The Good Samaritan

by John Marrs

  I shook my head. This was precisely why people like Steven needed people like me. He was naive. Only if his method was meticulous and well researched would it be ‘quick and easy’. There was so much he hadn’t taken into account. If he chose a drop hanging, he’d instantly fall unconscious and death would soon follow. Now that would be ‘quick and easy’.

  But chances were the beams in an old house weren’t high enough for that, so Steven’s drop would likely be just a few feet. If he got it wrong, he could suffer a long and drawn-out death. I had so much to teach him.

  ‘I’ve bought some rope and I’ve been practising my knots by watching YouTube clips,’ he offered.

  ‘I don’t think it will be as easy as that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  I glanced over towards Zoe. She was engrossed in a Snapchat conversation, sending silly pictures of herself with rabbit ears and a dog’s snout to some equally juvenile-minded fool.

  ‘Because there are a lot of complications involved in your method, if that’s what you choose,’ I whispered. ‘But we can work through that another time if it’s the direction you decide to take.’

  ‘So you’ll help me?’

  ‘As I’ve explained to you before, it’s not my job to try to talk you out of anything or into my way of thinking. I’m just here to listen.’

  ‘What if . . . ?’ His voice trailed off.

  I waited for him to finish his sentence, but he didn’t. ‘David?’ I asked. ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘David?’

  ‘Sorry, I meant Steven.’ I pinched my arm hard. ‘You were saying, “what if”?’

  ‘What if you were with me when I did it?’

  My stomach somersaulted like it did each and every time someone asked me that question.

  ‘If you need someone to be with you, then I’m happy to listen and keep you company.’

  ‘I don’t mean on the phone.’

  His question caught me off guard and I wasn’t sure if I understood him correctly. He was hesitant before he spoke again.

  ‘What if I asked you to be with me, Laura, here in my house, when I hanged myself? Would you come?’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I slept through my alarm and no one had thought to wake me up, so the house was silent and empty by the time I left my bed.

  I passed the spare room that Tony had taken as his own and wondered if I’d ever feel his breath against my neck again as he slept. My arm brushed against the staircase wall and left a black mark on my white dressing gown. I cursed the wall and threw the gown into the washing machine. And as I waited for the thirty-minute cycle to finish, I sat at the breakfast bar in my pyjamas, tucking into two strawberry yoghurts that Effie loved but were soon to go out of date. The machine’s drum tossed my dressing gown around in all directions. It resembled how the inside of my head had felt since Steven’s last phone call.

  His request for me to be there for him in person as he died was all I could think about. For the last thirty-six hours, every time I tried to process one thought, another would come crashing down upon it, and they generally involved him.

  Often, people don’t like to die alone. Many I’d assisted had shown their gratitude by asking to share their final moments with me on the other end of the telephone. A minority had been too self-centred to think about my needs, and I’d only learned of their deaths through notices in the local newspaper. But no one, not even David, had asked me to be there in person when they died. Until Steven.

  What if I asked you to be with me, Laura, here in my house, when I hanged myself? Would you come? His question still echoed inside me.

  At the time, I’d blinked hard and shaken my head, taken aback by his offer. I’d attempted to retain my calm, professional veneer.

  ‘I don’t think that would be appropriate,’ I replied.

  ‘Sorry, I’m just . . . scared that I might get it wrong.’ He sounded disappointed in me.

  ‘I understand that, and I’d probably feel the same way if it were me. But I can be with you by phone for as long as you want.’

  ‘I need you here, to tell me if I’m messing something up and reassure me it’s all going to be all right. And to be there for me . . . you know . . . at the end.’

  ‘Are you having second thoughts?’

  ‘No, no, I’m not. But it’s just that you, like, get me. You aren’t like those therapists and counsellors who try to tell me how much I have to live for, or dose me up on a cocktail of drugs so I can’t think straight anymore. You properly care.’

  ‘I do.’ I was flattered he saw that in me.

  ‘Would you at least think about it?’

  ‘I can’t, Steven. I’m sorry, but you’re asking me to do something that’s illegal and completely unethical. I could get into so much trouble.’

  An awkward silence surrounded us, neither knowing what to say next.

  ‘You’re right and I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,’ he replied. ‘I won’t do it again.’

  ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘I should go now,’ he said and hung up.

  I’d remained rigid with the receiver clamped to my ear as the end-of-call tone sounded. The rational side of me bristled at his invitation. I was annoyed with him for putting me in such a difficult position. But I felt excited, too – and that made me anxious.

  ‘Is everything all right, Laura?’ asked Sanjay. ‘You’re away with the fairies.’

  Bugger off and leave me alone, was what I wanted to say. I needed space to process Steven’s request.

  ‘Yes, I’ve just had a difficult conversation,’ I replied. ‘Rape, you know.’

  ‘Do you need a time-out in the appointment room to talk about it?’

  ‘No, I’ll be fine. But thank you.’

  I gave him a half-hearted smile and hurried from my booth to the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face, then patted it with a paper towel. I stared at my reflection in the mirror as I reapplied my lipstick and foundation.

  Of course you can’t do it! Why would he think you might? You’re a mother, for God’s sake. He has nothing to lose, whereas your children and husband need you. You have no idea who he really is when he’s away from the phone. He could be a lunatic. You’d never be so stupid as to say yes.

  Suddenly the washing machine beeped to inform me the spin cycle had finished. I put my damp dressing gown in the tumble dryer and shoved a cinnamon bagel in the toaster.

  I’d made the right decision to refuse. Being present for Steven’s death was a ridiculous, dangerous idea.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t find any record of him being here,’ the nurse began, scanning through Nate’s case notes on his computer. ‘Are you absolutely sure you’ve got the right hospital?’

  ‘Of course I’m bloody sure! Do I look like I’m stupid? I was here two weeks ago when he was in the high-dependency unit. Look again.’

  He checked once more, but when his response came in the form of an apologetic shrug, I wanted to launch myself across the desk at him.

  I’d arrived at the ward where Nate was being treated to find he was no longer there. Naturally I feared the worst and hurried towards the reception desk. My relief that my friend wasn’t dead was replaced with frustration that he’d clearly discharged himself.

  My nose ran, and angry, burning tears poured down my cheeks as I dashed back to my car. I sat in the driver’s seat, slipping from present to past as memories of that final weekend under the care of our foster mother came to mind.

  I recalled that whatever liquid anaesthetic Sylvia had given Nate to drink with his breakfast turned out to be much more powerful than the usual dose.

  ‘It’ll make you relax for longer,’ she’d advised as she passed him a brown glass bottle and told him to drink its contents in one gulp. Nate obliged and screwed up his face at the bitter taste. The one occasion he’d spat out something similar without her noticing, he’d ended up in more physical pain than he’d ever imagined. Sylvia was
looking out for his best interests, he told me, as if to put me at ease. Neither of us believed it. Within moments, the liquid had the desired effect and his limbs drooped loosely from their sockets as if he had no strength left in them. Nate barely acknowledged Saturday morning’s visitor when he arrived to take him away soon after.

  Hours later, he’d been returned and was moving restlessly in his sleep. I remained with him in his bedroom because I wanted the first face he saw when he awoke to belong to someone who loved him.

  As I patiently waited, I played with his toy cars and built dream homes with large windows and gardens out of his Lego – presents that Wednesday night’s visitor brought before Nate disappeared with him for hours at a time. I loathed dolls and plastic ponies and the sorts of toys girls were supposed to prefer. I also despised the clothes Sylvia put me in. That weekend I didn’t understand why she’d insisted I wore a pretty skirt with white daisies around the hem and a too-tight T-shirt that cut into my underarms and overemphasised the slight curves of my chest.

  By early evening, Nate had awoken and we’d made the most of the empty living room. I absent-mindedly pulled out specks of foam stuffing from the arms of the sofa as we tried to guess what was being shown on the side of the television screen that had been smashed. We loved to watch travel programmes and imagine we were anywhere in the world but in that flat. However, when Sylvia eventually appeared at the door, she wasn’t alone. The atmosphere instantly darkened.

  ‘Say hello to my friends, don’t be rude,’ Sylvia began in an everything-is-fine tone. Sensing our trepidation but needing us to be on best behaviour, she shot us a glare, but neither Nate nor I responded. The three men behind her transfixed us.

  The strangers stared at us and smiled with their mouths, but not their eyes. Nobody in my immediate world, with the exception of Nate, ever smiled with their eyes. And as time marched on, I’d noticed the light behind his eyes was gradually dimming. It made me sad. I had made him my anchor, but other forces were dragging him along the seabed, further and further away. I felt him pulling at me.

  I glared at the unwelcome guests; two were dark-skinned, with salt and pepper beards and baggy clothing. The other was white, slim, clean-cut, with dark, swept-back hair and a flawless complexion. I remember I’d never seen such shiny shoes.

  ‘Nate, my friends want to know if you’d like to go for a drive with them in their car?’ Sylvia continued. ‘You like your cars, don’t you? You’re always playing with them.’

  Nate eyed them suspiciously, knowing what their plans for him really meant.

  ‘And Laura, my other friend wants to take you shopping,’ she added. ‘I told you she was a pretty little thing,’ she said to the smart man. ‘Stand up and show him your skirt.’

  ‘But the shops are all shut now,’ I replied meekly and remained seated. I looked to Nate, who clambered stiffly to his feet, clearly still in pain from earlier.

  ‘No, leave her alone, just take me,’ he said.

  Sylvia scowled. ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘I’ll go, but leave Laura alone.’

  ‘Who are you to tell me what’s best for her?’ Sylvia yelled. ‘I feed and clothe you and put a roof over your heads and now she’s old enough to start paying her way.’

  ‘No!’ shouted Nate.

  I hadn’t witnessed my friend this angry before. My eyes brimmed; I didn’t want to go with the stranger. I wanted to stay there with Nate. He would protect me like he’d promised until we were old enough to run away together.

  Suddenly Sylvia surged across the room faster than I’d ever seen her move, and reached out to grab my arm. Nate pushed himself into her path. It fuelled her fury and she clipped him hard around the side of the head with the back of her hand, shoving him backwards onto the sofa.

  The three men stood in silence, watching, as again Nate rose to his feet to come between Sylvia and me. She craned her neck in the direction of the men. ‘If you want him, then help me,’ she barked. But before they could assist, Nate drew his arm back and gave the hardest punch his young arms would allow. His fist collided with Sylvia’s temple and she lost her balance, toppling sideways and hitting her head on the fireplace mantelpiece. She landed on the floor, but before she could move again, Nate lifted a ceramic ashtray above his head and brought it down upon her forehead.

  The men hurried out of the flat and back into the dusk. Nate and I remained motionless, staring at Sylvia; ash and cigarette butts littered her cheeks and neck. Her last breath was swift and sudden, not laboured. And I felt no pity or remorse for having played a part in it.

  When it was clear to us she wouldn’t be moving again, we hurried to our rooms, threw our only clean clothes into bin bags along with our toothbrushes, a bar of soap and a towel. Then we ran. Even huddling together that first night in the cold, dark woodland of Delapré Abbey, we felt safer than we ever had with Sylvia. But it was only to last another day before we were approached by two policewomen.

  When questioned at the police station, we told the truth about how we’d hurt our foster mother and how she had treated us, but they didn’t believe us. I was dismissed as an impressionable child caught under the spell of an older boy, and no matter how vigorously I tried to convince them Nate was trying to protect me, he faced the full force of the law.

  On the advice of a solicitor who didn’t care about his young, damaged charge, Nate pleaded guilty to Sylvia’s manslaughter and was sent away to a young offender institution. Then, as he came of age, he was transferred to an adult prison, and by the time he was released back into society in his mid-twenties, the deterioration in him was already in full swing. Meanwhile I’d moved on to other foster homes, eventually finding a new anchor in Tony. Nate found his in alcohol.

  I left the hospital car park and drove to the places where I’d found Nate in the past: bus stops, the food recycling bins behind supermarkets, a day centre, park benches, and a row of derelict houses ready for demolition. All I needed was a glimpse of him to reassure myself that he was okay. But he was keeping himself well hidden.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Mary wrapped both of her wrinkled hands around a mug of chamomile tea and closed her watery eyes.

  Her incessant sniffs as she tried to choke back another sob were getting on my nerves. I wanted to slap her around the face and tell her to get a grip. Instead, I gritted my teeth and placed my hand on hers and hoped that liver spots weren’t contagious.

  We were sitting together on the sofa in the appointment room at End of the Line. It was a rarely used ground-floor space designated for visitors who preferred to talk to a volunteer face-to-face rather than anonymously by phone. Our surroundings were every bit as miserable as the lives of the visitors who came here to spread their doom and gloom. Faded reproduction watercolours hung on the walls above a white plastic rack containing dog-eared advice leaflets. A padlocked door linked our building to the derelict offices next door.

  A barely visible green light attached to the security camera above us remained static, indicating our conversation wasn’t being recorded. Had Mary been a client and not the least threatening sap you could ever meet, one of our colleagues upstairs would be monitoring and recording our chat.

  ‘He was determined to end his life,’ Mary whimpered. ‘I asked every open-ended question I could think of to find something or someone to make it worth living, but he was adamant.’

  ‘You know it’s not your job to make them feel better about themselves or to change their outlook on life,’ I replied. ‘The last thing they want to hear is your disapproval. They’re often frightened to die by themselves and want their last moments to feel as normal as possible, though.’

  ‘I could hear him preparing himself in his bedroom and he sounded just so . . . normal . . . but then hearing someone taking an overdose and slowly dying . . . I’ll never get used to that.’

  ‘We’ve all been there, so we do feel for you,’ I said. It was a lie. I didn’t feel sympathy and, if anything, I was angry s
he’d got to that call before me. Death had fallen into the lap of an ungrateful old woman who hadn’t deserved it.

  The extent of distress a volunteer feels after a particularly harrowing call is graded from one to five. And when Janine spotted the emotional state Mary had wound herself up into, she called a level four. The rules strongly suggested that Mary didn’t complete her shift and instead debriefed with one of her peers. As I was the only one not on a call, the job fell to lucky old me.

  ‘Towards the end, I’m sorry to say this, but I thought about hanging up on him,’ Mary admitted. I wanted to slap her again, this time hard enough to send her dentures flying across the room. To not hear his final breath would’ve been like waiting for hours at a concert and leaving just as the singer came on stage. ‘He started making this horrible, guttural rasping sound and I think he might have vomited. I wouldn’t be surprised if he choked to death. What a horrible way to leave the world.’

  That would have been a new one, even for a veteran like me. Now, quietly, I was grateful Janine had asked me to debrief Mary. It meant I’d made her relive the pain of that call all over again.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I really am.’

  I had no doubt that when Steven called back later that week and offered me his apology, it was heartfelt.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I replied.

  ‘No, it’s not. I shouldn’t have put you in that position and I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve felt shitty about it for the last few days and I really need you to know I understand I was wrong.’

  ‘Honestly, Steven, I’m not here to judge you, I’m here to listen to everything you have to say to me.’

  ‘Who listens to you when you need to talk?’

  I paused. Once upon a time it was Nate, then Tony, and most recently David. Now the only ear I had was Henry’s. ‘I have friends and colleagues,’ I replied.

  ‘Do you have a family?’

  We were discouraged from answering personal questions in case our answers made us sound self-satisfied. But we weren’t supposed to lie about it either, just downplay it. ‘Yes, I do,’ I replied.