How to Save a Life

by S. D. Robertson

  The cyclist continues on his way, his only response being to leisurely stretch out his right arm to give me the finger. This enrages me even further. If I wasn’t so under the weather, I’d try racing after him on foot to give him what for. As it is, I have to settle for yelling a torrent of expletives in his direction.

  After this, I spot a woman staring at me as she gets into a parked car further down the road. ‘Yes?’ I call out to her. ‘What is it? Would you like a picture? Why don’t you stop gawping and mind your own damn business?’

  As my anger subsides, I start to regret my hot-headed behaviour, especially what I said to the onlooker. Was it actually the cyclist’s fault or my own that we nearly collided? I’m still considering this as I enter my building and trudge up the stairs to my flat. It is possible I wasn’t paying proper attention, considering how rough I’m feeling, but he could at least have rung a bell or something to warn me of his approach.

  Anyway, Alfred’s pleased to see me when I open the front door. He circles around my legs as I head through to the kitchen and I have to be careful not to trip over him.

  ‘Chill, dude,’ I say, reaching down to stroke his head and rub his cheek, before grabbing him a few treats and casting them into his bowl. ‘Fill your boots.’

  He’s left me a present in the litter tray, which I clear up after popping some paracetamol. I’m not very hungry, but I manage to eat a bowl of tomato soup before running a bath, piping hot with lots of bubbles, which I slip into and promptly fall asleep.

  The water is lukewarm at best when I wake up and most of the bubbles are long gone. Alfred is curled up in a ball on the cream bathmat.

  I feel horrendous. Everything hurts, from head to toe, and I’m shivering so much my teeth are chattering. Last time I felt this way, I had the flu and it knocked me out for several days. I bet it’s that again or some other horrible virus. Bloody brilliant. That’s just what I need right now.

  Part of me is tempted to top up the bath with some fresh hot water, mainly so I don’t have to go through the effort of moving elsewhere. But instead, I lean forward and pull the plug, lugging myself up and out, dashing for the nearest towel and wishing I’d placed it on the radiator.

  No idea of the time – and not particularly interested – I dry myself en route to the bedroom, throw on a T-shirt plus a fresh pair of boxer shorts, and dive under my duvet. Still shivering, I scrunch myself into a ball and wait for some warmth to return to my aching limbs, before falling back into a deep sleep.

  The next thing I know, I’m woken by a voice repeating my name.

  ‘What? I’m trying to sleep,’ I say, refusing to open my eyes. ‘Leave me alone, okay? I’m not well.’

  ‘Luke, I need to talk to you,’ the voice replies. It sounds familiar, but I can’t put my finger on where I know it from.

  ‘Not now,’ I say. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’

  But the voice won’t take no for an answer. She won’t stop speaking, repeating my name. So eventually, I give in. I sit up in bed and pull the covers right up under my chin. Finally, I slide open my gritty, gungy eyes and peer out into the darkness, looking for the source of my irritation.

  ‘Ah, at last,’ she says, seated in the armchair I use as a dumping ground for clothes.

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  ‘Expecting someone else?’

  ‘Not really. Not at this time of night. Why are you wearing your coat?’

  ‘It’s cold.’

  ‘True. But do you really need the hood up? I can hardly see your face.’

  ‘Fine.’ Iris reaches up with both hands and slides the rain-flecked yellow material back from around her head, freeing the bouncy brown curls of her hair. Her skin looks paler than I remember, although this could be down to the lack of lighting in the room. The only reason I can see her at all is because I’ve left the lamp on in the hall and my bedroom door is ajar.

  Part of me knows there’s something not quite right about Iris’s presence here – her being dead and all – but it’s only a speck of a realisation that quickly gets swept away.

  ‘Is that better?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, much. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Charming.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t mean it that way, but I get the feeling you’re here for a reason.’

  She raises an eyebrow. ‘You might be right about that.’

  CHAPTER 9

  ‘You need to change your outlook on life,’ Iris tells me, matter-of-factly, like doing so is the easiest thing in the world.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, even though I have a good idea what she’s talking about.

  She crosses her legs and squints across the room at me. ‘You’re so negative. How come?’

  ‘I dunno. I suppose, um, it’s a defence mechanism. If I assume the worst, I’ll never be disappointed.’

  ‘How depressing. Surely you haven’t always been that way, have you?’

  ‘I guess not. Life grinds you down, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Only if you let it. From my perspective, it’s all a matter of how you look at things. There’s nearly always a silver lining hidden away in every bit of bad news. You just have to find it.’

  I feel myself getting riled by this. ‘That’s easy to say when nothing really bad has happened to you. Try losing both of your parents in one go and then being left by your wife in the space of a year. Where’s the silver lining there? Please point it out to me, because I’d love to know.’

  Iris chews on her lip before replying. ‘I hear what you’re saying. I can only imagine how … awful that must have been for you, Luke. But I never claimed it was easy. Sometimes it can take a long while to find a positive perspective. It might even be something you have to create yourself, building it piece by piece from the ground up. But one thing’s for sure: you’ll never find it with a glass-half-empty outlook.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I reply, unconvinced. ‘Where’s your silver lining now, then? Sorry to be blunt, but you were killed, despite all of your positivity, popularity and good intentions. How exactly did being a glass-half-full person help you? You died and I survived. Life sucks. I was right all along, no?’

  ‘That depends how you look at it. From your perspective, surviving against the odds, escaping with barely a scratch, isn’t it the case that I was right and you were wrong? You could have been killed, but you weren’t. Surely that’s something to celebrate. If staring death in the face and living to see another day isn’t a reason to be positive, then I’d love to know what is.’

  I rub a clammy hand over my face, trying to focus my mind. ‘Okay, so you’ve turned my argument back on me, but you’ve also dodged the central question: where’s your silver lining?’

  She smiles, her face calm and totally unfazed. ‘Maybe I’m looking at it. Yes, I died too young. I never got to achieve a lot of the things I wanted to. But in my short life there’s plenty that I did manage to do: I became a doctor; I helped people; I was loved by family and friends; I’ll be remembered. I have no regrets.’

  ‘What about saving me?’ I ask. ‘If you hadn’t hung around while I froze, if you hadn’t pushed me out of the way, you might have lived.’

  ‘Why do you think I became a doctor?’ Iris smiles at me in a way that instantly melts my heart. ‘Saving people is my job, my calling. And guess what? I’m not quite done with you yet.

  ‘That scaffolding wasn’t the only thing you needed saving from, was it? You were dying inside when I met you. I could see it in your eyes. But you don’t need to be like that any more. You have a reason to live now: to make my death worthwhile, to be my silver lining.

  ‘Life’s full of possibilities, Luke. You need to look at it the right way, that’s all. Give it a try and you’ll see what I mean. Start small, baby steps, and build from there. Look at how things worked out with my aunty earlier. You’d never have predicted that after what happened at the funeral, would you? So there you go.’

  ‘But, how—’

  ‘No more Mr
Negative, right? It won’t happen overnight, but get those rose-tinted sunglasses on.’

  As she says this, Iris raises her right hand to eye level and clicks her fingers with a flourish, upon which the opening refrain of the ELO song ‘Mr Blue Sky’ starts playing.

  ‘What the—’

  ‘Shh!’ Iris says, wedging her forefinger in front of her lips and swaying to the music from where she’s seated. ‘Don’t fight it. Trust me.’

  Next thing, she’s on her feet, arms raised above her head and shimmying across the room in time to the beat, a huge smile wrapped around her pretty face.

  I can’t grasp what on earth’s happening. And things get even more surreal when Alfred jumps up onto the end of the bed and also starts boogieing along to the music, like something from a freaky pet food advert.

  ‘Meow,’ I hear right in my ear, deafeningly loud. ‘Meow.’

  My eyes open and it’s broad daylight.

  Iris is gone and Alfred’s standing on top of my duvet-covered chest. His huge eyes burrow into mine as the song from what I now realise must have been a feverish dream continues to play – albeit with a more tinny sound – from the clock radio next to my bed. I must have forgotten to turn the alarm off in my rush to get under the covers yesterday. Soon the track fades out and an enthusiastic radio DJ announces the fact it’s Sunday morning.

  Alfred meows again, begging for breakfast, as usual.

  ‘Morning, mate,’ I rasp, my throat bone dry and my lips gummed up. ‘Good to see you back to normal.’ I wasn’t sure about the groovy dancing version of Alfred I’d encountered in my trippy dream.

  ‘What the hell was that all about?’ I ask him, only for him to rub his face against my bare arm to remind me of his hunger. ‘I know, I know. You’re ravenous, right?’

  Getting out of bed isn’t as bad as I fear. I’m still not feeling great, but I’m better than yesterday, which hopefully rules out the flu and means the worst is over.

  Luckily, I never open the barbershop on a Sunday. Plenty do nowadays, since lots of the shops are trading, but as a one-man band, it’s not feasible to be open seven days a week. Not without running myself into the ground. No, Sunday is my one weekly day of leisure. Plus I don’t usually open up until one o’clock on Mondays, giving me an extra half-day off and a second potential lie-in. As long as I remember to switch off my alarm, that is – unlike today.

  Once I’ve fed Alfred, I make a pot of filter coffee and then give my cousin a call.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ Meg says on picking up. ‘About time you called me back.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I reply. ‘I did mean to get back to you last night, but I felt like crap and ended up crashing out as soon as I got home.’

  ‘How come?’ she asks, her voice laden with a sudden tone of concern. ‘What’s the matter? Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, I’m still not a hundred per cent, to be honest, but I am better than I felt last night. I really thought I was coming down with the flu then – aching limbs, feverish and all that. But now it’s eased off a bit, I reckon it must be a virus or something. And before you say it, no, it’s not man flu.’

  Meg laughs down the line. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  An hour later, she turns up at the flat unannounced, armed with painkillers, energy drinks and a family-size bar of chocolate.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I say.

  ‘Nice to see you too.’

  ‘I don’t mean it like that. It’s good of you; I appreciate it. I wouldn’t come too close, though, if I were you.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ She claims to have been passing by, although I’m fairly sure that’s not true.

  Later, when we’re both sitting in the lounge enjoying a cup of tea, I decide to address the elephant in the room: the big argument that impaired our relationship for several months, until my accident brought us back together. We’ve both skirted around the issue since we’ve been back in frequent contact with each other, but now feels like the right time to clear the air.

  ‘Are things good between us again, Meg?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh,’ she replies, wincing. ‘You want to talk about that now?’

  ‘Don’t you think we should? The row we had drove a wedge between us for the best part of six months. Let’s be honest, we probably wouldn’t be where we are now if I hadn’t ended up in hospital. For what it’s worth, I’m really sorry for what I said and did that day—’

  ‘We both said things,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry too.’

  ‘Yeah, but I started it, turning on you when you were just trying to be nice. And I totally overreacted, behaving like a child. Anyway, I missed having you close and I’m really glad we’re getting back on track.’

  ‘I suppose I’m also glad about that,’ she adds with a wink, ‘more or less.’

  With hindsight, the quarrel was stupid and unnecessary. I was having dinner at Meg’s place at the time; I guess we were both tired and grumpy. It started with her trying to convince me to put myself out there on the dating scene; it concluded with both of us shouting and screaming. My mind flashes back to the tail end of our dispute.

  ‘You need to butt out, Meg, for God’s sake. I’m sick of this. I’m in no rush to find love. I’m happy as I am. Why are you so desperate to get me paired up with someone? Are you tired of spending time with me? Are you looking to palm me off on someone else?’

  ‘Maybe I am, Luke. You’re not exactly much fun to be around. You’re always so negative and miserable. I feel sorry for you. I was hoping a bit of love in your life might cheer you up.’

  ‘Yeah, because that worked out so well for me last time, didn’t it? Listen, I didn’t realise I was such a burden to you, but don’t worry, that ends today. I’m sick of your constant interfering and I definitely don’t need your pity. I’m done with this, Meg, and I’m done with you.’

  ‘Oh, really? Well I’m done with you too, Luke, and your constant wallowing in self-pity and pessimism. You don’t deserve a person like me in your life. Sometimes I can see exactly why you got dumped like you did.’

  ‘Really? Well you can go to hell! And this food is bloody disgusting.’

  Happy memories. Particularly the next bit, where I flipped my full dinner plate, emptying the contents on the table, and stormed out of there. That still makes me cringe with embarrassment.

  Still, I’m glad I brought the matter up. Before long, Meg and I are hugging it out and I feel like we’ve turned a corner. Neither of us can believe we were too stubborn to apologise sooner, although we both admit to having wanted to do so.

  ‘Never mind,’ Meg says. ‘Better late than never.’

  I decide to tell her about the weird dream I had involving Iris.

  ‘Hmm,’ she says after I’ve recounted most of it. ‘That does sound a bit odd. So initially you weren’t aware it was a dream? Didn’t you find it strange that a dead person was in your bedroom, chatting to you?’

  I laugh. ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? I did have an inkling of something out of the ordinary, but I guess I just accepted it. You know what it’s like when you’re dreaming: all kinds of strange things can happen without it seeming that way. Plus I was quite feverish. The whole thing was rather trippy, and I haven’t even got to the strangest part yet.’

  I go on to tell her about the song starting to play, with Iris and Alfred dancing along; it makes her giggle.

  ‘The same tune was playing on the clock radio when I woke up,’ I explain. ‘But don’t you think that’s a bizarre coincidence?’

  Meg shrugs. ‘It obviously worked its way into your dream via your subconscious, because it was playing in real life.’

  ‘Oh, I realise that, but I’m talking about what you called me the other day.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m not with you.’

  ‘When you visited me in hospital after the accident, you mentioned me being a pessimist. You told me I wasn’t exactly Mr Blue Sky. It stuck in my mind.’

  ‘Right,’ she says, a pu
zzled look on her face. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘You don’t remember? Really?’

  ‘Um, I do recall saying something about you being a glass-half-empty person, if that’s what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Yes, exactly, which was what Iris was talking to me about as well. She was urging me to change my ways to be more like her: to think and do more positive things, to make my life and her sacrifice mean something.’

  Meg hesitates, her right hand kneading the cushion of the armchair where she’s sitting opposite me. ‘You, er … you know that wasn’t really her, though, right? It was a dream, Luke: your mind’s way of processing its own thoughts.’

  ‘Of course. Why would you even say that, Meg? You know me. I’m not exactly the kind of guy to believe in ghosts or any of that nonsense, am I?’

  Am I?

  I hope the slight uncertainty doesn’t show on my face.

  ‘You’ve been through a lot recently,’ she says in a quiet voice. ‘That’s all. I’m looking out for you. Checking you’re doing all right, especially after that visit by Rita yesterday. I feel bad about that—’

  ‘Why? She was fine, I told you. We got along well.’

  Again, I’m tempted to mention that Rita reminded me of Mum, but I don’t. Meg knows only too well how hard I was hit by the death of her and my father. Based on what she’s said so far, I fear she might read something into this regarding my mental state, which she obviously thinks is fragile right now.

  Instead, I try to reassure her about my interpretation of the dream. ‘I’m fully aware of the fact Iris didn’t really appear in my bedroom, Meg. There’s really no need for you to worry about that. Yes, I have been through a tough experience, but none of my marbles have been lost along the way, okay?’

  ‘Fine. Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you or anything, but—’

  ‘You haven’t. All I’m trying to say here, if you could give me the benefit of the doubt for a minute, is that what I dreamed ties in with what you told me.’