Ghost of

His solemn footsteps echoed on the old wooden bridge as he tightened the straps on his backpack and tucked his face into his warm scarf; it wasn’t all that cold outside, but he hated it anyway. He hated the sight of his breath in the night air and the familiar ache in his fingers and toes, the sting in his sinuses when his scarf slipped off his nose and the shiver that swept over his body. He hated it all.

At this time of night, the roads were deserted; the old train trestle barely used, seemed a good place to get some peace and quiet. A good place for a night’s sleep.

Under his feet the water lapped quietly at the pylons and in the distance, he heard a ferry horn calling out through the darkness.

He watched his footing on the slick slats of the trestle bridge when the sharp smell of whiskey made his nostrils flare. Glancing up, he could make out the outline of a man sitting on the edge of the bridge, barely visible by the ambient glow of the cities light pollution. His steps slowed; he’s never seen anyone else here before and felt almost resentful that someone else had found his spot. And this guy had no business being here: wearing a nice suit with this expensive shoes lined up neatly besides him. He watched as the man took another drink from a bottle next to him and shivered once sharply.

He approached slowly, making sure the guy could hear him coming, and said “Hey,” feeling a little self-conscious at how raspy his voice was, not having spoken a word for what felt like years.

The man didn’t acknowledge him, so he cleared his throat and tried again.

“What are you doing?”

The man glanced over his shoulder and shrugged, before turning to look back at the river below. Defeated, he turned to look at the view as well. It wasn’t the best; the glistening lights of the city were relatively blocked by the warehouses and shipyards that lined the outskirts of the river bank. And there were no stars, of course, but there were ships that moved slightly in the distance, their lights reflecting on the waves.

“Just thinking,” The man declared eventually.

“Mind if I join you?” he surprised himself by saying. The man gestured with the bottle at the spot next to him. Taking the hint, he lowered himself down, letting his legs hang over the edge of the bridge, dangling over the river. From this height it felt like the river was pulling on him, waiting for him to make a wrong move. He slowly pulled his feet up, bringing his knees to his chest to feel a little more secure.

He couldn’t bare the thought of going into the cold water, it brought about it unpleasant memories making him feel queasy. Which wasn’t helped by the lingering smell of alcohol, or the way the man besides him swung his legs over the edge so freely.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, shoving the memories away and turning his attention from the river.

The man lifted the bottle slowly, taking a gulp, wincing a little at the burn of the liquid as it dripped down his oesophagus. When he was finished, he screwed the lid on with impressively precise movements considering how much he reeked of alcohol. He decided it was an indicator of how often this happened.

The man leaned over and dropped the empty bottle into the water below, and they watched it splosh, as it was dragged away by the merciless waves.

“That,” he said flatly.

He shifted a little, until he was confident, he was in a position to grab the man and keep them both on the bridge if he had to.

“Why?”

The man grunted, as though over time he had forgotten how to laugh.

“Well, I guess the easy answer is I’m dying already.” He leaned back and wrapped his coat a little tighter around himself.

It wasn’t the answer he was expecting. He has assumed it must have been money troubles or potential bankruptcy or a problem with his marriage. He assumed it was a normal problem for normal people.

“So,” he continued “It seems better than doing it slowly, right? But the real answer is that I’m just… tired.”

He wanted to laugh. He wanted to say ‘buddy, you don’t know about being tired, I’ve had hundreds of years of being tired’. But as he studied the man next to him, the stubble on his jaw and the defeated look on his face, he felt a sudden stab of empathy.

“Dying huh? What is it? Cancer?”

“No, it’s a long story. I thought I was smart enough to fix it, but…” He exhaled slowly. “Apparently not.”

“And now you’re tired of trying?”

“Pretty much”

The man lean forwards suddenly, and he started to reach forward to grab him, but the man was just resting his head in his hands – not tipping himself in.

They sat in silence for a while and listened as the waves picked up in speed and ferocity. They splashed against the riverbank, seeming to wave to them, enticing them forward. He hugged his knee’s closer to his chest.

Then the man scrubbed his hands over his face with a sigh and sat back up.

“So, what are you doing here?”

For the first time the man seemed to take a good, proper look at him: his ragged backpack and the 4 layers of clothing that had definitely seen better days.

It was an innocent enough question. What was he doing here? He didn’t truly know. He knew it was quiet. He knew it was peaceful. He knew it was far away from the hustle and bustle of the city life, yet he didn’t know what he was doing here.

It was familiar.

He lifted his chin and met the mans eyes, refusing to be embarrassed. He was doing well, goddammit, even if he still had bad days where he lost time or forgot who he was and what he was doing. He waited for the look in the mans eyes to change, for his lips to curl – but the man’s gaze just lingered, before he looked away at the water again.

“I just got off work,” he decided would be the best reply, hoping it wouldn’t be read into too much. “and on the other side of the bridge there’s a spot where you can sleep without anyone harassing you.”

“Thank you,” the man replied, looking glumly into the distance. “I’m Tony by the way,” He added, turning back towards him, holding his hand out.

He took it and said, “Nice to meet you Tony, I’m… “

Tony’s phone buzzed within his coat pocket, and when he pulled it out, a name flashed across the screen. Tony silenced it before putting it back.

“who was that?”

“Just a friend,” Tony answered shortly. The phone buzzed again, but this time Tony just ignored it.

“Looking for you?” Tony just shrugged. “So, are you tired of him too?”

Tony glanced at his sharply, but he just raised an eyebrow in response.

“I mean, you’ll be leaving him behind if you… you know,” he nodded in the direction of the river below them. Tony’s phoned buzzed again, as if it was agreeing with him.

“Seems like a shame, that’s all. I bet a friend like that would be devastated, and I bet they’re not the only one either.” Tony’s lips tightened as he shook his head. His next inhale was shaky and before he knew it there were tears running over his cheeks.

“Do they know? About the … not- cancer?”

“no”

“That’s dumb”

It was blunt, and it shocked him how cold the words felt on his tongue, yet he didn’t regret them. In fact, he grew confident enough to soften the blow by touching Tony’s shoulder gently.

“You have these people who love you and you’re not letting them help? If I ever had someone who cared for me enough to write… to call, “ He trailed off before he could finish. “Death would have had to have dragged me away kicking and screaming,” He said finally. He shoved the surfacing memories away.

It was quiet for a while, except the sound of the water and the ships in the distance, until Tony’s words broke through.

“It sounds like you care a lot. About what I do.”

He heard the question hidden in his words. It took him a while to figure out the answer, to understand why he stopped instead of just walking past like every other day.

"Because..." he started, and then hesitated, staring down at his gloved hands, feeling the weight of Tony's eyes on him. "I've thought about it,

too. Just...stopping. Giving up. But...I fought really hard, to get away from a bad place, from some bad people. Now I'm trying to get to a good place and be a good person, you know? To make up for..." He pressed his hands to his eyes to stop the images that flashed behind his eyelids.

"Anyway. So, when I get...tired...I have to believe that all that fighting was for something. But when I see that someone else is fighting, too, and then they give up, it makes it a little harder for me to keep going. Does that make sense? It's easier to be brave when the guy in the foxhole next to you is being brave, to fight when he's still fighting." He looked up to see that something in what he said had made Tony's eyes sharpen.

“Do you recognise me? Do you know who I am?”

The questioned confused him, He was Tony. He shook his head.

“huh,”

Tony looked back out over the river, his back a little straighter, his eyes on the horizon instead of the lapping waves.

"You're right. I thought I was making it easier on everyone by not telling them,”

“So, ready to start trying again?”

He nodded, and stood up, rocking on the heels of his feet whilst pushing his hands into his pockets to wrap the coat further around himself. He shivered as the wind blew and bought the mist up from the water.

“Here,” he said, unwrapping the scarf from his neck to hand to Tony. “Please keep it. Until your friend comes. You are going to call him, right?”

“Yeah,” Tony dug out his phone, which buzzed with more messages. “Thank you.”

He smiled kindly, and turned towards his destination, to continue his journey like every other night.

“I hope I see you soon Tony,” he whispered, knowing Tony wasn’t listening anymore, instead he was holding the phone away from his ear as Tony's ‘friend’ screamed down the line.

It was only when Tony felt the warmth of hope settle in his chest- knowing that everything was going to be okay- that he looked back down at his feet. There laid a silver chain, clearly old and worn, attached to a tag. He bent down to pick it up.

It was a lot heavier in his hand than he expected. It was old and scratched, but as he looked at it closer, the name that had been previously took pride of place on the once smooth metal surface had been scratched out. Illegible. But that wasn’t what caught his eye.

“Sgt”

“1943”

He turned to stare back at the nondescript bridge crossing the water where apparently, his life had been saved by a man who should have long been dead.