The Good Samaritan

by John Marrs

  CHAPTER FOUR

  FOUR MONTHS, TWO WEEKS AFTER DAVID

  I removed the Kindle from my bag and placed it on the desk in my booth.

  I flicked through the library to choose from one of a dozen eBooks I’d downloaded but had yet to start reading. As a rule, novels bore me. The concentration it takes to remember what you’ve read and who is who as you swipe from one page to the next is arduous. I much prefer downloading a television programme and watching it on my phone instead. But Janine, our branch manager, frowned upon us doing that, one of many petty little dislikes she’d made us aware of since she’d taken charge seven months earlier.

  I’d barely made it past the prologue of a psychological thriller before the first call of my evening arrived. I cleared my throat and slipped into character like an actor preparing to take to the stage.

  So much can be won or lost in the first words a caller hears. Appear overenthusiastic and they’ll think you’re too upbeat to empathise with them. Sound too matter-of-fact and you risk appearing like an authoritarian about to berate them. I like to think I keep the right balance.

  It was a teenage girl who spoke; she’d found herself pregnant and had no idea how to tell her parents. I listened sympathetically, asked my open-ended questions in all the correct places and quietly wondered how I’d react if Effie ever found herself in that kind of trouble. I’d insist on a termination, but she’d probably keep the baby just to be awkward. The girl on the phone cried a little. I pretended to care and by the end of our chat she decided she would test the family waters by telling an aunty she was close to of her predicament.

  Next, it was my turn to get ‘the masturbator’. Once a week, usually on a Thursday, he was compelled to call us and audibly pleasure himself. He wasn’t bothered if it was a man or woman who answered, because by the time we answered, he wouldn’t be far from climaxing. We were supposed to hang up as soon as we were aware of what he was doing, but tonight I was feeling generous, so I told him how horny it made me feel and let him complete the task in hand before wishing him a good evening.

  After two immediate hang-ups, I was approaching the end of my shift and anticipating a gruelling hot yoga class. I contemplated ignoring the call at first as I didn’t want to be late, but I picked up.

  ‘I’ve not called somewhere like this before. I don’t know where to begin,’ a male voice began.

  ‘Well, let’s start with a name. What shall I call you?’

  ‘Steven,’ he replied. It came to him too quickly for it to be a pseudonym. I made a note of it.

  I placed him in his twenties; he was softly spoken and his accent was local. He did little to disguise his nerves.

  ‘It’s nice to talk to you, Steven. 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.’

  He ticked box number one all by himself, which made my job a little easier. ‘Well, it’s great that you’ve called,’ I said. I’d allow my instinct the usual five minutes to decide whether he was genuine or seeking attention. ‘Tell me about the people who love and care about you. Who do you have in your life who falls into that category?’

  He paused for a moment to think. ‘Nobody really,’ he replied and let out a deep breath. Saying it aloud was clearly a pivotal moment for him. ‘I’ve got no one at all.’

  ‘Do you have anyone you’d call a friend?’

  ‘No.’

  That was box number two ticked.

  ‘I’m sure it’s difficult when you are completely alone in the world.’

  ‘It’s shit.’

  ‘Are you working at the moment? Are there any opportunities to build up personal relationships in your career?’

  ‘Not really. Sometimes days can pass and I realise I haven’t had a proper conversation in almost a week.’

  Box number three ticked – the fewer people in his personal or working life the better. I was glad I’d answered his call after all.

  ‘A week is a long time not to have a proper conversation with someone,’ I replied, empathising with his situation and keeping him on point. ‘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?’

  ‘Often,’ he whispered, so quietly I could barely hear him. It was like he was ashamed of his suicidal thoughts.

  Box four usually took much longer than this to tick, which made my job a little easier. I might have something to work with here, I thought.

  I scanned the room. Zoe was playing a game on her mobile phone while speaking into her headset; Sanjay’s legs were jiggling up and down as he listened to a caller; and Mary was drinking something from a thermal flask that smelled like toxic soup. Nobody was paying me the slightest bit of attention in my corner.

  Inside my bag, I fished for a second notebook, the one used solely for callers I might be able to help in my own unique way. Inside it, I kept detailed notes on everything they told me. Later, I’d bring them up again as conversation points to reinforce that I’d been listening and I understood. I wrote Steven’s name on a fresh page and underlined it.

  ‘You don’t need to be embarrassed, Steven,’ I replied. ‘We’ve all thought about ending our lives at some time or another. Have you ever tried to do it before?’

  ‘No. But I did plan it out once.’

  ‘You planned it out once?’ I was careful to mirror his language, making him aware I’d listened and of how seriously I took his admission. ‘Can I ask what you had in mind?’

  ‘I printed out my bank details and bills and left them in envelopes on my desk, along with the passwords for accounts and deeds to the flat for the police to find. I’d plotted out the route to a bridge in the countryside over the railway line, near the village of Kelney. Do you know it?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘There’s a gap where the railings have rusted so you can squeeze through to get to the tracks. I made it halfway down the bank and waited for ages for a train. I was just going to jump in front of it and that’d be it. But it took so long for one to arrive that I talked myself out of it.’

  ‘I see. While you were waiting for that train, did you wonder how death might feel?’

  ‘It won’t feel like anything, because after death there is nothing.’

  ‘Will it bring you peace?’

  ‘My life hasn’t, so I can only hope.’

  Everything I’d asked, he’d already asked himself. He hadn’t made his decision rashly.

  I’d become increasingly frustrated by ditherers of late. There were too many callers who all-too-casually threw around suicidal threats, but when it came down to it they were too gutless to do anything about it.

  So I needed to push and pull Steven to reinforce how serious he was. The ‘fear-then-relief technique’, that’s what psychologists call it. I lowered my voice, held the phone closer to my mouth and launched into a well-rehearsed but selectively used speech.

  ‘Perhaps, deep down, you aren’t serious about ending your life,’ I began. ‘Maybe it’s a cry for help? 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’re feeling right now �
� is going to be it for you. Can you live like that, Steven? I know I couldn’t.’

  I’ll only use those words if I come into contact with a potential candidate, and often my directness catches them unawares. They’ll have called expecting me to be sympathetic towards them and perhaps reassure them everything’s going to be okay in the end. But I’m not that person. I know from personal experience that everything isn’t always okay in the end. Often, it’ll get much worse than it is right now. And sometimes it’s completely unbearable. But I can make it stop. They just have to trust me.

  ‘I – I – I’m not a timewaster, honestly,’ Steven stuttered, taken aback. ‘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. 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. Just remember, we’re here for you in whatever capacity you want us to be.’

  ‘You mean to listen to me?’

  He was fishing. I’d let him sniff around the bait before I withdrew it. ‘If that’s all you want from me, then yes.’

  ‘What if . . . What if I need . . . What if I decide . . .’ His voice went quiet and then faded away.

  What Steven needed was someone to tell him death was the right choice. But first I needed to know for certain what he wanted from me. I’m not supposed to finish a sentence, even if I know what they’re going to say, but I make exceptions for potential candidates.

  ‘Are you calling to tell me you want to end your life and are looking for my support in doing it?’

  ‘I . . . I suppose I am.’

  Once a candidate thinks they understand me, I’ll wrong-foot them by going back to how I was when I first answered their call. I trust no one until I know just how desperate they are.

  ‘End of the Line is an impartial, non-judgemental space,’ I began. ‘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,’ Steven replied. A silence hung awkwardly between us. ‘But . . .’

  ‘But?’ I repeated.

  ‘But if I wanted to, you know, go ahead with it, would you . . . ?’

  ‘Would I what, Steven? What would you like me to do?’

  He became quiet again and I sensed his increasing anxiety. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go,’ he said before the line went dead.

  I tapped my fingers on the desk and examined my fingernails. There was a slight chip in the burgundy varnish on my index finger. I’d need to make an appointment to get them repainted.

  I wasn’t worried about Steven calling back. Of course he would, and when he did seek me out again, he’d have shown me he’d put in the effort. You can’t just contact End of the Line’s number and reach me, as we have no direct lines. There are ninety-four of us, all volunteering for different shifts, and it’s pot luck who you’re put through to.

  I remembered how David had kept calling back until he found me. Once we’d built up a rapport, I gave him my shift timetable so we could speak more regularly. We’d chat three or four times a week, and not just about our arrangement; sometimes we’d discuss world events, our days, or the countries we’d like to travel to.

  And as he spoke, I’d close my eyes and imagine we were sitting on opposite sides of a table in a café abroad somewhere; we’d have spent the day sightseeing, and in the evening, we’d be making the most of the balmy Mediterranean weather and eating at a bistro, enjoying a fish supper, drinking Chianti and chatting like friends do. Then reality would reassert itself and I’d realise none of that could ever happen.

  All these months later and I still longed to hear his voice again. I wondered if that feeling would ever completely pass. David had understood me as much as I’d understood him – but my presence in his life wasn’t enough to encourage him to stay. I wasn’t enough to make him choose life.

  My stomach began to knot.

  Remember your anchor, Laura. Remember your anchor.

  I considered what Steven and I might accomplish. He’d made plans, he’d got his affairs in order, and he’d chosen and been to a location. All he needed was me. I had a good feeling about him.

  I wanted to hear him die.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I double-checked the time printed in the advert I’d torn from the local newspaper, and glanced at my watch. It was already ten minutes later than advertised. I hated tardiness.

  My restless eyes fixed upon a group of young women who were also waiting for the doors to open. I patted the creases from my jacket to make myself more presentable. I needn’t have bothered – by the look of them, I was the only one to have made any effort. And because I wasn’t wearing running shoes or a hoodie, I stuck out like a sore thumb.

  I looked towards my Mini and spotted a familiar figure further down the road. He was perched on a plastic bus-shelter seat with a bottle by his side.

  ‘Nate . . .’ I began as I approached him. The old backpack of Tony’s that I’d given him was already so caked in filth that it was hard to spot the pale-blue colouring beneath. Tobacco, alcohol, urine, and the areas he chose to sleep rough in had all brewed together to create an unwelcoming odour. But I didn’t comment on it as I hugged him tightly. It felt like wrapping my arms around a bag of bones.

  ‘Hi, Laura,’ he muttered, and offered a thin smile. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Normally it took a few minutes for him to register who I was through his boozy haze, but this morning he was lucid and relatively sober. There was just a year separating Nate and me, but every time I saw him, our age gap seemed to widen. His lank, greasy hair brushed his collar and there were holes in the front of his shoes that showed his socks. His inch-long beard was greying, and his eyes had darkened from a warm brown to a coal black. There was very little left in him that was alive.

  ‘How are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Not so bad.’ He gave a hard, hacking cough.

  ‘You don’t sound it. Do you still have that chest infection?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I offered before to drive you to the walk-in centre to see a doctor. We can still go – this afternoon if you like?’

  ‘No, no, it’s fine,’ he replied.

  ‘Do you need some money?’

  ‘Ha! I always need some money, Laura, but you’ve done enough for me already.’

  I reached into my bag and pulled out all I had, a £10 note. I was embarrassed by such a poor offering. ‘Please take this. Buy yourself some lunch.’

  ‘You know how I’ll spend it.’ His eyes watched mine as I clocked his bottle of cider. His addiction was the only one I could overlook. His was present for a reason. His was there because of how he’d saved me.

  ‘Just promise me you’ll at least get yourself a sandwich.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Promise me,’ I repeated.

  ‘I promise.’

  When he smiled, I noted he’d lost another tooth from the bottom row; they were falling like pins in a bowling alley. Seeing Nate living and looking like this broke my heart, but having rejected my efforts of help in the past, there was little else I could do but watch him gradually disintegrate. I hoped it gave him a little comfort that someone in the world still cared for him.

  Behind us, a plume of white and grey smoke from the volume of cigarettes being smoked ascended skywards. I made my way back towards the crowd as the previous party left through the double doors.

  I hung behind. I didn’t want to be so close to the front that I was asked who I was, but I didn’t want to be so far towards the back that I missed what was being said about her. Slap bang in the middle of the crematorium would suffice.

  By the time Chantelle Taylor’s unvarnished pine coffin was carried inside by four suited undertakers and placed upon the plinth, t
he Adele song blaring through the speakers was approaching its second chorus. The coffin was adorned with flowers, most likely plastic, including one of those awful-looking wreaths with the word ‘MUMMY’ written in yellow carnations placed on top of the lid.

  There were only thirty or so mourners in attendance and most were around Chantelle’s age: single mothers in their early twenties wearing fake gold jewellery and with tattoos on their hands. If proof were ever needed I’d done the right thing in helping her to die, it was right there in the eyes of the walking dead.

  I glanced at the flimsy black-and-white photocopy of an order of service with a photograph of Chantelle on the cover. She was holding a pint glass in a pub beer garden and her belly was swollen with pregnancy. I shook my head; even in utero her children hadn’t stood a chance.

  Doubtless it was them sitting at the front with a tearful older woman. She turned her head and dabbed at the over-applied mascara oozing down her face like an oil slick. They were too young to be here – both under four, I remembered Chantelle telling me. By the look of their grandmother, I decided they’d be better off under the care of the local authority. I made a mental note to tip off social services that drugs were being dealt from her premises. I had no idea if they were, but chances were a police search would find something to use against her. I’d be doing those kids a favour. Being a ward of court hadn’t been a walk in the park, but it hadn’t killed me either.

  The minister read from his script and I recalled that when Chantelle first started phoning End of the Line, we’d discussed how she was trying to kick heroin for the sake of her unfortunate little ones. It was only with my help that she gradually began to realise that, in sobriety, happily-ever-afters weren’t made for families like hers. I had her back on the stuff within a few weeks.

  ‘How does it make you feel, knowing your children can’t give you the high that drugs do?’ I once asked her, a couple of weeks into our regular chats. I sensed by her tone that she was in a particularly dark place that day.

  ‘Like a shit mum,’ she said bleakly.