13
Jack veered onto the road, fatigue added to pain from the fall grasping at his legs and arms and chest. A car horn screamed, forcing him back.
He ran past the toll booth. The first of the bridge’s supporting towers shot up ahead, traffic moving slowly past to his right. A few tourists walked along the pavement, separated from the road by railings.
Jack went on, ignoring the sound that could only have been gunshots. Nothing mattered except where he was going.
The suspension cables rose to meet the tower then dropped down again. A sign calling out to people on the verge of suicide flashed past as he ran with a telephone number leading to help. Beneath the bridge the Avon Gorge fell away, plummeting down to the mud flats and narrow river below. There was only one way off the bridge now that he was on it.
He slowed to a walk, coming to the centre, breathing heavily from the exertion then stopped completely.
The suspension cables were at their lowest point. The walkway was narrow, barely wide enough for two men to stand shoulder to shoulder. The fence that ran along the edge of the pavement was as tall as Jack was, curving in at the top to make it harder to climb. The wind was in his hair and his clothes; it was trying to lift him off the ground.
He turned and looked right into the sun: blinding, but low enough in the sky, and lovely enough, to captivate him. Jack smiled at it; then he set his jaw. He turned away from the sunset and took hold of the top of the fence in his right hand. He put his foot against the bottom for support and started to climb, thinking now only of the gorge below, of Lucy, and of the only option he had left.
14
Sam cut up the remains of the bank and vaulted onto the bridge walkway. His heart was tiny and black in the centre of his chest.
Shouldn’t have thrown the gun away; shouldn’t have wasted the bullets until he was sure of a hit; but he smiled, grim and sure of himself. There was nowhere this bastard could go; no force on earth that could keep him running longer than Sam.
He rounded the huge grey brick tower at the near side of the bridge. The killer was standing half way across, stationery, too obscured by tourists to see his face but close enough to be sure it was him.
Sam found himself slowing.
The killer wasn’t moving. He was looking through the fence into the gorge below. Then he began to climb. He was going to jump. The bastard was going to go over the edge. Sam stopped, staring. He stood, arms at his hips, only watching. The killer was half way up. He was really doing it. He was going to go over.
Sam shook his head. That wasn’t going to happen. He wasn’t going to let that bastard get away with it so easily.
He started to sprint. 
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