‘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 Helpline Heroine 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 in its town centre premises, 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 and Insurance World for their 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 in Northampton town centre.
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.