How to Save a Life

by S. D. Robertson

  I’ve seen people in this state before, so I know straight away what’s going on. He must have taken spice: the former legal high that’s caused a lot of problems across the city centre, not least among the homeless.

  I’ve read numerous articles about it in the papers and online. Also known as ‘fake weed’ or ‘synthetic marijuana’, it’s usually smoked in rolling paper, like cannabis, but is far more potent and dangerous. Essentially, it’s a cheap mix of nasty, lab-made chemicals sprayed on to herbs to give the appearance of being natural when it’s actually anything but.

  It’s common to see those who’ve taken it crashed out on benches or pavements, dead to the world, or – even scarier, like now – rooted to the spot while still standing, in a zombie-like catatonic state.

  I’ve never tried speaking to anyone I’ve encountered in that condition before, and I’m sad to say there have been plenty. I’ve always shuffled past, bemused – one of the herd – assuming someone else will deal with them. How can I do that now, though? I know this guy, unlike the various others I’ve seen. Days ago, I was cutting his hair and chatting to him; giving him one of my old paperbacks.

  Previously, although I feel bad admitting it, I suppose I tended to think of the people who took spice as being either desperate or foolish. And yet I wouldn’t consider Tommy either of those things, based on my limited experience of him. You could argue that no one would live on the streets in the first place unless they were desperate. But equally Tommy has never come across as desperate to me. Until this moment, I thought he carried himself with an impressive level of self-respect.

  But there’s no dignity in what I see in front of me now. It’s horrific. Every bone in my body is urging me to turn and run, but still I can’t bring myself to leave. I have to do something. I have to try to help him.

  ‘Tommy,’ I say, gingerly walking up close. ‘Are you all right? Do you remember me? It’s Luke. I cut your hair the other day.’

  I’m standing right in front of him, but I get no response other than a guttural groan, which may or may not be anything to do with my presence. His eyes are unfocused and glazed over. It’s freaky as hell. My pulse is racing.

  I click my fingers right in front of his face several times, but it makes no difference. He’s away with the fairies. It’s like his mind’s gone somewhere else and his body’s been left behind. What’s so disconcerting, though, is the way he’s still standing up, staggering and twitching. Part of me fears he could suddenly turn violent and attack me, although that’s probably down to watching too many zombie movies.

  Standing back a couple of metres, I pull my phone out of my pocket, ready to call 999, when – to my surprise and considerable relief – an ambulance pulls up at the end of the alley.

  ‘Was it you that called us?’ a young male paramedic asks me after stepping out of the vehicle and walking over in his yellow hi-vis jacket, radio attached to the breast.

  ‘No, I’ve just got here,’ I say. ‘I was about to phone for help, but someone obviously beat me to it. He’s in a right mess. I can’t get him to respond.’

  ‘He’ll have taken spice,’ the paramedic says. ‘He’ll be like that until the drug wears off. Do you know him?’

  I’m not quite sure what goes through my head at this point, but rather than telling the truth, I lie. ‘No, I was, um, passing by and saw him like this.’

  ‘Okay, well, don’t worry about it. You can leave him to us. We’ll check him over.’

  ‘Is he going to be all right?’ I ask.

  The paramedic frowns. ‘It’s nasty stuff, but he’s in safe hands now. It’s nothing we haven’t dealt with lots of times before.’

  Back at the flat later that night, Alfred curled up on my knee in front of the TV, I’m beating myself up about the way I disowned Tommy. What was I thinking? Why didn’t I tell the paramedic his name and admit that I knew him?

  I’m really not sure why I reacted in such a strange way. I guess I panicked, thinking I might get drawn into that whole mess. They might have wanted to leave him in my care, for instance, once he came to. And what would I have done then: brought him back here? No way. Not after seeing him in that horrendous state. Not knowing he’s into taking spice. I’m not stupid. Welcoming a destitute druggie into my home would be like inviting them to steal my stuff.

  I may have cut Tommy’s hair, had a chat with him and given him a book; that doesn’t make him my responsibility. And yet I still can’t help feeling bad about disowning him. I wonder if he’ll have any recollection of that. Unlikely, considering the condition he was in. He didn’t seem remotely conscious, but who knows? I haven’t got a clue what it’s like to be on spice – and I never want to find out.

  Regardless of whether Tommy remembers or not, I’m ashamed of my actions. Iris would never have walked away like I did. Not a chance.

  CHAPTER 22

  Nora phones me the next morning, as promised. I’m at the barbershop when I take the call and I have to be brief, as several people are already waiting in line. Earlier in the week, I put the recent rise in customers down to coincidence, but now I’m starting to believe it’s because of the press attention. Several people have even mentioned the free cuts for the homeless, mainly to say that they approve.

  ‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ I tell Nora.

  ‘You didn’t manage to find that guy?’

  ‘No luck.’

  ‘Is there anyone else you can think of who might get involved?’ she asks.

  ‘Sorry, there’s not. I’m swamped here today too, so I doubt I’ll have time to look. I wish I could be more helpful, but—’

  ‘No, no,’ Nora replies. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll see if I can rustle someone up instead. Rudy’s not free today, anyway, as it turns out, but he could do tomorrow at a push. Would that work for you?’

  I’m tempted to say no, on the grounds it’s my one day off. However, I don’t have the heart to let her down, particularly after my disappointing behaviour yesterday, which I feel I need to make up for.

  ‘I don’t usually open up on Sundays, but as long as it’s not going to take too much time, I’m sure we can work something out.’

  Nora hesitates, like she’s considering suggesting to leave it until next week, but then she says: ‘Thanks so much. That would be great, if you don’t mind. No, it won’t take long at all. I’ll make sure we keep it as brief as possible.’

  She calls me again early that evening to say she’s got someone lined up to help, so I agree to meet her and the others at the barbershop at midday tomorrow.

  They’re already waiting for me when I arrive.

  ‘Sorry, am I late?’ I say, looking at my watch to see it’s only a couple of minutes past twelve.

  ‘No, no. Not really,’ Nora says. ‘We were early, to be honest. This is Ivan, by the way. Ivan, Luke.’

  I shake hands with the man she brought along with her – someone I don’t recall meeting before – who’s wearing a Big Issue hi-vis vest and ID card.

  Nora must have got in touch with him via her contacts at the weekly magazine. Clever thinking on her part.

  ‘And you remember Rudy, right?’ she adds, gesturing towards the photographer.

  ‘Of course.’ I smile and shake his hand too.

  The three of them have been for breakfast at a nearby café, I hear. I’m guessing this was part of the deal she made to get Ivan along – Rudy too, perhaps.

  Ivan’s also in need of a haircut, which I soon find myself agreeing to throw in while Rudy snaps various pictures of us both.

  ‘I heard about you doing this,’ Ivan says to me, as I’m busy giving him the skin fade he’s requested, despite my concerns that he might find it nippy out on the streets. ‘I thought about coming along on Monday, but something came up. How did it go?’

  ‘Really well, thanks.’

  ‘It’s a nice idea. I’ll spread the word.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  Once I’m done with the haircut, Rudy asks if we can do a couple of sh
ots outside too, saying he’d like to try incorporating some of the Northern Quarter street art as a nice backdrop.

  ‘Really?’ I say. ‘But I don’t do any cutting outside.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ Nora chips in. ‘No one’s saying you do. It would just be for effect. It’s a good idea: a way to convey that you’re helping people who live on the streets. It brings the two things together in a nice visual way.’

  It does kind of make sense when she puts it like that, so I agree. We get a few funny looks from passers-by but not as many as you might expect. This is the Northern Quarter, after all.

  We’re finally done by 1.10 p.m., which isn’t bad. Rudy has to rush off and Ivan – who’s clearly chuffed with his new haircut, as he keeps looking at himself in the mirror – is keen to get to his patch to sell some magazines. Nora and I are left alone and, before I have time to overthink it, I ask her if she fancies grabbing a quick coffee together.

  She looks at me with raised eyebrows. ‘Oh, right. I thought you were pushed for time.’

  ‘This didn’t take as long as I expected, to be honest. But no pressure. I won’t be offended if you have to get off somewhere else.’

  ‘Um, yeah, okay. Sure. Why not? Where did you have in mind?’

  Awkwardly, my brain freezes and I can’t immediately think of anywhere, despite the fact I work and spend so much time around here.

  ‘I, er, don’t mind,’ I say, feeling stupid. ‘Is there a place nearby that you particularly like?’

  She throws me a blank look. ‘Not really.’

  Finally, my brain kicks into gear. ‘I’ll tell you what, I know a little place around the corner that has brownies to die for. I mean, they have other cakes too, obviously, which are probably also really nice. And drinks: coffee, tea and so on.’ Realising I’m rambling, I rein myself in before she starts to think I’m a total idiot. ‘Sound good?’

  Nora chuckles. ‘Perfect. You had me at the brownies, to be honest.’

  I grin. ‘Excellent.’

  As we’re walking to the café, I panic it might be closed, seeing as it’s Sunday. Most places we pass are open, though, so I keep my fingers crossed and luck turns out to be on my side.

  ‘Here we are,’ I say, like there was never any doubt. There’s even a spare table in the window, which I grab, and I pass Nora a menu.

  Without conferring, we both order a flat white and a brownie from the waiter, who’s freckly with long ginger hair, a matching bushy beard and large black-rimmed specs.

  ‘Jinx,’ we both say at the same time before erupting into a fit of giggles.

  ‘No brownies today, I’m afraid,’ the waiter says in a deep, deadpan voice.

  ‘What?’ Nora says in mock outrage. ‘This is a disaster. I only agreed to come here to sample one of the legendary brownies.’

  Beardy is no fun at all and doesn’t even acknowledge this comment. He simply asks: ‘Anything I can get you instead?’

  ‘What would you recommend? You look like a man knowledgeable about his sweet treats.’ Nora winks at me when he’s not looking in her direction.

  ‘That’s really a matter of personal preference,’ Beardy replies. ‘Everything we have is detailed on the menu. Shall I give you a few more minutes?’

  ‘No, I’ll tell you what,’ I say to him. ‘Surprise us.’

  ‘Sorry?’ He peers down his nose at me like I’ve said the most ridiculous thing in the world.

  I smile in a slightly exaggerated manner, careful not to push it too far. ‘You pick something for us that you think we might like, bearing in mind the fact we both love brownies.’

  ‘Chocolate cake?’ he asks with a sigh.

  Nora rolls her eyes. ‘You’ve ruined the surprise now. I’m sure that’ll be fine, though. Luke?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Beardy walks off without saying another word.

  ‘He’s a bundle of laughs,’ Nora says. ‘I thought we’d best not push him too far. Otherwise he might spit in our food.’

  ‘I know. He wasn’t here last time I came. I wouldn’t have suggested it if he was. Not exactly service with a smile, is it?’

  We have a good chat. The conversation flows easily and we cover various subjects, from how I got into being a barber after quitting uni to a bad date Nora went on the other day, which ended soon after the man she met asked her if she was open to water sports in the bedroom.

  I clench my teeth. ‘Really? That’s when you, um—’

  ‘Urinate on each other,’ she says, grimacing as she finishes the sentence for me, saving my blushes. ‘He seemed relatively normal when I was chatting to him beforehand, but – honestly – it’s a minefield. I had to text a friend to call me and pretend there was a family emergency so I could get out of there.’

  ‘You met him through a dating website, app, whatever?’

  She nods, squinting at me across the table and smirking. ‘Are you judging me right now?’

  I hold up my hands. ‘No, no. Not at all. That’s how most people meet these days, right? It’s just never been my thing. Call me old-fashioned—’

  ‘You are quite old-fashioned, come to think of it. What age are you again?’

  ‘Charming,’ I reply. ‘Thirty-nine.’

  ‘Ooh, nearly forty. It’s all downhill from there.’

  ‘Thanks for that. How old are you, then?’

  ‘Guess,’ she replies, to my dismay.

  Erring on the side of caution, aiming to flatter rather than offend, I say twenty-seven.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ she replies, grinning. ‘Try thirty-three. When’s the big day, anyway?’

  ‘Not until October. I’ve plenty of time left in my thirties.’

  ‘If you say so,’ she says with a wink. ‘Old man.’

  ‘Wow.’ I shake my head, narrowing my eyes, and pretend to be offended. ‘That’s a low blow, playing the age card. Next you’ll be calling me a slaphead.’

  Nora snorts with laughter at my comment, holding her hand to her mouth after doing so and turning pink. This sets me off and when Beardy walks past, frowning, we both end up having a full-on giggling fit.

  We’ve almost recovered when Nora nudges me and points out of the window. ‘Hey, isn’t that the bloke you were trying to track down for the photo? The book guy. Sorry, I can’t remember his name. Terry, was it?’

  ‘Tommy,’ I say, spotting who she’s pointing at, strolling by on the other side of the street, a sleeping bag under one arm and a rucksack over his shoulder. ‘Yes, you’re right. That’s him.’

  I hesitate for a second, unsure what to do. Is it best to leave him be or to go after him? My mind says to do the former, especially since Nora’s here with me, but my gut has other ideas.

  I look Nora in the eye with sudden sincerity. ‘I could do with having a quick word with him. Would you mind if I—’

  ‘Not at all. Go for it.’

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute, I promise.’

  ‘That’s fine. I’m not going anywhere.’

  I dash out of the café and up the street in the direction Tommy was walking. I can’t see him straight away, due to all the other pedestrians milling around, but after a moment I spot him and make chase.

  When I’ve nearly caught up with him, I stop running and try to slow my breathing so it’s less obvious how keen I am to chat. What do I want to say, actually? I’ve no idea now the moment is upon me. All I know is that I feel bad about what happened on Friday and I want to make sure he’s okay.

  ‘Tommy!’ I call out when I’m about two metres behind him, with no one in between.

  He turns around, stares at me blankly and then, slowly, a look of recognition lights up his face. ‘Barber dude, right? How’s it going?’

  We both stop walking and, to get out of other people’s way, stand towards the inside of the pavement, under the canopy of a children’s clothing store. This works out well because it’s started spitting with rain.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks, Tommy,’ I say before reminding him th
at my name is Luke.

  ‘That’s it. Like the geezer from Star Wars. Nice one.’

  Tommy looks dog-tired. There are a couple of scratches on his cheek, but otherwise he appears more or less back to normal, compared to the last time we met.

  ‘How are you doing?’ I ask.

  He shrugs. ‘Can’t complain. Still liking my haircut, although you were right about it being a bit cold.’

  ‘I thought you said you had a hat.’

  ‘Yeah, I do,’ he replies. ‘Somewhere.’

  ‘How’s the book?’ I ask, half-expecting him to say he’s lost it.

  Instead, for the first time in the conversation, a spark briefly returns to his eyes. ‘It was brilliant. I raced through it in no time. I couldn’t find anyone to pass it on to who’d actually bother to read it, so I swapped it for a different one at a book exchange. Not a Rankin, though. There weren’t any. Hope that’s okay.’

  ‘Of course,’ I reply. ‘Would you like another?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘No problem. Leave it with me.’

  I’m tempted not to say anything about Friday, particularly as Tommy doesn’t appear to have any memory of the incident – or at least of seeing me there – but my bloody gut won’t let me. He looks more or less fine now, but … I can’t simply forget what I saw. And I feel like I have to do something to make up for my shameful behaviour.

  ‘Hey, I’m guessing you don’t remember this, but I ran into you on Friday. You weren’t really with it. I got the impression you must have, um, taken something. Does that ring a bell?’

  Tommy’s eyes widen upon hearing this and he looks from side to side, no longer meeting my eye. ‘Sorry, what?’ he says eventually. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you sure you’ve got the right person? Maybe it was one of the other guys who—’

  ‘No, it was definitely you, Tommy,’ I say. ‘You were properly out of it. I was a bit concerned, to say the least. It seemed to me like you might have taken some of that, um—’

  ‘Listen, I have to get going,’ Tommy says, interrupting me before I can finish. ‘It’s good to catch up and all that, but I need to see a man about a dog, so to speak.’