colorless and stricken, the long blond hair sticky and matted to her scalp.

How could I comfort her? How could I dare offer comfort? “Please, don’t. Please. I’m sorry,” I said.

We were stock-still for an instant. My grip on her wrist loosened. She wrenched her arm free and backed away. The foldaway table and pullout bed behind her, the blankets dragged to the floor, a heap of clothes, were now caught in the glow of the flashlight. She was alone. Part of the ceiling had curled away, exposing a web of saturated fibrous stuff from which water was seeping into a bucket on the floor.

“You tramp! You filthy tramp! Get out of here, get out now! Get out!”

She lunged forward, shoving me toward the door so hard I stumbled and fell. Then she sank back into the dark mass of bedding and hid her face in another burst of weeping. I scrambled to my feet and ran from the trailer.

I climbed as fast as I could up the track, and when I reached the top I collapsed on the ground, coughing bile