Stanley rattled off thoughts that stank up the room. “OK. OK. OK. So…what we had, with The Handbook of Crime, was a literary scandal. Spectacular. Controversial. Polemical. That we already have. But now it turns out the author is in fact not the author. That means…what we now have, on top of the scandal…is a literary hoax.”

“A what?”

“OK. You can turn around now.”

When I swiveled back, Stanley was beaming at me triumphantly. “Two in one!” he shouted joyously.

“ Stanley -” I started.

“This is brilliant! It’ll serve us well. Tell Harry to be patient- in a year or two, we’ll leak out the truth. He’ll be famous.”

“A year or two!”

“Sure, what’s the rush?”

“You still don’t get it! Harry will think I was in on this. He’ll think I’ve betrayed him. This is his legacy to the world! You have to tell him! You have to tell him it was your own fault, that you made a mistake! You fool- he’s going to kill us!”

“So what? Let him come. I’m not afraid! If I have to die, let it be for a book. Yes, I like it! Let it be for this book. Yes! Bring him on!”

Stanley held his fist up in the air as if it were an award he’d just won. Can you beat that? This was the worst crisis imaginable, and I was in the company of a man right at the time he’d found something to die for. He looked disgustingly, inappropriately peaceful. I wanted to tear his lips off.

I took a cab to Harry’s, thinking I was going to have to tread very, very carefully. Harry loved me, and I loved him, but that didn’t mean he was above putting a bullet between my eyes. That’s what love is all about, after all. I rolled down the taxi window. Outside, the air was supernaturally still, as in a windowless room. Nothing stirred. It was as if the hatch on the world had been hermetically sealed and we were, all of us, shut in.

I did the secret knock and then the not-so-secret knock, the one anyone can do. I hollered his name. I hollered an apology. It was a waste of hollering- he wasn’t home. What should I do? A cab sailed past and I hailed it and went back into the city, where I wandered aimlessly through the streets, deep in my tumult. The level of activity made my head spin, and it irritated me that no one else looked lost. A little sad and lonely, maybe, but they knew where they were going. I bumped into people on purpose, in the irrational hope of eliciting some kind of sympathetic reaction. The faces of a city take on a supremely cruel and indifferent quality when you wander through it in the midst of a personal crisis. It’s depressing that nobody stops to hold your hand.

I went into a pub, the Park View, took a seat at the bar, and didn’t dwell on the lack of a park or a view. I ordered a beer. A song was on the radio, a nice cheery love song that clashed with my mood. I drained the beer quickly. The pub was empty except for two old drunk men who were bickering about someone named Gazza; one of the old men thought Gazza was pussy-whipped by his new bride, while the other thought Gazza had her on the ropes. Either way, the upshot was that Gazza wasn’t coming out to the pub as often as he used to, and it just wasn’t the same without him. I nodded in sadness, and stared at my empty glass as if it had wronged me for the last time.

Then the news came over the radio and my ears went into high alert. Fugitive Terry Dean had written a scandalous book instructing would-be criminals on how to break the law. The most recent development in the story: the publisher of The Handbook of Crime was under arrest.

So! Stanley was under arrest! Just as well, I decided. At least that would keep him safe from Harry for a while. I supposed they couldn’t hold him long. When the police are hunting for someone they can’t find, it just gives them relief to arrest someone connected to him.

While I contemplated Stanley behind bars, and the possibility that as the credited editor, I might be the one they came for next, the last story of the news came on: fugitive Harry West had climbed to the top of the Harbor Bridge armed to the teeth and was threatening to jump. The story added a little afterthought which put it all into perspective: if Harry West plummeted to his death, he would be the first person to commit suicide from the Sydney Harbor Bridge on live television. Yes, it made perfect sense. Terry had robbed him of the democratic cooperative, and Stanley had pulled The Handbook of Crime from under his feet. Harry was desperate to leave his legacy, any legacy. First person to be broadcasted suiciding off Sydney ’s bridge and in color too. No wonder Harry had taken his arsenal up there. Anyone tried to jump first, Harry would shoot them before they got a toe near the edge.

I ran out of the pub, leapt into a moving cab, and hightailed it to the bridge. If he was armed I supposed there’d be a chance he’d shoot me, but I had to explain that this was a mistake that could be cleared up in a day or two. I had the nauseating feeling that something terrible was going to happen on that bridge. He was going to toss himself into the drink; that seemed unavoidable. But knowing Harry, he’d want to drag as many souls into the abyss with him as possible. He wanted to turn the harbor red, I just knew it.

The midday sun was in my eyes, and through the glare I saw the bridge in the distance. Police blocked entry on either side and were scratching their heads over what to do with commuters trapped in the middle. Panicky policemen were directing people all over the place, but there was too much chaos. One of the bewildered cops seemed to be pointing in the direction of the water.

As I left my cab in the traffic jam, the driver made it clear he didn’t like it that I was ending our relationship so unexpectedly. People in uniforms were pouring in from everywhere. More policemen, firemen, ambulances, and media trucks weaved through parked cars. The emergency services were in a muddle. None of them knew what they were supposed to do. The intended victim was also the alleged perpetrator. It was confusing. On the one hand, he had a gun, but on the other hand, he was only threatening to use it on himself. They wanted to shoot him down, but can you shoot a man threatening suicide? That’s just what he wants.

I ran through the narrow passageway between halted cars and quickly found myself at a line of policemen. I ran right through their long yellow ribbon of tape and explained to the cop screaming at me that I was a close friend of Harry West and might be able to talk him down. In their confusion, they let me through.

I could see him, way up top. He was just a little speck up there, like a little plastic groom on a wedding cake. It was a long way up, but I had to go to him.

A tremendous wind was blowing. It was difficult to hold on. As I climbed, my stomach became the dominant organ, and I could feel nothing but its grind. Below I could see the ocean, the green suburbs, a smattering of houses. The wind made the whole bridge creak and did her best to throw me off balance. I thought: What am I doing here? It’s not my business! I wondered why I didn’t just let him take his big dive. I felt this was my fault, he was my responsibility, as were the people he might kill. But why? How do I fit in? I’m no Christ figure. I don’t have a savior complex. The whole human race could get acute angina for all I care.

Ruminations such as these and the realization that the men in my life, Harry and Terry and Stanley, with their little projects were dragging me with them down into the void, should be kept for after the event, over a mug of hot chocolate, not during the event, at the edge of a terrifying precipice. I had stopped my ascent to contemplate the existential meaning of it all. As usual, I couldn’t help myself. On that shaky metal stepladder I thought: One man’s dream is another man’s anchor. One swims, the other sinks, and in the swimmer’s pool too- a double insult. Meanwhile, the wind was threatening to toss me into the harbor. I knew then and there that pondering the significance of an action in the middle of the action is just not right.