The Bridge

The harbour street was still in shadow. Across it, sunlight caught the windows of the former customs office. Lena cycled along the quay, her bag in the pannier behind her. She had left her laptop at the unit. She carried only her diary, wallet and the folder of copies returned to her. Her phone was in her coat pocket.

A tug passed slowly on the water. She could not see the man behind its window, only his hand lifting briefly to someone ashore. She slowed to let two walkers past. The woman carried a raincoat over her arm, apparently annoyed at having brought it all afternoon. Lena heard her say the shower had stopped at twelve.

The cycle bridge was beyond the bend. On her side a work van stood half on the grass beside the maintenance access lane, its sliding door shut. A man walked from it towards the bridge. He had no tools and was not looking at a phone. Dark grey work clothes, pale shoes. Lena assumed he was involved in the bridge maintenance that took place occasionally. There was no barrier, so she rode on.

Halfway up the approach he stepped in front of her wheel.

‘Excuse me. A moment.’

She braked. The front wheel skidded a little to the left on a wet leaf, then straightened. He held his hands low in front of him as though he merely had a question.

‘What is it?’

‘That bag.’

She looked behind her first. Later she would tell herself she should not have, but then it seemed impossible he meant anything except a trailing strap or something she had dropped. His hand reached past her towards the pannier.

‘Leave it alone.’

He pulled the handle. The bicycle stood at an angle between her legs. She planted her left foot, tried to dismount and felt the rear wheel dragged sideways. The handlebars pressed into her hip. Then she landed on her right knee.

Her own voice surprised her. She did not call for help. She said loudly, ‘What are you doing?’

He yanked the bag again. It caught on the pannier's upper edge. Looking up, Lena saw a chin, a closed mouth, something dark beneath the edge of his hat. The light was behind him. She could not have drawn his face.

His other hand came towards her coat pocket.

She brought her arm across her body. Her elbow struck the bicycle frame and hurt at once. She was not trying to get her phone; she wanted his hand away from her. She pushed a foot against the ground to move backwards, dragging the bicycle with her.

‘Hey!’ someone shouted from the far side.

He looked round, released the handle and stepped over the back wheel. Lena's foot was still caught in the bicycle. She looked at the path's edge and heard rapid footsteps. A vehicle door slammed. Only then did she see the van move.

White, she thought. Or very pale grey. No large lettering on the side. Something small on the back she could not read. It reversed out of the maintenance lane, turned in a wide arc and disappeared towards the quay. She looked at the number plate and retained two characters she was already doubting by the time she sat upright.

‘Stay there a moment.’

A woman had propped her bicycle against the bridge rail. A bright green shopping bag was slung across her back. Behind her a man ran up from near the other approach.

‘Did he take anything?’ the woman asked.

Lena looked at her bag. The handle was stretched; the zip was closed. She felt her coat pocket. Her phone was there.

‘I don't think so.’

‘We saw him pulling,’ the man said. ‘At first I thought you knew each other.’

She tried to stand. Her knee protested. The woman offered a hand and Lena took it without first asking her name.

‘I need to call someone,’ she said.

‘Yes. The police.’

She had thought of that herself, but someone else's certainty helped. She took out her phone. Her fingers slid over the screen once without effect. She looked at her thumb and the narrow dark smear across it. Not blood: dirt from the path.

When the operator asked what had happened, she scarcely knew how to begin.

‘A man tried to take my bag. I fell. On the cycle bridge by the old harbour.’

She specified which approach. The woman pointed to a street sign as though Lena did not know the area. She read it out anyway. The van had gone. She could not say whether the man had been alone. Asked whether she was injured and someone was staying with her, she looked at her knee through the torn fabric of her trousers, then at the man lifting her bicycle clear of the path.

‘Two people.’

The operator kept asking calm questions. Lena answered, feeling her bag with her free hand. The folder was inside; no sheets were missing. She did not want to explain why anyone might want copies of an inspection report. She did not even know whether that was the reason.

The woman asked permission to free the handle from the pannier. Lena nodded. The man rested the bicycle against the rail, well clear of the way through.

‘What a lunatic,’ he said.

Lena was startled by how much she wanted to leave it there. A lunatic, an ordinary thief, a bad minute on the wrong bridge. Had he shouted something about her work, she would have had a connection. He had only demanded the bag.

As soon as the call ended she rang Anouk. No answer. She left a brief voicemail naming the bridge and saying she had already reported the incident. She sent the same information in a message, stared at the screen, then called Tom.

‘Can you come?’

‘Where?’

His voice changed before she had explained anything.

Two officers arrived. One went to the witnesses; the other asked what had happened. She described it again, including the odd instant when she had thought something had fallen off her bicycle. He looked at her bag, knee and hands. Had she hit her head?

‘I don't think so.’

‘Are you sure?’

She moved her neck cautiously. She remembered the handlebars at her hip, her knee on the path, her elbow against the bicycle. Her head had struck nothing. She explained it that way.

He asked about the van. She gave the colour and the characters she thought she had seen, warning that she did not trust her memory of them.

‘So not a registration you're sure of.’

‘No.’

He recorded her uncertainty. She showed him where the van had stood. The male witness had seen its rear from another angle and was speaking to the other officer. Lena tried not to listen. Two partial memories must not become a complete account simply because everyone wanted to agree.

‘Could it be connected with my work?’ she asked.

‘Have you a reason to think that?’

She mentioned Anouk and the case involving Bremstraat 18. He asked for contact details and listened. He did not say it was impossible, or that it was established.

‘We'll pass that on. Keep to what you saw yourself.’

He asked permission to photograph the damaged bag and bicycle. She agreed. When he indicated her trousers, she moved her coat to reveal the torn fabric. Suddenly she felt awkward, as if she had arrived carelessly dressed for a work visit. He took the photograph and asked whether she had lost anything else.

‘My pen, perhaps. It's usually in the outer pocket.’

He looked down. So did she. A pen lay beneath the rail near a tuft of grass. He asked her to wait while he examined it. She had almost picked it up herself. That was how she usually ended a messy moment: clear the ground, straighten the bicycle, move on. Now other people lingered where she wanted to leave.

She pulled her coat closer. Sun warmed her back while she felt cold under her arms. Sofie had said Niels knew her rota. In recent days Lena had told all sorts of people where she was going, sometimes casually, phone wedged between shoulder and ear. This bridge was no secret route. Plenty of people might find her here. Knowing that made it harder, not easier.

Tom came from the quay. His taxi stood further along, the roof sign removed. He still held his keys. Lena watched him look at her torn trousers, then her face.

‘What exactly happened?’

‘He pulled my bag.’

Tom glanced at the officer and waited for her to finish. He did not ask why she had been cycling alone. She was grateful. If he had, she would probably have accused him of something bearing little relation to the question.

‘I'll take her,’ he said.

The officer asked where. Tom looked at Lena.

‘Home,’ she said. ‘My home.’

They were given details for the follow-up, and Lena confirmed she could be contacted. The woman with the green bag had given the officer her name and number. As she left, she said she would cycle over the bridge tomorrow, but look to the side first.

‘Thank you,’ Lena said.

The woman adjusted her bag. ‘You sounded very angry when you shouted.’

‘I was angry.’

‘I could hear.’

Only after she had gone did Lena feel her lip tremble.

Tom wheeled the bicycle to the car. Lena carried her bag. He asked if she could manage; she said yes. At the door she fumbled with the zip, suddenly needing to see that her diary was still there. The folder slid out, one cardboard corner tearing. Tom held a hand beneath the papers.

He folded the estate car's rear seat to fit the bicycle in. Two empty bottles lay in the boot. He moved them aside and made space, without asking whether she would rather leave the bicycle at the bridge. Hearing its front wheel scrape the upholstery, Lena worried briefly about his car. An absurdly small concern, yet her mind still had room for it.

‘Shall I hold that a moment?’

She handed him the bag. It took more effort than it should.

The car smelled of the cloth he used on the dashboard. A small white mark on the steering wheel had resisted months of polishing. Lena watched it as he drove off. She still recognised the street. No minute of her life had vanished. Yet it seemed impossible she had been thinking about the Veldhof email less than fifteen minutes ago.

‘Is Jip at home?’ she asked.

‘Yes. I said I had to collect you.’

‘We need to tell her what happened.’

‘We?’

She turned towards him. He watched the road.

‘I'll tell her,’ Lena said. ‘I mean I don't want to put it off.’

Her phone vibrated. Anouk. Lena did not use the speaker. She listened to the first question, said she was in Tom's car and that officers had attended. For the third time she described what she herself knew. Anouk asked whether the man had said anything suggesting he knew her. Lena repeated his two short remarks.

‘Nothing else?’

‘Nothing I heard.’

Anouk would contact the officers who had attended. She wanted a longer conversation once Lena was home and no longer travelling. They agreed practical arrangements for staying in touch and what to do if the man returned or anyone approached her again. There was no promise of a solution tomorrow.

Tom turned into their street. At the corner he let a cyclist pass, a boy with an enormous parcel on his rear carrier. Lena watched him go. Her bag stood between her feet. Resting her hand on its damaged handle, she told Anouk she would stay inside until they had spoken again.