The Good Samaritan
Page 34
Hold up, did she just say ‘we’ve all’?
None of the other eighty-one helpline staff admitted that. Maybe she just wanted me to believe that she really did understand me.
‘No,’ I replied, as if I were ashamed. ‘But I did plan it out once.’
‘You planned it out once?’
I followed the advice I’d read online and told her about making it easier for those I’d leave behind by getting my affairs in order before I died. I looked at a page of notes I’d made and brought up the railway track near Wolverton that could be reached through a broken fence. She listened quietly as my imagination did the talking.
‘Perhaps, deep down, you aren’t serious about ending your life,’ she said. It was less of a question and more of a statement. And then something in her voice switched from warm and comfortable to accusatory.
‘Maybe it’s a cry for help?’ she continued. ‘I get plenty of calls from people who tell me they want to die, but when it gets down to the nitty-gritty, all they’re really doing is just feeling sorry for themselves. Are you one of those people, Steven? Are you just trapped in a cycle of self-pity? Are you so deep into it that you don’t realise nothing is going to change unless you find the courage to do something about it yourself ? Because if you don’t take charge, for the rest of your life – maybe another forty, fifty years – the pain you’re feeling right now, the pain that’s so bad that it led you to call me, is only going to get worse. This – how you are feeling right now – is going to be it for you. Can you live like that, Steven? I know I couldn’t.’
I knew in that moment I’d found her.
None of the others had even come close to talking to me like this. I should have been excited, but in all my preparations I’d stupidly not considered where to go if I ever reached this stage. I’d assumed I could wing it but I was wrong. Instead, I became tongue-tied.
‘I – I – I’m not a timewaster, honestly,’ I stuttered. ‘It’s something I’ve thought long and hard about and it’s what I want, but if I can’t do it, that must make me a coward, right?’
‘No, Steven, you’re not a coward,’ she continued. ‘You called me today and that makes you courageous. Maybe you just chose the wrong day when you were waiting for that train. It happens to plenty of people.’ Now her tone had returned to calming.
Am I just imagining all this?
I could almost picture her smile as she spoke, like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. ‘Just remember, we’re here for you in whatever capacity you want us to be.’
‘You mean to listen to me?’
I held my breath as I waited for her reply. She’d basically just agreed with me that I had nothing to live for and now she was telling me I had courage. I wasn’t sure who was the cat, who was the mouse and who was toying with whom.
‘If that’s all you want from me, then yes.’
‘What if . . . what if I need . . . what if I decide . . .’ My voice trailed off. How on earth could I put it into words without scaring her off ?
‘Are you calling to tell me you want to end your life and are looking for my support in doing it?’
She’d done it for me. Butterflies rose en masse in my stomach and took flight. Oh fuck! This is it! What the hell do I say next?
‘I . . . I suppose I am.’ I grimaced as the words fell clumsily from my mouth. And again her tone switched, as if she were lecturing me.
‘End of the Line is an impartial, non-judgemental place,’ she continued. ‘We are here to listen to you. We won’t try to talk you out of anything you decide to do, we just ask that you talk to us first and explore all your options before you take such a huge step. Do you understand that?’
‘Yes,’ I said. I racked my brain for how to respond. The best I could manage was a meek ‘But . . .’
‘But?’ she repeated.
She had me on the back foot and she relished it. ‘But if I wanted to, you know, go ahead with it, would you . . . ?’
‘Would I what, Steven? What would you like me to do?’
My mouth went dry and I fell silent again.
What is wrong with you, Ryan? Come on! You have her! Just say something!
But I was stumped. I needed time to think. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go,’ I said, before hanging up.
‘Fuck!’ I yelled at the top of my voice, then grabbed a mug from the table and hurled it at the wall. It smashed into pieces and sent a framed print crashing to the floor.
I remained with my head in my hands, taking sharp breaths. Laura wasn’t like any of the other volunteers I’d spoken to. She was the one. She was the Helpline Heroine and her ability to switch personalities in a heartbeat scared the hell out of me. She hadn’t just come out and said, ‘I will help you kill yourself,’ but she’d pretty much told me that I was going to remain living in this hell unless I did something drastic.
I rewound the Dictaphone and listened to the whole conversation again. She’d taken complete control of the call and I was angry at myself for losing grip of my own plan. Instead of playing it cool I’d panicked, then hung up on her. My instinct was to call her again straight away, but I held back. If I did it immediately, I might look indecisive or an attention-seeker. She had to think I was almost sure I wanted to die – ‘almost’ being the operative word – because turning that into a certainty would give her a challenge and I bet that’s what she enjoyed. I’d pretend to spend the next few days mulling it over before I called End of the Line to try and find her again.
What to do until then? I had to put my time to good use. There was a chance Laura had given me a false name, but it was all I had to go on. I googled ‘Laura’ and ‘End of the Line’, but all that came up was the author of a book about historic steam trains. I refined my search with the words ‘charity’ and ‘suicide’ and it took me to the website of a local newspaper, the Chronicle & Echo.
The headline £300 RAISED IN CHARITY BAKE SALE ran above a photo of three women and a girl standing behind a table full of baked goods. The story was dated around a year ago. Almost £300 has been raised for helpline End of the Line by staff baking cakes, it said. The helpline, which has been running for eight years in its town centre premises, made the money with a stall at the Racecourse Town Show. A spokesman said: ‘We are self-funded and this cash will really help with our escalating running costs.’ Pictured above (from left to right): Zoe Parker, Mary Barnett, Effie Morris and Laura Morris.
Laura Morris. I boosted the size of the picture on my screen and stared at the woman on the right. She was actually quite normal-looking, not at all like the dowdy frump I’d pictured her as. She was attractive, even. She wore a smart blouse and pleated skirt, her hair was slicked back and tied into a ponytail and her smile revealed perfectly positioned teeth. There was something familiar about her daughter Effie’s face and name. I looked her up on Facebook and it clicked when I saw a clearer image of her face.
I typed Laura Morris into the search engine along with End of the Line and one more story appeared. CHARITY FUNDRAISER WINS TOP AWARD. The photo featured the same woman. A man in a wheelchair was presenting a silver shield to her for single-handedly raising £50,000 for the charity in a year, the largest sum of any of their branches.
None of the other eighty-one helpline staff admitted that. Maybe she just wanted me to believe that she really did understand me.
‘No,’ I replied, as if I were ashamed. ‘But I did plan it out once.’
‘You planned it out once?’
I followed the advice I’d read online and told her about making it easier for those I’d leave behind by getting my affairs in order before I died. I looked at a page of notes I’d made and brought up the railway track near Wolverton that could be reached through a broken fence. She listened quietly as my imagination did the talking.
‘Perhaps, deep down, you aren’t serious about ending your life,’ she said. It was less of a question and more of a statement. And then something in her voice switched from warm and comfortable to accusatory.
‘Maybe it’s a cry for help?’ she continued. ‘I get plenty of calls from people who tell me they want to die, but when it gets down to the nitty-gritty, all they’re really doing is just feeling sorry for themselves. Are you one of those people, Steven? Are you just trapped in a cycle of self-pity? Are you so deep into it that you don’t realise nothing is going to change unless you find the courage to do something about it yourself ? Because if you don’t take charge, for the rest of your life – maybe another forty, fifty years – the pain you’re feeling right now, the pain that’s so bad that it led you to call me, is only going to get worse. This – how you are feeling right now – is going to be it for you. Can you live like that, Steven? I know I couldn’t.’
I knew in that moment I’d found her.
None of the others had even come close to talking to me like this. I should have been excited, but in all my preparations I’d stupidly not considered where to go if I ever reached this stage. I’d assumed I could wing it but I was wrong. Instead, I became tongue-tied.
‘I – I – I’m not a timewaster, honestly,’ I stuttered. ‘It’s something I’ve thought long and hard about and it’s what I want, but if I can’t do it, that must make me a coward, right?’
‘No, Steven, you’re not a coward,’ she continued. ‘You called me today and that makes you courageous. Maybe you just chose the wrong day when you were waiting for that train. It happens to plenty of people.’ Now her tone had returned to calming.
Am I just imagining all this?
I could almost picture her smile as she spoke, like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. ‘Just remember, we’re here for you in whatever capacity you want us to be.’
‘You mean to listen to me?’
I held my breath as I waited for her reply. She’d basically just agreed with me that I had nothing to live for and now she was telling me I had courage. I wasn’t sure who was the cat, who was the mouse and who was toying with whom.
‘If that’s all you want from me, then yes.’
‘What if . . . what if I need . . . what if I decide . . .’ My voice trailed off. How on earth could I put it into words without scaring her off ?
‘Are you calling to tell me you want to end your life and are looking for my support in doing it?’
She’d done it for me. Butterflies rose en masse in my stomach and took flight. Oh fuck! This is it! What the hell do I say next?
‘I . . . I suppose I am.’ I grimaced as the words fell clumsily from my mouth. And again her tone switched, as if she were lecturing me.
‘End of the Line is an impartial, non-judgemental place,’ she continued. ‘We are here to listen to you. We won’t try to talk you out of anything you decide to do, we just ask that you talk to us first and explore all your options before you take such a huge step. Do you understand that?’
‘Yes,’ I said. I racked my brain for how to respond. The best I could manage was a meek ‘But . . .’
‘But?’ she repeated.
She had me on the back foot and she relished it. ‘But if I wanted to, you know, go ahead with it, would you . . . ?’
‘Would I what, Steven? What would you like me to do?’
My mouth went dry and I fell silent again.
What is wrong with you, Ryan? Come on! You have her! Just say something!
But I was stumped. I needed time to think. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go,’ I said, before hanging up.
‘Fuck!’ I yelled at the top of my voice, then grabbed a mug from the table and hurled it at the wall. It smashed into pieces and sent a framed print crashing to the floor.
I remained with my head in my hands, taking sharp breaths. Laura wasn’t like any of the other volunteers I’d spoken to. She was the one. She was the Helpline Heroine and her ability to switch personalities in a heartbeat scared the hell out of me. She hadn’t just come out and said, ‘I will help you kill yourself,’ but she’d pretty much told me that I was going to remain living in this hell unless I did something drastic.
I rewound the Dictaphone and listened to the whole conversation again. She’d taken complete control of the call and I was angry at myself for losing grip of my own plan. Instead of playing it cool I’d panicked, then hung up on her. My instinct was to call her again straight away, but I held back. If I did it immediately, I might look indecisive or an attention-seeker. She had to think I was almost sure I wanted to die – ‘almost’ being the operative word – because turning that into a certainty would give her a challenge and I bet that’s what she enjoyed. I’d pretend to spend the next few days mulling it over before I called End of the Line to try and find her again.
What to do until then? I had to put my time to good use. There was a chance Laura had given me a false name, but it was all I had to go on. I googled ‘Laura’ and ‘End of the Line’, but all that came up was the author of a book about historic steam trains. I refined my search with the words ‘charity’ and ‘suicide’ and it took me to the website of a local newspaper, the Chronicle & Echo.
The headline £300 RAISED IN CHARITY BAKE SALE ran above a photo of three women and a girl standing behind a table full of baked goods. The story was dated around a year ago. Almost £300 has been raised for helpline End of the Line by staff baking cakes, it said. The helpline, which has been running for eight years in its town centre premises, made the money with a stall at the Racecourse Town Show. A spokesman said: ‘We are self-funded and this cash will really help with our escalating running costs.’ Pictured above (from left to right): Zoe Parker, Mary Barnett, Effie Morris and Laura Morris.
Laura Morris. I boosted the size of the picture on my screen and stared at the woman on the right. She was actually quite normal-looking, not at all like the dowdy frump I’d pictured her as. She was attractive, even. She wore a smart blouse and pleated skirt, her hair was slicked back and tied into a ponytail and her smile revealed perfectly positioned teeth. There was something familiar about her daughter Effie’s face and name. I looked her up on Facebook and it clicked when I saw a clearer image of her face.
I typed Laura Morris into the search engine along with End of the Line and one more story appeared. CHARITY FUNDRAISER WINS TOP AWARD. The photo featured the same woman. A man in a wheelchair was presenting a silver shield to her for single-handedly raising £50,000 for the charity in a year, the largest sum of any of their branches.
