by John Marrs
‘Maybe it’s a cry for help?’ she continued. ‘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 are feeling right now – is going to be it for you. Can you live like that, Steven? I know I couldn’t.’
I knew in that moment I’d found her.
None of the others had even come close to talking to me like this. I should have been excited, but in all my preparations I’d stupidly not considered where to go if I ever reached this stage. I’d assumed I could wing it but I was wrong. Instead, I became tongue-tied.
‘I – I – I’m not a timewaster, honestly,’ I stuttered. ‘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,’ she continued. ‘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.’ Now her tone had returned to calming.
Am I just imagining all this?
I could almost picture her smile as she spoke, like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. ‘Just remember, we’re here for you in whatever capacity you want us to be.’
‘You mean to listen to me?’
I held my breath as I waited for her reply. She’d basically just agreed with me that I had nothing to live for and now she was telling me I had courage. I wasn’t sure who was the cat, who was the mouse and who was toying with whom.
‘If that’s all you want from me, then yes.’
‘What if . . . What if I need . . . What if I decide . . .’ My voice trailed off. How on earth could I put it into words without scaring her off?
‘Are you calling to tell me you want to end your life and are looking for my support in doing it?’
She’d done it for me. Butterflies rose en masse in my stomach and took flight. Oh fuck! This is it! What the hell do I say next?
‘I . . . I suppose I am.’ I grimaced as the words fell clumsily from my mouth. And again her tone switched, as if she were lecturing me.
‘End of the Line is an impartial, non-judgemental place,’ she continued. ‘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,’ I said. I racked my brain for how to respond. The best I could manage was a meek ‘But . . .’
‘But?’ she repeated.
She had me on the back foot and she relished it. ‘But if I wanted to, you know, go ahead with it, would you . . . ?’
‘Would I what, Steven? What would you like me to do?’
My mouth went dry and I fell silent again.
What is wrong with you, Ryan? Come on! You have her! Just say something!
But I was stumped. I needed time to think. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go,’ I said, before hanging up.
‘Fuck!’ I yelled at the top of my voice, then grabbed a mug from the table and hurled it at the wall. It smashed into pieces and sent a framed print crashing to the floor.
I remained with my head in my hands, taking sharp breaths. Laura wasn’t like any of the other volunteers I’d spoken to. She was the one. She was the Freer of Lost Souls and her ability to switch personalities in a heartbeat scared the hell out of me. She hadn’t just come out and said, ‘I will help you kill yourself,’ but she’d pretty much told me that I was going to remain living in this hell unless I did something drastic.
I rewound the Dictaphone and listened to the whole conversation again. She’d taken complete control of the call and I was angry at myself for losing grip of my own plan. Instead of playing it cool I’d panicked, then hung up on her. My instinct was to call her again straight away, but I held back. If I did it immediately, I might look indecisive or an attention-seeker. She had to think I was almost sure I wanted to die – ‘almost’ being the operative word – because turning that into a certainty would give her a challenge and I bet that’s what she enjoyed. I’d pretend to spend the next few days mulling it over before I called End of the Line to try and find her again.
What to do until then? I had to put my time to good use. There was a chance Laura had given me a false name, but it was all I had to go on. I googled ‘Laura’ and ‘End of the Line’, but all that came up was the author of a book about historic steam trains. I refined my search with the words ‘charity’ and ‘suicide’ and it took me to the website of a local newspaper, the Chronicle & Echo.
The headline £300 RAISED IN CHARITY BAKE SALE ran above a photo of three women and a girl standing behind a table full of baked goods. The story was dated around a year ago. Almost £300 has been raised for helpline End of the Line by staff baking cakes, it said. The helpline, which has been running for eight years, made the money with a stall at the Racecourse Town Show. A spokesman said: ‘We are self-funded and this cash will really help with our escalating running costs.’ Pictured above (from left to right): Zoe Parker, Mary Barnett, Effie Morris and Laura Morris.
Laura Morris. I boosted the size of the picture on my screen and stared at the woman on the right. She was actually quite normal-looking, not at all like the dowdy frump I’d pictured her as. She was attractive, even. She wore a smart blouse and pleated skirt, her hair was slicked back and tied into a ponytail and her smile revealed perfectly positioned teeth. There was something familiar about her daughter Effie’s face and name. I looked her up on Facebook and it clicked when I saw a clearer image of her face.
I typed Laura Morris into the search engine along with End of the Line and one more story appeared. CHARITY FUNDRAISER WINS TOP AWARD. The photo featured the same woman. A man in a wheelchair was presenting a silver shield to her for single-handedly raising £50,000 for the charity in a year, the largest sum of any of their branches.
I’ve worked here for a few years now so I know first-hand the good work the charity does, Laura was quoted as saying. It’s taken a lot of hard work to raise the money, from jumble and bake sales to sponsorship, and I’d like to thank my husband Tony’s business for its help with sponsorship, too.
So she was married. I wondered how calculating a person had to be to pull the wool over her husband’s eyes. Or maybe he was like-minded. Perhaps he knew what she did and turned a blind eye to it.
There was always a chance this was a gargantuan fuck-up and my hunch was wrong. I was about to close the lid of the laptop when the last line of the story caught my eye.
When asked what advice Laura would give to anyone thinking of calling End of the Line, she replied, ‘We’re here for you in whatever capacity you want us to be.’
It was exactly the same line she’d used on me when I’d told her I wanted to die. I googled the phrase and it wasn’t something she’d taken from End of the Line’s website or anywhere else and just repeated. It was her own. This had to be the same woman I’d spoken to.
I smiled to myself, as I knew exactly how I was going to get to Laura.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I sat in the driver’s seat of my car a few metres away from End of the Line’s offices.
I was parked on double yellow lines, and every forty minutes or so I’d spot the same sour-faced traffic warden in my rear-view mirror patrolling the avenue. Each time she made her way in my direction, checking car registrations with the electronic device in her hand, I’d start the engine and drive around the block. Then I’d park in the exact same spot once she’d gone.
; I’d learned Laura Morris was volunteering that day when she’d answered on my third call to the helpline. I wondered what the odds were on that happening so soon. But I didn’t want to talk to her today. I’d immediately hung up, grabbed my coat, keys and phone, and hurried to their office to wait for her to emerge.
I’d been there for much of the morning when a handful of people entered within minutes of each other. I assumed a new shift must be about to start. Soon after, Laura left. Her head tilted up towards the cloudless sky to gauge the May bank holiday weather, then she walked down the handful of concrete steps and passed my car. I compared her face to the online newspaper story I’d printed out, and I was as sure as I could be that it was the same woman. Seeing her in the flesh after the weeks of effort I’d put in to track her down and unmask her made me giddy. I clenched my fists and took a deep breath.
She wore white running shoes and a waterproof jacket and carried a handbag-sized folded umbrella, so I assumed she wasn’t driving. I grabbed some loose change from the ashtray in case I needed to follow her onto a bus, opened the car door and, no longer caring about traffic wardens, began my pursuit. I held back for a moment when she looked behind her, then she opened her bag, pulled out a cigarette and lit it.
I’d watched enough telly cop dramas to know to keep a safe distance. Chances were Laura wouldn’t know she was being followed, but I couldn’t take the risk. If I could see her, then she could see me. I slipped my headphones over my ears so that if she turned around, I’d just be a man listening to music.
She kept a steady pace and while she wasn’t a power-walker, she moved with purpose. I followed her for about thirty minutes before we entered a housing estate. It was a moderately affluent area with long front gardens, neatly trimmed hedges and lawns, and rows of flowers.
One house stood out from the rest like a silver penny among coppers. And Laura was making her way up its driveway. The walls had been rendered and painted a creamy white and the window frames weren’t like the neighbours’ houses – brown, plastic and diamond-leaded. They were modern, dark grey frames and the glass was slightly tinted. Instead of a grassy lawn there was block paving and enough room for two more cars to park next to the yellow Mini Cooper already there. Under a window were some carefully arranged terracotta plant pots. Although stylishly tied together, the house and garden didn’t fit in with the surroundings.
Laura unlocked a double front door and, as she crossed the threshold, I briefly registered the walls and their unusual colour, patchy with dark grey and black streaks. I waited for her to close the door behind her before returning to my car, satisfied.
I headed back the next morning at seven, desperately needing to know more about a typical day in her life. With lukewarm coffee in a flask, I parked on the opposite side of the road and waited.
I must have missed her husband, as the only car parked on the drive was the Mini, which by its garish colour I doubted was his. When Laura finally left an hour and a half later, a pink rucksack was strapped to her back and she set off on foot.
She strolled briskly and I stuck to the other side of the road, dodging behind trees and cars, taking pictures of her en route with my camera phone. She paused outside Westfield Junior School’s gates and concentrated on a group of girls and boys running around and laughing together. She waved to one, but her smile faded when the girl didn’t see her. Laura briefly became distracted by some of the other mums standing by the gate, and she looked as if she might want to join them in conversation. Instead, she turned and walked away as if she were afraid to take the risk.
Her journey continued and more photos followed, until finally she approached the driveway to a large white building split into several wings that I was familiar with. What is she doing here? I wondered.
It was Kingsthorpe Residential Care Home, where my Granddad Pete had been moved after a stroke left him paralysed down the right-hand side of his body. He was barely able to move or talk. Mum and Dad visited him twice a week; Johnny and I less so, especially after Charlotte’s death. I’d been too busy thinking of myself to remember him.
The receptionist appeared to be familiar with Laura Morris, because she buzzed her in through the doors without asking to see any ID. Then Laura wandered along a corridor before veering out of sight.
I remained outside, shuffling from foot to foot, unsure of how to play it. Would I be pushing my luck if I followed her inside? Maybe, but I had to chance it.
‘Hi, I’ve come to see Pete Spencer,’ I told the young woman behind the desk, and gave her my brightest smile.
‘What relation to Mr Spencer are you?’ she asked, stony-faced.
‘I’m his grandson. I haven’t been for a while.’ She looked at me as if to say, I know. Shame on you.
At her request, I passed her my driver’s licence as identification and she handed me a visitor’s lanyard to wear around my neck. Granddad’s room was located in a separate wing, to the right of the corridor, along with other physically impaired patients. But Laura had turned to the left. I glanced around to make sure nobody was watching me before I walked down the same corridor she’d taken. It wasn’t long before I found her.
She was sitting in a lounge area, holding the hand of a boy strapped into a wheelchair who was laughing along to a book she was reading him. Her eyes only flitted between the book and his smile, like if she looked elsewhere, he might vanish into thin air. Only a mum could look at her own child with so much love. She stroked his hand and laughed with him.
I was taken aback, trying to reconcile the woman before me with the one who, just days earlier, had suggested I should kill myself. I watched them for a couple more minutes, but felt intrusive. I had to remind myself that having a child with special needs didn’t change who she was or what she did to vulnerable people.
I left as silently as I’d arrived, and decided to visit Granddad while I was there. I knocked on the door to his room and entered. While his eyes were closed, I took in his appearance. He was nothing like the bulky, soundly framed builder I recalled as a kid. I remembered being nine and playing in our garden with Johnny, both of us watching Granddad Pete make his way up and down a ladder with a hod resting on his shoulder, retiling the roof. He gave us each a piggyback up to the very top, where we straddled the ridge and waved to the passing cars and buses on the road below. Then Mum came back from work and screamed blue murder until he carried us down again.
Two decades had passed, and an adult lifetime of smoking two packs of high-tar cigarettes a day had likely brought on his series of strokes and turned him into the shadow of a man before me.
Photos of my late Granny Elsie and Mum and Dad were arranged on floating shelves surrounding his bed; Johnny and me as kids were on his wall, and in a large silver frame was a photo of Charlotte and me from our wedding day. It caught me off guard.
‘Hi, Granddad, it’s Ryan,’ I said quietly, and took hold of his hand. His skin felt paper-thin and his purple veins stood out like speedbumps on a road. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t come for a while.’
His eyelids slowly unfurled and I watched as his milky grey eyes focused on where and who the voice was coming from. Sections of his brain controlling his speech and movement had been irrevocably damaged by the final, massive stroke, but he still recognised his eldest grandson. The left side of his mouth rose ever so slightly as he tried to smile. His index finger brushed against mine.
‘Lot,’ he muttered. I frowned.
‘What’s that?’ I asked gently.
‘Lot,’ he repeated and looked ahead of him. ‘Lot. Cha. Cha.’ He was looking at my wedding photo.
‘Lot cha,’ I repeated. ‘You mean Charlotte?’ His finger touched mine again. ‘Mum told you?’ I’d never actually asked if she had. He indicated yes.
‘Things have been a bit shit lately,’ I admitted. And before I could stop myself, I was talking at a million miles an hour, telling him about Charlotte’s death, how I thought she’d been coerced into killing herself and how I’d found th
e woman responsible. I just needed to get it off my chest.
‘I’m scared, Granddad,’ I continued. ‘I’m scared of how far I might take it with that woman. I wish you could tell me what to do.’
He stared at me with such intensity, like he was willing his brain to allow his mouth a complete sentence. His cheeks and forehead turned crimson as he opened his lips and a rasp came out.
‘It’s okay,’ I replied. I’d been selfish to dump all this on him.
‘Eye,’ he muttered. ‘Eye, fa.’ He was imploring me to understand him.
‘Eye, eye, fa,’ I repeated, before understanding what he meant. ‘An eye for an eye,’ I said, and his finger pressed against mine.
His head nodded ever-so-slightly.
‘Thank you,’ I replied, and clasped his hand tightly in both of mine.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
FOUR MONTHS, THREE WEEKS AFTER CHARLOTTE
I held out for a few more days before I called End of the Line again.
I’d returned from a lunchtime pint at The Abington with Johnny and Dad, still maintaining the appearance of a man on the slow road to recovery. They seemed relieved when I told them I was returning to my job soon. I’d only been there for nine months before Charlotte died and I’d been off for almost five months, so I gave my boss, Bruce Atkinson, a date when I wanted to return and he said he’d set the wheels in motion. It would be a gradual return rather than anything immediate.
But today my priority was Laura. A torrential summer downpour had soaked me to the skin, so as soon as I arrived back at the flat I stripped off my wet clothes, hung them over the shower rail to dry and couldn’t wait to get started. Fortune was on my side, and I tracked her down within a couple of hours.
‘My name is Steven. You probably don’t remember me but I think you might be the lady I spoke to recently?’
‘Yes, hello there, Steven, it was me you spoke to and, yes, I do remember you. How are things with you today?’
