How to Save a Life

by S. D. Robertson

  ‘It’s Rita, isn’t it?’ I say for want of anything better. ‘Can I, er, get you a brew?’

  ‘No, no,’ she replies. ‘I won’t keep you. I’m probably the last person you want to spend time with after the way I treated you yesterday. That’s why I’m here. I’d like to explain what happened and why I said what I did. I’m so terribly sorry. Would you hear me out?’

  I’m intrigued, so of course I say yes. But gagging for a cup of tea myself, I tell her it’s on the provision she changes her mind and accepts my offer of a brew. This makes her smile, immediately easing the tension in the room.

  Rita’s dressed in dark jeans and a grey puffer jacket, which she finally unzips while I’m topping off our mugs with milk. I’m not sure whether it’s mainly down to the curly hair and brown eyes, but I can’t help noticing how much she looks like her niece: even more than Iris’s own mother, based on what I saw of her yesterday.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ she says when I hand her the tea. ‘It’s really very kind of you.’

  ‘Hey, it’s only a cuppa. It’s not like I slipped in any booze.’

  She grimaces. ‘Just as well, I’d say. I don’t think I’ll be drinking for some time after yesterday. I had way too much. It was all so hard to get through.’

  As Rita blinks back tears, I hand her a tissue.

  Thanking me, she says: ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get upset like this. That’s not why I came here.’

  I sit down next to her. ‘I understand. It must all still be very raw.’

  After taking a moment to compose herself, Rita grabs my hand and looks me square in the eye. ‘You seem like a nice man. Please accept my apologies for how I mistreated you yesterday in front of everyone. I’m so embarrassed, I had to come and see you. Fortunately, my son Guy, who you met, was able to put me in touch with your cousin Meg. Once I explained to her what it was about, she told me where I would be able to find you.’

  ‘Right,’ I reply, annoyed that Meg didn’t give me a heads-up. Mind you, I’ve been so busy today, I can’t even remember when I last checked my phone. Come to think of it, I stuck it on silent earlier after being bothered by one of those ‘I believe you were in a car accident that wasn’t your fault’ nuisance callers, who I duly scolded. It’s quite possible Meg has tried to contact me and not managed to get through. I resist the urge to reach into the pocket of my jeans to have a look.

  ‘Anyhow,’ Rita says. ‘I’m embarrassed to admit I was already pretty well away by the time we ran into each other. That, together with my emotional state over losing my niece, was a bad combination. Essentially, I got the wrong end of the stick. I totally misread the situation and mistook you for someone else entirely.’

  Hearing this comes as a surprise. ‘Really? I got the impression from what you said at the time that you didn’t know who I was.’

  She squirms in her seat. ‘I didn’t, not for sure, but I had a suspicion, which turned out to be totally wrong. This is embarrassing too, although I’ll try to explain. There was a patient of Iris’s – Eddie – who’d been pursuing her for some time. You know, romantically. She was never interested and she did say that to him, but apparently not in a forceful enough way to get the message across. She was far too nice to tell him to get lost and leave her alone. So he kept on chasing her, sending flowers and various other gifts, hoping she’d eventually cave in and give him a go.

  ‘He was verging on a stalker, if you ask me, always making up minor illnesses as an excuse to get an appointment with her. But again, Iris was too nice to see things that way. Even though I could tell it freaked her out from how she spoke about it, she’d then go on to argue he was lonely and harmless, albeit something of a hypochondriac.

  ‘At the same time, she admitted being afraid to tell him about her plan to go to Africa. She knew he wouldn’t react well to that, so I advised her not to mention it. What did it have to do with him, anyway? Of course, a part of me didn’t want her to go, for my own selfish reasons. And yet I knew it would be a great experience for her and I was glad it would get her away from bloody Eddie. Who knew what he might have ended up doing otherwise? I thought he was downright creepy.’

  ‘So you thought I was this weirdo?’ I ask.

  She shuffles her feet, briefly placing a hand on my arm as she replies: ‘Yes, but please don’t be offended by that. I’ve never met Eddie. All I know about him is that he’s single, divorced, a few years older than Iris and, um, he’s a little bit bald.’

  ‘So it was mainly my age and my lack of hair, right? I am also divorced, as it goes, which makes me wonder how you could tell. Do I give off a certain sad man vibe?’

  Rita’s eyes stretch wide open with horror at my suggestion. ‘No, no. Not at all. It was only the other two things, honestly. I had no idea that—’

  ‘It’s fine. I was pulling your leg.’

  ‘Oh, thank goodness. I feel bad enough already, without digging myself any deeper. I really don’t know why I jumped to the conclusion that you were Eddie. I suppose I’d been worried he might turn up at the funeral; then when I saw you kneeling by the table, with Claire in tears, I put two and two together and made five.

  ‘As for my yelling at you rather than asking you nicely to leave, that was definitely down to the alcohol. Again, I can only apologise, especially now I know who you really are and what you went through with Iris. It was so lovely of you to come to the funeral. As soon as I realised my mistake, I was mortified. I did try to come after you there and then, but it was too late. You’d already gone.’

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘At least that explains things. I did wonder exactly what it was I’d done to make you so angry. Now I understand what happened; the fact you made the effort to come and tell me this is much appreciated. You didn’t have to track me down. You could have left it. So thank you. Consider your apology accepted.’

  Rita breathes a sigh of relief. ‘Oh good. That’s a weight off my mind. It’s been bothering me ever since it happened. Thanks so much for your understanding.’

  I ask how she and the rest of the family are coping with Iris’s death.

  ‘So, so,’ she replies, taking a sip of tea from her mug. ‘As you’d expect, really. Until yesterday, everything was building up to the funeral, making all the arrangements and so on. There was so much extra stuff to think about – worrying about the press turning up against our wishes, for instance, which thankfully they didn’t. Now that’s over, I suppose we have to face up to the harsh reality of day-to-day life without her in it. We’re only at the start of the grieving process. It’s going to be tough for all of us, but especially Claire and Stan.’

  Nodding, I add: ‘I get the impression you were pretty close to Iris.’

  Rita’s eyes glisten with fresh tears. ‘That’s right. Living around the corner from my sister, as I always have, we see a lot of each other and our respective families. I have two sons: Guy, who you know, and Russ. Have you met him?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Okay. Well, I always quite fancied having a daughter too, although it never happened. I think that made me extra fond of Iris. She was like a surrogate daughter, if you like. I used to take her shopping when she was little – things like that – and we developed a strong bond. I think the fact I wasn’t her mother actually made us closer at times. She’d confide in me about stuff she didn’t tell Claire and Stan, such as what was going on with Eddie, her stalker.’

  ‘Her parents didn’t know about that?’ I ask.

  ‘Not the full details, no.’

  ‘And did he turn up to the funeral?’

  ‘Perhaps. Honestly, I’m not sure. If he was there, I didn’t spot him and he didn’t make himself known to me or any of the other family. I’m not sure exactly what he looks like, remember. Hence the fact I mistook you for him.’

  I tap a forefinger on my right temple. ‘Good point.’

  ‘One of Iris’s colleagues would surely know,’ Rita adds. ‘But I didn’t fancy asking
any of them at the time, especially not after making such an idiot of myself with you.’

  ‘No one will think any the worse of you for how you reacted,’ I say. ‘Grief makes people emotional. Everyone understands that.’

  As we continue talking, our mugs of tea growing cold, the conversation flows surprisingly easily considering our recent acquaintance. Moving on to discuss more general matters, Rita reveals she’s fifty-seven years old and a semi-retired hairdresser.

  ‘A fellow snipper,’ I reply. ‘If someone had told me twenty-four hours ago that we’d be chatting like this, getting along and having things in common, I’d never have believed it. So when you say you’re semi-retired, what does that mean exactly? Do you still work part-time, or—’

  ‘I have a few regulars – mainly friends – who I cut and style from home, but that’s about it. I used to run my own salon in Prestwich.’ She winks as she adds: ‘Unisex, so I know a little about cutting men’s hair too. But a couple of years back, someone made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. They bought me out and that was that.’

  ‘This buyer of yours, they don’t want a barbershop in the Northern Quarter too, do they?’ I ask with a grin. ‘This semi-retirement lark sounds right up my street.’

  ‘Get away with you,’ Rita replies. ‘How old are you: mid-thirties? You’re a young man. You’ve still got your best years ahead of you.’

  ‘Thirty-nine, actually. But I’ll take what you said. That sounds infinitely better than “nearly forty”, which is how I tend to think of myself.’

  ‘Hang on. You’re one of those glass-half-empty types, aren’t you?’ she says, pulling a face and shaking her head with exaggerated disapproval.

  I laugh. ‘Busted. How can you tell that from one conversation?’

  ‘I used to be married to a man like that: pessimistic Pete, I called him. We got divorced a long time ago. He used to drive me crazy with all his negative thoughts. But I loved him, more fool me, and then he ran off with someone half my age. You know how it goes.’

  ‘More than you think,’ I reply. And then, to my surprise, I start spilling my heart out to this near stranger. Is it because I’ve just realised something about her reminds me of my late mother? It could be. Who knows? I definitely don’t make a habit of doing this. And she really does remind me of Mum, although I can’t yet put my finger on why.

  CHAPTER 8

  I take a phone call from Meg as I’m walking home later. One positive that’s come from the scaffolding accident is that my cousin and I are back in regular contact with each other. I hadn’t realised how much I missed the close relationship we once had, until she showed up at the hospital and then came to the funeral with me. We’re not quite back to where we were yet, before our falling-out, but it’s nice to see things improving. It definitely feels like she’s on my team again.

  ‘How are you doing?’ she asks. ‘Everything all right? I was getting a bit worried after you didn’t reply to my texts.’

  ‘Oh, my phone was on silent. It’s been hectic at work today.’

  ‘But you’ve seen them, right?’

  ‘Yeah, I have now.’

  ‘What does that mean? Has she been to see you already, this Rita?’

  ‘Yes. And what it means is that I didn’t see the messages until after she’d called by.’

  My cousin groans down the line. ‘Seriously, Luke? Well, don’t blame me. That’s your own fault for leaving your mobile on silent. Was it okay? I hope you’re not mad that I told her where to find you. She seemed genuine about wanting to apologise, but after not hearing back from you, I started to question it.’

  ‘It’s fine, Meg. She’s a nice woman, contrary to all evidence we saw when she bit my head off yesterday. The two of us got along well together, believe it or not. We chatted for a while over a brew and then we went for a quick drink in the pub. I left a few minutes ago; I’m walking home now.’

  ‘What? Seriously? Wow, that’s definitely not what I expected to hear. What did you talk about?’

  I laugh into the phone. ‘All sorts. She’s a hairdresser, for a start, but it wasn’t only that. We have loads in common.’ I’m about to say how she reminds me of Mum, but I decide not to, because I know I won’t be able to explain why and it’ll end up sounding weird.

  At that moment, it dawns on me where I am and the shock sets my heart racing. While chatting, I’ve not been paying attention to my surroundings; I’ve been walking on autopilot, lost in the conversation. And that’s why, for the first time since the accident, I’ve ended up taking this route home as I often used to do.

  ‘Can I call you back in a bit?’ I say to Meg. ‘I need to do something.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Okay, bye.’ I hang up and put my phone back in my pocket, take a deep breath and gingerly walk as close as I dare to the spot where, just over a fortnight ago, Iris and I were both trapped under the collapsed scaffolding.

  There are flowers – dozens of bunches, old and new – marking the spot. I don’t know why this surprises me. They’ll be from Iris’s family and friends, possibly colleagues and patients too. She was popular and well-loved, so it makes sense.

  Seeing the flowers, especially the more withered ones that have been here a while, brings tears to my eyes alongside painful memories of what unfolded that evening.

  I pull the beanie I’m wearing off my head and shove it into my coat pocket. It feels like the right thing to do in the circumstances: an old-fashioned mark of respect.

  Weirdly, it takes me a moment to register the fact that the scaffolding is all back in place now, even though that’s what the bouquets are mostly attached to. Well, I doubt it’ll be the same planks and poles. Most of what came down on us is probably wrecked. But all of that’s been cleared away. You wouldn’t know it had even happened, apart from the flowers.

  I have wondered a few times whether anyone is to blame for the scaffolding coming down like it did. Was it put up badly? Were the materials not up to scratch? Had someone tampered with it? Two police officers did come to my flat to speak to me about this a couple of days afterwards, but it was only a brief chat.

  They told me the scaffolding had been put up by a respectable, well-known company, rather than a bunch of cowboys. They were suitably vague about what would happen next, saying the matter was still under investigation. But reading between the lines, the impression I got from them was that it would most likely be considered an act of God; a tragic result of the extremely high winds that day.

  I will, almost certainly, be required to give evidence as a witness at the inquest into Iris’s death. A post-mortem examination was carried out before the coroner released the body for the funeral. However, it sounds like the final hearing won’t be taking place for a good while yet – possibly six months or more from now. There’s a bit of a backlog, apparently.

  As for the whole act of God thing, I’m not sure how I feel about this. It’s not that I particularly want to have someone to blame for what happened. I could understand Iris’s family feeling so minded but, at the end of the day, I survived the experience – as awful as it was – more or less unscathed. That’s enough for me. I’ve no interest in the hassle of trying to sue someone. I can accept it was a freak accident, which is basically what the term act of God means, right?

  But if you take the words literally, where does that leave me? Why would God, if you believe in his existence, deliberately take the life of someone as amazing as Iris and yet let me live?

  Do I still believe in God, like I used to as a kid? Since Mum and Dad were both killed, I’ve told myself numerous times that I don’t. So why does this term bother me so much? Why do I feel like I must make my own life mean something to redress the balance after Iris’s death?

  ‘Stop,’ I say out loud, shaking my head in a bid to clear it and reset my thoughts.

  I walk over to a fresh-looking bunch of flowers. They’re white lilies, half of them open, half still shut, with lots of green foliage. I touch them with the tip
s of my fingers and imagine Iris as I saw her that evening: wide brown eyes and warm smile, encircled by the hood of her canary-yellow raincoat.

  If I hadn’t spotted her sheltering under the scaffolding, if I hadn’t joined her there, would she still be alive now? The way I froze, causing her to push me out of the way, definitely delayed her own escape.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say under my breath. ‘I should have come back here sooner, Iris, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Thank you for saving me, even though I didn’t deserve it. I hope you’ve found peace; that you’re in a better place.’

  Despite my religious belief not being what it was, I haven’t quite given up on the idea of an afterlife. Irrational perhaps, but it’s comforting to think my parents – and now Iris – still exist somewhere, even as I continue to struggle with the idea of a higher being allowing their untimely deaths to happen in the first place.

  Despite previously losing two of the people I was closest to in the world, I still can’t get my head around the concept of someone dying and simply no longer existing. Forever gone. I can’t grasp what a total lack of my own consciousness would be like, because for as long as I can remember it’s always been there – even during sleep. I’ve never been anywhere without that voice in my head as a companion.

  Okay, I’ve blacked out occasionally over the years, mainly from drinking too much on a heavy session and so on. It happened here too, of course, when falling debris hit my head. But short-term blackouts are by no means the same thing as eternal nothingness.

  Having paid my respects to Iris, I put my hat back on and continue walking towards the flat. I’m starting to feel really rough. Rita’s visit and the beer I had with her in the pub temporarily took my mind off whatever lurgy I’m brewing, but now there’s no escaping it. My arms and legs are aching, the glands on my neck feel swollen, my head’s foggy and I’m totally shattered: ready for bed or at least a hot bath.

  As I step out to cross a quiet side road close to home, a male cyclist in a fluorescent orange top and matching helmet appears out of nowhere. Whooshing past, he gives me a real fright, missing me by what feels like millimetres. ‘Bloody moron!’ I shout after him, shaking clenched fists above my head, fury surging through my veins. ‘You nearly hit me. Watch where the hell you’re going, idiot.’