There were times when I found their kindness so warm and heartfelt that my guard slipped and Ryan came out. Then it was me admitting to feelings of hopelessness and me who was struggling.
I began painting mental pictures of what the Helpline Heroine might look like. She was in her late fifties, a spinster with pale skin that was beginning to loosen and hang from her cheeks and neck. There’d be deep lines etched across her forehead and her shoulders would be hunched from the weight of the guilt she carried but refused to acknowledge. On the surface, her eyes would seem charitable but if you stared into them deeply enough, you’d catch a glimmer of the woman inside – a dark, cold soul who thrived on the pain of others. She was like Judi Dench in that film Notes on a Scandal. Only even more devious.
Whoever she was, the Helpline Heroine came to dominate my days, my nights, my waking thoughts and my unconscious dreams. While she had given me a function, I’d also made her an obsession that was delaying my healing. But I knew that if I threw in the towel now without completing what I’d set out to do, I’d forever wonder if she actually existed.
Of course I didn’t tell my family or friends what I was up to because they’d think I was mad. But judging by the number of frustrated voicemails and texts they left, complaining that my phone was permanently engaged, they had an idea something was up. So I started joining them just often enough for drinks at the pub, a family dinner at home or a get-together at a restaurant to convince them that over four and a half months after Charlotte’s suicide, I was on the road to recovery.
In part, it was true. I was on a road. And, eventually, it led to the woman I was looking for.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FOUR MONTHS, TWO WEEKS AFTER CHARLOTTE
Eighty-two people. That’s how many I’d lied to and misled before I found the person nicknamed the Helpline Heroine.
‘Good evening, you’ve reached the End of the Line, this is Laura speaking. May I ask your name?’ she began.
I pressed record on my Dictaphone like I did with each call, and with the earpiece in place I slipped quickly and easily into my alter ego Steven like a comfortable pair of slippers. I trotted out the same reply I’d given the last eighty-one times. ‘I’ve not called somewhere like this before. I don’t know where to begin.’
‘Well, let’s start with a name. What shall I call you?’
Like most of the other volunteers, there was something reassuring about her voice. She was well-spoken, her tone friendly and soothing. I could imagine her reading a bedtime story on children’s television.
‘Steven,’ I replied.
‘It’s nice to talk to you, Steven,’ she continued. ‘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.’ I’d read the script so many times recently that I knew it off by heart. I knew where to sound choked and where to pause for dramatic effect. If an Oscar were ever awarded for Best Dramatic Role via the Telephone, I’d be a dead cert to win.
‘Well, it’s great that you’ve called,’ she said. ‘Tell me about the people who love and care about you. Who do you have in your life who falls into that category?’
I pretended to think for a moment. ‘Nobody really.’ I exaggerated a deep sigh. ‘I’ve got no one at all.’
She asked if I had friends I could turn to and sympathised when I said I had none. Her responses were textbook. My fingers slid quietly across the laptop keyboard, adding her to my spreadsheet. Laura wasn’t an unusual name but she was the first volunteer that I’d come across with it. Already I could tell she was a glass-half-full kind of woman.
Unlikely, I typed.
‘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?’
Again, I hesitated. ‘Often,’ I whispered.
Our conversation wasn’t going any further than the last eighty-one times with her predecessors. I heard a faint rustling and guessed she was new and consulting a manual. If nothing else, I’d be good practice for her. I stifled a yawn and started to look at the football results on the BBC Sport website.
‘You don’t need to be embarrassed, Steven. We’ve all thought about ending our lives at some time or another. Have you ever tried to do it before?’
Hold up, did she just say ‘we’ve all’?
None of the other eighty-one helpline staff admitted that. Maybe she just wanted me to believe that she really did understand me.
‘No,’ I replied, as if I were ashamed. ‘But I did plan it out once.’
‘You planned it out once?’
I followed the advice I’d read online and told her about making it easier for those I’d leave behind by getting my affairs in order before I died. I looked at a page of notes I’d made and brought up the railway track near Wolverton that could be reached through a broken fence. She listened quietly as my imagination did the talking.
‘Perhaps, deep down, you aren’t serious about ending your life,’ she said. It was less of a question and more of a statement. And then something in her voice switched from warm and comfortable to accusatory.
‘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.’