I wasn’t worried about Steven calling back. Of course he would, and when he did seek me out again, he’d have shown me he’d put in the effort. You can’t just contact End of the Line’s number and reach me, as we have no direct lines. There are ninety-four of us, all volunteering for different shifts, and it’s pot luck who you’re put through to.
I remembered how David had kept calling back until he found me. Once we’d built up a rapport, I gave him my shift timetable so we could speak more regularly. We’d chat three or four times a week, and not just about our arrangement; sometimes we’d discuss world events, our days, or the countries we’d like to travel to.
And as he spoke, I’d close my eyes and imagine we were sitting on opposite sides of a table in a café abroad somewhere; we’d have spent the day sightseeing, and in the evening, we’d be making the most of the balmy Mediterranean weather and eating at a bistro, enjoying a fish supper, drinking Chianti and chatting like friends do. Then reality would reassert itself and I’d realise none of that could ever happen.
All these months later and I still longed to hear his voice again. I wondered if that feeling would ever completely pass. David had understood me as much as I’d understood him – but my presence in his life wasn’t enough to encourage him to stay. I wasn’t enough to make him choose life.
My stomach began to knot.
Remember your anchor, Laura. Remember your anchor.
I considered what Steven and I might accomplish. He’d made plans, he’d got his affairs in order, and he’d chosen and been to a location. All he needed was me. I had a good feeling about him.
I wanted to hear him die.
CHAPTER FIVE
I double-checked the time printed in the advert I’d torn from the local newspaper, and glanced at my watch. It was already ten minutes later than advertised. I hated tardiness.
My restless eyes fixed upon a group of young women who were also waiting for the doors to open. I patted the creases from my jacket to make myself more presentable. I needn’t have bothered – by the look of them, I was the only one to have made any effort. And because I wasn’t wearing running shoes or a hoodie, I stuck out like a sore thumb.
I looked towards my Mini and spotted a familiar figure further down the road. He was perched on a plastic bus-shelter seat with a bottle by his side.
‘Olly . . .’ I began as I approached him. The old backpack of Tony’s that I’d given him was already so caked in filth that it was hard to spot the pale blue colouring beneath. Tobacco, alcohol, urine, and the areas he chose to sleep rough in had all brewed together to create an unwelcoming odour. But I didn’t comment on it as I hugged him tightly. It felt like wrapping my arms around a bag of bones.
‘Hi, Laura,’ he muttered, and offered a thin smile. ‘What are you doing here?’
Normally it took a few minutes for him to register who I was through his boozy haze, but this morning he was lucid and relatively sober. There was just a year separating Olly and me, but every time I saw him, our age gap seemed to widen. His lank, greasy hair brushed his collar and there were holes in the front of his shoes that showed his socks. His inch-long beard was greying, and his eyes had darkened from a warm brown to a coal black. There was very little left in him that was alive.
‘How are you?’ I asked.
‘Not so bad.’ He gave a hard, hacking cough.
‘You don’t sound it. Do you still have that chest infection?’
‘Yes.’
‘I offered before to drive you to the walk-in centre to see a doctor. We can still go – this afternoon if you like?’
‘No, no, it’s fine,’ he replied.
‘Do you need some money?’
‘Ha! I always need some money, Laura, but you’ve done enough for me already.’
I reached into my bag and pulled out all I had, a ￡10 note. I was embarrassed by such a poor offering. ‘Please take this. Buy yourself some lunch.’
‘You know how I’ll spend it.’ His eyes watched mine as I clocked his bottle of cider. His addiction was the only one I could overlook. His was present for a reason. His was there because of how he’d saved me.
‘Just promise me you’ll at least get yourself a sandwich.’
‘Okay.’
‘Promise me,’ I repeated.
‘I promise.’
When he smiled, I noted he’d lost another tooth from the bottom row; they were falling like pins in a bowling alley. Seeing Olly living and looking like this broke my heart, but having rejected my efforts of help in the past, there was little else I could do but watch him gradually disintegrate. I hoped it gave him a little comfort that someone in the world still cared for him.
Behind us, a plume of white and grey smoke from the volume of cigarettes being smoked ascended skywards. I made my way back towards the crowd as the previous party left through the double doors.
I hung behind. I didn’t want to be so close to the front that I was asked who I was, but I didn’t want to be so far towards the back that I missed what was being said about her. Slap bang in the middle of the crematorium would suffice.
By the time Chantelle Taylor’s unvarnished pine coffin was carried inside by four suited undertakers and placed upon the plinth, the Adele song blaring through the speakers was approaching its second chorus. The coffin was adorned with flowers, most likely plastic, including one of those awful-looking wreaths with the word ‘MUMMY’ written in yellow carnations placed on top of the lid.
There were only thirty or so mourners in attendance and most were around Chantelle’s age: single mothers in their early twenties wearing fake gold jewellery and with tattoos on their hands. If proof were ever needed I’d done the right thing in helping her to die, it was right there in the eyes of the walking dead.
I glanced at the flimsy black-and-white photocopy of an order of service with a photograph of Chantelle on the cover. She was holding a pint glass in a pub beer garden and her belly was swollen with pregnancy. I shook my head; even in utero her children hadn’t stood a chance.
Doubtless it was them sitting at the front with a tearful, older woman. She turned her head and dabbed at the over-applied mascara oozing down her face like an oil slick. They were too young to be here – both under four, I remembered Chantelle telling me. By the look of their grandmother, I decided they’d be better off under the care of the local authority. I made a mental note to tip off social services that drugs were being dealt from her premises. I had no idea if they were, but chances were a police search would find something to use against her. I’d be doing those kids a favour. Being a ward of court hadn’t been a walk in the park, but it hadn’t killed me either.
The minister read from his script and I recalled that when Chantelle first started phoning End of the Line, we’d discussed how she was trying to kick heroin for the sake of her unfortunate little ones. It was only with my help that she gradually began to realise that, in sobriety, happily-ever-afters weren’t made for families like hers. I had her back on the stuff within a few weeks.
‘How does it make you feel, knowing your children can’t give you the high that drugs do?’ I once asked her, a couple of weeks into our regular chats. I sensed by her tone that she was in a particularly dark place that day.