This case doesn't follow standard police procedure. But I need to write it down, and I need someone to read it — because what I saw that night made me reconsider things I had never once questioned.
Julian Jackson was in his twenties. Last train into London Bridge, rainy Monday in November 2023. He was scrolling his phone, thinking about Lucy, about how to impress her. Then a text came from his supervisor. Fired. Arriving late too often to his cleaning job on the underground.
Julian's father, Martin Jackson, had been an abusive alcoholic and convicted criminal. He had died by suicide in prison exactly one year before — November 14th, 2022. Before that, he had beaten Julian badly enough that the boy called the police. Martin got seven years, mostly for the drugs. Not so much for the boy.
Unemployed, gutted, Julian got alcohol from a coworker named Jack and made his way to London Bridge. He climbed the fence and sat with his legs over the Thames.
I was on shift. I saw him. And I saw something else — a man standing beside him. Older man. Thin green eyes, pointy chin, a hateful grin. He matched Martin Jackson's arrest photos exactly, though I'd never seen those photos before that night.
I moved toward them. A double-decker bus hit me from behind. Head injury. Through the bus windows I saw the figure push Julian into the river.
The official investigation concluded: suicide. My experience was attributed to concussion-induced hallucination. I was promoted to inspector and told to move on.
I never moved on.
I've spent years returning to this case. Restricted evidence. Lucy's messages, Julian's phone records, his browsing history that last evening. I keep asking myself: how could I have seen the face of a man I'd never laid eyes on?
What I've come to understand is that keeping haunting shadows locked inside our mind allows them to gain supernatural powers. What we believe is what we experience. What we experience is what we believe.
Thank you for reading this. I hope telling it finally lets Julian rest.