How to Save a Life

by S. D. Robertson

  He doesn’t have a secretary. He is very welcoming, though, greeting me with a warm smile and a firm handshake. He offers tea or coffee before sitting me down in the ‘waiting area’ – three brown plastic chairs next to the door of his inner office – and disappearing for a few minutes.

  He returns with two steaming cups of what he’s already warned me is instant coffee.

  Next thing, we’re sitting opposite each other on comfyish grey chairs that wouldn’t look out of place in a school staffroom, and I’m giving him the synopsis of my life so far.

  I do most of the talking for the hour I spend with him, while he asks open questions, scribbles notes on to an A4 pad and nods a lot.

  His ears prick up when I tell him about my quest to become a more optimistic person.

  ‘How’s that working out?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s taken a bit of a knock, to be honest, thanks to recent events. But it was going pretty well beforehand. Life’s definitely more lively and varied when you open yourself up to things and people. But on the flipside, in doing so, you tend to make yourself more exposed and vulnerable.’

  When Charles tells me that our time is nearly up, I think he’s joking. It feels like I’ve only been there for a few minutes, even though we’ve covered a lot of ground and I’ve told him so much. I suppose what surprises me is that he doesn’t end our session with a diagnosis or a remedial action plan, as you might expect after seeing your GP, for instance. He simply requests that I keep a diary of how I’m feeling between now and our next session, with an emphasis on any particular highs and lows I experience during that period and any external factors that might have sparked them. He says he’ll also email me a list of books I might be interested to read, some specifically about post-traumatic stress and others about relaxation and mindfulness.

  ‘That’s it?’ I ask.

  ‘For now,’ he replies. ‘How have you found your first session?’

  ‘Um, good, yeah,’ I say, for want of anything better.

  He nods and smiles. ‘It’s great you were able to open up as much as you did. Not everyone can do that straight away; it’s a big help.’

  ‘Good,’ I say, wondering if it’s normal to feel bewildered at this stage. I probably should ask him, but he seems so happy with the way things have gone, I decide not to.

  As I’m walking back towards the barbershop afterwards, I unexpectedly feel a strange sense of elation, like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

  Is this normal after a session?

  I pull out my mobile – which is actually still the temporary replacement Meg sorted for me while I was in hospital – to put this question to the Internet.

  But before I get a chance, Meg’s photo pops up on my screen to indicate she’s calling. Right on cue, it’s almost as if my cousin has telepathically sensed my query.

  ‘How did it go?’ she asks. ‘You did turn up, right?’

  ‘Of course I turned up. Why would you ask that, Meg?’

  ‘Oh, I’m only pulling your leg. What did you think of your counsellor? Did you get on well with him?’

  ‘He seemed nice, yeah. He definitely put me at ease.’

  ‘And?’

  I’m not sure what she’s fishing for here – what she’s hoping I’ll say – so I answer her question with one of my own: the very same I was about to look up online when she called.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ she says. ‘It’s totally normal to feel buzzing afterwards. I always find my sessions really cathartic. It’s like by saying things out loud to someone independent, you offload your psychological baggage and leave feeling liberated. A word of warning, though: it won’t last forever. Sooner or later, that buzz will wear off and you might even feel worse for a bit before you pick up again. That’s how it works for me, anyway. I don’t think there’s a long-term quick fix for mental health issues. You have to chip away at them, piece by piece, day by day.’

  When I ask her about my initial sense of bewilderment when the session ended, she pushes me for more of an explanation.

  ‘Um, I don’t know really. I suppose I expected more, or at least something different. All I did was talk him through the highs and lows of my life. He didn’t say a great deal. He definitely seemed pleased with how it went, but there wasn’t much offered by way of advice.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ Meg says. ‘It’s early days. A counsellor’s first job is to understand you and your issues. Then they help you to do the same. From there you can start moving forward.’

  ‘How many times do you think I’ll need to see him?’

  ‘He should advise you on that, but don’t be afraid to voice any concerns you might have. He’ll be happy to answer your questions, I guarantee it.’

  I’ve been walking while chatting to Meg and, by the time I hang up, I’m back in the familiar territory of the Northern Quarter, only a short walk away from the barbershop. Realising this, a feeling of panic grips my whole body. I picture Moxie’s snarling face as he shoves his way in through the door and overpowers me. The flashback stops me in my tracks and, suddenly feeling dizzy and out of breath, I grab hold of a nearby lamppost to steady myself.

  ‘It’s going to be all right,’ I say under my breath.

  I knew it would be hard returning to the scene of the crime for the first time. That’s why I’m heading there alone now, so I can get my head around it before Rita arrives. But I wasn’t expecting it to be this hard. Why on earth didn’t I bring it up with Charles, so I could ask him to give me some coping mechanisms?

  Oh well. Too late for that now. I’ll have to face it head-on.

  Spotting an empty bench a little further along the street, I take a couple of slow, deep breaths and then make a dash for it. Once there, I lean forward with my elbows resting on my knees and focus on calming myself down.

  Moxie’s dead.

  He’s gone for good.

  There’s nothing to fear.

  I play these words on repeat in an internal monologue designed to help me pull myself together.

  It’s all kinds of wrong that I’m afraid to step foot in my own business: the place where I’ve comfortably worked alone for years without issue. All because of one incident. Okay, it was rather a big deal. But in all my time there, nothing on this scale has ever happened before. I’ve had odd instances of vandalism and a couple of attempted burglaries at night. What city centre business hasn’t? People have run off without paying and swiped odds and ends when my back’s been turned. But there’s never been anything remotely like this until now, so logic would suggest it’s very unlikely to happen again, especially considering Moxie’s fate.

  Right?

  It’s not about logic, though, is it?

  It’s about emotion.

  It’s about how Moxie’s attack made me feel.

  Weak.

  Helpless.

  Vulnerable.

  Small.

  I look down at my bandaged wounds: healing, but still there to remind me of what happened. And to stop me from returning to my job, at least for the time being.

  That’s another thing. What if they don’t heal as expected? What if my hands continue to ache as they do now when I use them? What then? If I can’t use my hands properly, how can I continue to do the one thing I know I’m good at?

  I have to stop thinking in such negative terms, or I’m never going to be able to leave this bench.

  I close my eyes and imagine Iris sitting down next to me in her usual yellow raincoat. She has a tiny MP3 player in her hand and, with a calming smile, she slots a pair of earbuds into the jack plug and hands me one while placing the other into her own ear.

  ‘Smile,’ she whispers before pressing play on the device. She starts nodding her head in time to the beat as ‘Mr Blue Sky’ kicks in and we listen to the song together, heads leaning towards each other. I surrender to the buoyant vibe of the music and tell myself everything is going to be all right.

  A hand on my shoulder jolts me back to reality. I
snap open my eyes and, for an instant, I’m convinced Iris really is there. Her brown eyes are looking at me; her brunette curls. ‘What? How’s this—’

  ‘Luke? Are you all right, love?’ another person’s voice says.

  And it dawns on me that it’s not Iris I’m looking at, but her aunt.

  ‘Rita,’ I say, shaking my head to clear the cobwebs. ‘I almost didn’t recognise you. I thought … Your hair. You’ve—’

  ‘Dyed it,’ she replies. ‘Yes, I fancied a change. What do you think?’

  ‘Very nice,’ I say. ‘That colour suits you well. It, um, actually reminds me of Iris’s hair.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is similar.’ A wistful look crosses her face. ‘I wonder if that’s why I did it? Subconsciously, I mean. I miss her so much, it’s quite possible. She was such a sweetheart. The tiniest little things remind me of her every day. I mean, I saw a girl eating a KitKat yesterday – and even that made me think of her, because it was her favourite chocolate bar. I always used to get her a KitKat egg for Easter. I’ve done so for as long as I can remember. She won’t be needing one this year, though, will she?’

  I shake my head and look down at the pavement, my eyes falling on a hardened piece of pink bubble gum in a shape that reminds me of a tear.

  It’s sad to hear Rita talk this way. I ask after Iris’s parents and she tells me they’re not coping well at all. Her mum has barely left the house since the funeral, apparently. Poor woman. Poor family. And here’s me wallowing in my own misery – my own fears and anxieties – rather than appreciating every fresh breath of air I’m able to take, thanks to Iris.

  In the time I’ve got to know Rita, I haven’t considered nearly enough the awful grief she must still be going through in the aftermath of Iris’s death. She’s so vivacious on the surface – no doubt part of the way she deals with her pain – that it’s easy to forget the truth.

  How did I become so self-absorbed without realising it? It’s like when I found out about Meg’s depression for the first time the other day.

  I’ve been battling my pessimism ever since Iris’s death, but perhaps the root of my problems lies deeper than that. Maybe the whole glass-half-empty thing is merely a symptom of me being an egotist.

  And there I go once again, making this about myself. I should be focusing on Rita, who, in spite of her grief, is about to do an amazing thing for me, which I’ve barely appreciated until this very moment.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asks me again.

  ‘Yes, fine.’

  ‘Because you looked—’

  ‘No, really. I’m okay. What are you doing here, anyway? I thought we weren’t meeting at the barbershop until two thirty.’

  ‘Sorry, I arrived early. I was feeling keen and thought you might already be around; when you weren’t, I decided to go for a stroll, maybe buy a sandwich. It was a total surprise when I spotted you sitting here.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry. It’s great to see you. We can head there now if you like. Or how about I treat you to lunch first? I’ve not eaten yet either and I know a nice little café around the corner from here.’

  She flashes me a toothy smile. ‘Now that sounds like a great plan.’

  CHAPTER 35

  Having been through everything I can think of regarding the day-to-day running of the barbershop, I pour myself and Rita a brew and ask her if she has any other questions.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Not at the moment. You’ve been very thorough.’

  ‘Sorry, I’ve not been mansplaining, have I?’

  She giggles. ‘No, no. You’re behaving like someone who’s run their own business for years and is now handing the keys over to someone else. Don’t worry, I’ve run my own business too, remember. I totally understand. It’s a bit like entrusting a new babysitter with looking after your little kids for the first time.’

  ‘I’ll have to take your word for it on that analogy,’ I say, grinning and taking a seat next to her in the waiting area. ‘I really appreciate you doing this, Rita. I haven’t said that enough. We’ve not known each other for long, but it doesn’t feel that way, probably because of what we’ve both been through lately. You have my full trust and support. I wouldn’t have agreed to this otherwise.’

  Rita nods. ‘That’s nice to hear, Luke. I’ll look after the place like it’s my own, I promise, without forgetting that it’s not. And I know exactly what you mean about us knowing each other far better than we should on paper. We had a couple of rocky starts, didn’t we? But I think there’s a real bond between us now, like we’re meant to be friends and will be for a long time. It might sound mushy, but … maybe this was Iris’s last gift to us.’

  There are tears in her eyes as she says this, voice wavering. It sets me off too, so I give her a hug.

  It was a huge help to have her at my side when I first walked back through the door. I’d already confessed over lunch how nervous I was about it; Rita made me feel better, saying it was totally understandable.

  And in the end, probably because I wasn’t alone with my memories, it wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. Apart from having to pick up the change from the till that Moxie had thrown at the wall, there was no real sign of what had happened the last time I was here. It was plain old Luke’s Barbershop – home from home.

  It also helped that a couple of traders from shops nearby bobbed their heads in to see if I was okay and to voice their support. That was particularly nice, considering I’ve never made much of an effort to be neighbourly in my time here. The way Rita was laughing and joking with them after a couple of minutes suggested that may well change on her watch, which can only be a good thing, I reckon.

  ‘Don’t feel like you need to open for exactly the same days and hours as I usually do, by the way,’ I tell Rita once we’ve both calmed down to a less emotional state. ‘That’s entirely up to you while you’re at the helm. Just give me a heads-up, so I can make sure I’m here for closing time.’

  ‘Great,’ she says. ‘Will do. That’s good to know.’

  She hasn’t specifically said so, but I’m pretty sure she thinks me coming by at the end of each day is unnecessary. At the same time, I hope she appreciates why I need to do that, for my own peace of mind as much as for her safety. I have at least explained that it’s not about me checking up on her. And she says – probably for my benefit more than hers – if there’s ever a day I can’t do, she could always ask one of her sons to drop in, as they both work nearby.

  We’re about to close up when there’s a knock on the door, which I’ve kept locked, since we’re not open for business today. The sound makes me jump and gives me a momentary flashback to Moxie knocking and then peering through the glass, pretending to be a nice guy. I turn around, ready to shout that we’re closed, only to see Connor’s familiar face staring back at me.

  I say his name under my breath and Rita throws me a quizzical frown. ‘Who’s Connor?’

  ‘A regular,’ I whisper. ‘He’s a good bloke, but a bit eccentric. He just lost his mother.’

  ‘Really? Poor thing. Are you going to speak to him then or what?’

  I nod, stand up and walk over to the door. After hesitating for the briefest of moments, I fumble with the key in the lock and then let him in. ‘Hello, Connor. How are you doing? I haven’t seen you since the funeral. How, er, how was it?’

  In reply he mutters something I can’t make out, eyes wandering everywhere apart from at me.

  ‘They’re always hard, funerals,’ I say. ‘My friend Rita over there lost her niece recently.’

  He glances in her direction for a second and scratches the side of his nose. ‘I see.’

  ‘If you’re after a haircut today, I’m afraid we’re not open.’

  ‘You’ve been closed for several days now, Luke, with nothing on display to explain why to your customers. You said you didn’t have any other closures planned after the last time this happened. I’ve been confused and concerned. I tried calling you several times on the number you gav
e me, but it didn’t work.’

  I look over at Rita, who’s pulling a bemused face, then turn back to Connor.

  ‘I guess you haven’t heard, but there was a bit of an incident. It was in the news. A man forced his way in here to rob me. He took my phone, which is why you couldn’t get hold of me. He also attacked me with a knife.’ I hold up my bandaged limbs. ‘As you can see, I’m going to be out of action for a bit. But there is good news: from Monday, Rita will be running things in my place.’

  Connor looks ahead blankly and doesn’t say anything for what feels like an age. I’m about to break the silence when he finally replies. ‘No, I hadn’t heard anything about that, Luke. I haven’t been following the news lately. I’m sorry for your, um … Are you okay?’

  ‘I’ve been better, to be honest, but I’m getting there.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So, as I say, if you’d like a haircut, Rita will be able to help you out from Monday afternoon.’

  ‘But you cut my hair, Luke. You always do it. No one else knows how I like it. Couldn’t you do one quick haircut?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, Connor. I’m not up to that yet. That’s why Rita is covering for me. She’s very nice and excellent at cutting hair. I wouldn’t team up with her otherwise. Come over and say hello.’

  Connor looks terrified at this prospect. ‘Oh. I, er, need to get going, actually.’

  ‘I don’t bite, love,’ Rita says, taking the initiative and walking over to introduce herself. ‘Connor, is it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, shoving his hands firmly into his pockets and shuffling his feet.

  ‘Very nice to meet you. I’m Rita. I used to run a unisex salon of my own and, to be honest, I miss it. I’ve also been struggling a bit since my niece, Iris, died. We were very close, you see, and I need something to take my mind off how much I miss her. I don’t know about you, but I cope better when I’m busy than when I’m twiddling my thumbs at home.’