Rainin. Not even a streak aw white or flash aw blue, just flat grey sky, mist risin up through the gorge to meet it. Always with the rain in this place. Ever the grey. Though havin never been here how would ah know? It’s Creepy Dan’s fault. Again the claim that his mother flung herself off this very bridge an lived. A lost Japanese tourist no less, one Hideo Shakazaki of Nagano prefecture found her three days later at the mouth aw the river on the Firth, gibberin about trout with her clothes in tatters an a pebble in her fist. Creepy Dan claims that every thought and action, every squalid life choice, has been an emanation from the image aw his beloved if somewhat maladjusted mother up to her knees in water that wasn’t quite fresh an not quite salt.

Ergo an therefore to these slippery wooden slats did ah hitch. A mistake, hitchin is always a mistake, do not let any fucker with romantic notions claim otherwise. It’s all unexplainable in the claustrophobia aw cars. Ma babblins usually last to the next lay-by before ahm bundled out like a corpse an maybe reversed over a few times to make sure cause why should strangers open their doors an be expected to listen to ma pish? Ma footprints are gone now. Washed away. With no tracks there are no clues as to how ah got here. Ah coulda been gently set down by the fingers aw a giant hand, held by the head with ma legs-a-twiddlin, or left behind when nature farted an followed through. If Creepy Dan’s mum jumped she woulda jumped from here, right slap bang in the middle of the bridge, not the near or far side because that would have meant not an empty fall but a noisy plummet through broom an gorse, a few bounces off protruding rocks, the whole experience unpleasant an deeply traumatising. But then she was found with her clothes in tatters…

Ah drop a ten pence piece, countin the seconds till it hits the water. Four. What now? Does a four second fall equal instant death? Ah would say anythin over ten’d mean certain annihilation but am no expert in these matters an surely the gorge isn’t ten seconds deep. The experiment is inconclusive, frustratin, settin me hoppin from one foot to the next like one aw those desert lizards, except ma poor fungal tootsies are frozen not baked, wet an not dry. Only one way to know for sure. Knew it soon as ah woke. Coulda simply lain in bed for the usual hours an hours, starin at the cracks on the ceilin an clawin at the grubby sheets till forced to masturbate or make a cup aw tea. But today would be a red letter day. Some things you just know an here was one. Ah can see Creepy Dan’s beetroot face, ah can hear his reedy, little boy’s voice. Ah clamber over the barrier. That fucker an his outrageous claims.