The Good Samaritan
Page 36

I left as silently as I’d arrived, and decided to visit Granddad while I was there. I knocked on the door to his room and entered. While his eyes were closed, I took in his appearance. He was nothing like the bulky, soundly framed builder I recalled as a kid. I remembered being nine and playing in our garden with Johnny, both of us watching Granddad Pete make his way up and down a ladder with a hod resting on his shoulder, retiling the roof. He gave us each a piggyback up to the very top, where we straddled the ridge and waved to the passing cars and buses on the road below. Then Mum came back from work and screamed blue murder until he carried us down again.
Two decades had passed, and an adult lifetime of smoking two packs of high-tar cigarettes a day had likely brought on his series of strokes and turned him into the shadow of a man before me.
Photos of my late Granny Elsie and Mum and Dad were arranged on floating shelves surrounding his bed; Johnny and me as kids were on his wall, and in a large silver frame was a photo of Charlotte and me from our wedding day. It caught me off guard.
‘Hi, Granddad, it’s Ryan,’ I said quietly, and took hold of his hand. His skin felt paper-thin and his purple veins stood out like speedbumps on a road. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t come for a while.’
His eyelids slowly unfurled and I watched as his milky grey eyes focused on where and who the voice was coming from. Sections of his brain controlling his speech and movement had been irrevocably damaged by the final, massive stroke, but he still recognised his eldest grandson. The left side of his mouth rose ever so slightly as he tried to smile. His index finger brushed against mine.
‘Lot,’ he muttered. I frowned.
‘What’s that?’ I asked gently.
‘Lot,’ he repeated and looked ahead of him. ‘Lot. Cha. Cha.’ He was looking at my wedding photo.
‘Lot cha,’ I repeated. ‘You mean Charlotte?’ His finger touched mine again. ‘Mum told you?’ I’d never actually asked if she had. He indicated yes.
‘Things have been a bit shit lately,’ I admitted. And before I could stop myself, I was talking at a million miles an hour, telling him about Charlotte’s death, how I thought she’d been coerced into killing herself and how I’d found the woman responsible. I just needed to get it off my chest.
‘I’m scared, Granddad,’ I continued. ‘I’m scared of how far I might take it with that woman. I wish you could tell me what to do.’
He stared at me with such intensity, like he was willing his brain to allow his mouth a complete sentence. His cheeks and forehead turned crimson as he opened his lips and a rasp came out.
‘It’s okay,’ I replied. I’d been selfish to dump all this on him.
‘Eye,’ he muttered. ‘Eye, fa.’ He was imploring me to understand him.
‘Eye, eye, fa,’ I repeated, before understanding what he meant. ‘An eye for an eye,’ I said, and his finger pressed against mine.
His head nodded ever-so-slightly.
‘Thank you,’ I replied, and clasped his hand tightly in both of mine.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
FOUR MONTHS, THREE WEEKS AFTER CHARLOTTE
I held out for a few more days before I called End of the Line again.
I’d returned from a lunchtime pint at The Abington with Johnny and Dad, still maintaining the appearance of a man on the slow road to recovery. They seemed relieved when I told them I was returning to my job soon. I’d only been there for nine months before Charlotte died and I’d been off for almost five months, so I gave my boss Bruce Atkinson a date when I wanted to return and he said he’d set the wheels in motion. It would be a gradual return rather than anything immediate.
But today my priority was Laura. A torrential summer downpour had soaked me to the skin, so as soon as I arrived back at the flat I stripped off my wet clothes, hung them over the shower rail to dry and couldn’t wait to get started. Fortune was on my side, and I tracked her down within a couple of hours.
‘My name is Steven. You probably don’t remember me but I think you might be the lady I spoke to recently?’
‘Yes, hello there, Steven, it was me you spoke to and, yes, I do remember you. How are things with you today?’
‘Okay, thanks.’
‘That sounds more positive than last time. Has something in your circumstances changed?’
‘Nothing much really, I guess.’ The biggest change was now I knew a lot more about who was on the other end of the phone.
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. But regardless, you’re having a good day today at least?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Well, sometimes after a good night’s sleep, we just wake up in the morning feeling better about things.’
‘It doesn’t mean the bad stuff goes away though, does it?’
It was like our first conversation had never happened. She was laying on the positivity thickly and I wondered if there was any way she could be on to me. Maybe this is what she did – she played with people to find out how serious they were about wanting to die. They say the best way to drive a dog mad is to stroke it then smack it so it never knows where it stands. Was I her dog?
We danced around each other like a scorpion circling a rattlesnake, neither of us striking. Finally, when I refused to offer any positive answers to the questions she asked, she took the bait.
‘Steven, I hope you don’t mind me saying, but earlier you said you were okay, but you don’t sound like you are.’
‘I think I’ve just got in the habit of saying I am so that people don’t worry about me.’
‘This is a neutral place. You don’t have to pretend to be anything you’re not with me. Is there anything you’d like to talk about in particular?’
‘Um . . . the last time we spoke . . .’
‘I remember . . .’
‘I told you something.’
‘You told me a lot of things.’
‘About me thinking about killing myself . . .’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘You asked me if I was prepared to do it.’
‘I don’t recall those being the exact words I used, Steven. I think you may have misinterpreted what I was saying.’
That threw me. ‘Oh.’
‘What conclusions have you made regarding ending your life since last time?’
I flicked through my notebook but couldn’t find the page where I’d written what she’d said before. I had to bluff it.
‘I’ve given it a lot of thought. In fact, it’s been the only thing on my mind and I can’t make it stop. You’re right – no matter what I do, nothing is going to change. All I’m going to feel like is this.’
‘And how do you think you can you rid yourself of these feelings?’
I couldn’t go in with all guns blazing. She had to think she was in control. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I think you do though, don’t you? If you’re being really honest with yourself.’
‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘I’m ready. I mean, I want to . . . I want to die . . .’
‘Steven, I’m very sorry to interrupt but I’m afraid I’m going to have to go now, as my shift is coming to an end. Unfortunately, I can’t transfer you to one of my colleagues, but if you call back, I’m sure someone else would be happy to pick up where we’ve left off.’
‘What? But—’