The Good Samaritan
Page 33
I took my drink back to the flat, trying to guesstimate how long it might take to prove or disprove the Helpline Heroine’s existence. The only way would be to call, and to keep calling the helpline until I tracked her down. The odds were against me. Northamptonshire had ninety-four part-time volunteers, Leicestershire eighty-six, Warwickshire fifty-eight and Bedfordshire sixty. Give or take a few who might have come and gone since the last tally was published in its annual report, I had about a one-in-three-hundred chance of finding her.
I couldn’t think of a way to cut corners and speed up the process. And that was assuming the person I was looking for really was a her. The heroine could very easily have been male. Either way, they’d need to be convinced I was for real.
I devised a backstory for myself. I’d claim depression was ruining my life and that I didn’t see any purpose in continuing. I’d tell them not only had I contemplated suicide but I’d almost gone ahead with it; however, something had held me back. I needed someone to help me take those extra few steps forward because I couldn’t do it alone.
To make it work, I needed to be organised. I opened up a blank Excel spreadsheet on Charlotte’s laptop to make a note of the name of each End of the Line volunteer who answered. I’d add the time of the call and a brief outline of their responses to what I told them. Some likely shared the same Christian name, so I’d type adjectives like ‘old’, ‘young’, ‘nasal’, ‘regional’ or ‘foreign accent’ to separate them.
I’d give them my middle name, Steven, and I’d adjust my sleep pattern to cover all their shifts. The task ahead of me was Herculean. But the quicker I cracked on, the quicker I’d know for sure if I was hunting for a real person or a ghost in the machine. I even got hold of a Dictaphone, and with a little bit of gadgetry bought online, I could plug it into my phone and record all my calls in case it was her.
Each day, I spoke to as many different volunteers as I could. My conversations continued for as long as necessary until I could either include them on my spreadsheet as a ‘yes’, a ‘maybe’ or a probable ‘no’. Patterns began to emerge of who worked when, how frequently, and which days of the week I could find them.
A little over a fortnight later and my spreadsheet went on for pages, packed full of names, dates, times and descriptions. But there had been no obvious ‘yeses’.
I felt shitty for abusing End of the Line’s resources by calling so often and for pulling the wool over their eyes, especially as they seemed like good people. They didn’t try to talk Steven out of wanting to end his life; instead, they listened, helped him explore what he was feeling and let him find his own way forward. Without exception, every voice was coming from a place of goodness. I had to keep reminding myself that so was I.
There were times when I found their kindness so warm and heartfelt that my guard slipped and Ryan came out. Then it was me admitting to feelings of hopelessness and me who was struggling.
I began painting mental pictures of what the Helpline Heroine might look like. She was in her late fifties, a spinster with pale skin that was beginning to loosen and hang from her cheeks and neck. There’d be deep lines etched across her forehead and her shoulders would be hunched from the weight of the guilt she carried but refused to acknowledge. On the surface, her eyes would seem charitable but if you stared into them deeply enough, you’d catch a glimmer of the woman inside – a dark, cold soul who thrived on the pain of others. She was like Judi Dench in that film Notes on a Scandal. Only even more devious.
Whoever she was, the Helpline Heroine came to dominate my days, my nights, my waking thoughts and my unconscious dreams. While she had given me a function, I’d also made her an obsession that was delaying my healing. But I knew that if I threw in the towel now without completing what I’d set out to do, I’d forever wonder if she actually existed.
Of course I didn’t tell my family or friends what I was up to because they’d think I was mad. But judging by the number of frustrated voicemails and texts they left, complaining that my phone was permanently engaged, they had an idea something was up. So I started joining them just often enough for drinks at the pub, a family dinner at home or a get-together at a restaurant to convince them that over four and a half months after Charlotte’s suicide, I was on the road to recovery.
In part, it was true. I was on a road. And, eventually, it led to the woman I was looking for.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FOUR MONTHS, TWO WEEKS AFTER CHARLOTTE
Eighty-two people. That’s how many I’d lied to and misled before I found the person nicknamed the Helpline Heroine.
‘Good evening, you’ve reached the End of the Line, this is Laura speaking. May I ask your name?’ she began.
I pressed record on my Dictaphone like I did with each call, and with the earpiece in place I slipped quickly and easily into my alter ego Steven like a comfortable pair of slippers. I trotted out the same reply I’d given the last eighty-one times. ‘I’ve not called somewhere like this before. I don’t know where to begin.’
‘Well, let’s start with a name. What shall I call you?’
Like most of the other volunteers, there was something reassuring about her voice. She was well-spoken, her tone friendly and soothing. I could imagine her reading a bedtime story on children’s television.
‘Steven,’ I replied.
‘It’s nice to talk to you, Steven,’ she continued. ‘Can I ask what made you decide to call us this evening?’
‘I’m not sure. I – I feel like I haven’t got . . . anyone. I don’t think I want to be . . . here . . . anymore.’ I’d read the script so many times recently that I knew it off by heart. I knew where to sound choked and where to pause for dramatic effect. If an Oscar were ever awarded for Best Dramatic Role via the Telephone, I’d be a dead cert to win.
‘Well, it’s great that you’ve called,’ she said. ‘Tell me about the people who love and care about you. Who do you have in your life who falls into that category?’
I pretended to think for a moment. ‘Nobody really.’ I exaggerated a deep sigh. ‘I’ve got no one at all.’
She asked if I had friends I could turn to and sympathised when I said I had none. Her responses were textbook. My fingers slid quietly across the laptop keyboard, adding her to my spreadsheet. Laura wasn’t an unusual name but she was the first volunteer that I’d come across with it. Already I could tell she was a glass-half-full kind of woman.
Unlikely, I typed.
‘Have you seen your doctor and told them how you’re feeling?’
‘Yes, and she put me on antidepressants.’
‘And how have they worked for you?’
‘It’s been four months and I still don’t feel there’s anything to get up for in the morning. Sometimes I think I’d be better off just saving them all up and . . . you know . . .’
‘Sometimes or often?’
Again, I hesitated. ‘Often,’ I whispered.
Our conversation wasn’t going any further than the last eighty-one times with her predecessors. I heard a faint rustling and guessed she was new and consulting a manual. If nothing else, I’d be good practice for her. I stifled a yawn and started to look at the football results on the BBC Sport website.
‘You don’t need to be embarrassed, Steven. We’ve all thought about ending our lives at some time or another. Have you ever tried to do it before?’
I couldn’t think of a way to cut corners and speed up the process. And that was assuming the person I was looking for really was a her. The heroine could very easily have been male. Either way, they’d need to be convinced I was for real.
I devised a backstory for myself. I’d claim depression was ruining my life and that I didn’t see any purpose in continuing. I’d tell them not only had I contemplated suicide but I’d almost gone ahead with it; however, something had held me back. I needed someone to help me take those extra few steps forward because I couldn’t do it alone.
To make it work, I needed to be organised. I opened up a blank Excel spreadsheet on Charlotte’s laptop to make a note of the name of each End of the Line volunteer who answered. I’d add the time of the call and a brief outline of their responses to what I told them. Some likely shared the same Christian name, so I’d type adjectives like ‘old’, ‘young’, ‘nasal’, ‘regional’ or ‘foreign accent’ to separate them.
I’d give them my middle name, Steven, and I’d adjust my sleep pattern to cover all their shifts. The task ahead of me was Herculean. But the quicker I cracked on, the quicker I’d know for sure if I was hunting for a real person or a ghost in the machine. I even got hold of a Dictaphone, and with a little bit of gadgetry bought online, I could plug it into my phone and record all my calls in case it was her.
Each day, I spoke to as many different volunteers as I could. My conversations continued for as long as necessary until I could either include them on my spreadsheet as a ‘yes’, a ‘maybe’ or a probable ‘no’. Patterns began to emerge of who worked when, how frequently, and which days of the week I could find them.
A little over a fortnight later and my spreadsheet went on for pages, packed full of names, dates, times and descriptions. But there had been no obvious ‘yeses’.
I felt shitty for abusing End of the Line’s resources by calling so often and for pulling the wool over their eyes, especially as they seemed like good people. They didn’t try to talk Steven out of wanting to end his life; instead, they listened, helped him explore what he was feeling and let him find his own way forward. Without exception, every voice was coming from a place of goodness. I had to keep reminding myself that so was I.
There were times when I found their kindness so warm and heartfelt that my guard slipped and Ryan came out. Then it was me admitting to feelings of hopelessness and me who was struggling.
I began painting mental pictures of what the Helpline Heroine might look like. She was in her late fifties, a spinster with pale skin that was beginning to loosen and hang from her cheeks and neck. There’d be deep lines etched across her forehead and her shoulders would be hunched from the weight of the guilt she carried but refused to acknowledge. On the surface, her eyes would seem charitable but if you stared into them deeply enough, you’d catch a glimmer of the woman inside – a dark, cold soul who thrived on the pain of others. She was like Judi Dench in that film Notes on a Scandal. Only even more devious.
Whoever she was, the Helpline Heroine came to dominate my days, my nights, my waking thoughts and my unconscious dreams. While she had given me a function, I’d also made her an obsession that was delaying my healing. But I knew that if I threw in the towel now without completing what I’d set out to do, I’d forever wonder if she actually existed.
Of course I didn’t tell my family or friends what I was up to because they’d think I was mad. But judging by the number of frustrated voicemails and texts they left, complaining that my phone was permanently engaged, they had an idea something was up. So I started joining them just often enough for drinks at the pub, a family dinner at home or a get-together at a restaurant to convince them that over four and a half months after Charlotte’s suicide, I was on the road to recovery.
In part, it was true. I was on a road. And, eventually, it led to the woman I was looking for.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FOUR MONTHS, TWO WEEKS AFTER CHARLOTTE
Eighty-two people. That’s how many I’d lied to and misled before I found the person nicknamed the Helpline Heroine.
‘Good evening, you’ve reached the End of the Line, this is Laura speaking. May I ask your name?’ she began.
I pressed record on my Dictaphone like I did with each call, and with the earpiece in place I slipped quickly and easily into my alter ego Steven like a comfortable pair of slippers. I trotted out the same reply I’d given the last eighty-one times. ‘I’ve not called somewhere like this before. I don’t know where to begin.’
‘Well, let’s start with a name. What shall I call you?’
Like most of the other volunteers, there was something reassuring about her voice. She was well-spoken, her tone friendly and soothing. I could imagine her reading a bedtime story on children’s television.
‘Steven,’ I replied.
‘It’s nice to talk to you, Steven,’ she continued. ‘Can I ask what made you decide to call us this evening?’
‘I’m not sure. I – I feel like I haven’t got . . . anyone. I don’t think I want to be . . . here . . . anymore.’ I’d read the script so many times recently that I knew it off by heart. I knew where to sound choked and where to pause for dramatic effect. If an Oscar were ever awarded for Best Dramatic Role via the Telephone, I’d be a dead cert to win.
‘Well, it’s great that you’ve called,’ she said. ‘Tell me about the people who love and care about you. Who do you have in your life who falls into that category?’
I pretended to think for a moment. ‘Nobody really.’ I exaggerated a deep sigh. ‘I’ve got no one at all.’
She asked if I had friends I could turn to and sympathised when I said I had none. Her responses were textbook. My fingers slid quietly across the laptop keyboard, adding her to my spreadsheet. Laura wasn’t an unusual name but she was the first volunteer that I’d come across with it. Already I could tell she was a glass-half-full kind of woman.
Unlikely, I typed.
‘Have you seen your doctor and told them how you’re feeling?’
‘Yes, and she put me on antidepressants.’
‘And how have they worked for you?’
‘It’s been four months and I still don’t feel there’s anything to get up for in the morning. Sometimes I think I’d be better off just saving them all up and . . . you know . . .’
‘Sometimes or often?’
Again, I hesitated. ‘Often,’ I whispered.
Our conversation wasn’t going any further than the last eighty-one times with her predecessors. I heard a faint rustling and guessed she was new and consulting a manual. If nothing else, I’d be good practice for her. I stifled a yawn and started to look at the football results on the BBC Sport website.
‘You don’t need to be embarrassed, Steven. We’ve all thought about ending our lives at some time or another. Have you ever tried to do it before?’
