The Good Samaritan
Page 31

‘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
The police eventually returned Charlotte’s mobile phone, iPad and laptop after the inquest. They were contained in clear, sealed plastic bags with evidence and case numbers written on stickers with a black marker pen. That’s all she was to people who didn’t know her: a case identified by two letters and seven digits.
Her electronics had been thoroughly examined by a digital forensic team, but nothing of note or concern had been discovered. And, frustratingly, there was still no link to the man she’d died with. Despite the media attention their story had generated, he’d yet to be identified by the public and his body still hadn’t washed ashore.
I’d never had any reason to check up on Charlotte, but she’d left me with so many unanswered questions, she owed me explanations. It was eight o’clock in the evening when I began with her phone and relived our text conversations. I didn’t like that the police had probably read through our private moments, even the mundane crap about whose turn it was to get the car serviced. I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed seeing her name appear on my phone.
As Charlotte’s pregnancy progressed, the number of calls she’d made to friends fell steeply but her emails and texts rose. I guess it was easier to hide her sadness behind the written word than to disguise the emptiness in her voice.
I scrolled through her Facebook timeline, and in her last few months she hadn’t posted a single thing. Most mums-to-be can’t wait to talk about what stage of pregnancy they’re at or their cravings or to complain about how fat they’re feeling. But I’d been the only one of us to give our friends status updates or share photographs. Charlotte had gone from an active poster to a lurker.
I leafed through the saved documents on her laptop, but they all dated back to her pre-pregnancy design work. Her music library was full of the cheesy pop she loved so much and there was nothing suspicious about either her browser history or her favourites bar. Most of her emails had been deleted, and then deleted from the deleted folder. Her cookies were also cleared. Just as I feared, there was nothing new to learn about my wife.
I was surprised – and disappointed – that there were no photographs of us at all on her phone or her iPad. I’d teased her about how trigger-happy she was when it came to her camera phone; it didn’t matter where we were – in the kitchen, on holiday by a pool, or in the aisle of a supermarket, the girl loved a picture. I flicked though several folders on her devices, but she’d erased every image she’d ever taken of us. It was like our relationship was so hideous to her that she needed to wipe away any trace of it. Even four months after her death, she was still finding new ways to hurt me.
As midnight approached, I knew from experience that if I continued down this road any further tonight, I’d wind myself up further and further and wouldn’t be able to sleep. But as I was about to put the iPad away, I lost grip of it. My fingers slid across the onscreen keyboard as I scrambled to stop it falling to the floor.