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Jumper – Andrew Humphrey

The man was squat, powerfully built. Perhaps he’d been a boxer once, Milo thought as he walked towards him. He’d find out soon enough. He didn’t suppose it mattered much now.

“It’s Mr Johnson, isn’t it?” Milo said brightly as he approached the figure. Johnson turned sharply; a little too sharply for Milo’s liking, given the circumstances. The other man’s features became clearer as the distance between them narrowed; late middle age, Milo supposed – fifty six as it turned out, a fact quickly confirmed via his earpiece and on the screen of the PalmPilot Milo was holding discreetly in front of himself – with a blunt nose and a broad forehead. His eyes were dark and creased with suspicion as he looked directly into Milo’s face.

“Who are you and how do you know my name?” A surprisingly light voice; mellifluous even, out of keeping with the face and the body.

“You’re not exactly dressed for the weather, Mr Johnson.” Johnson wore a black t-shirt and matching jeans and hadn’t bothered with a coat, even though it was the early hours of a January morning and the temperature had just dipped below freezing.

Johnson sucked his teeth and looked away from Milo and out into the darkness. “Doesn’t matter much, does it? It’ll be warm where I’m headed, you can be sure of that. Anyway, you didn’t answer my question. I’ll just jump, it’s what I’m here for after all. But, I’m curious; who are you? What are you? You like you’ve just auditioned for one of those boy bands.”

“Thanks,” Milo said.

“Was that a compliment?”

“I’m choosing to take it as such.” Milo was immaculately groomed. Upstairs insisted on it. He looked young, he knew; although appearances can be deceptive. “My name is Milo. I’m here to help.”

“Help?”

“You’re perched on the edge of a multi-storey carpark, Mr Johnson. I would say you could use some help. And you’re quite precariously perched, I might add. Would you mind moving back a little?”

“No. I mean, yes. I would mind.” Johnson stood up straight and took a deep, shuddering breath and for a moment, Milo thought he’d lost him. “She left me.”

“Your wife?”

“No. My cat. Of course, my wife.”

“Well, there’s no need …” A voice crackled in his ear. Milo took a breath of his own. “I’m sorry. We do get a lot of that, though. Separation doesn’t have to be …”

“We?”

“The … people I work for.”

“What?”

“It’s like … an agency.”

“An agency? Sending pretty boys like you out to stop people topping themselves? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

“We don’t tend to dwell on the gender aspect, but … something like that.” Milo glanced at the screen in his hand, then gave it a couple of sharp taps with a forefinger.

“What’s that? Are you filming me now?”

“No. It’s a live feed. Background information. The more I know about you the more I can help.”

A pause. “How much do you know?”

“Not a lot. Flipping thing is glitching. Excuse my language. IT issues. You know how it is.”

“I hear you.”

“Thing is,” Milo let his voice drop to a whisper. “I’m on probation. It would really help me if you didn’t kill yourself.”

“I’d hate to put a crimp in your career.”

“Thanks. Ah. It’s fixed. Good. Now I can get to work.” Milo scrolled down on his phone, down and down, eyes moving quickly as he read. “My word,” he said. He kept on scrolling.

“I am not a good man,” Johnson said.

“No, Mr Johnson,” Milo said. “It would appear that you are not.”

“Still. It’s an illness, right? A disease. They’ll be treatment? In prison? If I were to change my mind?”

“An illness? Not for me to say.”

“Are you judging me, Milo?”

“We don’t judge. We help.” His voice had become stiff and lifeless as he continued reading.

“I left a note.”

Milo finally stopped scrolling. “Yes. Here it is.” He glanced at Johnson very briefly, then looked back at the screen. “Your wife. She found out.”

“More fool her.”

Milo looked up from the screen. “My first serial killer.”

“I’m so very honoured.”

“Your wife,” Milo said again, his voice atonal.

Johnson shrugged carefully. A sudden breeze tugged at the sleeve of his t-shirt. “ I told you she left me.”

“You didn’t give her much choice.”

“I left a note. A confession. It’s all there. That’s good, right?”

“Where the bodies are buried.”

“Literally. There’s a map and everything. Took me ages.”

Milo looked up again, for longer this time. “And that’s it, is it? All of your … victims?”

“Hundred percent. Cross my heart.” Johnson took a long breath. It turned to smoke in the chilly air. “It’s quite a weight of my chest, I have to say.” He shifted on the ledge, edging towards safety. “You are very good at your job, Milo. Very good indeed.”

“Means a lot.”

“Is there any paperwork? I’d love to leave some feedback; five stars, would use again.” Milo said nothing. Johnson said, “Are you sure you’re okay? It looks like you’re being just a tiny bit judgy.”

“Not me,” Milo said, with a wide, meaningless grin. “We don’t judge, we save.”

“That would make a great motto.”

“I’ll pass it on.”

“Well, then …” Johnson, with one hand on the cold concrete ledge, began inching himself towards safety.

“One thing, though,” Milo said, holding up a hand and tucking his PalmPilot into a jacket pocket. “We are, very occasionally, in exceptional circumstances, allowed a scintilla of autonomy.”

Johnson paused, frowning. “What does that mean?”

“It means this.” Milo stepped forward and, in the same motion, pushed Johnson firmly in the chest. He leant over the edge of the carpark and watched the other man fall.

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Andrew Humphrey lives in Norwich in the UK. His short stories have been widely published in the independent press in magazines such as Black Static, The Third Alternative, Crimewave, Bare Bone, Weird Horror and Midnight Street. His collection, Other Voices, was a winner of the inaugural East Anglian Book Awards. He has had two other collections published, along with two novels.