How to Save a Life

by S. D. Robertson

  She knits her brow. ‘How do you mean exactly?’

  ‘You told me I’m too negative, that I always see things in a glass-half-empty way, yes?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘So what if I tried to change that, like the person who wasn’t really Iris suggested in my dream? You know, the fact it wasn’t actually her doesn’t mean what she told me was nonsense. As you said yourself, a dream is the mind’s way of processing its own thoughts. I’ve been feeling like something needs to change ever since Iris was killed, like—’

  ‘You don’t need to justify the fact she died and you didn’t,’ Meg cuts in. ‘You know that, don’t you? Survivor’s guilt is a common response to the kind of trauma you’ve been through, Luke. I’ve looked it up on the Internet. It’s considered a symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder. Maybe you ought to seek professional help to get through this. I know—’

  ‘Really, Meg? You’re telling me to see a shrink?’ I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘Honestly, you watch too much American TV. Who do you think I am: Tony Soprano?’

  ‘If you like. He was reluctant to get help initially.’

  ‘I don’t need to see a therapist. Case closed. I’m fine. I barely even knew Iris.’

  ‘That’s irrelevant.’

  ‘I managed without seeing anyone after Mum and Dad died, didn’t I? And when my marriage collapsed.’

  ‘Did you, though? It’s been quite a journey – lots of ups and downs. Had you sought professional help, you might have dealt with all of that much better, much sooner. There’s no shame in it, you know? It doesn’t make you any less of a man.’

  I let out a long, frustrated sigh, but I remind myself that I definitely don’t want to fall out with my cousin again after just making up with her. ‘Listen, all I want to know is what you think about me trying to be more positive. Is it a good idea or not?’

  Meg rolls her eyes. ‘Of course it is, but I’ll believe it when I see it, Luke. How exactly do you plan to change like that? You’re going to click your fingers, are you, and it’ll magically happen? Real life doesn’t work that way. You are who you are.’

  ‘Now who’s the glass-half-empty person?’

  ‘Touché,’ Meg replies with a weary grin.

  CHAPTER 10

  By Monday morning I’m feeling loads better. I didn’t have any further weird dreams overnight – not that I remember, anyway – despite spending several more hours than usual asleep, having gone to bed at eight o’clock yesterday evening. I clearly needed the extra shuteye to recover from whatever illness it was that had made me feel so rough over the weekend.

  I decide to walk to the supermarket for some bits and bobs and, as I’m leaving, yet again I bump into Doreen in the hallway.

  ‘Morning, Liam,’ she says, getting my name wrong as usual.

  ‘Morning,’ I reply without stopping.

  ‘Looks nice out there today,’ she says from behind me. ‘Good to see the sun making an appearance, although it’ll be cold too, no doubt.’

  ‘Yep.’ As I answer, I look back at her, but then I continue forward towards the stairs, keen to get out of the building’s front door as soon as possible.

  Doreen doesn’t say anything else immediately, which I guess means I’m off the hook. But when I reach the half-landing, where the stairway turns in the opposite direction, I see she’s leaning against the metal bannister at the top, peering down at me.

  ‘Off to work now, are you?’ she asks.

  Something makes me stop before I continue down the next section of stairs, which would take me out of her view. ‘No, not yet. I don’t open until lunchtime on Mondays. I’m popping to the supermarket.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Doreen replies, nodding and smiling like I’ve said something really interesting.

  Then a voice inside my head tells me this is a great opportunity to make a start on turning over a new leaf. And before I know it, words are leaving my mouth that I’ve never even considered saying to any of my neighbours before. ‘Is there, um, anything I could pick up for you while I’m at it?’

  Doreen’s eyes widen as she answers. ‘Oh, right. Um, that’s very kind of you to offer, love. I, er … let’s see.’

  ‘I’m walking,’ I add. ‘I don’t have a car, so it’ll have to be something I can carry. No crates of beer.’

  This makes her laugh. ‘Beer indeed. You are silly. I don’t think I’ve had any of that stuff in the fridge since my Bob passed away. And he wasn’t much of drinker. He used to get really tipsy after a couple. He was only small, you see: a good bit shorter than me. He had a big heart, though.’

  I never met Doreen’s husband. She’s been a widow for as long as I’ve known her, although she seems to mention Bob nearly every time she collars me. No matter how hard I try not to get drawn into a conversation, giving monosyllabic answers to her questions and always claiming to be in a rush, she rabbits on at me regardless. Inevitably, some of what she’s told me has sunk in, particularly as she often repeats herself. I know she moved here not long after Bob died, for instance, selling their old family home in Didsbury for a tidy sum. She’s told me – and presumably most of our neighbours – that latter nugget of information, usually in hushed tones, more times than I care to remember.

  Anyway, I’m cutting her some slack today and, in the name of change and positivity, I continue with my attempt at being jocular.

  ‘You must enjoy a tipple once in a while, right?’ I ask, winking. ‘What’s your poison? I’m sure I could manage to carry a bottle of something, if that’s what you need.’

  ‘Ooh, what’s come over you, Liam? You’re so chirpy today. And it almost sounds like you’re trying to get me drunk. I do enjoy a sherry once in a while, but I don’t need any, thank you.’

  ‘Ah, I’m only pulling your leg,’ I say, surprising myself with my warm tone. ‘Seriously, though, is there anything you need?’

  ‘I am a bit low on teabags, come to think of it,’ she says.

  ‘No problem. What brand do you like?’

  ‘Yorkshire, please, if it’s not too much trouble. Let me go and grab some money.’

  ‘Good choice,’ I say with a smile. ‘And no rush. You can sort me out later.’

  As I make my way along the street to the shop, I’m surprised to realise I’m still smiling. The thought of how long I might get held up talking to Doreen when I give her the tea makes me less happy, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

  ‘Can you spare any change?’ a bearded homeless guy reading a paperback asks me as I enter the store.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t have any,’ I reply out of habit, although on this occasion it’s the truth.

  ‘No problem,’ he replies with a smile before looking back down at his book. ‘Have a good day, pal.’

  Later, as I’m leaving with two bags of shopping, I see he’s still there and – remembering his chipper, no pressure attitude – I pass him a couple of pound coins I received at the till.

  ‘Ah, thanks so much,’ he says with a grin. ‘I really appreciate that. You’re a star. Have a brilliant day.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ I reply. ‘You too.’

  Giving a donation like this is most unusual for me. Homeless folk are such a regular sight in central Manchester now, it’s hard sometimes not to think of them as a nuisance rather than actual human beings in need of help. I also fear they’ll only spend the money on booze or drugs. That might seem unfair, but I go off what I witness, walking through the heart of the city. It’s scarily common these days to see them crashed out or off their heads in public – escaping the miserable reality of their lives, I suppose.

  Mind you, plenty of non-homeless people, from all social classes, spend loads of money getting plastered in Manchester’s countless pubs and clubs on a daily basis. There is an argument that the homeless have every right to do the same, if that’s what they want. When passers-by give them money, it’s certainly their own choice what to do with it.

  Anyhow, it’s not fai
r to tar all of the homeless with the same brush. The drunks and druggies probably only account for a small minority. This bloke I’m chatting to now is a good example. He clearly has his head screwed on the right way.

  It’s probably condescending of me, but I’m impressed by the fact he’s reading a book. That’s a much less common sight among the homeless here; it gives me the impression he has his wits about him. Plus I recognise the paperback he’s reading as a book I’ve enjoyed myself. It’s one of the early Rebus novels by Ian Rankin.

  ‘Enjoying it?’ I ask him, nodding in the direction of his reading material.

  ‘Definitely,’ he replies, tucking his long, shaggy hair behind one ear. ‘Rankin’s great – a cut above most crime fiction. I first read this years ago, but it’s amazing how much you forget. I’m enjoying it even more this time around.’

  ‘Yeah, I rate him too,’ I reply. ‘He really brings Edinburgh to life, doesn’t he? My mum got me into him. She was a huge fan. Anyway, I’ve got to run. All the best.’

  He nods. ‘No problem. Thanks again.’

  I’m about to leave, but a gut feeling keeps me there a little longer. ‘I’m Luke, by the way,’ I say. ‘What’s your name?’

  He beams the purest smile at me. ‘It’s Tommy, thanks for asking. Most don’t. Nice to meet you, Luke.’

  ‘You too.’

  I walk away feeling uplifted, like I’ve done something good, until I remember the last homeless person I spoke to: the one I saw lying in a doorway soon before the scaffolding collapse. The one I told to sling their hook without a thought for their wellbeing.

  Yeah, what a nice guy I am.

  I’ll need to do a lot more than give a bloke a couple of quid and ask his name before I can start feeling proud of myself.

  I have a few ‘bread and butter’ regulars at the barbershop, although not as many as I probably ought to. Is that because I don’t make a fuss of them or know all about their lives by asking questions like we’re friends? Maybe. But that’s not my style.

  As a rule, the kind of regular I tend to attract is a bloke who wants a decent cheap haircut and no small talk. I don’t have any problem whatsoever with long silences, trust me. Hands down my favourite kind of cut is the type when the guy in the chair says what he wants at the start and doesn’t speak again until the end. I’m happiest left to get on with my job, lost in my thoughts as a good tune plays on the radio.

  There’s an exception to every rule, though, isn’t there? In this case, Connor is that exception. I’ve no idea why he’s a regular at my barbershop, but he is nonetheless.

  I find him waiting outside when I arrive to open up just before one o’clock.

  ‘Luke,’ he says. ‘Am I glad to see you.’

  ‘Connor, what’s the problem? Haircut emergency? It doesn’t look that bad to me.’

  ‘I came for a cut on Friday and you weren’t open. What happened?’

  I unlock and raise the shutters. ‘I had a funeral to attend.’

  That explanation would be enough for most people. Not Connor.

  ‘Did it last all day?’ he asks, standing right behind me as I unlock the door and turn the lights on.

  A frown is the only answer I offer to this question.

  ‘You were closed all day. I returned several times. Why didn’t you leave a note to inform customers like myself what was going on? I found the situation most frustrating.’

  ‘I had other things on my mind, Connor. Do you know about the accident I was in recently?’

  ‘The scaffolding?’ he replies, like there’s more than one accident to choose from.

  ‘Yes. It was the funeral for the woman who died as a result of that.’

  Connor, who’s now helped himself to a seat in my preferred barber chair, knits his brow. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, then shuts it again. After a long few seconds of uncharacteristic silence, he says, almost like it pains him to do so: ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

  It’s an odd comment, based on the fact I barely knew Iris, but it’s well meant and probably as close to compassionate as anything I’ve ever heard Connor say.

  ‘Please could you cut my hair now?’ he asks.

  ‘Give me a minute to get my things together.’

  He taps his fingers annoyingly on the arms of the chair as he waits. ‘Can you stop that?’ I snap before asking if he wants ‘the usual’ haircut.

  This isn’t a question I ask many customers, but Connor has been coming in every few weeks for years now.

  ‘Mother said it was a little too short on top last time,’ he replies.

  ‘Right.’

  We wouldn’t want to upset Mother now, would we?

  Connor still lives with his mum in his childhood home in Sale, despite being in his early forties, fiercely intelligent, and holding down what must be a well-paid job as some kind of corporate IT boffin in the city centre. Goodness knows what he spends his money on, other than cheap regular haircuts here. I doubt it’s clothes, as I only ever see him in one outfit: a plain sky-blue shirt and smart navy trousers. I’m sure he must have several versions of each, as he never smells bad, which he surely would if he was wearing the same thing every day.

  When you’re a barber, you can’t avoid knowing what your customers smell like. Getting up close and personal is part of the job. And sometimes – trust me – it can be unpleasant. You literally have to hold your breath or breathe through your mouth. The very overweight guys can smell ripe, particularly in summer or when they’ve been wearing a thick coat in winter, due to how much they sweat.

  Connor’s lanky and doesn’t have that problem. He seems to take good care of himself: always appearing clean-shaven with a recently pressed shirt. Living with his mum might well have a lot to do with that. However, he’s very precise and ordered about everything he does – almost robotic at times – so it’s possible he’d be exactly the same even if he had a place of his own.

  ‘Mother hasn’t been well recently,’ he tells me.

  ‘Oh?’ I reply. ‘Nothing serious, I hope.’

  After cutting Connor’s thick, wiry, dark brown hair for so long, I almost feel like I know this woman, despite the fact I’ve never met her or even seen a photo of what she looks like. I don’t think Connor’s ever told me her name; if he has, I don’t remember it. He talks about her a lot and I often switch off. If he’s remotely embarrassed about still living with her at his age, he doesn’t show it.

  ‘She has the flu,’ he says, which sends a shiver down my spine. I hope he’s not carrying it, because I definitely don’t want to catch the real thing. My flu-like symptoms over the weekend were quite enough of a taster for me, thank you very much. I make a mental note to wash my hands thoroughly after he’s gone and to try to keep them away from my face in the meantime.

  ‘Didn’t she get a flu jab?’ I ask as I use the bare clippers to trim the hair around his right ear. I’ve paid for the injection myself in past years, when there’s been a lot of flu around, because I know how easy it is to pick up illnesses in my line of work. I’m starting to think I ought to have done so again.

  ‘She doesn’t like needles,’ he explains. ‘The GP offers her a jab every year, because of her age. I always advise her to get it, but there’s no telling her. Now she’ll be bedridden for who knows how long. Luckily, one of the neighbours is able to look in on her while I’m out at work. Otherwise, I don’t know what we’d do.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried you’ll catch it next?’

  Connor throws me an odd look via the mirror, like I’ve said something ridiculous. ‘I don’t get ill,’ he says. ‘I don’t have time for that.’

  Later, as I’m showing him the back of his hair with the hand mirror, I find myself telling Connor about the homeless guy I spoke to earlier and how I was surprised to see him reading a novel.

  ‘Hmm,’ he says. ‘That is unusual. It’s definitely a healthier form of escapism than you normally see. I honestly don’t know how the homeless manage at
this time of year. Mother says it’s a life choice and we shouldn’t encourage them by giving money, but I disagree.

  ‘Who would deliberately choose to live that way? I can’t imagine not sleeping in a proper bed at night, not having clean clothes or being able to wash daily. When do you think this man you spoke to last had a haircut? I wouldn’t feel human without any of that.’

  ‘Good point,’ I reply. ‘I know what you mean.’

  I’m about to undo Connor’s gown, having got the nod that the back is fine, when he interjects. ‘Actually, I’m not sure about the length on top, Luke. Could you take a bit more off?’

  ‘I thought you didn’t want it too short?’

  ‘I don’t, but if it’s too long, it’ll need cutting again in no time.’

  Heaven forbid. I bite my tongue and take the scissors to his locks for another few minutes.

  ‘Right, happy now?’

  Connor turns his head from side to side in the mirror. ‘Yes, that’ll do. Thank you.’

  I don’t need to tell him how much he owes me after I’ve removed the gown and blasted him with the hairdryer to dislodge any remaining hairs. He’s fully aware of the price, which hasn’t changed for some time now and is also displayed on a list on the wall. I know not to expect a tip, because there’s never been one yet, despite the countless times he’s been in this chair. Just like he never looks especially pleased with the cut I’ve given him, which he usually refers to as ‘fine’ at best. I must be doing something right, mind, for him to keep coming back.

  As usual, Connor hands me the exact change once he’s retrieved his coat from the hanger. But before saying goodbye, he clears his throat. ‘Could I make a request?’

  ‘If you must.’ I wonder what on earth is coming next.

  ‘Should you need to close again in future, even if it’s only for a few hours rather than a whole day, which would be preferable, I must say—’

  ‘Yes?’ I interject in a bid to get him to the finish line.