I wasn’t ready to return to our bedroom, so I chose to sleep in the box room. It was the only part of the flat that we hadn’t got around to decorating in our time there. We’d just about managed to wedge a single mattress and the tiniest of Ikea bedside cabinets inside. But it suited me fine for now. Next door was the nursery. I wasn’t ready to face that yet. While it remained as it was, in neutral shades of yellow and with soft toys scattered about, I could pretend Daniel was sleeping there. I didn’t want to let him go.
Days later, I printed out Charlotte’s mobile phone records. I’d believed DS O’Connor when he’d told us how frequently she’d called End of the Line, but I still wanted to see it with my own eyes. I scanned each column and most of the calls had been made in the morning or early afternoons when I was at work. Occasionally, she’d called evenings and weekends when we were both at home. I remembered her wandering into other rooms claiming to be catching up with friends, but now I knew that just metres away from me, she was actually telling a stranger that she wanted to die.
Some calls lasted seconds, others continued for more than an hour. For a moment, I let my anger dilute into pity.
Why couldn’t you tell me how much pain you were in?
I thought about Charlotte’s car and how, at some point, I’d have to sell it. In fact, there were a lot of things I needed to organise as my new normality began. But packing away her clothes, sifting through her documents, changing the name on the utility bills, closing her bank account, et cetera, would all have to wait.
And so would my job for now. The thought of walking into that perpetually cold lobby as if everything in my life was exactly the same as the last time I’d been there filled me with dread. My sympathetic doctor signed me off for another month, but he wouldn’t let me leave the surgery until he’d given me a handful of leaflets about coping with loss and the telephone numbers of grief counselling organisations. I scanned the advice given in one when I reached my car. ‘Try going away somewhere for a weekend that’s brand new to you, or take a long walk. Perhaps you might think about getting a pet.’ I laughed out loud.
Yes, doctor, I’m going to replace my dead wife with a hamster. Marvellous idea.
Johnny and the lads I played Sunday-league football with took turns to visit the flat and keep me occupied, but despite their best efforts, they rarely got much conversation from me. Johnny also insisted on dragging me out to our local pub, The Abington, and did his best to re-engage me with a world outside my cloudy little bubble. But I didn’t care for it. There was little I cared for anymore.
‘Mum and Dad are worried about you,’ Johnny began earnestly one evening. The bar was quiet and he was perched on the edge of a threadbare sofa, glancing at the floor and absent-mindedly fiddling with the drawstrings on his hoodie. ‘They’re scared you might . . . you know . . . do the same as Charlotte.’
‘What, kill myself for no reason? Hurl myself off a cliff and smash my head on rocks so my face is completely unrecognisable?’
I knew my reply was uncalled for. I’d be lying if I said the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. But it had only been fleeting. ‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘What do you think?’
‘I told them you’re not that selfish, that you know it’d destroy them if you did something like that.’ I nodded slowly. ‘It’d destroy me too,’ he added, and looked up at me with a deep concern in his eyes.
Johnny and I were close, but we’d rarely speak about matters of the heart. However, since Charlotte had died, he’d been my rock. He’d seen me at my very worst and at my most desperate. He’d sat with me as I cried my eyes out, he’d wiped drunken vomit from my face, and he’d used up all his holiday to spend time with me and offer me his strength.
‘If you hurt yourself, I’d never forgive myself, Ry,’ he continued. ‘Watching you go through hell has really affected me too. I need you to promise me that you won’t do anything daft.’
‘I promise.’
‘Good. And tell me you’ll think about what Dad suggested, like grief counselling or getting some medication from the doctor.’
‘Okay, I will.’ I had no intention of doing either. I only agreed to get him off my back. ‘I need a piss. You get another round in,’ I said, and patted him on the shoulder as I left the table.
As I made my way through the lounge area, I spotted a noticeboard covered with business cards for taxi firms and flyers for pub quizzes and a beer festival. Among them was a leaflet for End of the Line. I removed the pin and slipped the card into my pocket. Later, after Johnny dropped me off at the flat, I stared at the card in my hand. We are here to listen, not judge, it said in blue writing.
The only way I could understand what the helpline had offered Charlotte that I couldn’t was to call them. Tentatively, I reached for my phone and dialled. Within five rings it was answered.
‘Good evening, you’ve reached the End of the Line helpline, this is Kevin speaking. May I ask your name?’
I had no idea what to say to him.
‘Take all the time you need,’ Kevin continued after a short silence.
‘Ryan,’ I said. ‘My name is Ryan.’
‘Hi there, Ryan, and how are you feeling this evening?’
I don’t know if it was actually Kevin’s voice or the four pints of real ale floating through my bloodstream, but he sounded so warm and compassionate. I wondered why he’d chosen to stay up until late in the night to talk to people he didn’t know. Maybe, like me, there was a huge gap in his life.
‘I’m okay,’ I replied.
‘That’s good to hear. Is there a reason that brought you to call us tonight?’
‘My wife . . .’ I began, but I struggled to complete the sentence.
‘Your wife,’ he repeated. ‘Did something happen to your wife?’
‘She . . . died. A couple of months ago.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Ryan. Would you like to tell me about her?’
I racked my brains to think up any reason other than suicide as to how she might’ve died, as I didn’t want him to judge me. But the alcohol slowed me down and I couldn’t think of one that quickly. So I told him the truth and how I swung from missing Charlotte with every fibre of my being to never wanting to think about her again.
‘That’s completely natural to go through a wide range of emotions,’ Kevin explained. ‘Do you want to talk me through some of what you’ve been feeling?’
I sat on the floor of my living room telling a stranger things even my family didn’t know about how I felt. And while he didn’t offer any miracle solutions, at least he didn’t suggest I took a long walk or bought a pet. Instead, our conversation gave me more of an insight into why Charlotte might have found End of the Line’s volunteers easy to talk to.
But it had yet to explain why she’d needed to call them more than a hundred times.
CHAPTER NINE
FOUR MONTHS AFTER CHARLOTTE