How to Save a Life

by S. D. Robertson

  ‘Wow,’ she says after I’ve finished detailing my hopes and fears about the idea. ‘That sounds incredible.’

  ‘Seriously? You like it?’

  ‘Absolutely. Homelessness is such a big problem. It’s heartbreaking to see so many people on the streets. No one should have to be in that situation in this day and age. I know there are shelters and soup kitchens out there; I realise there are various schemes and charities doing their utmost to help. But whatever is already being done, it clearly isn’t enough.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I mean, it’s not like what I’m proposing would change people’s lives. It’s not going to solve the problem by any stretch of the imagination. But hopefully it would make a difference to a few people and have some kind of positive impact.’

  Meg nods enthusiastically. ‘Absolutely. As for the concerns you mentioned, I’d definitely do it in the barbershop rather than on the streets and I wouldn’t overthink the rest. I’d try it out in a low-key way to start with and let things progress naturally. Maybe only mention it to a few people first off, sticking to word of mouth, and see what happens. If you want some moral support, I’d be happy to come along and lend a hand. Not cutting hair, obviously, because I wouldn’t have a clue what I was doing, but I could chat to anyone waiting and make sure things stay organised.’

  I’m a little taken aback by Meg’s eager response and her offer to help. This isn’t what I expected at all. I thought she’d tell me I was being stupid.

  It’s great she’s so supportive of the proposal, particularly after my wobble in the early hours. Her words have re-invigorated my initial enthusiasm.

  ‘That would be amazing, if it’s not too much trouble,’ I tell her. ‘It would be good to have someone on crowd control in case it really takes off. I doubt it will, but—’

  ‘You never know,’ Meg says, finishing my sentence.

  ‘Exactly.’ I pause to drink some of my coffee before adding: ‘Thanks for your support. It means a lot. I was afraid you might start talking about survivor’s guilt and shrinks again.’

  ‘I do, er, stand by what I said then,’ Meg says, scratching the side of her head. ‘You definitely shouldn’t be doing any of this due to feelings of guilt about Iris. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to try to put you off doing something so positive. A great idea is a great idea.’

  ‘When do you think would be a good time to do it? I have a feeling I should start soon or there’s a danger I’ll never get around to it.’

  ‘Monday’s your quietest day, right?’

  I nod.

  ‘And you don’t open until lunchtime.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘So how about for a couple of hours on Monday evening, after you normally close?’

  ‘Yeah, that could work,’ I say.

  ‘I’m free next Monday evening, if that helps.’

  ‘Okay, let’s do it.’

  In an attempt to rustle up some interest in my free haircuts, the next day after work I head to the supermarket instead of going straight home. I’m hoping to bump into a certain novel-reading homeless chap, since he was the one who sparked the idea in the first place.

  I’ve even dug out another Ian Rankin paperback from my bookshelf, which I’m hoping he’ll be glad to receive. It was actually Mum’s – all the Rebus books I have originally belonged to her. I decided to keep them after her death, partly since she was such a big fan, but also because she got me into them as well, lending me her copies one by one. I have fond memories of chatting about them afterwards with her, often over tea and cake. For that reason, I was initially hesitant about doing this. However, having given it some thought, I doubt I’ll ever get around to reading them again and I’m sure Mum would approve. She was always a sucker for supporting a good cause.

  When I arrive at the store, there is someone begging outside. But to my great disappointment, it’s a different bloke altogether. He’s a skinny guy, who looks to be in his early to mid-twenties, wearing a black donkey jacket, army boots and a red bobble hat with a few greasy strands of hair sticking out of the bottom. Most notable, though, is a jagged scar across one of his cheeks. It doesn’t look red or angry enough to be recent, but it’s still very conspicuous.

  Dropping a couple of pound coins into the paper cup he’s holding out, I get thanked in what sounds like a light Brummie accent.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ I tell him, kneeling down in front of where he’s sitting, leaning against the wall, his legs enclosed in a snot-green sleeping bag with a bright orange lining. ‘How are you doing today?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ he says, blowing booze-scented fumes in my direction. I lean slightly backwards to avoid this, trying to be discreet rather than causing offence.

  ‘At least it’s not raining today,’ he adds. ‘Listen, you don’t have a fag to spare, do you? I’m gasping.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t smoke. I wonder if you can help me, though. I’m looking for a guy I spoke to here the other day. Tommy, he was called.’

  I describe him in as much detail as I can remember, including the fact he was reading a book, but the bloke shakes his head and says he doesn’t know him. This is a shame, and I’m not sure I believe him, convinced I spot a shifty look flash across his face at one point, but I don’t push the matter. Instead, choosing to give him the benefit of the doubt and not wanting this to be a wasted trip, I pass him my business card.

  ‘What’s this for?’ he asks, turning it around in his hands, which are dressed in black fingerless gloves. I explain, giving him all the necessary details.

  ‘Next Monday?’ he repeats as I get up to leave.

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘And anyone’s welcome?’

  ‘I’ll give a free haircut to anyone genuinely homeless who turns up.’

  He looks down at the card, which he’s still holding in his left hand. ‘You’re Luke, are you?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry, what’s your name?’

  He doesn’t reply to this, responding instead: ‘The big question is, Luke: are you any good?’ He roars with laughter at his own words, like he’s told the funniest joke ever.

  ‘You’ll have to come along to find out, won’t you?’

  ‘Maybe I will,’ he says, still sniggering. ‘Maybe I will.’

  I consider asking his name again as I say goodbye, but since he doesn’t appear to want to share it, I don’t push.

  I spend another half an hour or so walking around the area, keeping my eyes peeled for Tommy, who’s still the person I’d really like to catch up with and invite for a haircut. I don’t find him, although I do speak to a few other homeless people in the process, giving a card to each and telling them about my scheme.

  A couple of them say they know Tommy to say hello to but haven’t seen him today. I ask them to pass on the message about what I’m doing, if they do see him, which they say they will.

  The idea of a free haircut seems to go down well with most of them, which is great. However, one – a woman with shoulder-length brown hair – says she wouldn’t feel right about getting her locks cut in a men’s barbershop.

  ‘You’d be very welcome,’ I say. ‘Honestly, women’s haircuts aren’t my forte, but I’d be happy to have a go if you wanted me to.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she replies. ‘Maybe. I’ll have to have a think about it.’

  ‘No problem and no pressure. The offer’s there; it’s totally up to you.’

  Cold and tired, I head home after this, unable to shake the guilty feeling that I’ll soon be warm and cosy in my own flat, unlike the folk to whom I’ve been chatting this evening. It must be especially tough to live on the streets in winter. I know there are shelters and other emergency accommodation options available, particularly at this time of year, but I imagine there must be limits to how many people they can take in. At least this winter has been relatively mild – definitely not as cold as previous ones I can remember. There’s been almost no snow in the city so far, other than a smattering at the beginning of Jan
uary. Still, it’s far from toasty outside, unlike my flat, where the heating has been on for a while and, as usual, Alfred is waiting for me.

  ‘Hello, mate,’ I say as he circles around my legs, rubbing against my ankles and looking up at me with big, sad eyes. His litter is piled in a mound to one side of the tray, which means he’s done a number two, so as my first job, I clean that for him.

  He’s always been a house cat, Alfred. I sometimes feel bad about this, particularly on nice warm summer days, but not so much at this time of the year.

  I made the decision not to let him outside based on the fact I live in the city: there’s way too much traffic around. Better to have a long, pampered, sheltered existence inside than a short-lived one outside that ends with him being run over. That’s my view, anyway, although I know some people would disagree.

  If I lived in a quiet village, it would be another story. But I don’t – and it’s not like Alfred knows any different. He can’t miss what he’s never had. Plus he has the run of the whole flat, which isn’t a bad space.

  I could get one of those cat leads they sell and take him for walks outside. But that would be a pretty odd thing to do, I reckon. Also, imagine if the lead broke and he ran off. He’d be terrified and, with no experience of roads and traffic, I doubt he’d survive five minutes.

  I do play with him to give him exercise. He has these fake mice I buy for him, which I throw around the flat and he chases. He even does it himself sometimes, batting them along on the floor with his front paws. Plus I have a couple of sticks with string and a feather on the end, which are great for getting him jumping up and running around in circles. I used to do that a lot with him when he was younger, but he’s less keen these days, now he’s getting on a bit.

  ‘What have you been up to today?’ I ask as I refill his bowls with food and fresh water. ‘The usual, I guess: bit of sleeping, bit of eating. It’s a tough life, isn’t it?’

  I sometimes think it wouldn’t be a bad thing to be reincarnated as a cat in a loving home. It’s a nice simple existence. Carefree. Nothing much to worry about other than the time of your next meal and where the comfiest place to snooze might be.

  In other news, I’m starting to feel a bit anxious about next Monday evening. It’s too late to pull out now, having told various people about it, and that makes it feel more real than ever before.

  I’m still vacillating between worrying that more people will turn up than I can cope with, or no one will come and I’ll feel stupid. Should I spend any more time trawling the streets, touting for business, or should I leave it for now and see how things go?

  It’s a tough call.

  I probably will go out one more time, at least, as I’d really like to find Tommy and personally invite him along. It bothers me slightly that I couldn’t find him today. I hope he’s all right.

  CHAPTER 13

  Monday evening has come around already and Meg’s arrived to help out. I’ve had a busier than usual afternoon, which is typical of course, but at least it’s kept my mind away from fretting about how this is going to go.

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask my cousin, pointing to a cardboard tube she has tucked under one arm.

  She grins and hands it to me. ‘A present for you.’

  ‘Really. How come? If anyone should be giving a present to someone, it’s me to you, to thank you for helping me this evening.’

  ‘Just open it, will you?’

  I do as she asks and inside the tube is a rolled-up FREE HAIRCUTS FOR THE HOMELESS banner, with white lettering on a red background.

  I lean over to give my cousin a hug and a kiss. ‘Wow. That’s amazing, Meg. You really shouldn’t have, but thanks so much. It looks brilliant. How are we best to put it up in the window?’

  She reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out some window suckers. ‘With these. See, I’ve thought of everything. This way, we can put it up and take it down as often as we like. I’m assuming you’ll only want it up at the times you’re doing a free session, right?’

  ‘Um, yeah, I guess so. I haven’t given it any thought. I didn’t even—’

  ‘Consider the idea of a banner? No, I thought not. I did wonder about checking with you first, in case you’d already arranged something, but I took a gamble based on everything I know about you and it looks like it paid off. Shall we put it up, then?’

  We spend the next few minutes doing this, after which the pair of us walk outside to see how it looks from in front of the shop. It’s dark and drizzly, but the area is still fairly lively, well illuminated by street lights and the glow of the various nearby bars and restaurants.

  ‘I’m not sure it’s totally straight,’ Meg says. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It’s perfect,’ I reply. ‘Let’s leave it as it is. Thanks a million. I really hope someone turns up now or I’ll feel stupid. Where did you get it from?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’ She wags one finger playfully in the air and saunters back inside the barbershop. Of course, that immediately makes me desperate to know and, after several minutes of questions, she finally caves in and tells me.

  ‘Do you remember that girl, Ciara, who I went out with for a bit this time last year?’

  ‘The bunny-boiler, you mean?’

  ‘She was not a bunny-boiler. She was a bit possessive, that’s all.’

  ‘She cut up two of your favourite dresses with a pair of scissors, Meg. I’d say that was more than a bit possessive.’

  ‘Only because she thought I was cheating on her. And I was, at the end of the day, so she was justified to an extent.’

  ‘You’ve changed your tune. Last time I heard you mention her, you said she was a psycho and you never wanted to see her again. What about Ciara, anyway?’

  ‘She’s a graphic designer with excellent printing contacts and a soft spot for good causes.’

  I plonk myself down on one of the barber chairs, looking in the mirror at Meg, who’s standing behind me. ‘You’re unbelievable. You’re not seeing her again, are you?’

  ‘Um.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I might have agreed to go for one small drink with her next week, Luke, but that’s it. I won’t let things progress any further, although she was looking particularly sexy when she gave me this.’

  ‘You’ll regret it,’ I say. ‘Don’t come crying to me when she starts attacking your wardrobe again.’

  ‘Hey, enough of that. If it wasn’t for Ciara, you wouldn’t have that amazing new banner in the window.’

  Before I can reply, I notice my cousin walking towards the glass and peering out.

  I ask her what she’s looking at, but she signals for me to be quiet and then darts out of the door without explanation. Intrigued, I get up from the chair and look outside in a bid to discover what caught her eye. I can’t see Meg or anything interesting, though, so I let out a tired sigh and put on the kettle to make us a brew.

  By this point, I’m seriously doubting anyone is going to turn up. Clearly my chatting to people on the street and handing out business cards wasn’t enough. I’m racking my brains for better methods of promotion that will actually reach people on the street, such as contacting one of the homeless shelters or local charities, when Meg bursts back through the door with two people in tow. I immediately recognise one of them as the homeless woman I spoke to last week, who said she wouldn’t feel right about getting her hair cut by a barber. She didn’t tell me her name then, but I beam at her and greet her like an old friend.

  ‘Hello there. Great to see you again. Welcome to my barbershop.’

  Sounding so chipper doesn’t come naturally to me, especially here; I feel like a fraud, with my painted-on smile and awkward hospitality.

  Her cheeks flush and she looks down at the ground.

  ‘This is Steph and Ralphie,’ Meg chips in. ‘I spotted them walking past on the other side of the street, looking over. I had a feeling they were checking out what was going on here, so I caught up with them before
they disappeared and persuaded them to come on in.’ She turns to look at the pair, both avoiding eye contact, and adds: ‘See, I told you we don’t bite. Luke might look a bit grumpy, but he’s okay, I promise. We’re cousins. We go back a long way. What about you two? Are you, er, together?’

  Steph shakes her head vigorously at this suggestion. ‘We’re just friends. I told Ralphie he could do with a haircut and then I brought him here.’

  ‘It is a bit on the, er, wild side,’ I tell him, eyeing his bonce. ‘No offence, but I’d be very happy to smarten it up for you, Ralphie, however you like it.’

  As these words leave my mouth, I wonder if he can see through my friendly façade to the jaded soul beneath. Who on earth would call themselves Ralphie? It reminds me of Rowlf, the piano-playing dog from The Muppet Show, but even he didn’t feel the need to add an ie to the end of his name.

  ‘I d-don’t have any money to pay you,’ he stutters.

  ‘I told you, it’s free,’ Steph snaps. ‘Like it says on the sign. Don’t make an idiot of yourself.’

  ‘She’s right,’ I say. ‘Not, um, about the last bit. No one’s making an idiot of themselves here. But it is totally free of charge for you.’

  ‘How come?’ Ralphie asks. ‘Is there a catch?’

  I almost reply that the only catch is he has to listen to my bad jokes. But that comment is so not the real me, I can’t bring myself to say it. Besides, I don’t have any jokes to tell him – good or bad. Instead, I simply shake my head and tell him there’s no catch.

  ‘Luke’s decided to give something back to our community,’ Meg says, to my surprise. ‘So he’s offering his services for free today as a gesture of goodwill and support to people like yourselves, who might not otherwise be able to spare the money for a haircut. But don’t think that means it’ll be a rush job. Yes, he’s my cousin, so I am a bit biased, but Luke really is an excellent barber. He’s Italian-trained, isn’t that right?’

  She’s looking at me now, awaiting an answer, which in my surprise takes me a moment to form. ‘Um, yes. That’s right. Thanks, Meg.’ I flash her a look – eyebrows raised and lips pursed – that I hope conveys both my appreciation and a subtle signal to tone it down a bit.