that’s revolved entirely around chocolate, naked mannequins, and wrestling?’
‘I think I’d be letting the male species as a whole down if I didn’t derive something dirty from a conversation like that.’
‘I think we’ve both done our duty with weird conversations so far tonight,’ I say. I need to end this and get him on the phone to an actual counsellor who can help him talk things through, but I don’t know how to broach the subject. I can’t just say, ‘Right, here’s the number, off you go’. It’s too abrupt, it could make him feel rejected, and it could make him more likely to jump.
‘Where are you?’ I ask instead. Maybe getting back onto the subject is a good start.
‘The suspension bridge over the Barrow river. It’s on the outskirts of Oakbarrow town.’
He’s local. I know exactly where he is. Turn right at the end of the high street and go past the churchyard, it’s a ten-minute walk away. The old steel bridge on the road that leads out of Oakbarrow. I was up there two days ago putting One Light leaflets out. I leave a few of them weighed down with a stone in the corner of the pavement, next to the safety barrier that was replaced after an accident a few years ago. The replacement part is just a bit lower than the rest of the barrier; the part where anyone thinking of jumping would be most likely to climb over.
‘What are you doing up there at this time of night?’
‘I don’t know. God, I don’t know. It seemed so clear when I walked up here, but I got to the edge and looked down, and I couldn’t see the water, just blackness in the dark, and I went dizzy so I sat down on the pavement, and I just… I don’t know. Sorry, I’m rambling.’
‘Not at all,’ I say, thinking his voice sounds familiar. He’s got an English accent but he puts a little emphasis on his ‘r’s. It’s typical for this part of Gloucestershire. That must be why I think I recognize it.
‘I walked across the bridge yesterday and saw a stack of your leaflets. The thought of … you know … jumping … has been in my head for a while and I grabbed one and stuffed it in my pocket. As I stood there and looked over the edge tonight, I put my hands in my pockets and my fingers brushed it, and it was like I didn’t even remember putting it there.’
That must’ve been one of the leaflets I put out the day before. It makes me feel weirdly connected to him. This man has reached out in his darkest moment because of something I did. I have a responsibility to help him.
‘I sat on the pavement and unfolded it and thought about my dad – he died on this river – and I just felt … compelled to ring you. He’d be so disappointed if he could see me now. He thought life was the most precious thing any of us have.’
‘You didn’t jump. That’s the most important part. Life is precious and you chose to sit down and call me instead of throwing it away. That’s the first step to making things better.’
‘I didn’t choose to sit down, I thought I was going to pass out.’
‘That’s okay too. The only thing that matters is that you’re here and talking. It’s got to be better than the alternative,’ I say carefully, trying to sound as neutral as possible.
‘I shouldn’t be talking about this to you though, should I? I phoned the wrong number. I wouldn’t mind betting this is definitely not part of your job description …’
‘It’s okay, it’s absolutely fine.’ I’m glad he can’t see the expression on my face because it definitely doesn’t match the lighthearted tone in my voice. ‘It’s just the people on the helpline are properly trained counsellors, and I’m not. I don’t want to say the wrong thing and make this worse,’ I say, deciding honesty is the best policy.
‘Please don’t hang up,’ he says after a long moment of silence. He sounds so cautious, almost afraid, and kind of hopeful, that there’s no way I could refuse. ‘I know I shouldn’t be asking you to talk to me but I don’t know what to do, and you’re reminding me of normal people and normal conversations and feeling normal and you’ve already made me laugh and it’s been so long since I …’ His voice goes choked up again and I can hear him sniffle.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I say quickly, trying to reassure him. My hand tightens around the plastic of the handset. In my head, I’m wondering if I could somehow get in touch with the helpline while he’s still on the line and try to transfer the call without hanging up on him, but I can’t think of a way to do it. The phone in the shop that I’m talking on is an old corded one that’s attached to the wall behind the counter so no one can accidentally sell it – been there, done that – and my mobile is in my locker upstairs. I’d have to leave him for a few precious minutes to dash up there and get it. It would be too obvious what I was doing. What if he felt like I was just shafting him off onto the next person because I didn’t care? If he feels like I can’t get rid of him quick enough, it might make this situation worse. Even if I could get my phone and text the helpline and ask them what to say, I’d still have to leave him hanging here in silence while I got right the way across the shop floor, through the back room, up the stairs and into my locker and all the way back again, and who knows what he might do in that time? He phoned because he needs someone to talk to now. I can’t just leave him.
I wind the cord of the phone around my fingers and sink down into a sitting position. I thunk my head back against the wall behind the counter and listen to the rain pounding on the shop roof. Even Bernard, the homeless man who lives in the churchyard, will have found shelter tonight. ‘Aren’t you soaked?’
I hear movement and can imagine him lifting an arm and looking at it. ‘I am, actually. I hadn’t even noticed.’
I don’t know what it’s like to be in that situation, to feel so bad, so desperate, that there’s no way out, but I imagine a little fall of rain is the last thing he’s worrying about. I hate the idea of someone sitting on the pavement outside in this weather though. He must be drenched and freezing. I could go up there, take him a warm blanket and a hot cup of tea, but that too would mean leaving the phone, and it would eradicate our anonymity.
Privacy and anonymity are the foundations of the charity. The helpline exists so people in a crisis can open up to an unbiased stranger. Callers are routed through a server that hides the number from the person on the other end. Helpline staff are not allowed to ask the caller’s name if they don’t share it, and not allowed to give their own name unless asked. He knows I’m not proper helpline staff, but I still work for One Light. Those rules must still apply to me, even if this is a situation that’s never happened before.
‘Talk to me,’ I say gently, terrified that I’m saying the wrong thing. ‘Why were you thinking of jumping?’
‘We’ll be here all night if I start listing the reasons.’
‘That’s okay. We can be here all night. There’s no time limit. What’s going on?’
‘Everything. I’m a failure at life. My business is going under and I’ve done everything I can to try to save it, and I don’t know what else to do. It was supposed to be a way of honouring my father, but it’s taken every bit of money I had, and it’s dead. I have no customers. My mum is seventy-seven years old and on her feet at seven o’clock every day to help me out because I can’t afford to pay any staff. I’m in debt up to my eyeballs and I got my business rates bill this morning, and I can’t afford to pay even a fraction of it. And just to ice the cake, the rates are going up in January and there’s no way I can pay them.’
Because of the anonymity rules, I can’t ask him outright where he works, but if he’s in Oakbarrow then chances are it’s somewhere nearby. It might even be on this high street.
I sit up on my knees and look over the counter at the darkened road outside. Even the streetlamps have flickered their final death and no one’s bothered to mend them. Oakbarrow High Street used to be a hive of activity, especially at this time of year, but now it’s deader than the burnt-out bulbs in the streetlights. The