The Good Samaritan

by John Marrs

  So I developed new hopes instead: I wanted to help him become the best version of himself that he could be. Even the smallest of achievements, like identifying shapes and colours, became massive and all-consuming. Gradually I learned to accept the now and not hang on to what might have been.

  His mind would never grow older than one-year-old or become jaded. He’d never expect anything more from me than I had to give. To me, Henry was a perfect seven-year-old, just in his own individual way.

  I’d desperately wanted to remain Henry’s caregiver because he was part of me. And we were muddling along just fine until my cancer diagnosis ruined everything. The treatment required was urgent and rigorous and left me hospitalised. By the time I returned home weeks later, Henry had vanished. At first Tony claimed he was in respite care and would return when I was well enough to look after him. But when my strength came back, he gave me an ultimatum – our marriage and the girls, or Henry and me, on our own.

  Everyone from Henry’s doctors to his caseworkers assured me that it wouldn’t resonate with him that he wasn’t returning home again, but I knew my son. He thought that I’d given up and dumped him in the hands of people who’d never love him the way I did. And it killed me that he didn’t know that it wasn’t my fault – that it was my disease, not my lack of willingness, that had rendered me useless. The guilt almost swallowed me.

  I took a little comfort that, here, Henry would be looked after properly. He had people to feed him, people to bathe him, people to dress him and people to take him outside in the garden or by the lake to breathe in the fresh air. He wanted for nothing and he didn’t need me, but still I came. All I could do was brush the crumbs from his mouth and slick his hair into a parting. At least it was something.

  I took hold of Henry’s hand and placed my fingers on his wrist just to feel the rhythm of his pulse.

  ‘I can feel his heartbeat inside me,’ I’d said to Tony once, when I was pregnant.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ he’d replied. ‘It’s your own heart you can feel.’

  He didn’t understand that Henry’s heart and mine were one and the same. And as long as I could feel his pulse, he would always be my anchor.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  FOUR MONTHS, THREE WEEKS AFTER DAVID

  I scowled at the partially empty polystyrene coffee cup that had been left on my desk.

  I hated it when other volunteers used my booth in my absence, especially when they didn’t have the courtesy to clean up after themselves. As it was, the office was shabby, to say the least, what with its threadbare 1970s patterned carpet, faded white woodchip wallpaper, and nicotine-stained ceiling that no one had seen fit to repaint a decade after the indoor workplace smoking ban.

  Like a graffiti artist’s wall tag, I recognised the litterbug by the lipstick smeared around the cup’s rim – Janine. I flicked it into a plastic bin, then squirted the desk with an antibacterial hand-sanitiser and wiped away all traces of her before answering my first call.

  Based only on his nervous ‘Hello’, I knew immediately who was on the other End of the Line before he’d introduced himself. Some people never forget a face, but I never forget a voice, even when all that person has spoken is a solitary word. My eyes lit up.

  ‘My name is Steven. You probably don’t remember me, but I think you might be the lady I spoke to recently?’ He was trying, but failing, to hide his fear.

  ‘Yes, hello there, Steven, it was me you spoke to and, yes, I do remember you. How are things with you today?’

  ‘Okay, thanks.’

  ‘That sounds more positive than the last time. Has something in your circumstances changed?’

  ‘Nothing much really, I guess.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’ I wasn’t, of course. But I’d already concluded that if there had been significant improvements, he wouldn’t be calling me a second time. ‘But regardless, you’re having a good day today at least?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Well, sometimes after a good night’s sleep, we just wake up in the morning feeling better about things.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean the bad stuff goes away though, does it?’

  Arriving at that conclusion himself was one less seed I’d need to plant in his head.

  ‘How do you think you can make this good day extend by another twenty-four hours?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  Something in the pause between my questions and his answers made me think this wasn’t the conversation he wanted or expected. But it was exactly what I wanted, and I could almost hear his eyebrows knot as I appeared only to seek positive responses from him. He’d been hoping for a continuation of what we’d spoken about last time, when he’d wanted my support in ending his life but didn’t have the backbone to ask.

  If a potential candidate finds me a second time, I’ll know they’re serious. But I’ll always gloss over aspects of our first conversation. I’ll act like the part where I suggested they weren’t serious about killing themselves didn’t happen. I’ll consult my notes and throw in the odd fact or phrase they mentioned last time, to reiterate that I’d listened. But that’ll be it. It’s the callers who find me intriguing enough to track me down for a third time who’ll receive my undivided attention.

  For the next ten minutes, our conversation was by the book. On the surface, I aimed to reinforce the positives in his life. But because he was in such a negative headspace, hearing his own pessimistic responses only served to highlight his isolation.

  ‘Steven, I hope you don’t mind me saying, but earlier you said you were okay, but you don’t sound like you are.’

  ‘I think I’ve just got in the habit of saying I am so that people don’t worry about me.’

  It was time to give him another hall pass to what he really wanted to discuss. ‘This is a neutral place. You don’t have to pretend to be feeling anything you’re not with me. Is there anything you’d like to talk about in particular?’

  ‘Um . . . the last time we spoke . . .’

  ‘I remember . . .’

  ‘I told you something.’

  ‘You told me a lot of things.’

  ‘About me thinking about killing myself . . .’

  ‘Yes, you did.’

  ‘You asked me if I was prepared to do it.’

  ‘I don’t recall those being the exact words I used, Steven. I think you may have misinterpreted what I was saying.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I was confusing him. ‘What conclusions have you made regarding ending your life since last time?’

  ‘I’ve given it a lot of thought. In fact, it’s been the only thing on my mind and I can’t make it stop. You’re right – no matter what I do, nothing is going to change. All I’m going to feel like is this.’

  He was quoting me, almost verbatim. This was another positive sign. ‘And how do you think you can rid yourself of these feelings?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I think you do though, don’t you? If you’re being really honest with yourself.’

  ‘Yes,’ he whispered, ‘I’m ready. I mean, I want to . . . I want to die . . .’

  ‘Steven, I’m very sorry to interrupt, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to go now, as my shift is coming to an end. Unfortunately, I can’t transfer you to one of my colleagues, but if you call back, I’m sure someone else would be happy to pick up where we’ve left off.’

  It wasn’t the end of my shift, I still had another hour left and I’d never end a call that abruptly with someone who wasn’t a candidate.

  ‘What? But—’

  ‘Take care, David,’ I continued, then hung up without giving him the chance to say goodbye. He’d call back another day. I was certain of it.

  Wait, did I just call him David? I think I did. Bugger!

  David had been on my mind a lot recently, and hearing Steven talk about his feelings of hopelessness reminded me of what David had confessed.

  I’d offered to be there on the other end of the
telephone for David when his time came. But he’d needed more than that.

  ‘I don’t want to go on my own,’ he admitted. ‘I need someone to be there with me. Someone who, like me, is afraid of doing it alone.’

  I’d never had anyone make that request before. Flashbacks of miserable places I’d been to in my childhood began swirling through my head, and if circumstances had been different I might have given brief consideration to joining him. But I had a family, and Henry needed me. My anchor held me firm.

  I had to think. Where on earth might I find someone willing to participate? It’s not like I could advertise on Match.com – Male, 39, good-looking, great sense of humour, seeks woman to join him in suicide pact. So I returned to Internet message boards and forums I’d frequented in the early days, searching for potential candidates. But it’s hard to trust and recruit someone when they’re hiding behind an avatar.

  Then as luck – or fate – would have it, she came into our lives. She was a young woman who was pregnant and with a severe case of prenatal depression. It gave her dark thoughts, and the longer the pregnancy continued, the more convinced she became that she would make a terrible mother. She thought her husband was having an affair, as he’d been making covert phone calls and sums of money had been vanishing from their joint account. He was spending longer at work than normal, and because she’d been feeling fat and deeply unattractive, she thought he was finding affection elsewhere. I didn’t care if he was or wasn’t a cheating bastard. It just suited my needs that she believed he was, as it made her more depressed.

  Under different circumstances, I might’ve suggested she held out until after the birth before acting on her suicidal thoughts. But I needed someone malleable and open to suggestion and she fitted the bill perfectly.

  I was also very aware that I needed her more than she needed me. So I treated her with kid gloves and used every trick in the book to fast-track the process. I upped my shifts to every other day and encouraged her to keep calling until it was me who answered; I suggested she stop taking the low dose of antidepressants her doctor had prescribed, in case it gave her a chemical optimism; I advised keeping a distance from her friends and philandering husband, and I directed her towards particular Internet suicide message boards I knew well, to see that she wasn’t alone. After three weeks of intense conversations, research and manipulation, she was keen to meet David. And in the seven days before they were to meet, we’d only communicate through pay-as-you-go, untraceable mobile phones.

  The one and only time they came face-to-face was the day they stepped off Birling Gap’s cliff top in East Sussex together. They’d never spoken by phone, text or email. They had no idea what the other looked or sounded like or their reasons for dying, only that they shared a mutual destiny. They had trust in me and in each other – we were three friends all making the same leap of faith.

  Listening to them on the phone as they took their final steps across the verge and towards the cliff edge, I’d never felt such pride, joy, happiness, anticipation and excitement all at once. But deep down, I was envious of her for sharing that precious moment. It clawed away inside me when I saw it on the local TV news. I wasn’t able to bring myself to watch it and see her as a real person, so I turned the channel over. I had been instrumental in ending David’s pain, but she took the glory.

  I took a moment to close my eyes and imagine how it might’ve felt to hold David’s hand and feel his warmth travel through me as we took that one last step together. I sensed the softness of his skin, the smell of cologne on his neck, his pulse beating in rhythm with mine – and all with such clarity, as if I were there.

  ‘Laura!’ Janine’s irritated voice came from behind and startled me. My angry eyes opened wide. ‘Your phone is ringing. Could you answer it, please?’

  She pointed to the flashing red light.

  ‘Of course,’ I replied, and wondered how it might feel to take that phone and smash her across the face with it.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I scribbled on a piece of paper and slid it towards Sanjay’s desk. Even from this angle, I could see his shirt buttons straining and clumps of dark hair poking out through the gaps.

  The ever-incompetent Janine had messed up the rota and booked too many of us in, so the room contained more people than I was comfortable with.

  Why are the police in Janine’s office? I’d written.

  ‘No idea,’ Sanjay mouthed. He’d doused himself in a musky oud-based cologne, but it was doing little to mask his body odour. I glanced towards Mary, who was also on a call, and raised my eyebrows, but she shook her head.

  I was supposed to be listening to a widowed pensioner complaining about her crippling loneliness. But I was far too preoccupied by the uniformed officers talking to Janine.

  Their proximity made me feel uneasy – was this something to do with me? Had Steven reported me to the police? Had my instinct failed me and had I gone too far, too soon with him? I guessed the odds were that it might happen some time. And it would only take one person’s accusation to ruin my reputation.

  R U OK? Sanjay wrote back. I hated text talk when it wasn’t written on a phone. And even then I wasn’t comfortable with it.

  Yes, just being nosy! I scribbled, and added a smiley face.

  Quietly, I wanted to grab my bag and dash out of there. But I needed to know for definite if what was going on in Janine’s office involved me.

  My caller started droning on about her two estranged children while my eyes were fixed upon the two young officers drinking from mugs and tucking into more of my pastries. I leaned forward and craned my neck to try to pick up on their muffled conversation, but only a lip-reader could have translated it.

  I felt a knot expand in my stomach to the size of a watermelon as I replayed my two conversations with Steven in my head. I was quite certain I’d never told him in actual words that I would support him in ending his life. I was too careful for that. So any accusations would be his word against mine.

  British law had decriminalised suicide back in 1961, so it was no longer illegal to try to take your own life. However, encouraging or assisting someone else’s suicide was a different matter and the police had a duty to investigate accusations. The maximum penalty, if found guilty, was fourteen years’ imprisonment. Henry would never survive that long without me.

  The more I glared at the officers, the more my initial panic made way for anger. What was I doing that was so wrong? I was only helping people, just as End of the Line was supposed to. Granted, I had an agenda, but I had my own boundaries, too: no children, teenagers or anyone with learning difficulties – everyone else of sound mind could make their own decisions, with my assistance of course. If society’s moral compass weren’t so screwed up, I’d have been rewarded for the lengths I’d gone to in order to help those in need. People are their own worst enemies when they try to plod along even if it means leading miserable, hopeless lives. It’s up to me to save them from themselves.

  But there’d be no point in trying to explain that to Janine or to the police; they’d only spin it into something negative to use against me. Social workers, counsellors, doctors . . . they’d all judged me in the past and they’d all been wrong. I wouldn’t sit back and allow history to repeat itself.

  As they left, I watched Sanjay wander into her office, and willed my caller to shut up before I followed him inside.

  ‘They’ve found our number in another phone of someone who died,’ Sanjay began.

  ‘Who?’ I asked.

  ‘A young mum who overdosed on heroin.’

  Ah, Chantelle.

  I’d spoken to her God knows how many times leading up to her death, but her calls could never be traced back to me. Callers trust us because we protect their anonymity and we can’t trace their numbers. There are no direct lines to us and we don’t have extension numbers. Based on the dialling code of a landline or the GPS of a mobile, calls to End of the Line’s national number are diverted to the caller’s nearest branch.
And whichever of us is free to answer will do so. If a branch’s lines are all engaged, the call goes to one of four neighbouring counties. The police must have assumed that because Chantelle was local, we’d get her calls.

  ‘How many deaths have been linked to us now?’ Sanjay asked Janine.

  ‘According to the records,’ Janine began, leafing through a printed-out spreadsheet, ‘this new case makes twenty-four in Northamptonshire in the last five years.’

  I couldn’t take credit for all of them, as much as I’d liked to have.

  ‘Hmm, slightly higher than average, then,’ said Sanjay.

  Janine was being distracted by her computer’s refusal to accept her password. ‘Bloody thing,’ she snapped.

  ‘It’s your initial and then surname and your chosen four-digit number,’ Sanjay reminded her. I memorised the numbers she added to a list of notes entitled ‘Passwords’ on her iPad before she slipped it back into her ugly orange handbag.

  ‘I don’t understand what the police want,’ I said. ‘They know our job isn’t to talk people out of dying or break their confidence. We’re just here to listen.’

  ‘Thank you, Laura. I am very aware of what we do,’ replied Janine piously. ‘They’re investigating whether they can build a case against a drug dealer she was in a relationship with, and wanted to find out if she’d spoken to one of us about him. I reiterated, anything that’s said in conversation is in the strictest confidence.’

  Chantelle had spoken to me about him on many occasions. Had he not constantly eroded her self-confidence and plied her with heroin, our paths might never have crossed. I owed him my silence.

  ‘How many times did she call?’ asked Sanjay.

  ‘Nineteen times in the weeks before she died,’ Janine replied, and removed a packet of biscuits from her drawer, emblazoned with the words ‘gluten- and dairy-free’. ‘If she came through to this branch, someone must remember her. And they must know that we don’t encourage callers to be reliant on talking to just one of us. A second volunteer might offer a different mindset that helps them more than another can.’