How to Save a Life

by S. D. Robertson

As he’s paying, I ask him again in a low voice if everything is all right. ‘You don’t seem yourself, Connor. What’s going on?’

  He closes his eyes for a long moment and exhales through his mouth. Then he looks me in the eye and says, with a quiver of emotion in his voice: ‘Mother died. There were complications with the flu. She developed severe pneumonia. So now you know. Please don’t ask me about this again, Luke.’ He pauses to take another breath. ‘I find it very difficult to discuss.’

  ‘Oh, Connor. I’m so sorry. I had no idea. You must be—’

  ‘I have to go now. Thank you for the haircut. Goodbye.’

  Before I have a chance to say anything else, he turns and heads for the door.

  ‘You know where I am if you need anything,’ I call after him. ‘Anything at all.’

  He doesn’t respond. I’m tempted to run after him and say something else. Tell him I know what he’s going through, having lost both parents myself.

  I stay put, though, since that’s clearly not what he wants right now.

  Poor, poor Connor.

  He has my utmost sympathy.

  From what I gather, his mother was his world, outside of work. I hope there are other family members and friends out there to support him; to help him through this.

  I wish he could have confided more in me and properly opened up about it. But why would he? He might have been coming here for a long time, but I’m only his barber. Plus, for years I’ve let him talk at me without ever showing any real interest in his life, too wrapped up in my own issues and problems. Too busy being angry at the world.

  I’d like to contact him at home or work to follow up this conversation. But the cold hard facts are that, despite having cut his hair for ages, I don’t know his home address or the name of the company he works for. I only know vague details. Come to think of it, I’m not even sure of his surname. I have a feeling it’s something Irish-sounding; I’m sure he said that’s where his mum came from originally. But anything more than that would be guesswork.

  The guy next in line for a cut is growing impatient. He’s put his phone down and is looking at me expectantly, so I gesture for him to step into my chair and I get on with my job.

  I feel truly awful for Connor, though, and that stays with me for the rest of the day.

  CHAPTER 20

  ‘Okay, I’m sitting down. What is it? Please tell me. Are my mum and dad all right?’

  ‘I, er …’ The faceless, heavily accented voice paused, like he was searching for the right words. I’d already forgotten his name, although he’d said it down the phoneline a moment ago. My mind, consumed by panic and fear, didn’t have space for such things. ‘I am afraid it is very bad news, Mr Craven.’

  My heart was in my mouth as he stopped again.

  Just say it, I wanted to scream. But I could no longer move, never mind speak. I was rigid with terror.

  ‘Your parents …’ He repeated their names for some reason, as if I might suddenly shout that he’d got the wrong person and they weren’t my mother and father after all. If only.

  And then, finally, he said it – the awful, unimaginable truth – and my coffee cup tumbled, exploded on the floor, as my world teetered on its axis.

  ‘No! That can’t be true. I don’t accept it. You must be mistaken. Can you check? They can’t both be—’

  ‘I am so very sorry, Mr Craven, but there is no doubt.’

  ‘Is there someone else I can speak to? I don’t even know who you are. How do I know this isn’t some kind of—’

  ‘I can pass you to my superior, should you wish,’ he enunciated slowly, calmly. ‘However, she will only tell you the same thing. Are you alone? Is there a person you can call?’

  I wasn’t listening to him any more. My mind was reeling, desperately trying to comprehend the impossible nightmare that had somehow smashed through into real life.

  ‘How? How the hell? How could this have happened? Please!’

  Mum and Dad were keen skiers. The three of us went on a couple of skiing holidays when I was in my teens. As the youngster of the family, I was probably the one people might have expected to develop a passion for winter sports. But it went the other way: I wasn’t especially keen, whereas my parents got hooked.

  As their passion for the slopes grew, they started going on annual skiing holidays, visiting numerous popular resorts in France, Italy, Austria and Switzerland. They often tried to tempt me along, despite knowing it wasn’t my bag, arguing that I might view things differently as an adult than I did as a teenager and, if not, I could just enjoy the après-ski.

  On the last occasion they went, Dad was on the cusp of turning sixty. The pair of them had really tried to convince Helen and me to join them in their beloved Alps as a one-off to mark the special occasion. However, neither of us had been keen, so we’d politely declined.

  It’s a decision I’ve regretted ever since, because neither of them returned alive from that trip. They were both killed in an avalanche while skiing off-piste – and to this day, I’ve never stopped questioning whether the same thing would have happened if we’d joined them.

  According to investigators, they’d set off on the morning of the accident with a Danish couple they’d met at the resort. Not one of the four survived. I’ll never know for sure, but I suspect it was this other couple who’d convinced Mum and Dad to venture on that particular outing. Would they have still met these holiday friends if Helen and I had been there too? And even if they had, would they have joined them on such a treacherous, unprepared route? I like to think I would have talked them out of it, advising them to stick to an official resort slope for their own safety. I also doubt they’d have ventured too far from base, knowing we’d left our comfort zone to join them on the holiday. It’s far more likely they’d have invested their time in making sure we were having fun, coaching us and so on. That’s the kind of people my parents were. They always put others – especially me – before themselves.

  Okay, I’ll admit to thinking and occasionally saying otherwise while on the roller coaster of emotions I experienced in the aftermath of their deaths. Anger featured quite heavily at the start. I felt waves of intense fury at them for taking their lives into their own hands like they did, putting their own thrill-seeking ahead of their responsibilities as parents.

  I later accepted that, by thinking in such a way, I was the one being selfish – not them. I was a fully grown man by that point, with a wife and a life of my own. They were perfectly within their rights to do whatever they wanted with their time on holiday.

  Would they have taken a similar risk when I was still a child, reliant on their care? I doubt that very much. They were amazing parents, always putting me first as I grew up. And they never judged me for the many mistakes I made on their watch, like that night they picked me up from A&E in Leeds; or when I was brought home by a policeman at the age of ten for climbing into a nearby building site for the thrill of it.

  Realistically, I doubt they had any idea of the danger they were putting themselves in when they set off that day. They would probably have judged it a slight calculated risk at most, especially in light of how experienced they were at skiing.

  In the absence of survivors, no one will ever know exactly what happened out there when they lost their lives. However, if the avalanche was in any way caused by human error – stupidity or recklessness, for instance – I’d bet my bottom dollar it was nothing whatsoever to do with either Mum or Dad.

  I’m thinking about all of this as I make myself a homemade cheeseburger, salad and chips for my tea. Not the healthiest option, I know, but it’ll be damn tasty, that’s for sure.

  It’s hearing about the death of Connor’s mother earlier today that’s sparked these memories. I can’t stop thinking about it, wondering how he’s coping and wishing I could have offered more in the way of support.

  Losing Mum and Dad is hands down the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Being dumped by my wife less than a year later was bloody
heartbreaking too, especially on top of my grief. But the nauseating, suffocating pain of losing both parents at once, without warning … words don’t even come close.

  Maybe my grief was intensified by the fact I was an only child with no siblings to share the burden. I’d also remained in regular contact with my parents as an adult, relying on them both as mentors and my closest confidants outside my marriage.

  It was Mum and Dad I desperately wanted to turn to when Helen left me, since up until their deaths, they were the ones who’d always been in my corner when things went wrong in my life.

  The suddenness with which they were gone, with no chance to say goodbye, was one of the hardest aspects of the situation. I spent so long afterwards regretting that I hadn’t offered to see them off at the airport, for example, or even popped around to their house on the night before they left. That way we could at least have had a few more precious moments together.

  I spent ages overanalysing the last conversation we’d had – over the phone – wishing I’d used that opportunity to tell them how much I loved them and to be safe. Instead, I’d mainly wittered on about an insignificant issue I’d been having at the time with the boiler at home playing up.

  The legal, logistical and financial issues of them dying abroad didn’t make things any easier. Nor did the press attention I mentioned previously. But nothing compared to the agony of actually losing them – of knowing I’d never get the chance to talk to or see either of them ever again.

  They were relatively young too and fighting fit: Dad a couple of weeks shy of turning sixty and Mum only fifty-four. I felt like they still had years left. I hadn’t even started to consider a time when they wouldn’t be around any longer.

  My grief was all-consuming. My heart literally ached in my chest and, for a long time, I found I could barely think of anything other than how much I missed them. Nothing else seemed to matter. Hence, I guess, why I didn’t notice the foundations of my marriage crumbling beneath me.

  The irony is that soon before Helen told me she didn’t love me any more and wanted to leave me, I’d been considering talking to her about the possibility of having a child together. It was something we’d agreed neither of us wanted prior to getting married. But having lost both parents, I felt a gradual shift in my viewpoint. My family, which had been small anyway, had been decimated by this one tragedy – and I slowly realised I wanted to do something about that before it was too late.

  Unfortunately, Helen was already busy plotting her future elsewhere. My family was destined to shrink again; I just didn’t know it yet.

  I’ve come to terms with all of that now. I’m okay with not rebuilding myself a new family. I think I am, anyway. I don’t have much choice, do I?

  After Helen had gone, I consoled myself with the fact that at least I’d never have to feel the pain of losing anyone so close to me again.

  Imagine if things had been different; if Helen hadn’t left and we’d had a child or even children together. What if they’d fallen seriously ill or got into an accident and died? How could I have coped with that kind of torment again? Surely it would have ripped me apart and finished me off for good.

  As I carry my food over to the couch on a tray, I picture the Iris from my dreams frowning at this last thought and shaking her head in disapproval.

  ‘That’s no way for a positive person to think now, is it?’ I imagine her saying to me. ‘Life is meaningless if you hide from its many possibilities because you’re afraid of getting hurt.’

  CHAPTER 21

  Nora calls at the barbershop unannounced that Friday. She taps on the window as I’m sweeping up after closing time. It’s been really busy today – most of the week, come to think of it – and I’m longing to get a cold beer down my throat.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, letting her inside. ‘This is, um, unexpected. How’s it going?’

  ‘Good, thanks.’ She smiles. ‘I have some news for you and, as I was in the neighbourhood, I thought I may as well deliver it in person.’

  ‘That sounds intriguing. Grab a seat. I need to finish cleaning up, if you don’t mind, but I can talk while I go.’

  She tells me how she pitched my story to The Sunday Times Magazine and, although she wasn’t sure whether it would be their kind of thing or not, they turned out to be really keen on it. ‘They want to run it the Sunday after next,’ she says.

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ I reply, making a mental note to give Rita and family a heads-up this time.

  ‘It is, but there’s one small hitch.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘They’re not entirely happy with the photos I have so far.’

  ‘Why not? What’s wrong with them?’

  She purses her lips. ‘The nationals can be quite, er, specific about what they want when it comes to these things. Basically, they’d like some pictures of you actually cutting the hair of a homeless person.’

  ‘You got some shots like that on your phone, didn’t you?’

  ‘I’m a writer. Photography isn’t my forte, Luke, and phone pictures are never likely to be as good as photos taken with a professional camera. Plus I think they’d like some images that haven’t been used anywhere else.’ She shrugs, explaining they liked the shots Rudy, the photographer who came here previously, had taken. But as those had been of me alone in the barbershop, they’d requested that he take some more.

  ‘So what were you thinking?’ I ask. ‘Because the next session isn’t until a week on Monday, which will be too late.’

  ‘Exactly. I, um, was hoping we might be able to set something up beforehand. Tomorrow, maybe?’ She flashes me a doe-eyed look. ‘Do you think one of the guys who came to the session earlier this week might be up for popping back to get involved? What about the man you gave that paperback to? It seemed like you already knew each other.’

  ‘Tommy? I wouldn’t say we’re close or anything. That was literally the second time we met, but yeah, we’d had a chat previously. We’d spoken about the book he was reading at the time, which was why I’d dug out that other one for him. He might be up for getting involved, I suppose, if I can track him down. Leave it with me.’

  ‘Perfect. Could I give you a call tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Fine.’

  When Nora first showed up, I was tempted to ask her if she fancied joining me for that cold drink I’ve been looking forward to all afternoon.

  A naive part of me must have swallowed Meg’s nonsense about her liking me and, in a state of delusion, let myself believe that was why she’d dropped by. Now I know the real reason for her visit, all I can think about is whether I’ll be able to find Tommy and persuade him to help. Hopefully he’ll remember me this time – assuming I can locate him.

  As I’m letting Nora back out, I ask: ‘What if Tommy’s up for it but doesn’t want to be identified?’

  She screws up her face, looking pensive, before replying: ‘I don’t think that would be a major problem. I’m sure Rudy would be able to take the photo so you can only see the back of his head or something. Yeah?’

  I nod.

  ‘Okay, speak tomorrow. Have a great night.’

  It’s tempting to say my night would have been better if she’d not showed up, sending me on a potential wild goose chase. I don’t, of course. I feel like I owe her for getting me the publicity I needed and helping out here the other day. It would have been nice if she’d offered to give me a hand to find Tommy, mind; then again, I could have asked for her help and I chose not to.

  Once I’m done locking up, I head for the supermarket where I first met Tommy. I’m not too hopeful of finding him, based on previous experience, and – sure enough – he’s not there. No one is camped outside the store today, which surprises me, although when I walk along the road a little further and turn a corner, I almost trip over a woman in a grimy pink bodywarmer. She’s sitting on a pile of cardboard boxes with a tartan blanket over her lap and a dog at her side.

  ‘Could you spare any change?’ she a
sks in a hoarse, smoker’s voice, clearing her throat before flashing me a brief weary smile.

  ‘Um, sure.’ I root through my pockets and dig out a few coins, which I hand to her. ‘You look like you could do with a hot drink,’ I say.

  ‘Thanks, love.’

  I turn to her dog, a black and white Staffie, who looks up at me with sad, kind eyes and then opens his mouth so his long pink tongue flops out and he appears to be smiling.

  This leads me to reach into my pocket again and hand over a couple more pounds, adding: ‘Treat this one to something nice too, yeah? He looks like a great companion.’

  The woman thanks me again and reaches over to tickle her pet under the chin. ‘Did you hear that, Milo? This nice man thinks you deserve a treat. I reckon he’s right.’ Looking back at me, she adds: ‘Milo’s my watchdog. He’s always got my back. He knows straight away if someone’s to be trusted or not, and he likes you, right enough.’

  I smile. ‘That’s nice to hear. I’m looking for a guy called Tommy, by the way. I don’t suppose you know him, do you?’ I describe him as best I can, both before and after his recent haircut, making sure to mention the fact he likes to read.

  ‘Yes, I know Tommy,’ she says. ‘You’re the one who’s been cutting folks’ hair, are you?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I say, offering her a handshake, which she accepts. ‘I’m Luke, and you are?’

  ‘Maggie.’

  I tell her she’s most welcome to come along to the next free cutting session, giving her the details, and she advises me to try near the bus station, where she thinks I might find Tommy.

  ‘Don’t bank on him being too chatty,’ she adds, miming someone smoking. I don’t understand this comment; rather than querying it, though, I nod and thank her for helping me.

  When I eventually find Tommy, after circling around the bus station a couple of times, I understand what Maggie meant. The reason I didn’t spot him straight away was because I was expecting to find him sitting on the ground reading near a shop or a cashpoint, perhaps. The last thing I anticipated was for him to be standing frozen in the middle of an alleyway like a zombified statue.