The NoSleep Podcast - S18: NoSleep Podcast - Sleepless Decompositions Vol. 11

Episode Date: September 4, 2022

We’re sleeplessly decomposing during the late summer. Enjoy Sleepless Decompositions Vol. 11“Days of Wine and Rosacea” written by Al Bruno III (Story starts around 00:07:40)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator – Kristen DiMercurio, Floyd – Graham Rowat“There Is a Colour That Runs Through Us All” written by Kevin Hayman (Story starts around 00:27:15)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Richard – David Ault, Hannah – Erika Sanderson, Man – Andy Cresswell, Police Officer #1 – Jake Benson, Police Officer #2 – Ash Millman, James – James Cleveland, Ken – Guy Woodward, CEO – Mick Wingert, Chef – Penny Scott-Andrews, Taxi Driver – Graham RowatThis episode is sponsored by:ZocDoc - Zocdoc is a free app that shows you doctors who are patient-reviewed, take your insurance, and are available when you need them. Go to Zocdoc.com/nosleep and download the Zocdoc app for free. Then start your search for a top-rated doctor today.ShipStation - ShipStation makes it super easy to manage and ship all your online orders faster, cheaper and more efficiently. You'll spend a lot less time on shipping and a lot more time growing your business. Go to shipstation.com and click the microphone icon at the top of the page. Enter code NOSLEEP to get a 60-day free trial.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Al Bruno IIIClick here to learn more about Kevin HaymanExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Sleepless Decompositions” illustration courtesy of Kelly TurnbullAudio program ©2022 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

It's time to brace yourself for sleepless decompositions, volume 11, coming right up. Stories which will really get under your skin. And speaking of skin, taking care of yours is very important. It's not just about serious stuff like skin cancer and lesions, but what about looking after things like zits and postules and blackheads? Those unsavory things can be helped by a good dermatologist. But you may be wondering, How can I find a highly reviewed dermatologist near me in my network?

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Find the doctor that's right for you and book an appointment, in person or remotely, that works for your schedule. Every month, millions of people use Zoc Doc. Make it your go-to whenever you need to find and book a quality doctor. Pop on over to Zocdoc.com slash no sleep and download the Zocdoc app for free. Then start your search for a top-rated doctor today. Many are available within 24 hours. That's Z-O-C-D-C dot com slash no sleep.

Zock-Doc-com slash no sleep. And now let the horror seep into your pores. It's time for the. The Decomposing Horror. Being sleepless listeners, and welcome to Sleepless Decompositions, Volume 11. I'm your host, David Cummings. We're taking this late summer break in Season 18 as we brace ourselves for some rather special events. Next week, the weekend of September 11, Season 18 begins its tribute to the 1970s,

as we continue the season's theme of honoring the stories of old-time television, And beyond the world of the 70s, we'll be featuring the first episode in a 10-part series we're very excited about. It's our exclusive audio adaptation of Alexander Gordon Smith's epic tale, This Book Will Kill You. Tommy Bright thinks she's outgrown the nightmares she had as a child. Nightmares about a witch. Now 16, she keeps the horrors of her childhood at bay by writing. Creepypastas for an online forum called creepy.com. And she hasn't thought about those dreams for years.

But one morning, the police show up at her door to tell her about a teenage girl called Kara Pierce, who was found dead after reading one of Tommy's stories. Her story about the witch. Listen now to a short teaser of the series coming for you next week. This book will kill you. This book has already killed you. You are a dead thing the moment you heard these words. You are a dead thing when you opened the first page.

You were a dead thing when you saw the cover. You were a dead thing the very instant you discovered this story even existed. The very instant you heard somebody whisper its name. Because if you know about the book, then she knows about you. If you know about the book, then she sees. you. She's watching you right now. Can you feel her there? She's sitting right behind you. You started to read and her eyes peeled open and her lips peeled open and she saw you and she's grinning her moon yellow grin because she knows there's nothing you can do to stop her. She's already

killed you. This book has already killed you. So it doesn't matter if you read on or not. There's nothing you can do to change things now. One day, very soon, she'll let you see her. You'll turn your head and she'll be there sitting beside you. Or she'll open her mouth and let you hear her dusty voice and you won't be able to unhear her. You won't be able to make it stop. One day soon she'll reach out and scratch her crack-bone finger down your cheek, or you'll wake to find her bird nest body pressed against yours, her fingers worrying themselves beneath your skin. There's nothing you can do to stop her. If you want to keep reading, then who am I to stop you? Maybe you'll find something I didn't. Maybe you'll find a way to make her unsee you. Maybe. She's closer now. I think you must

have felt that. She's right there. Her forehead is almost touching the back of your head. Her eyes are almost touching the back of your neck. She wants you to turn around. She wants you to see her. She's already killed you. This book has killed you. But don't turn around yet. Have a few hours left if somebody else starts reading this book as well. Weeks, if the whole world starts reading. But if you see her now, the rot and horror will eat you up fast. She sees you. She sees you. She is on her way. Don't turn around. Dead stop now. Dead thing. Just read. This book will kill you. Ten parts beginning on episode 11 of season 18 of the No Sleep Podcast. Don't miss it. And now we have for you two tales which are well suited for a rather bizarre series we call

sleepless decompositions. Tales which take things a little farther outside. your comfort zone, tales for which you need to be fully braced. Let's wait no further. The horror awaits. In our first tale, we meet a woman named Ethel. Ethel has developed a rather nauseating habit, but seemingly not so nauseating for everyone. In fact, there's a real TV show which she would love. Perhaps you've heard of Dr. Pimple, Popper? If so, you're ready to step into a to Ethel's world. But as we learn in this tale, shared with us by author

Al Bruno the Third, Ethel's, well, shall we say, addiction, is starting to affect, nay, ruin her skin, and her life. Performing this tale are Kristen Di Maccurio and Graham Rowett. So you'd best not be eating

while listening to this story? Perhaps a strong drink would be better as you listen to days of wine and rosacea. No one ever intends to become an addict, but all it takes is that first sip of wine at dinner, or a sampling of an illicit pharmaceutical at a party for an unlucky individual to start down a path of self-destruction.

Drugs and alcohol aren't the only thing that can prey on the weak-willed or unlucky. Shopping, food, and gambling have all made people miserable at one time or another. Whole industries have sprung up to help men and women from all walks of life take back control of their lives. But Ethel's addiction was an unusual one. There were no recognized treatments or easy explanations. Ethel, you see, was addicted to popping pimples. It began with a YouTube video that her friends shared amongst themselves, a woman with a cyst on her back the size of an assyced.

It was the kind of video that was sent with the header of, Can you watch all the way through? Or super gross out? The woman in the video, Ethel never saw her face or heard her name, was in what looked like a doctor's office. Hands in latex gloves covered the oversized blemish with antiseptic and made sure plenty of gauze was nearby. Then a sharp scalpel came into view.

It cut the skin and white yellow furrowed. fluid all but burst from the wound. It went everywhere, some even landing on the camera filming the event. The person using the scalpel kept working, rolling the tip of the instrument around, coaxing more and more of the noxious-looking fluid out until all that flowed from the wound was blood. Ethel was riveted. She watched the video dozens of times. That YouTube video led to others. link after link of squeezing fingers and lancing instruments. The videos led her to subreddits and forums, to exclusive Facebook and Pinterest pages.

Watching kept her up late at night. Sometimes she never went to bed at all. She remembered being a teenager, the occasional breakouts and her mother cautioning her not to picket her face. Compared to the other girls, she had been lucky. There were some that had hidden their... faces behind the books they were carrying, who had endured insults like pizza face and worse. Everyone said Ethel was one of the prettiest girls in class.

But she was 30 years old now, bored with work and marriage. The next time Ethel got a blemish, it was on her shoulder. She stared at it a long time. She had drawers of special skin care products for this kind of thing, but she decided that this time she would take matters in her. to her own hands. Pop! It took barely any pressure at all,

certainly less than she expected, and it was so much better experienced than watched. The discomfort, the sudden pressure, the release, and the lingering soreness. On some level she couldn't understand, she both heard and felt the blemish giveaway.

Then, Ethel took to giving her husband Floyd backrub, He certainly didn't protest. That hour or so was probably the most time they'd spent together in months. His law practice kept him busy, maddeningly so at times. When she found some ingrown hair or neglected postule, he would ask her to not pick at it, and she wouldn't listen. She was relentless. Damn it, Ethel. It didn't matter how much he squealed or if she drew blood.

To keep him from shying away, she made sure that her grooming sessions ended with sexual intercourse. To Ethel, it was a perfectly mature understanding. Floyd got what he wanted, and she got what she wanted. It went on like that for a time, Ethel sating herself with videos until a bump or blackhead appeared on herself or her husband. Those were moments she savored like fine wine. She probably could have gone on like that for the rest of her life, but Floyd had other ideas. One night at dinner, he told her that he was in love with a co-worker, and he was leaving.

Ethel had wondered why he'd pulled out the old suitcase from the attic days earlier, but never thought to ask. She'd never suspected she needed to. Soon enough, she was living alone for the first time in her life. Alone and inconsolable. She had friends and family close by, but it wasn't enough. She had a busy work schedule, and that wasn't enough.

Finishing off one bottle of Shabli a week wasn't enough. Even the pimple-popping videos weren't enough. So, Ethel changed her diet, eating more and more fast food, more and more chocolate. She read articles with skincare advice and did the opposite of their recommendations. Then she waited. The first few blemishes were small, little pinpricks of red that almost looked like freckles. Ethel worked at them eagerly, having grown her nails out and bought a new makeup mirror for just this occasion. Tiny but exhilarating.

The discharge they expelled was thick and solid. She could roll it around on her fingertips. When the next few pimples began to show, she left them be, let them fatten up. White heads grew, blackheads darkened. The whiteheads almost always went painlessly, but spectacularly, marking the surface of her mirror with speckles of yellow, white, and green. Sometimes she would keep the pressure on until she added a spattering of red to the mix. The blackheads could be more challenging,

sometimes resisting her attentions for hours at a time until they were nothing so much as swollen nubs of pain that felt far larger than they actually were. When the surface of one finally broke, it would exclude a thin streamer of pus. She would watch in fascination as the little filament of exudate twisted along her finger,

and then squeeze harder and harder until something would give way, and a rivulet of blood veined with yellow and white shot from the wound. She would celebrate each of her victories of those blemishes with a glass of wine, and a dab of sea breeze. Pop, left cheek, then right cheek, forehead, then chin.

She would led one part of her face fester and work at another. She learned how to cultivate razor bumps when she shaved her legs and was amazed at how resistant they could be, but made them give up their secrets. All it took was a sewing needle and persistence. Occasionally, she filmed herself. But it was never the same on playback. No matter how close she got to the camera.

And Ethel never, ever considered posting them. This was for her and her alone. She could imagine no experience more intimate. Late at night, when lying in bed, half drunk, with her face and legs stinging with astringent, she would wonder how much she had drained from her body this way. Drop by drop. Spurt by spurt.

A pint? maybe a gallon she tried to imagine it an empty carton of milk or jug overflowing with thick putrefying liquid she thought of the skin cells she shed every day and the mucus that gathered in her nose of the mites that lived on her eyelashes

and the bacteria that made their homes in her gut in the end was that all a person was a festering wound a host for infections. Ethel's friends and relatives would try to broach the subject of her complexion with her. Never directly, though. They would ask if she was sick, if she had seen a doctor, or what beauty products she was using. She would wave such concerns away and change the subject.

What did they know about her and her interests? As she drifted from one party or family reunion to another, she would see more and more pitying gazes thrown her way. Ethel accepted them with a grim amusement. Sometimes she would see people staring at a particularly swollen blackhead or purposely neglected twin-headed pimple and see a flash of something familiar in their eyes. They wanted to get their fingers on those blemishes as much as she did,

to feel the lumpy skin protest against the squeezing and then give way. She was never uncomfortable with these people. Let them stare. Let them be jealous. Other times, she would see nothing but pure disgust in someone's expression. Someone with perfect skin and hair that judged her and saw her as somehow inferior. With those people, Ethel wanted nothing more than to give a demonstration of her newly developed skills. To send an arc of pus sailing into their face with a single, simple gesture.

But she never did that. It would have been a waste. Then she had the accident. It was a stupid thing, really. Ethel had been driving back from the grocery store when she'd become distracted by a previously unnoticed, ingrown hair lurking just behind her earlobe. She knew better than to text and drive,

or call in drive. She wasn't even one to fiddle with the radio while in traffic. But her attention kept returning to the blemish. One hand on the wheel, she tried to get it to go by pinching it between the fingers of her free hand. No luck. It was maddeningly resistant. So, finally, she gave into temptation and used both hands to push at the ingrown hair. The pimple plopped open, just as she clipped the front fender of a Nissan running the yellow light ahead of her.

She wasn't in the wrong, that was obvious. but the officers on the scene insisted on breathalyzer tests all around. They found Ethel's blood alcohol level to be within legal limit, but just barely. It was all so embarrassing, and the Nissan's driver only made things worse by suing anyone and everyone possible. They told a story that painted them as a victim of irresponsible drivers, poorly designed intersections, and soft tissue damage. Ethel was surprised when she saw her ex-husband Floyd. among the attorneys involved in the deposition. She was even more surprised

when he didn't recognize her. When she finally approached him after the proceedings, all his well-trained lawyerly dispassion was gone in an instant. When he spoke, his voice was loud enough that everyone in the room heard. What the hell happened to you? Those words followed Ethel home from the courthouse.

Every time she glimpsed herself in the rearview mirror or reflective surface, she heard it again. When she got home, she cursed that there was no alcohol in the house, but she had told herself she needed to cut down. The accident had been a close call, and she had been frightened to realize later that she didn't know how long it had been before her last drink and hitting the road that night. But she would have loved a drink right then.

She wanted her mind to be empty and spinning. she wanted her vision and senses blurred. Once, not too long ago, Floyd had looked upon her face with adoration. Then, later on, resignation. In time, Ethel had become used to both, but the expression of horror on his face. It had been too much to bear.

She cleaned off her makeup mirror and looked at herself. Not the blemishes, old and new, not the oily patches and deep bruised-looking pockmarks. Ethel saw herself, saw the extent of her self-mutilation. Why had she done this? Why had she become so obsessed with the act of whittling away at herself to the point that she had become unrecognizable to the man that had shared her bed for nine years?

Remembering the tiny blooms of pleasure she had taken in the act, suddenly left her feeling sick to her stomach. Ethel ran her hands over her cheeks. They were ragged and eaten away. Her forehead was a ruin of interconnected scars, and her chin was a festering wound of postules, half gone to becoming cysts. Someday, long from that moment,

she would come to learn the terms body-focused repetitive behavior and excoriation disorder. But that night, The night she wailed with self-discuss and self-realization and smashed her mirror. Ethel only knew this was more than she could take. And after all, what was one more mutilation at this point? She hooked each of her hands into claws and brought them forward.

And after a deep breath to steal her courage, drove them deep into her eye sockets with all her mind. Then she pinched. That's it. Time to squeeze ourselves away from that story and take a short break. I must admit, in the 11-plus years of doing this show, I've learned that horror comes in many different styles. And 11 years ago, I was a guy starting a horror podcast at just the right moment. Podcasts were slowly getting established, but they weren't widely known. There weren't big networks involved yet.

Very few big celebrities, grabbing all the attention. It was the right moment where an unknown goof like me could start and grow a podcast into something resembling a success. They say the best time to prepare for growth is before the opportunity arrives, especially for online businesses. That's where Ship Station comes in. Ship Station sets you up for growth by directly integrating with every shopping cart and storefront, so your products are easier to find, easier to manage, and easier to get into the hands of happy customers. Don't wait until you're drowning in orders to find the right shipping solution. Upgrade to Ship Station today. Whether you're starting small or scaling up, Shipstation makes

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Cool companies like the Whiskey Bowl, Johnny Cupcakes, and Impact Custom Mouthguards all use ShipStation. Hmm, should I start my own company selling my beard trimmings? Decidedly no. But if I did, I would use ShipStation. So listen, ship more and grow more with ShipStation. Go to Shipstation.com today and sign up with promo code No Sleep for a free 60-day trial. Start today and get set up before the biggest shipping season of the year. You know, that's two months free. Visit shipstation.com, click on the microphone at the top of the page, and type in code no sleep.

It's the right time right now. And speaking of the right time, it's the perfect time to return to the horror. In our final tale, we meet Richard, a man trying to do good, trying to be good in a gray world, kicking at his soul. And in this tale, shared with us by author Kevin Heyman, a chance encounter one night sets in motion a series of events which makes Richard start to question everything he sees. Performing this tale are David Alt, Erica Sanderson,

Andy Cresswell, Jake Benson, Ash Millman, James Cleveland, Guy Woodward, Mick Wingert, Penny Scott Andrews, and Graham Rowett. So if you find yourself struggling with a dark and drab world, remember the lesson of this tale? Because you'll soon learn there is a color that runs through us all. To get it all out on paper is to make sense of it. I can make no promise of that. Sometimes life isn't as black and white as it seems.

What I have to tell started a little while back on a Saturday night. I'd work the best part of it because we'd over-promised a considerable batch of printed point of sale for a large retail conglomerate, and I wanted to make sure the specifications were right before the print runs started the following Monday. I was tired. The work had been long and draining, and all I really wanted to do was to drop into bed and write the whole day off. But I'm a dog owner, and early nights are a thing of the past. So I'd take Max around the corner to do his business, fix myself a drink, maybe watch a little TV, and slip into bed half-wacked in the early hours of the next morning. But Max wasn't playing ball.

I'd walked him around for 15 minutes now, freezing my balls off in the process, and it was perfectly obvious that he wasn't in any kind of a rush. So I'd walk him across the bridge so he could follow his nose around the picnic area. Maybe he'd take a dump beside one of the newly-caughting couples that park up there to, Well, to consummate their relationships, play loud music, and leave behind discarded takeaway wrappers, empty beer cans, and used condoms. But we never made it that far. Sometimes your eyes dismiss the true reality of what they're seeing. I'd heard that phrase from a paramedic friend of mine, and it's really true, they do. Because I'd seen the man at least a hundred feet before I'd reached him, and yet dismissed him as a locked bike against the railings, or something some idiot had fly.

it. Things I'd seen countless times before whilst out walking Max and never given a second glance. Today it was no different, and the harsh lighting that ran along the necklace of the bridge made it even harder to identify the glum figure of a man standing the wrong side of the railings, gazing down. Not until Max started growling, hackles up. I yanked the leadback, heart pistons racing. Easy boy. Looking back, the man became agitated. and started edging away along the railings. I wish I could have thought of something encouraging to say, something wise. I didn't want to scare him into jumping, not when I shouldn't have even been there.

On any other night, I'd have been at home watching football on TV, snuggled up on the couch with a drink by my side. Jesus, I would probably be in bed. It was half-past ten at night. It was dark, windy, and far too cold for standing around trying to build a case for living. And yet, it seemed, I had been assigned the unexacted. expected role of negotiator, and I was tired. My eyelids demanded to close. I was probably as physically tired as he was mentally tired of his life. Get back, stay away from me. Take it easy.

My voice was unrecognizably faint in the shrill of the cold river wind. We were high up, and the wind moved with a loud audible rasp, like the sound of sandpaper rubbed across metal. I'm not going to try anything, I swear, I just want to talk. I told you, get back. I had to think quickly. Moments like these require immediate action, quick thinkers, bright people, they require calm, rational individuals, brave people. Not people like me, not tonight. I was scared, my hands were shaking.

Looking down at the river below, way down there, I guessed a man would be killed upon impact. That's if he were lucky. If he wasn't, he'd be paralyzed. and that was a whole lot worse than dying instantly. The only people nearby that could help would be the teenagers making out on the ridge and they'd be too interested in their own dramas to worry about a faint murmur coming from the river. And that's all it would be, of course, the faintest of murmurs. No chance against the rap music blasting out of their music systems while they were getting on with it.

And as you lay there, screaming your unheard screams to the empty night, all the while the grasp of the thick muddy water will be around you, ready to swallow you down to the bottom of the riverbed like the steadily sinking carcass of a dead cow. It would be a long, lonely death. And suppose you didn't drown? Suppose the strong, whirly currents took you upstream? It could be months before you were found, blackened, bones shattered, decaying in the reeds along with the empty beer bottles and dumped shopping trolleys. Maybe only the slightest part of a limb remaining, the rest gnawed away by sewer rats, feasting on souring flesh.

My stomach turned. My mind swelled, but I was acting now, my hands tying Max's lead to the railings with numb, trembling fingers. I hadn't made the decision to do that. I was just doing it. Acting like a hero would. The man was watching me, growing more frustrated. What are you doing? Don't come over here. Easy. Just take it easy. I clasped the railings rigidly and very slowly lifted a leg over the side. I stayed there for what felt like a long time looking down at the drop, frozen. Sure, I couldn't do this, but what choice did I have? This is where I was. This was the moment. And I either responded or the man died. I really didn't think there was another option.

So I acted, slowly lifting my other leg over the side of the railings. I was facing the road now, holding on tightly back toward the open drop, where a thousand feet below, hungry sewer rats waited expectantly. Max barked. Sit! He did. His long tongue lapped doperly at the cold air, which had turned to a white fog around his jowls,

and I thought the night air had a bite far sharper than anything his meagre fangs may be capable of. I was digressing. Realizing I would never be ready, I forced myself to turn, feeling the full force of the wind against my face. and it was cold, painfully cold. I mean it. Don't come any closer.

I just want to talk, that's all. I was edging my way over little by little inch by inch, my feet held up only by the smallest iron flange which ran along the base of the bridge, and my legs were stiffening beneath me. My throat and heart felt like they may pop at any moment. Imagine that. If my heart gave out there and then and I just dropped stupidly down to the river like a child's rag doll.

I guess that way it really didn't matter if one was to die upon impact. I need to get closer. I'm having trouble hearing you over the wind. Stay back! His body arched over the drop with only the tips of his fingers holding him in place. I moved a few more steps along the railings close enough now to see tears in his eyes. The man had very short, cropped hair, greying a little, and was wearing a well-fitted suit with a black tie. His skin looked almost blue in the light of the moon, and I could see lines under his eyes,

stress lines, I guessed, and those tears seemed glued to them. On the railing to the side of him was a mobile phone, and I felt suddenly annoyed with myself for not keeping my distance and dealing with this by making a direct call to the local police. But as I've said before, I'm not a quick thinker under pressure, and I was tired. He didn't like me looking at the phone. Take your eyes off that, look ahead. I did as I was told and turned to face the full coming wind, but not before getting another glance at his face.

I think I wanted to know if he really was intent on jumping or not, but if he wasn't, there were no clues. The tears, the ones stationary in his eyes, were also in mine. The product of the strong driving wind which forced the skin around the eyeballs back, pushing the tears not down the face as you would expect, but across the face. To the place you sit your sunglasses in sunnier days, above and behind the ears. And the chill that came with that wind was, in a word, unbearable.

I was watching car headlights in the distance. Most of those sporty, pimped-up cars had driven off, but a few remained, determined that their night would go on longer. I had the sinking feeling that my night was going to go on a lot longer, and decided to take another small step closer, whereupon his eyes sprang suddenly open. What are you doing? I told you. Get back. Just hanging around for a chat. Stop there. You stop right there. I stopped. No point in arguing it. That was the last thing needed right now. The wrong conversation, the wrong word, maybe even the wrong glance. And this man would jump. So I froze, accepting the distance between us as final. What was I going to do anyway? Try and force him down? Pointless. That would have resulted in both our deaths. No. No, the best way to deal with this, was to simply reassure him that everything would be okay.

It'll be okay. Things will work out, you know. The man looked around at me with a resignation on his face that I had not expected, and I knew in that moment that it would not be okay. Not for him, it wouldn't. The only outcome to this situation would be his demise. He really was going to jump. It was that simple.

To make things worse, the only person capable of saving him had come ill-equipped with the necessary skills to change that. a person out of his depth. The man shook his head, ready to talk again. What are you even doing here? The question startled me. I hadn't expected it and found myself lost for words. Walking my dog, just out walking my dog.

He frowned as if surely there had to be more to it than that, as if these things have some divine meaning to them. He looked me over, eyes wide. What are you wearing? I shrugged. A jacket? Was that the right answer for him? Everything was on a knife edge.

What color is it? Black. He cocked his head over to Max. What color's your dog? What color? I don't know. I did, though. Of course I did.

Max had been my dog for nearly six years, and I knew what color he was. Knew what he liked for breakfast? Knew where he liked to take a shit. But in the moment, confusing and stressful as it was, I needed confirmation. and would surely have turned to get it had the wind not rose up in that moment the way it did. I tightened my grip on the railings, swallowing hard.

He's brown, brown, kind of a mousy-colored brown? Good, good. That was all he said. Then he turned back to face the drop and stood silently, the wind whistling and whipping at our clothes once more. My hands were so cold now that I could no longer feel them on the railings. I couldn't even be sure I was actually holding on. God himself may have been holding me up there for all I knew. My legs, stiff with fear, weren't just shaking now, but juddering with violent spasms. I didn't know how much longer I could hold on. I needed to speed up the conversation, or it would be me going over this bridge.

I began the way I would talk to a work client by introducing myself. I'm Richard. I live just over the bridge there, but I work the other side of it for a print company. Ocean Prince, do you know it? Nothing. No, most people don't. I was just being honest. What would it take to get this man over the railings to safety? I knew I had to befriend him, get on his side, gain his trust.

And so I continued, speaking confidently and smiling. You know what I wanted to be when I was a child? His eyes were closed now, but I had hope he was listening. Just a hero, that's all. I used to watch all those films where the unexpected hero saves the day, and I'd think to myself, that would be nice, you know. The teachers used to laugh when I'd tell him it's what I wanted to be when I grew up. They'd say, that's not a career, Richard.

And I'd say, no, but it is a calling. I thought the man might smile at this little heartwarming story. He didn't, though. Didn't so much as grunt. I'll be 33 years old in two months, and I haven't been a hero for a single day. I forged a smile. At last the man reacted, his eyes opening to reveal a cold, dark stare. It was the look of a man already dead inside.

My spine twitched. You're not going to be a hero tonight. Then he turned back to the drop and closed his eyes again. The cars on the ridge had all gone now, the last of the teenagers taking their girlfriends home before curfew. No cars passed, no pedestrians either. I hadn't seen a single person since I'd climbed over the road. railings with the good intentions of helping this man, and I started to wonder if even the sewer rats had given up the weight and moved along to the next bridge and the next potential suicide

jumper. I was grateful that the wind had started to calm, sure, though with it came the next set of challenges. I wasn't bracing myself like I had been, and therefore my grip was loosening. I couldn't prevent myself from it. My legs no longer sleeping were now in a deep state of comatose, weakened my knees buckling. I must have looked like a scared Elvis Presley out on those railings, gyrating my pelvis in resistance to the elements, and if, to the bystander, that's how it looked, then the song I was moving to was surely way down. I have no idea how long we'd been standing there without talking, just waiting for something to happen, and just like in the movies, real life delivered, and something did happen. The mobile phone, dormant for so long,

now started to ring. I moved for it. Leave it. I had no choice but to leave it. If I reached for it, I felt the man would jump. I knew he would. And so, with no other options springing to mind, I just stood there, dumbfounded,

listening to it ring and vibrate until, finally, it stopped. I must have had a look of disbelief on my face, for the man was looking at me incredulously. What are you wearing? I frowned. I'd already told him this, but he asked so keenly that I felt compelled to answer. A jacket.

What colour is it? Were we going to start all over? What do you want to know next the colour of my dog? Black. And your dog? What colour is your dog? Do you know, I felt my jaw fall away. A mousy-coloured brown.

Good, good. I swallowed dryly. It was clear to me now that this man was suffering with a form of obsessive-compulsive disorder. I wondered how many times he was going to ask the same questions, like people that can't help but eat the same food day in, day out, wear the same clothes, frequent the same places, say the same phrases repetitively, some even at the same time of the day.

This man was going to ask me the same questions until he either jumped or I fell. Black, I would have to tell him continuously. The jacket is black. Oh, sure, the dog is a mousy-colored brown. Take it easy, I'm just coming for a chat. The jacket's still black, the dog's still brown. Good good.

He'd say, thinking it over, and then again he'd want to know what colour the jacket was. It's still black, I'd have to assure him, the dog is still... I had a thought. What if I was to mix up my responses? Ask him a question instead of answering one, up the ante. I turned to him, Sprightly. Wait a minute. The man looked over.

Don't know what I was thinking. It's hard to tell in this light, but the jacket's actually... What? The jacket is what? The warble of distant sirens appear. on the wind, faint at first, and then louder to the point, headlights gleamed like two little circular angels on the horizon. My shoulders sagged with relief. Thank God it was going to be okay now. The police could talk him down. They had experience in these situations, and for the first time,

I thought I wasn't going to have to see anybody die tonight. Help was here. What about the jacket? It's okay. Help is on the way. He wasn't interested in any help. Only in what color the jacket was. It's black, it's still black. Look, help is here now, see? You're lying. He leaned over the drop and then looked back to me. What color is the jacket? Black, I swear.

Don't lie to me. My heart thumped against my ribs. I heard the loud click of a car door opening and footsteps stumbling over the tarmac. Honest, it's black. Just take it easy. Tell me what color it is. Black, honest, honest. The man became agitated, throwing his head from side to side the way a child might that wasn't getting their way. His lips pulled back over grinding teeth, his eyes open wide.

He was stamping his left leg furiously, which sent an uneasy ripple down the bridge. You're lying to me. What color is the jacket? Tell me! Tell me! Black! Max started to bark now. I jerked back and yelled at him. Shut up, Max! And he did, to my surprise, making a short yelp like he'd been spanked. The man continued to shout and shriek and spit. I could actually feel the saliva move through the air and hit against me.

What color is the jacket? He raged over and over, face pulsing, eyes bulging, arms, tense, legs, stamping. And my heart wasn't just thumping now, but pounding, pounding like a wild caged animal. Take it easy. It was the policeman. Thank God he was here. It's okay, I told him. Just help me over, would you? I can't feel my hands in it. My foot gave way.

I felt myself falling helplessly, my heart lurching up in my throat. There was no life flashing before my eyes like it's supposed to, just the certain clarity that the short, insignificant life I led until now was over. I would never be a hero. Then a hand reached out and gripped at my shoulder. Jesus Christ! I clasped at something anything I could, a sleeve, an arm, a handful of jacket hair, anything. I've got you. I've got you. Don't let go. I won't. No way.

I clung to his arm and tried to pull myself up it, but it seemed an impossible task. My weight seemed to have doubled with weakened arms. Use your feet. Try and find the rail with them if you can and pull yourself up. I did, scuffling the souls of my brogues until eventually they found the iron thread again. I lifted myself onto it, knees shaking with fear. Then I straightened myself up. I was hugging the policeman now, I realized, squeezing him like two lovers on a moonlit bridge. It's okay.

It's okay. I've got you now. I've got you. I've got you. I've got you. The comfort from the policeman's voice drowned out the maddening, ranting, ranting, which persisted just a few feet up the railings from us. My eyes were so tightly scrunched clothes that I thought I may never open them again,

but I did only a few moments. later, just in time to see it happen. I saw him in apparent slow motion. Perhaps that's how it is when you see a man leap to his death. I watched him fling himself off the bridge with all the grace of an Olympic diver from a high diving platform shouting something on his way down, down to that murky river, the river of hungry sewer rats. Way down. For a brief moment, it occurred to me that this wasn't happening at all. It was a dream. I'd fallen asleep in front of the TV again, and soon I'd be up taking Max out for his evening walk, trying to hurry him up so I could get back to bed. That's what my mind wanted to believe, I'm sure, because sometimes your eyes dismissed the true reality of what they are

seeing. But the reality is far from a dream. The jumper's mobile phone remained on the bridge in the blue tone of the night, never to hear the man's voice again, never to feel his fingers move over its tiny screen, just a mobile phone, way up on a bridge on a windy night. And shortly after, the river belched out a loud splash. Red. That was the word he'd shouted while hurling himself off the bridge. He feared my jacket was red. The taillights on the police car had been red, too. They'd lit the road with a scarlet haze as they'd flashed on and off. And after the policeman had helped me over the railings to safety and I'd regained my composure, I realized Max's lead was also red. It was the color that had spooked the man, just a color, plain and simple, and it just so happened

to be red. Smoothing Max's head, I watched the policeman place the man's phone in a clear plastic evidence bag and seal the top, the way they do in those American crime dramas like CSI and cold case. He took it over to a little stairway in the boot of the car and then closed it down. He noticed me watching him and walked over to me. We need to have a chat now. I nodded, fully expecting this. He took out a small black notebook and a pencil from his pocket. I'm going to need to write all this up, you understand?

Sure. But maybe just start at the beginning. I did. I told him everything, how I'd worked late, how I'd taken Max for a walk and stumbled upon the man on the bridge, and how if he hadn't been passing when he was, I might be dead. He grinned uncomfortably when I said that and looked. up from his notebook. You know, tonight's been pretty strenuous. I know a really good trauma therapist that if you wouldn't mind waiting around for, might be worth speaking with.

I don't need a therapist, just a good night's sleep. Trauma therapist. Now he put a hand on my shoulder. Shelter trauma. And with the greatest of respect, I think it would do you some good to speak with her. He twisted his head back to look at the full length of the bridge. I've seen too many dark nights up here. Stick around, would you? Speak with her. For my sake. I shrugged.

Okay, I'll wait. I was sitting in the back of the police car when her blue Suzuki Vitara pulled up around 20 minutes later. The policeman who'd waited for her arrival by fiercely rubbing his hands together to keep out the cold went over to greet her. A light rain had begun to fall while the two were talking, and droplets started trickling down the window,

making everything outside a shifting blur of color. But with head, pressed to the window, I watched her get out of the car, a tall and slim woman with shoulder-length brunette hair, and engage in conversation. She was wearing a long beige mac down to her knees with dark trousers and black-heeled shoes, and she was young, mid-20s, not at all what I had expected. Finally, their conversation had come to an end, and the policeman nodded once in my direction. I heard the therapist speak as she approached the car. I should go and talk with him now.

That's when I realized I knew her. Had even had a conversation or two with her. They had both taken place at the hospital my mum's treated in. I even knew her name, Hannah. And chatting to her again, even though I was drained, both mentally and physically, seemed quite pertinent. I felt if I was going to speak with anyone right now, strangely, I was pleased it was Hannah. She got into the car making a woo-s sound as if to demonstrate the power of the wind in one quick sigh, and then wiped a handkerchief across her brow.

I was smiling while all this happened, touched by her charm. Excuse me. How are you then, Richard? Richard. She remembered my name. Well, I'm obviously quite shaken. If the police hadn't turned up when they did, I might be... I shrugged.

She nodded. It's very scary what happened tonight. Perhaps you can tell me about it before we get you home. Happy to. I went over it again, while outside, a second police officer arrived with coffee for us all, and sipping it, I answered Hannah's questions best as I could. Mostly they were questions about the evening, but she threw in some others too questions about me. I imagined it was procedure, trying to build up a profile, but I'll admit that a little part of me hoped her interest was personal.

Would that be out of the question? I felt the conversation was relaxed enough to be considered informal. Though as I spoke to her, I could see she was very concerned for me and her eyes seemed worried. Police officer number two tapped on the glass then and Hannah let the window down. If you're okay, I'm going to head back to the station now. Yes, I think we're almost done. I nodded too. Great.

Can I offer you a lift home, Richard? It's okay. I can run him home. The policewoman grinned. Very well. As she got into her car and drove off, I turned to Hannah. Um, I have Max. That's okay, there's a blanket in the back.

You're sure? He's a mucky dog. At least I can do after the night you've had. I smiled. Okay, then. Thank you. Making our way up the little road that turns onto my crescent, I wondered if Hannah had a dog of her own. Why else would she have a blanket in the back? I imagined us walking through the woods together along the old railway lines,

watching Max skipping through the long grass, his jowls flopping about the plane. I could actually see myself kissing her, caressing her, stroking my hands through her hair, when she pulled the car to a stop. Total madness. Oh, great, that's my house at the end. The dream had been so vivid I hadn't realized I'd been giving directions. It's very nice. Thank you, and thanks again for the talk.

I almost forgot to say, I think I'll find it very beneficial. I really hope so, Richard. The mind deals with trauma in many different ways. I'm always here if you want to talk. She leaned over me then and opened the glove compartment. While she jostled with something inside, I took a breath of her hair. It smelled heavenly, so wonderfully fresh that immediately I was back in the woods. Oh, shut up!

Here, this is my telephone number. Just call me if you do feel like talking. And this is a journal. I started to leaf through it. It's blank. You can use it to jot down any unusual feelings, anxieties or concerns. It might be helpful if you want to get something off your chest, anything. Or you can just use it as a diary to record your feelings.

A lot of my patients find it very, very helpful. You can bring it along to my practice, and we can talk through them. I smiled. Thank you. That's very kind. If I have any unusual thoughts, I promise, I'll fill it out. Of course, I didn't know how true that was then. I let Max out of the back and made him sit for a moment while I thanked her again for the lift.

You're welcome. Good night, Richard. Good night, Max. Good night from us both, I said, and started up my drive. I unlocked the door, gave her a wave and went inside. I stood by the door then, looking once more at her telephone number and the journal, and listening to her engine fade into the distance. I had no idea what time it was, had no desire to check.

I put Max in his crate, undressed, and lay back on the mattress, arms folded behind my head, like a hero would. But the only true hero that night came dressed in a police uniform. I closed my eyes and saw the man one more time falling from the bridge in slow motion, screaming that word out like it was coming down after him. It was the horror in his voice that kept me up, the absolute fear. I don't remember falling asleep. more likely the blackness of slumber washed over me. I got up late, of course.

Max is whining, eventually getting the better of me, though I fought it for some time, burying my head deep in the pillows. First thing I did was open the front door and let him out. I didn't have it in me to take him for a walk just yet, so I just whistled and out he came running across the front lawn, over the road and up to a fence that acts as a barrier for an old unused power station.

He cocked one of his legs and made an interesting M-shaped piss stain, not unlike the McDonald's logo. Then he came running back in, wanting breakfast. I stroked his head as he passed, shut the front door, and followed him into the kitchen. Pouring his dried biscuits into his bowl and setting it down, I started thinking about the night before. What was it about the colour red that scared the man so badly? Bad enough that he would take himself up to the bridge to end his life.

It was just a colour, after all, wasn't it? How terrifying could it be? It dwelt on my mind as I went about my. morning routine and by lunchtime I wondered if maybe I had the answer. Sitting in front of the TV, not really watching, it occurred to me that red is ubiquitous. It's the one color that is totally unavoidable. Take the morning as a case in point, as Max licked his bowl sparkle clean around the kitchen floor and I made myself some toast and coffee. There was a little red light on the machine that came on when the water was hot and ready for pouring. Placing the bread in the toaster and

depressing the lever made another red light appear. There was a red light in the shower and even one that flashed at the end of my toothbrush as I cleaned my teeth, signifying I was pressing too hard or that the battery was running low, I was never sure which. Lazing in front of the TV just before lunch, my attention settled on the red light flashing at the end of the controller each time I changed channel. Red was everywhere, and if you feared it, you had yourself a big problem. Imagine having a fear of rats and being constantly overrun by them, finding them in your drawers or in your socks or in your cereal. It would be totally overwhelming given time when it would start to wear on you. I could understand that. I hate rats. They're scary creatures. Some come as

large as cats with little black beady eyes and razor sharp yellowing teeth that can eat through just about anything. Timber, wires, human flesh, anything. Red is just a color. Nothing to get concerned about. It doesn't stir up fear the way a creepy crawley might. Well, not in me, anyway. I couldn't relate to the danger element or truly understand why someone might have such a problem with it. It seemed irrational to me. That said, I couldn't tell you what it is about the red cape that makes the bull want to charge at it either, but it does, doesn't it? Man, it wants to impale that cape onto its horns and stamp the damn thing into the dirt until there's nothing left but shreds of red cotton poking out of the dusty ground. Yeah, that's what it wants, all right?

I spent the afternoon in the hospital watching another light, this one blinking, thank God, to my mother's heartbeat. And the things I had expected to see as red, her lips, for example, were blue. The bag of blood that sometimes hung over her on a silver stand and running down a thin tube into her arm was now a bag of clear fluid. Even her usual rosy cheeks were the effie grey of ash. All the wonderful red drained from her face as if someone had pulled the plug on it. I was able to ignore it and spoke to her fairly cheerily. I read her some more of the book she'd started before the accident, hoping she was listening, hoping she enjoyed it, though it was hard to tell.

She seemed so vacant that it was almost as if she was standing on a bridge somewhere, deep within the confines of her own mind, just thinking her life over and waiting, waiting for the right moment to jump. Monday, I got to the office early, the large retail conglomerate, the one of I can't name for legal reasons. They're one of the big five supermarket chains, I can tell you that, were due to receive their order and I wanted to make sure everything was right. I'd won this contract. It took me the best part of two years to finally get the deal done, and now that I had it, I didn't want to fall at the first hurdle. A contract like this for such a small company as ours

is really quite significant. It's enough to keep us in business for years, and I was proud of it. The first thing I did, even before switching my computer on and checking emails, was to call down to the shop floor. I had a bad feeling that the machines weren't going to be working, or something had delayed the factory team from showing up, or maybe they'd been a jam and the paper damaged. But the phone was picked up, and I was reassured that everything was going to be fine, that my order was ahead of schedule, and for God's sake not to worry. I was happy enough with that response and got down to the business of checking my emails, while around me the rest of the office staff filed in one by one. James, my co-worker, a young, likable guy, particularly to the girls in the accounts department, bid me a good morning as he sat down at his computer on the desk directly behind mine. Morning.

I've just popped into the shop floor. Everything's going well in there this morning. Nice to see them doing some work for a change. I know. I called down about an hour ago. They hoped to be finished by midday. Half-11, they just told me. I'll believe that when I see it, James. They're pretty confident, Rich.

They've been in there all night, you know. No. I know. I called down an hour ago. Just saying. I turned from my desk. Sorry, don't mean to snap. It's just been a few long stressful days. That's all right. You're a busy boy. He picked up the card lying face down on his desk. Hey, do you want to keep this or should I take it down to recycling? And what is it? It's a sample we worked on. Do you want to keep it or are we okay to lose it now, seeing as the wheels are in motion downstairs? The look on my face pushed him to elaborate. We can keep it if you want.

That's not the sample. He screwed his face up and twisted the card back for another look. Sure it is, Rich. No, it's not. The text is wrong. James, now inspecting the cardboard sample more closely, was unable to see the mistake. I put him out of his misery. The text is red for God's sake. The customer was very specific that the color must be USAFA Blue.

We worked on the most of the night. Jesus, what's the matter with you? James swallowed dryly. I'm sure this is what we were working on Saturday night. Why else would it be on my desk? I don't know. You tell me. He shrugged. I don't know.

It's obviously an earlier sample, wouldn't you say? He shook his head. I only made up two. This one and an identical duplicate. That's what I gave to the factory guys. If it is James, then they're doing the whole consignment in the wrong color and you can kiss goodbye to the contract. I was expecting James to break with sudden laughter and reveal the gag.

Instead, during the awkward silence, I watched his face flush and unsightly rouge. I turned, grabbed the phone and punched in the numbers for the shop floor. Ken, what colour are you printing the text? What? Who's this? It's rich from upstairs, Ken. We think there's been a cock-up. What colour are you printing the text on the POS? Red, for Christ's sake. I've told you no to worry. We've got under control down here. We do know what we're doing. Thank you very much.

The phone went dead. There was definitely a smirk on his face as he pointed at the computer screen. See? James spoke more for the crowd that had gathered around his desk than for my own benefit. The colour is marked as red. I shrugged it off. That doesn't prove anything, only that you've got it wrong on your computer too. No, these are the specifications you emailed me.

Check your outbox. I didn't need to. I know I had marked them as blue, USAFA blue, to be precise, but I fancied winning a small victory all the same, especially now that we had half the office nosing in on our conversation. So, smirking a little, I moved through the crowd to my computer. Their eyes followed me as I leaned over the keyboard and fished out the email. I made an audible sigh as I found the one I'd been looking for

and double-click the subject line. It opened up on the screen, and I enlarged it for the audience and scrolled down to the necessary section. Color, I said, an element of gloat in my voice. It was important to establish that this mistake wasn't my doing. USAFA blue. I couldn't finish. Even if I wanted to pretend that's what it said was on the screen,

black and white, large as life, in bold text, red. No doubting what was written there. Red, pigment, RGB, 238, 2846, CMIK, 1.0.477, 0.376. I felt warm, all of a sudden hot. Maybe the sweat broke out across my brow instantly. The mistake was mine. How I had confused the customer's instructions was beyond me, but had. I'd cocked it up well and truly, no, no, no, no, no, that wasn't right.

I remembered the conversation and that wasn't how it went. I had to think. How could I prove the outcome of a conversation that had taken place over the phone? The answer was staring me in the face. You see, whenever I seal the deal with a customer, I make it very clear they are to fill out a brief and email it over to me, which they had done, and it was this that I was seeking now. Searching more erratically than I had at the first email, thrusting the mouse about the desktop in jagged strokes. I found it, sitting in my inbox, amongst the other mail, and once again I opened it up in front of the spectators, growing dramatically in numbers by the minute, it seemed. Soon the whole office would be here to see the great fiasco that was unfolding.

It was almost a relief now, seeing the same color consistent with all the other emails and samples red again. It couldn't be wrong. At least the customer was getting what had been agreed. It was me that was mistaken, and I could see that now more clearly. I'd been working too hard, damn it, had got myself confused. And when the CEO came over and asked if everything was all right, I told him that it was because it was all right. wasn't it? Everything was fine as far as the customer was concerned. They wanted their product in red text and red text they were getting. The printers were up early doing what they do best and ahead of

schedule, no less, and it was all right. It was absolutely fine. The job was a good one. Keep the customer satisfied, isn't that the way? Good. Do you think we could all get back to our desks then? The crowd faltered away and with them I sensed a great deal of the confidence and respect I'd built up over the years, go with them. The CEO nodded once at me and went back to his office, probably thinking I'd shared a joke email with him or something along those lines. James stayed behind me, though, no doubt ready to pounce and get his two pennies worth. He didn't know. He just stood there for a moment without saying anything. Then a puzzled grin formed on his face. Is everything okay, Rich? I guess so. I think I must have made a mistake, that's all. I'm only human.

Part of me then wanted to go searching through the waste paper bin to see if any notes I'd made whilst on the phone were still in there. I resisted it, though. Perhaps James could see that such a resistance was taking place in me because he nodded at me and said, Do you want to go get a coffee? I think I can arrange the courier if you want to. What I wanted was to stay and do that myself, but I could see he was genuinely concerned for me and probably he was right. I needed that coffee. If that's okay, that would actually be nice.

Of course. I sat in the empty cafeteria, staring through the blinds at the car park, sipping coffee. It was lukewarm and bitter tasting. From the kitchen, I could hear the chef preparing the lunch menu, muttering and clanking pans. Outside, it was a grey morning, no rain yet no sun either. It was the type of morning, I thought morbidly, that one might walk up to the nearest bridge and contemplate throwing himself off. On the table to my side was a folded newspaper, and I wondered if there might be an article on the man that had jumped off the bridge.

But as I reached over for it, I saw that it was a national tabloid and decided to leave it. Large jugs and a biased political opinion would be all that rag could offer. I sat there, coffee in hand, looking out of that window, happily allowing my mind to drift. Not thinking about what colour ink was being used on the factory floor or what I had or hadn't written in an email. It was almost peaceful in that empty cafeteria until a sharp clatter rang out from the kitchen, followed shortly by the chef's loud cursing. I smiled and went to take another sip of my bitter coffee, and that's when I noticed it. The coffee cup. It was red. I hadn't realized when I placed my money into the vending machine that it was no longer a Starbucks self-serve.

It had been replaced with a new machine of a brand that I had not heard of before. The paper cups were now red, not white with a teard. two-tailed mermaid in a green circle. Interesting. How long had I been sipping this coffee, believing it to be Starbucks, when in fact I was drinking some other product entirely? When the chef came in, stressed, and pushing a trolley of made-up sandwiches, I went over and asked her how long the new machine had been there. She glanced over at it while starting to pack the sandwiches into the fridge. Got to be a couple of years now, I would think. No, I mean this brand specifically. Oh, I see. Not sure.

She never took her eyes off the fridge. It is a new machine, isn't it? No, I don't think so. Well, wasn't it a Starbucks self-serve a couple of weeks ago? She shook her head. Not to my knowledge, it wasn't. There seemed to be more urgency about the way she was stacking those sandwiches now. All right, not weeks, I get lost in the work sometimes.

Let's say months. Was it a Starbucks self-serve a few months back? She dropped a tuna sandwich to the floor and cursed it. The pack split open, but the sandwiched. sandwich stayed in and there was no mess on the floor. I waited for her to repackage it before repeating the question. Look, it's the same goddamn machine as it's always been, ever since I've been here anyway. I nodded. She'd worked in this building far longer than I had, and so, half expecting this

response, I pursed my lips and said dryly, as if I were fond of Starbucks in particular, too bad. Too fucking bad. Before leaving the cafeteria, I searched one of the large green bins by the door. I wanted to see if there were any old Starbucks cups in there. What I found was a bunch of squashed Coke cans, orange peel, plastic sandwich packets and used tissues. And of course there were coffee cups, lots of them, and all red. I was back at my desk now, computer screen facing me, keyboard, just the right distance from my fingertips, chair, perfectly positioned for work. But work, I could not. Not with the faces peeking over the monitors to see what I would do next. I knew they were watching. I didn't need to look up to confirm that, but when I did momentarily to check the time on the big white wall clock at the end of the office, I noticed Claire from the sales department staring.

When she saw me spot her, she turned back to her computer screen, quickly, face blushing. She wasn't alone. They were all beginning to show their true colors. The sales team, the marketing team, and even the girls in accounts were watching me now. I knew that. I knew something else, too. To confirm my curiosity, I took a little walk from my desk across the office. I stopped at the water dispenser, filled a plastic cup with water, drank it down and tossed the cup to the bin. Then I went back to my desk and sat down. It was all the confirmation I needed. During that short walk, I saw that they were all wearing red. Red was not a colour one was usually accustomed to seeing at work, and granted it wasn't in the form of anything as blatant to say a red dress, for example. but look closer and it was there.

Whether it was red tights, a red shirt, red trousers, a red blouse, one girl was even wearing red stiletto shoes, if you can dig that. It didn't matter how subtle. Red was everywhere. James may well have been the only employee not wearing red, other than myself, that is. Though being positioned at the desk behind me meant that to confirm this, I would have to twist my head around a full 180.

I did, and when he clocked me, he smiled. I returned the gesture. but I had got the information I needed. He wasn't wearing red. I was sure now, we were the only two employees in the entire office that seemed to be red-resistant. Unless, of course, he was wearing... I deliberately knocked a pencil to the floor and bent over to retrieve it. It rolled a little way under my desk, but that was good.

Reaching down from the chair and casting my glance back, I could see just far enough under his desk to make out his black leather shoes, polished pristinely to a high gloss. I stretched a little further and came back up with the pencil. I held it out for him to see that I had got what I bent down for and even made a little note on my pad for added authenticity. I wrote red socks because that was what I had seen. I had caught just the slightest glimpse of them as I came back up,

but there was no doubting it. He was wearing red socks. And the big white wall clock, the one hung high that watched over the whole office while we worked, that was now red too. I took a walk at lunch I needed to. I felt like I might be losing it. Some fresh air was what I needed.

Yes, good old-fashioned fresh air would fix this, and it would do me no harm to get away from the office and all those other employees. I walked into town, something I would usually always do on a Friday to go to the sandwich shop and get myself a tuna mayo on ripe bread. I didn't fancy that today, though. Instead, I just wanted a coffee, a Starbucks coffee,

and I wanted it in a white cup with a double-tailed mermaid and a green circle printed on it. Too much to ask? Apparently. The Starbucks shop was gone. In its place was a Costa coffee. I couldn't tell the coffee apart, but I could very easily, the logos. What had once displayed the words Starbucks coffee in green text on a black signboard now read Costa coffee in white text set upon a board that was red.

Red! Both may appear equally as grabbing as the other to the untrained eye, but not to me. It's my job. The bank had changed too. I've been a loyal customer of Lloyds for as long as I've held an account in my name. The reason for this, very simply, is the branch had a face in town. It made banking easy. I used to go in with my mum as a kid and cashed my birthday checks.

She was very passionate about saving. So as I walked past that part of town and found that it was now a Santander, I was stunned. I stopped in my tracks. Like the Starbucks and Costa dilemma, the shop had now changed from green to red. Green to red, like a traffic light ready to halt all oncoming traffic. Green to goddamn red! It wasn't the only shop that had changed to the William Hill betting shop was now a Ladbrook's betting shop.

The same shop in principle, but of course, with one fundamental difference. It was now red. The subway was now a KFC. The W.H. Smith, now an Argos. Need I go on? In all but a few cases, it seemed as though the whole. whole town had turned red. I saw red buses, red postboxes, red traffic lights, red signs, red fire engines, red cars, red alarms, red phone booths. Things I had never looked twice at before,

and now I was seeing them. There they were all conspicuously red. I saw pedestrians going about their daily business dressed in red clothes, a red coat for example, a hat, the odd red handbag. I saw two kids chatting as they moved down the street drinking their fizzy drinks. Their cans, of course, were red. It was unavoidable. I felt, Trapped by it, and my head started to feel heavy, and I felt physically sick. My breakfast was ready to come back up. I was starting to see what the man on the bridge had seen red everywhere, and Jesus, it was terrifying. I steadied myself against a shop window, and catching my reflection, saw that my face was

as flushed as the red sign over that coffee shop window. I had to get a grip, take a deep breath. I was becoming hysterical. Red is just the colour, I told myself. Nothing to get all works up over. Breathe! You idiot! All I could think to do was.

was remove myself from the problem, get away from it, but getting away from anything red wasn't easy. Just try it sometime. You'll find it's virtually impossible. I almost did. I started back for the office, head down, striding, but the thought of seeing those red double doors that led into the reception area or the other employees with their red shirts and ties and dresses, no way. I couldn't bear to see those red socks again, or the wall clock, or more of those coffee cups. Forget it. I turned for home. In that moment there really was no other option for me. That morning I'd taken the early bus to work. Not a red bus, of course.

This one was white with a purple rim running along the bottom. But somehow I knew that if I waited, the one that would turn up to take me home would have to be a bright red double-decker, and I couldn't bear that either. So I hailed a taxi. I saw one ambling along the high street with its orange light aglow. It was the traditional black type

with the taxi sign above the front window, and that was good enough for me. I waved for the driver's attention and waited for him to pull up. I saw before I climbed in that there was nothing of red inside good, and the driver was dressed in a white shirt with a navy sweater over the top. Better. The one thing I've always liked about taxi drivers is that they drive with intention, with speed. There's no waiting around with them.

I gave him the address with my head down and trusted him to get me there, fastest route and pedal to the metal. I didn't want to see any red traffic lights or red stop signs or red tail lights flashing. I didn't want to see any other. other red cars passing by or get stuck behind a red fire engine for Christ's sake. I just wanted to get home. The only time I dared lift my head was when I felt the vibration in the backseat change and looked up to see what was happening. We were on the bridge going along a different road surface and surprised me to see there was nothing to indicate what had happened there. No police

tape or caution various. No beat policeman pacing the area. Why would there be? What was I expecting? A big sign that said in bold letters, a man died here? That's not how it worked. But a man had died here, hadn't he? A man that feared the colour red so fervently that death was the only option to him. And now just a few days on, it was a fear that I understood completely. This is your place? We were approaching my road.

Yeah, the one at the end of the terrace. I pulled out my wallet, suddenly realizing that I'd spent the last of my money on the coffee, the bitter coffee that came in a red cup. No problem, the sign on the dashboard read, we now accept card payment. Welcome to the 21st century. I found my green Lloyd's debit card, the one issued from the bank in town that was no longer there, and saw that it was no longer green. The card I plucked out was red. Santander was written across it. I stared at it, shaking between my thumb and forefinger. The driver, seemingly unaware of this revelation,

took it from me, held it to his machine while it received payment, and then handed it back. Thanks. You have a good day now? I grinned miserably. I didn't want to take it back. I couldn't take it back. It wasn't mine. But I found myself taking it back. Slowly, yes, sheepishly, of course, but taking it back all the same.

I was holding it at one corner as if it were a dead sewer rat I'd found stinking out the place. I'd found a dead sewer rat in the house once when I plied up the bedroom floorboards to do some rewiring. And indeed, I had handled it in this manner, walking it down to the green rubbish bin at the bottom of the drive and tossing it aside. Getting out of the cab and maintaining that same foolish grin, I wasted no time in disposing of the bank card in the same way. The bin, I'm happy to report, was still green. The grass on my lawn, receding like the hair on the taxi driver's head, and equally as neglected, was also green. Green was fine. I was happy to take green. But my front door, which was green when I had left this morning, was now red.

The taxi spun out of sight, and I approached the door tentatively. At first I thought I must have gone to the wrong house. It can happen sometimes, especially as I'd been preoccupied with the red banking card. But looking around and checking my surroundings, I could see I was not mistaken. This was my house, and it was my red door. That Rolling Stone song entered my head, the one about the red door he once painted black. I wanted this door painted black. I wanted it painted black right away, and I would waste no time in doing it, too.

It wasn't just the front door. I coated almost everything in the house with a glorious matte black paint I found in the shed. In the garden I dug myself a nice little pit and threw in everything I could see that was red. In went all my red clothes, half a dozen red books, the TV remote, the electric toothbrush, a coffee machine, bottles of red wine, tins of tomato soup, ketchup. I threw in the lounge curtains, an easy chair, bedside lampshades, anything. Nothing was too big or too grand to be painted or thrown in that pit. If it was red, it went.

Then, before the sun went down, I happily took the spade and covered it with dirt. Tuesday. A car pulled up on the drive, a red one, of course. A man got out and posted some mail through the letterbox. I couldn't pull the curtains. I'd thrown those to the pit. And so, when I was sure the car had gone, I painted the windows black. World War III was beginning, and I was quickly running out of paint.

I knew it wouldn't be too long before the neighbours were on to me. Soon they would clock the blackened windows and start making assumptions for the word. They would probably think I was cultivating drugs or human trafficking. Maybe they'd think I was murdering people. Perhaps they'd seen me digging the pit in the garden. That's where he buried the bodies. Under lamplight, I started to fill in the journal Hannah had given to me. She was right.

It was good to be able to get it down on paper. I managed to resist calling her. I badly wanted to, but I couldn't find my mobile. Had I thrown it into the pit? Of course, there was the phone box at the end of the street, but that one was painted red. And so I left it. Strangely, I found the solitude and the darkness helped me to see things clearer,

as if the distance from anything red jolted the cogs in my mind to start turning with new vigor. And so I began jotting down my thoughts, observations, and feelings. It was therapy. I wrote about the man on the bridge. He wasn't there to commit suicide, I surmised. More likely he was trying to lay low, get away from people, trying to distance himself from the color. The bridge is the perfect choice, dark secluded. quiet. During the late evening, it's about as far from all colours as one can possibly get,

and all cars seem grey, just like sitting in a living room with painted out windows. I realised my showing up on the bridge was no coincidence. You see, when I buried everything in the garden, I missed a few things. So I went around the house checking and double checking, but still something would turn up, a red pen or a red candle, or something red hidden in a framed photograph. It didn't matter how. It always found a way to turn up, outwitting my system. So when the man was on the bridge, happy that he'd got as far away from anything red as he could, I turned up. And a dog with a red lead followed by a police car with flashing red lights, coincidence? I think not. As I was writing this in the journal, it occurred to me that

Max was still wearing that lead. I untied it, marched it straight down to the garden and buried it. From the shed I took an old rope and wrapped it around his neck. It allowed me to maintain some degree of control over him when I let him out. I would keep a hold of one end, slightly open the door and allow him the freedom to do his thing. After sufficient time had passed, I used the rope to pull him back in. I tried to keep him from going out during the light hours, but as I've said before, dogs have a habit of picking the most inconvenient moments to take a shit, and once or twice he surprised me.

In the back of the journal, I tried to evaluate the meaning of this discovery. How had it gone unnoticed for so long when it now seemed so blaringly obvious? I concluded that it was very difficult to ask questions of things that seemingly already had answers. From a young age, we're told that this is the color blue, and this is the color green, this is the color yellow, and this is the color red. But what if this is not the color red? What if it is, in fact, a fraudulent color, a charlatan? What if the colour red was actually an intelligent being that has appeared on the colour spectrum with all the other colours for as long as human existence but is actually camouflage for a malevolent spy conspiring against us?

It looked just crazy on the page. So I developed other theories. Over the next few days, I was able to come up with several. I made lists of things that are red, categorised them into groups. Fruits, for example, would start apples, cherries, cranberries, grapes, grapefruit, pomegranate and so on. I did the same for places it could be found, posters, shop windows, advertisements, t-shirts, magazines, signposts. Signposts. I stopped. It was a multimedia conspiracy controlling everything.

Howard, nobody suspected that the red traffic light was the driving force that sparked road rage. That the red toaster was the reason the wife had killed a husband, that the lunatic who lived in a red house went on a frenzied killing spree. They all saw red, didn't they? A red mist. and yet even I had missed it right in front of my very eyes. Something had to be done. How had I made it to Friday and not seen it?

I had become too engrossed in the journal. That's how, too transfixed. I knew I shouldn't blame myself for that. I was just trying to work things out. So when Max suddenly nudged his muzzle into my side and got my attention, I wondered what it was he wanted. Walkies? Dinner?

Comfort? He sat staring up at me, crouched on his hind legs. What is it, boy? That's when I saw it. A long, wet, slobbering tongue hanging down from his jowls and filthy red. It had been in the room with me the whole time watching me fill in the journal, spying. And I knew it once I had to sort it. Max had to go.

She shouldn't have come. I was happy where I was, safe where I was. I should never have allowed her to give me a ride home, because now she knew where I lived and had showed up, no doubt. bringing some form of red to the house. It seemed inevitable. I ignored her tapping at my door for a very long time before making the decision to answer it. Long enough that had it been anyone else, I'm sure they would have given up and gone away. Not Hannah, though. She was the determined sort. I opened the door just slightly and peaked through the crack. The setting sun was so bright in my eyes

that I had to hold a hand against my face and squint to see the figure standing there. It's me, Hannah. May I come inside? I thought about it for a moment. Did I really want to let her into the house and risk her bringing in that damn colour? Especially the way the house was, the lack of furniture and decoration, the abundance of black paint, freely slopped over anything that once resembled red? Or was this more about me?

Did I really want her to come in and see me the way I was? I checked her over, confirmed she wasn't wearing anything red, and opened the door to her. She stepped through the hallway to the living room. Gosh, it's dark in here. She wasn't criticising, just stating it as a matter of fact. I like it this way. The darkness seems to help with my headaches. Don't worry, I'm not a Satanist or anything.

I know that. She took a seat on the dimly lit couch and clasped her hands over her knees. She didn't seem as confident or as in control as she had in her car that night on the bridge. This was a different, Hannah, I saw, a concerned Hannah. I tried a reassuring smile, but her eyes were moving around the shadowed walls and dark objects. She was out of place here amongst the gloom, too beautiful and honest for it. When eventually her eyes settled, she asked me... Why haven't you been to work this week, Richard?

You checked in on me? Yes. Of course I did. Why? She smiled and looked down at her hands. I'm a therapist, Richard. You are my patient. I have a duty of care towards you. I'm your patient. Yes, of course you are.

I've become very concerned about you. You haven't been attending work or answering your home telephone. Richard? I looked up. Yes? She was shaking her head very slowly from side to side. Have you nothing to say? I shrugged.

I haven't been feeling too well recently. I called in sick. That's not true, Richard. I've been in regular contact with them. They haven't seen or heard from you since Monday when you failed to return from lunch? They've tried calling you multiple times. That could be true.

She gazed around at the walls and windows with a saddened look on her face. Why have you painted the windows black? The light hurts my head. The curtains are broken, so I just painted them. That could come off easy enough, if it needs to. She smiled wryly. It would be more flexible that way.

She chewed her bottom lip as her eyes moved over the coffee table and along the carpet. Why is there blood on the floor? It's black paint from the window. It just looks like blood in this light. She nodded. Where's Max? Out there.

In the kitchen? No, in the garden. She whistled then and called to him. Max! Her tone was invitingly warm and sweet, not the way just anyone might call a dog, but the way somebody beautiful inside and out might. The door's closed. I'll go let him in if you like. He'll be pleased to see you. I stood up quickly then and started for the dog.

the kitchen calling his name. Max, come on boy. Come and see who's here. Then I cranked open the back door and slipped out to the early evening. I raced down the center of the road with parked cars down both sides, then turned into a side alley before impossibly leaping over a short fence. I kept my head down watching my feet eat up the ground below me. Soon I began to tire my legs not up to it, but I forced myself to keep moving, keep pace. I couldn't bear to slow down or stop and look up. If I did, I I knew I'd find myself near a red parked car or a passing red bus or a red postbox or something like that. So I just kept running, teeth clenched, trying to force out the burn that pulsed up the backs of my legs and in my throat, even though it was blood pulsing with oxygen.

My gut was aching now, a stitch. I sucked in air and cut through a back garden, causing an old man to stand on his porch and curse me with a raised walking stick. I'd have told him where to get off if I wasn't so short of breath. The light was rapidly dropping out of the sky now, and I knew anything. Red would look black in the poor twilight. I was approaching a black garage door, or could it have been a red garage door well shaded? I knew it was more likely red and rightly bolted quickly in the opposite direction, only to take chances, obviously. I'd done fairly well avoiding any sign of red and was actually pretty chuffed with myself. I had good reason to be. I was almost there.

I would come out at the bottom of the alleyway. It ran between an overgrown allotment and a row of terraced houses, most with broken windows in this neck of the woods, and then there was just a short incline leading up to the bridge. There I could rest and get my breath back. But on emerging from the alleyway, I came to a jolting stop. Two kids were in the middle of the road, no more than about 12 years old, tossing a frisbee back and forth under the darkening sky. I didn't like the scene very much. The kids seemed happy enough, laughing and joking as they spun that frisbee through the air to one another. But for me, all I saw was an abundance of red. The frisbee was red, and so was the nearest boy's unbuttoned shirt. A bright red fizzy drinks can on the pavement was like a warning

sign. I stood there, frozen, looking at them stupidly. The smaller kid in the distance leaped up to catch the frisbee, but only managed to nick it with the tops of his fingers so it hit the ground and span awkwardly in a large circle. Then he spotted me and couldn't move for it. He didn't like what he saw very much because his face dropped just like something you might see in a cartoon. The other boy nearest me with the red shirt hanging open jerked back. Now the two of the of them froze, staring at me with wide-opened eyes. I found myself backing up, moving slowly towards the alleyway I'd come from. There was just two kids, that's all, playing Frisbee in the middle of the road, and yet somehow, with that menacing influence of red all over this scene,

I was terrified. At last, I was at the bridge, climbing the railings to watch the sun falter. The sky was nearly completely black now, and that was good. For all I cared, the world could be cast into eternal darkness where it belonged. It would be better that way. There was no noise to contend with up on the bridge. It was silent, but for the usual teenagers appearing in droves nearby on the ridge. They were out every night, and once their engines had been shut down and lights switched off, you wouldn't even know they were there, like the sewer rats at the bottom of the bridge. Some would get a little action tonight, and others would miss out going home feeling rejected.

To me, they were just dots in the far off distance, like the tiny bright stars in the sky. Similarly, those teenagers were all full of gas, but not as bright. I blankly stared down at the drop. I had no thoughts about sewer rats or if a man may die upon impact. I didn't care about the kids in the middle of the road, their frisbee, or the essential corporate color of coffee cups. In fact, I'd climbed over the safety railings completely in my stride, fearlessly, as if I were just hopping a small fence whilst out walking Max. I wasn't thinking about red anymore. My mind was free.

and I could look down at the drop without fear, absent of all worry, untroubled. I didn't care to be a hero anymore because I was no longer a victim to be saved. I could think it all through now without the confusion of life congesting me between the ears. That's what being on the bridge meant to me, total freedom and clarity. I was so completely relaxed, almost in a state of meditation, that I didn't even hear the car pulling up behind me, didn't hear the woman getting out, not until she called out to me to.

Take it easy, Richard. I jerked back. It was Hannah, determined as ever, here to try and talk me down like a hero would. I ignored her, turning back toward the drop and looking down. I felt nothing for her now. I knew I'd find you here.

This is not the way. Come over the side. I've got nothing. Nothing more to say to you. The wind was whistling a high shriek in my ears. It was a beautiful sound like the calling of God's voice carried to me personally on a sweet breeze. You mustn't blame yourself for what happened, Richard. I turned.

Blame myself? What in the world are you going on about? Please, Richard, I can explain, but I need you to come back over the railings. Forget it. I read your journal. Stay back. I won't come any closer. Maybe I can help. clear things up in your mind.

My mind is clear. I don't think it is, Richard. Forgive me, but I think you're quite confused at the moment. But it's okay to feel confused sometimes, you know? My head is clearer than ever. Perhaps in this new spirit of clarity, you could come over the railings where it's safer. I told you, forget it. Very well.

She mounted the railings. What are you doing? It's okay. I'll come to you. She looked awkward the way she'd. cocked her leg over, clambering nervously and not in control of the situation at all. Her dress hitched on one of the railing bolts and her long brunette hair was ruffled in the strong wind. She eventfully found her feet and started to untangle her dress with shaking hands. Composing herself

with a few deep breaths, she started sidling across to me. No closer. Can you hear me okay? I hear you fine. I watched her grip the rail so tightly her knuckles turned white. The wind rose up in that moment and swept through us whipping back our hair, clothes and anything that was flexible. Even the bridge shook, an exhilarating shared feeling. And although I could see she was terrified, she gamely returned to the subject at hand. I read your journal because I needed to know if you were having suicidal thoughts. Why would I? Because you blame yourself for your mother's death.

And now you're hanging out on the edge of a bridge. I turned. My mother's death. What are you crazy? Your mother was knocked down one night. walking Max on this bridge. That's why you always come up here, chasing ghosts. You're lying to me.

I'm not, Richard. You say you see the man that ran her over, a man with short-cropped hair. Are you seeing him now? No, but I could see him. Somewhere in the back of my mind, he was there. Your dog! What colour is your dog? You say you try and talk him down, but you can't because he jumped. He always jumps, Richard.

He took his life rather than facing sentencing for driving under the influence, and no one can ever talk him down again. He's gone. Your mother is gone. Please remember. I don't know what you're talking about. Please, Richard, try. Things have begun to escalate recently, and it's only a matter of time before someone gets hurt. Last week, you almost took a policeman down with you. Don't you remember? He saved me. But how many times can he save you? We can't play this out every week.

You need to save yourself. You need help. You can't keep blaming yourself. Blaming myself? For what? She's swallowed. You were out the night of the accident. You were in your car on the ridge listening to music.

It was on too loud for you to hear anything. You think if it wasn't so loud you'd have heard something or seen something, If you'd have been back on time, you would have taken Max for a walk, not her. But you weren't. And what happened is not your fault. There's nothing you could have done. I didn't have anything new to say. There was nothing to say.

She started to come closer. This obsession with the colour red might be because the driver's car was red. Your car is red, Richard. Your mother was wearing a red jacket. I can try and tie it in and... whenever, but it doesn't matter. Red is not your enemy, Richard. What about my bank card or my front door? What about the coffee cups and the point of sale? What about all the shops in the street? They're all red. So what? They're just red. It's a popular color, but that's all it is.

There's nothing evil about it. It's not spying or conspiring against us. It's just a color. It's just a color, Richard. Let it go. She reached out to me with a gentle hand and touched my arm. Please, let it go. Instinctively, I slapped my hand over hers. I felt how cold it was, how her fingers shivered beneath my palm. Richard, Max wasn't in the garden. I shook my head.

You wrote something in the journal about his tongue. When they found your mother, Max was licking her wounds. I think that's why it might freak you out. But he's a good boy, Richard. He stayed with her until the ambulance came. I had to let him go. What does that mean? She recoiled, stepping back, I think momentarily forgetting she was actually up on a high bridge.

And then she plummeted, her mouth wailing out a terrified scream as she fell. My hand still holding hers gripped, suddenly snapping my arm with her full weight. I felt the muscle or tendon rip. Her legs kicked out instinctively sending one stiletto fluttering. down to the river, but with crazed strength I was able to hold. I've got you. I clung to her rigidly with everything I had, like a superhero. Don't let me go, Richard. I won't. I don't know how long we stayed on the bridge, arms locked together. I didn't have the strength to pull her up, especially now that the muscle seemed damage. She dangled there at the end of my arm, moving with the

wind, neither of us willing to let go. I didn't know how much longer I could hold her before my hand simply gave out, but I would do all I could to keep a hold of her. I would not let her slip through my fingers. Please, Richard, don't let me go. No way. But she could see I was struggling. Please! Her grip was loosening. There was no denying it. I could feel the sweat between our fingers, easing our hands apart. She was rocking only very slightly, but rocking all the same. Enough to send a sharp pain shooting from my shoulder down to my fingertips. I was in agony. couldn't hold her much longer. We needed help. I needed help.

What's that? A car? I twisted my head to see headlights in the distance appearing like two little circular angels on the horizon. Yes. And God, help is here. She let out a loud moan. But we weren't there yet. We needed the driver to see us on the other side of the railings. We needed someone in that car brave enough to climb the railings and sidle over to us. We needed someone strong enough to help pull her. up and over to safety. We needed a hero, but we didn't get one. The car never slowed. The driver didn't know we were there. Why should they? The engine got louder and louder to the point it was nearly on top of us. And as the brightening headlights illuminated the road and the rails and the

night around us, setting us ablaze, I saw I had been wrong about Hannah. She wasn't a brunette at all. Her hair was red. The light from the car brought every, back in a flood of returning memories. Perhaps what Hannah had said about my mother had stirred something too, but it came now with sudden clarity. I saw us kissing on the ridge holding hands. I saw her unbuttoned blouse and the gentle cupping of her breasts. I saw us walking Max together along the abandoned railway line running through the woods a memory I discounted as a pipe dream and making love in a coal shed while Max played in the long grass chasing butterflies and sniffing out rabbits. I saw us together as a couple in love.

I saw it all. It's you. She looked at me, eyes filled with terror and wonder. You were in the car with me the night of the accident. We were on the ridge together. Please, Richard, don't let me go. Why didn't you say anything? I didn't want to have to tell you, Richard.

I wanted you to remember me. I wanted you to remember us, but not like this. That's why you were at the... hospital with me. That's why you didn't mind Max in the back of your car. He'd been in there before. You're not a therapist at all. She shook her head. My grip loosened slightly and I felt myself snatch again to regain my hold. It's okay. I've got you. And I did have her. But for how long, eternity. That's how long I held her. That's how long ago the car had passed into the distance and still I held on because that's what a hero does.

The memories continued to come back, like the one of us eating breakfast together in my kitchen in our pajamas, Max waiting patiently at our feet, hopeful of table scraps. It was just a small token memory of a life I'd forgotten, overlooked, passed up. Now I tried to think of a way to pull her up, but nothing logical presented itself. I'm not a quick thinker under pressure and we were steadily running out of time. My arm was damaged and her weight counted double on such time. had muscles. There was no choice but to wait around for somebody. How long would it be before another car passed? How could I flag it down? The first signs of morning light were still hours away.

The early risers would not be out walking their dogs until five, six, maybe seven o'clock. Time we didn't have. How I wished for someone like myself walking his or her dog late into the night. Of course. How could I have been so stupid? I started to whistle. What are you doing? Whistling, calling to Max. Max, but didn't you let him go? I did, so he may be out here somewhere. You didn't hurt him?

No, I couldn't hurt Max any more than I could throw myself off this bridge. And how I had tried. She seemed totally overcome to hear these words, her face brimming with new hope, a refreshed faith. She thought I'd hurt him, thought I'd done away with him, and though I should admit it crossed my mind, ushering him out and slamming the door closed, was a perfectly feasible way to deal with the problem. And now, as we needed a miracle, it might even solve a problem.

I called out to him loudly, hoping my voice would be carried on the wind to him. Dogs have exceptional hearing. There was a chance, but it was only a slim one. He could be anywhere right now, up in a long grass in the woods, chasing rabbits or halfway across town someplace. But sometimes miracles happen. They can happen anywhere and at any time, like on this bridge and at this particular moment.

And certainly one was overdue. I think I hear something. I twisted. The light was poor and the wind blowing through my ears, but I knew right away she was right. Max was coming. He moved at full speed over the bridge, dragging the rope.

I had Lissoud around his neck behind him. Yes, Max. Here, boy, come on. Come on. He galloped to us, legs thundering along the bridge like firing pistons. I cheer. him. Reaching us now, he jumped up to the railings and pressed his nose through the meshed

holes sniffing and licking at my fingers. Good boy, Max! His tail was wagging, propeller-like, and he was rubbing his back along the railings the way dogs do when they're rolling their scent glands up against something, the rope following behind. Now I wedged my foot between the bottom of the railings and the pavement and managed to steer the rope outward. I kicked it over the ledge and watched it drop down, almost hitting Hannah in the face. Then it caught and swung round beside her wildly. Hannah looked at the rope swinging and probably wondered what help it was going to be. We didn't have any free hands to tie a support or anyone to pull us up. You've got to take a hold of the rope. I can't, Richard. I'll fall. You can. Our hands are slipping. I don't know how much longer

we have. You need to grab the rope. But I'll take Max with me. Max won't slip through the railings. They're not wide enough. Richard, I can't. Yes, you can. You have to. You take the rope and I will take you. We do this together. She took her left hand from mine, just momentarily, then slapped it back. I can't, Richard, I just can't. Look at me. Look at me. She looked. You can do this.

A smile touched her lips for the faintest second, and then she reached out her left hand and snatched at the rope. Got it. Good, good. Her left hand now gripped at the rope. Her right hand gripped at mine. Max was slowly being pulled to the railings and my arm was slowly being pulled from the socket. Now you need to grab it with both hands. It's okay. I will hold on to you. She nodded. Eyes fixed on mine, no hesitation.

This happened very slowly in my mind, though in reality was over in seconds. She took the rope with her right hand while I grabbed at the collar of her Mac. The sudden jolt of movement forced Max to the railings his paws trying to grip at the pavement. Now, pull yourself up. She kicked the other stiletto and used her feet to grip the rope, quickly moving herself up and latching onto the iron thread, which ran along the bottom of the bridge. Now she had two hands on it.

She allowed herself to catch her breath. I was still holding her collar and wood until I was sure she was safe. Almost there. Breathe! When she'd caught her breath, she wrapped her foot over the thread. Her flexibility and strength astounded me. Not finished there, she stuck her fingers through the meshed railings and pulled her body over to safety.

Her head slumped forward on her shoulders when she reached the other side, and Max welcomed her with a slobbery lick to her face as she did not object. Neither did she waste a moment before getting back to her feet and helping me over the railings. I fell into her arms as I clambered over and down to the pavement. We stared at each other, unable to speak, and then we kissed. We stayed that way for a very long time, totally exhausted, kissing. My arm felt as if it was attached to my shoulder. shoulder by a single shred of muscle or perhaps a single tendon, but I was alive and so was Hannah both of our hearts beating together with pumped adrenaline. And the wind, well, I have never felt

so grateful of it. The whole week now seems like a distant dream. A dream, I might add, and not a nightmare. Nightmares don't end well. Hannah and I are trying to rebuild the relationship we started before my mother's accident. I wish I could say it's been easy, but it hasn't. Like most lives, It's a work in progress. Part of what still holds us back is my ongoing fear of the color red. Irrational, maybe, but it's there all the same. However, like the tendons in my arm, it is improving, slowly with time. Healing. I'd be lying to you if I said there hadn't been the odd occurrence since this ordeal.

Just yesterday when my new toothbrush flashed red, I felt myself freeze and dropped it into the sink. I managed to calm myself just enough to tell Hannah that it simply slipped. out of my hand. She didn't question it further. But even now I can't stand to see the red post van pull up on the drive or look at the red ketchup bottle standing on the table next to the salt and pepper shakers watching us eat our breakfast. Every now and then something new pops up in the house and I know it's because Hannah has brought it in, but it still bothers me. Red is ubiquitous, after all. It is everywhere. But it is only a color, I remind myself, just a color. Hannah is a great help during these relapses, a kind and reassuring influence. She could have easily been a real

trauma therapist, I have no doubt of that. She hasn't moved in with me yet, but she comes around almost all of the time. I like it that way. We removed the paint from the windows and took all the junk from the garden down to the recycling centre. The house has been thoroughly redecorated. It's like a different place these days with a full spectrum of colours. It turns out, the policeman who saved my life that night, or whose life I put in danger, however you want to look at it, is a close friend of Hannah's. He paid me a visit recently to see how I was getting on and to return something to me, my mobile phone. It was my phone, he placed in a clear bag that night. Seeing the photographs on it of Hannah and Max and my mother was quite enlightening, almost as if

glimpsing on someone else's life. I was grateful to him. Hannah and I occasionally, crossed the bridge to walk Max. We don't talk much about what happened there. It still scares me that I may look up at some point and see a man ready to jump to his death. How would I deal with such a dilemma if I were to? My biggest fear is that this whole circle will start over again and I'll find myself right back at the beginning. Back at the bridge. And your dog? What color is your dog? That's why it's so important to get it down, to make sense of it. To remind myself that life isn't as black and white as it seems, because sometimes you'll find it's red.

Season 18 returns next week all the way back to the 1970s. And remember the warning, this book will kill you. Visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn more about our show and to delve into the hundreds of hours of audio horror content from our archives. This audio production is copyright 2022 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.