‘Like a shit mum,’ she said bleakly.
‘I’m sure your children don’t see you like that . . . They just love you for who you are. They aren’t aware of the life you’ve given them. The mess they’re in is all they know.’
‘What do you mean by “mess”?’
‘That their mum is dependent on drugs or drug substitutes; that she doesn’t have enough money to give them food with proper nutrition; that when they’re old enough to go to school they’ll see that all their classmates have things you’ll never afford. And I know you’re the kind of person who’ll feel dreadful for that, aren’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do you think they might grow up resenting you?’
‘Yes, all the time.’
‘Does it worry you that they might follow in your footsteps and end up addicts like you and their father, too? It can be hereditary, can’t it?’
‘I won’t let them get into drugs.’
‘I bet your mum said the same thing about you, but it’s hard to tell people what to do, isn’t it? It’s no wonder you feel like you’ve let them down as a mum. What else do you worry about?’
‘That they’ll feel disappointed in me.’
‘It’s very easy to fall into bad habits when it comes to addiction, especially when you don’t feel like there’s a reason to stay on the wagon.’
‘I thought I had a reason – for my kids . . . but I’m not strong enough.’
‘And as you’ve already told me, you know they’re probably already disappointed in you for the life you’re giving them. And life away from heroin is hard, isn’t it? Especially when you have nothing else. It must feel like life is never going to get any better than it is now.’
‘What can I do to make it better for them?’ she wept.
It was the question I’d been waiting for her to ask. And I knew that once I talked her back into her addiction, she’d reach the same decision I’d made for her. Everyone would be better off without Chantelle.
When her day of reckoning arrived, she’d purchased enough heroin from her violent, drug-dealing ex-boyfriend to do what was necessary. I closed my eyes and listened intently to the sounds of her feet shuffling along bare floorboards she couldn’t afford to carpet, her curtains being drawn, the bedroom door quietly closing and her body stretching out upon her bed. I heard the flame from a cigarette lighter and imagined it heating up the metal spoon. I pictured the barrel of a syringe drawing up the dirty liquid and Chantelle tapping at her arms and legs, trying to raise a vein that hadn’t already collapsed under the weight of her weak will.
‘You’ll find my kids when they’re older and tell them I did this because I loved them, won’t you?’ she asked.
‘Of course I will,’ I lied. ‘Just keep reminding yourself that you’ve explored every other avenue, but this is the only route that makes sense. You are moving on and allowing everyone else you love to do the same. And I admire that so much.’
Within moments, the needle had penetrated her skin and I listened with blissful satisfaction right until her final breath. That’s the one sound that matters to me above all others . . . that one precious moment when someone breathes their last then slips away. People in pain like Chantelle place themselves in my hands because I understand them better than anyone else in the world can. I know more about what they need than their brothers, sisters, parents, spouses, best friends or children. I understand them because I know what’s best for them. If they place their trust in me, I’ll reward them by going to the ends of the earth to help them. I’ll alleviate their suffering. I’ll bring all that is bad in their lives to an end. I will save them from themselves. That is what I am: a saviour of lost souls.
Twenty-two days after I saved Chantelle, she and I were finally in the same room together. A burgundy velvet curtain encircled her coffin before she disappeared from view. And as her friends made their way back outside, I took Chantelle’s order of service and placed it inside the black bag I carried with me to all the funerals I attended.
It was where I kept all the other orders. Chantelle’s made fifteen in all. It was becoming quite the collection.
CHAPTER SIX
‘Oh, Laura, this is as light as air,’ began Kevin as he took a second mouthful of my Victoria sponge cake. I hadn’t been able to resist leaving a slice on the desk of a man with high cholesterol.
I tried to divert my stare from his scruffy beard as he approached me in the office kitchenette. He was kidding himself if he thought it was distracting anyone from his rapidly receding hairline. He spat a crumb onto my skirt. I’d have to wash that tonight.
‘Thank you,’ I replied with false modesty. ‘It’s not as attractive as I’d have liked it, and the homemade jam got a bit gloopy.’
‘I can’t believe you make your own jam, too. You are like the perfect wife.’
‘I try my best.’ I silently thanked the supermarket and encouraged him towards another slice. There are many sides to me, but all they ever saw was one: the nurturer.
‘I know why all that food you make for the fundraisers sells, literally, like hot cakes,’ Zoe added. ‘Seriously, though, you should think about entering one of those baking competitions on the telly. You’d storm it.’
She had lipstick on her front teeth again. What was wrong with people?
Fundraisers are my speciality. End of the Line is a registered charity and doesn’t receive local or national government handouts. With branches in almost every county, they’re all expected to be self-sufficient and responsible for paying their own running costs. Telephone lines, computer upgrades, software, stationery, rent, utilities and council tax, et cetera, all total around ￡80,000 a year. As treasurer, I’d been quite happy to lead the charge myself to find the money, until head office promoted Janine Thomson to manager. She didn’t just tread on my toes, she danced all over them with the grace of an ostrich on hot coals.
I’d known at first sight when she started as a volunteer two years earlier that we were unlikely to become friends. Everything about her appearance offended me, like her squinty little eyes and her brows plucked into ridiculous curves resembling the McDonald’s golden arches. Grey hairs crawled across her scalp like unsightly slugs, and she tried to plump up her paper-thin lips by colouring above and below them in a gaudy red. She was a clown in search of a circus.
Then, when she was given the manager’s position above me after all the hard work I’d put in, my dislike turned to loathing. I hadn’t even wanted the job, as it would have given me less time to man the phones, but it was the principle that mattered. It should have been offered to me on a plate.