The Good Samaritan

by John Marrs

  I made my way into the poor excuse for a kitchenette and placed my lunchbox with the remains of last night’s pasta bake inside the fridge. I tossed away the mounting number of out-of-date plastic milk bottles and removed the lid from the cake tin so that everyone could help themselves to my freshly iced cupcakes. There were more than enough for the afternoon shifts to enjoy; any that remained could be shared by those on evenings and nights.

  I opened the sash window to allow some fresh May air in and the stale second-floor funk out. Then, back inside the call room, I plucked my notebook from my bag and sought out my favoured booth at the back. Our desks hadn’t been officially allocated to us, so we couldn’t stake a claim on one over another. But there was an unspoken hierarchy that said those who’d worked there for longer should be allowed the spot they felt the most comfortable in. I opted for the most private spot, by the boarded-up Victorian fireplace. There, behind the partition, my soft, calming telephone voice couldn’t be heard anywhere else in the room. Not that we ever admitted to listening in to each other’s calls, but it’s normal to be nosy once in a while.

  For four and a half years I’d stared through the very same window across the rooftops of Northampton, and wondered who might be the first person I’d lift my receiver to today. The later – evening – shift was usually when things became more interesting. For the more vulnerable out there, once the darkness falls, so do their barriers. Night-time is their enemy, because with fewer visible distractions there’s more opportunity to dwell on how hopeless their lives have become. It’s when they reach out for somebody’s hand.

  We are supposed to treat every caller the same way, with kindness, respect and professionalism. Being listened to makes them feel valued, but it’s unrealistic to think you can help – or even like – them all. Once they begin recounting their woes, there are some you take an instant dislike to and others you can see yourself in. Some you want to grab by the wrists, dig your fingernails in deeply until you draw blood and shake some sense into. Others you’ll offer a non-judgemental shoulder to cry upon.

  But when it comes down to it, almost every volunteer in that room is there for the same purpose – to be someone a caller can unload their problems onto.

  And then there’s me. I have my own agenda.

  ‘You brought cupcakes!’ said Kevin enthusiastically. He began to peel away the paper case from the sweet treat as he approached my desk.

  ‘Remind me to get your shirt out of the car before I leave,’ I replied.

  ‘Careful now, or they’ll start talking about us,’ he said, and gave me a wink.

  I pretended to laugh along with him. ‘I’ve sewn the button back on the cuff and starched the collar.’

  ‘Where would we be without you, Laura?’

  ‘And don’t forget it’s your wedding anniversary at the weekend, so pick up a card and some flowers. And not those cheap petrol station ones. Order a bouquet online.’

  ‘Will do.’ He gave me a peck on the cheek and I rolled my eyes with false modesty. ‘You’re like the office mum,’ he added.

  I liked being thought of as the maternal type. To them, I was helpful, inoffensive and indispensable, and that suited me down to the ground. Because when you’re not considered to be a threat, you can get away with much, much more.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The first thirty minutes of my four-hour shift were relatively quiet, so I flicked through a folder of photographs on my mobile . . . the ones my husband Tony didn’t allow me to display in the house.

  I removed the silver-plated fountain pen from my bag and opened my notebook. I use it to jot down basic details of each caller, including their name, a summary of their problems and a few questions to include if there is a lull in the conversation. The caller is always in control of the chat, or at least that’s what I lead mine to believe.

  End of the Line’s mandate is clear and simple, and it is one of the many things that encouraged me to offer it my time. It believes that everyone has the right to live or die on his or her own terms. Provided it isn’t under duress and doesn’t hurt anyone else, we believe it’s absolutely their decision to end their lives and we won’t try to talk them out of it. In fact, during our training we are given the emotional tools to be there right up until their last breath, if that’s what the caller requests. We listen, we don’t act.

  The red light on my landline flashed with urgency. Every time I answer a call I remember what my mentor, Mary, told me during my induction: ‘You could be the last voice this person ever hears. Make them believe that you care.’

  ‘Good afternoon, you’ve reached the End of the Line, this is Laura speaking,’ I began in the same friendly manner I had countless times before. ‘May I ask your name?’

  I was greeted with silence, but that wasn’t uncommon. Callers may go to the effort of dialling our number, but most don’t plan what they’re going to say once their call is answered. It’s my duty to put them at ease and coax their worries out of them. Sometimes just hearing the calm in my voice is enough to take the edge off their fears.

  ‘Take your time,’ I assured the caller. ‘I have as long as you need.’

  ‘Things are really bad at the moment,’ she eventually began. Her voice was deep – decades of high-tar cigarettes deep.

  ‘Well, let’s talk it through, shall we?’ I offered. ‘What would you like me to call you?’

  She paused for long enough to think of a pseudonym. ‘Carole,’ she replied. It was impossible to tell her age through her smoke-damaged vocal cords.

  ‘Okay, Carole,’ I continued, writing her name down, ‘when you say things are awful, what aspects of your life are causing you difficulty?’

  ‘Money and my marriage,’ she said. ‘I was made redundant in March and I can’t find work. My Jobseeker’s Allowance barely covers the food bills, I’m four months behind on the council rent and my husband has a chronic lung condition that’s slowly killing him.’

  I’d liked to have asked how much her forty-a-day habit was helping his lungs but I stuck to the script. It’s not that I’m anti-smoking – one of the many things my colleagues and family don’t know about me is my penchant for a cigarette on the way home from a shift. But I’m always in control.

  I made bullet-point notes on what she was telling me. What I really wanted to learn was just how close to the edge her circumstances were pushing her. Why was she calling us today and how far would she go to find a resolution? However, I couldn’t bulldoze my way into her headspace; she needed encouraging.

  ‘That does sound like a lot to be coping with at the moment, Carole,’ I replied. ‘It’s times like this that test us the most, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m pissed off with being tested. I need a way out.’

  My interest flickered. ‘In what way?’

  I heard a flint wheel turn and a flame flicker to life as she sparked up a cigarette. ‘I feel like a right bitch for saying this out loud . . .’ She paused to inhale the smoke.

  ‘I’m here to listen, not to judge you.’

  ‘I’ve just reached breaking point. I can’t carry on.’ Carole’s voice cracked before she burst into a deep, chesty cough.

  ‘Start by telling me what you mean when you say you “need a way out”.’

  ‘I’ve been seeing another fella and I want to leave my husband, but I don’t know how to do it.’

  I rolled my eyes, and it was all I could do to stop myself from hanging up on her. We’re allowed to end abusive, sexual or aggressive calls. Sadly, being as common as muck wasn’t a good enough excuse.

  Carole wasn’t looking to end her life in the physical sense; she wanted to start a brand-new one without the baggage of the first. For a moment, I’d thought I might have struck gold, but answering a call at random from someone who’s serious about wanting to die is like finding a pearl in an oyster. I get four, maybe five in a year – if I’m lucky – but this year had been exceptionally good so far. However, Carole was not that person.

/>   I did what I was trained to do and let her cry and moan until there was nothing left to get off her chest. Eventually she hung up – and without a word of a thank you, I might add.

  Then I waited patiently for the next call, because there is always a next call. Someone, somewhere in the country, is always having a worse time than you. The expectation, the thrill of picking up that telephone and never knowing what direction the conversation might take: the next call is everything.

  I live for the next call.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘Hello?’ I shouted as I pushed open the front door and pulled the key from the lock. ‘Can someone give me a hand with the shopping, please?’

  There was no answer, but that wasn’t a guarantee the house was empty. The mention of shopping bags wasn’t the best way to lure two children and a husband out of hiding to help, unless the bags came from H&M or Zara, or a sports shop.

  I made three trips before they were all placed neatly across the wooden kitchen worktops. Each bag was below the wall cupboard or above the drawer where its contents were to be placed.

  Bieber the cat, an ugly grey-and-white thing with a deep coat of soft fur and a hiss like a coiled cobra, belonged to my younger daughter Alice. He lay stretched by the bifold doors, basking in the sun’s warming rays streaming through the glass. He turned his head to see who was disturbing his slumber and made some guttural rasp when he recognised me. I rasped back. I was the one who fed him and emptied his litter tray, but that wasn’t enough to earn his respect and still he detested me.

  When I was sure I was alone, I flicked the radio on. A DJ introduced an unfamiliar song, so I switched to a channel playing only music from the 1980s – the era of my childhood. Several callers to End of the Line had told me that my voice was like one of those late-night broadcasters on commercial stations who only ever play ballads. Apparently it was ‘soothing’.

  George Michael was admitting to kissing a fool before Madonna began urging me to dance for inspiration. Most of the time I didn’t listen closely to the songs; background noise in an empty house was enough to stop me from visiting dark spaces in my head that it did me little good returning to.

  With tins and packets placed inside the cupboards – the labels facing forward, and arranged in accordance of light colours to dark – I took a bag of frozen chicken breasts and stuffed them into a crammed fridge to defrost for tomorrow night. I unboxed a Victoria sponge, stuck my knife into a jar of jam and smeared some around the sides, then put a little more icing sugar on the top left-hand side than the right to make it look less perfect. I held up and examined a pair of jeans belonging to Zoe, one of my younger colleagues, who’d asked me to replace a broken zip. ‘No problem,’ I’d told her. ‘Give me a couple of days.’

  To the End of the Line team I was a superwoman, a devoted mum-of-three who could turn her hand to any task, from repairing a jacket pocket to reupholstering a chair. But I knew little about baking or sewing – that’s what supermarkets and tailors were for. And no one I worked with needed to know that I outsourced my pastries and repairs.

  A yawn caught me by surprise – it was only approaching four o’clock but it felt like much later in the day. The kids would have been let out of school by now, and Tony finished work in a couple of hours. So I poured myself a large glass of red wine while I had the opportunity and sank into the armchair next to the bifold doors overlooking the patio and garden. I gazed out across the lawn, beyond the beds of brightly coloured lupins and peonies, towards the wooden fence and the flat grassy playing fields.

  When the first of the children arrived two years into our marriage, Tony often reminded me to make the most of my ‘me’ time where and when I could get it. Now they were older, I had too much ‘me’ time to fill, especially in this house, the one he’d made us move to. I’d been more than content in our last home, but Tony was insistent that once we made it onto the property ladder, we must keep climbing.

  I inhaled the floral scent coming from a jasmine reed diffuser and glanced around the open-plan room. We’d knocked the kitchen, living and dining rooms into one large living space. I’d overseen the landscaping of the garden, the internal remodelling, the replastering and redecorating, and I knew every inch of the place like the back of my hand. Everything was just how Tony had envisaged it. Yet it felt alien to me.

  ‘We’ll only need to stay here a couple of years,’ he’d explained. ‘Once all the work is done and we can make a tidy profit, we can move on.’

  But we hadn’t moved on. It had been three years and I was still sitting in the same living area.

  I finished my wine and gave a sly smile as I stepped on the cat’s tail, causing him to spit and run. Upstairs, the bathroom door and the kids’ bedroom doors were shut, so I made sure they were ajar. They knew there were no closed doors in my house.

  I peered into Alice’s room first. Her walls were still adorned with pink, sparkly paper and covered in posters of pop stars and TV personalities, like most nine-year-olds’ rooms were. But she was growing up fast and I was already feeling the apron strings tugging as she began to pull away. It wouldn’t be long before her thoughts became polluted with boys, make-up, and clothes that were tight in all the wrong places.

  Effie’s bedroom showed the difference in their ages. Pictures of YouTube and Instagram stars I didn’t know the names of were affixed around a mirror and taped to her door in collages. She’d printed out photos of her friends, too, all of them featuring small gangs of overly made-up girls sucking their cheeks in so tightly they must’ve met in the centre of their mouths and pouting. Tummies were also held in, to make them look even skinnier than fourteen-year-old girls already are.

  Effie’s confidence had grown and she was aware she was beginning to catch the eyes of boys her own age, along with men who had no business looking at young girls. Once upon a time, they used to look at me like that. Now it was as if I didn’t exist. I couldn’t help but hate her a little for it. She was like a vampire, sucking the beauty and vibrancy from me and keeping it for herself.

  She was also keeping secrets from me, so I had to learn about my daughter’s private life by other means instead. I sat on her bed, switched on my mobile phone and clicked on the Facebook app. She still hadn’t changed her login password so I checked her inbox. Most of the messages were from her friends. Occasionally boys’ names appeared but the subjects were innocuous, with the exception of one.

  She seemed keen on a boy called Matt, who was pictured behind the wheel of a small blue car that he’d obviously spent time and money trying to make look sporty. In another, he’d sent Effie his photo, lifting his T-shirt and revealing his bare belly. I remembered when Tony’s stomach had been as flat and smooth as that. I’d watched him in his swimming shorts from the shallow end of the school pool, imagining how it might feel to run my fingertips across him. Like velvet. When he caught me staring, he grinned and I swiftly turned my head to hide my reddening face. But the way he looked at me . . . the way he tilted his head, the way his eyes widened, the way the corners of his lips unfurled when he smiled . . . I knew that if I remained patient, he’d approach me and eventually he’d be mine. I always get what I set my sights on.

  Effie had matched Matt’s picture like for like, only with her bra poking out from under her rolled-up T-shirt. I bristled.

  The door to the third bedroom was the only one I left closed. One day I might venture in there, but not yet. I wasn’t ready yet.

  I changed from my skirt and blouse into a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. I’d only bought them recently and I was struggling to button them up. And when I finally managed it, I looked down in dismay at my paunchy stomach perched upon the waistband like a fat pigeon bowing the branch of a tree. My thrice-weekly hot yoga classes and two swims weren’t doing to my figure what the posters on the gym wall promised. I wondered if there was any part of my body that Tony still found attractive. If there was, he’d never thought to mention it.

  I glanced in the mirror at t
he prematurely ageing woman looking back at me. My dark roots were beginning to show through my highlights, and my once-prominent cheekbones appeared to have slipped down my face to create an avalanche of jowls. My light-brown eyes with their youthful shine didn’t belong to this face.

  I’d hoped the stress of ovarian cancer and chemotherapy had only damaged where people couldn’t see, but I’d been kidding myself. I was dead on the inside and decaying on the outside. Even now, over a year later, the impact was still revealing itself through my face. It wouldn’t be long before I’d be forced to ask one of the plastic school-gate mums for the number of their Botox and fillers clinic. The injections plus tooth veneers and the contact lenses for my nearsightedness meant there’d be very little left of the original me soon. Maybe Tony would prefer that.

  I poured my third and fourth tablets of the day from the bottle of aspirin I kept in the bathroom cabinet, and swallowed them without water. Tony had no idea what the bottle actually contained – slimming tablets not approved for sale in the UK by the Medicines and Healthcare products Regulatory Agency. I’d ordered them from an online Eastern European pharmacy instead. They bound my fat and helped me lose weight quickly, but the side effects were crippling stomach cramps and oily diarrhoea. It was a small price to pay if it meant Tony might look at me again like he’d done that day in the swimming pool.

  By the time I reached the bottom of the stairs the paperboy was cramming the local newspaper through the letterbox. I hurried my way through it, past the news and the property pull-outs until I found the pages I was searching for.

  The hairs on my arms prickled into life when I saw Chantelle’s face for the first time. She was close to how I’d pictured her – plain, gaunt, angular, with a scrunchie keeping her scraped-back hair in place. I tore out the page, made a mental note of the date and placed it inside my bag. Then I waited patiently with another glass of wine for the time to pass until the conversation of three people I barely knew returned.