How to Save a Life

by S. D. Robertson

  ‘Don’t stop cutting unless you’re done. You’ve only got until the end of the song.’

  ‘What? Seriously?’ I say. ‘But I’ve got a million questions. I hope this is the long version with the extended ending.’

  Iris laughs. ‘We’ve probably got time for one question. If you’re quick. But keep cutting.’

  I let out an exasperated sigh before picking the scissors back up and continuing. I want to ask her something – so many things – but now I know I’m up against the clock, my mind has gone blank. I focus on the cutting, quickly but carefully finishing the job, and then I stand back to admire my handiwork.

  ‘Right, there you go,’ I say. ‘What do you think?’

  She turns her head from side to side in the mirror, fanning out the bottom of her curls with her hands before eventually giving me a thumbs-up, reminding me of Charles earlier. ‘Very good. I think you’ve still got it, Luke. And your question?’

  Suddenly, loads flood to mind. Is this really Iris? If so, how is she here with me and where has she come from? Is she happy? Why has she appeared previously in my recurring dream about the flat within the flat, but not this time? Will I ever have that dream again and what did it mean? There are so many more things I could ask her.

  However, in the end, forced to make a snap decision, the question I put to Iris is a simple but pertinent one: ‘Do you have any regrets?’

  She nods, sucking her teeth. ‘Interesting. I’m guessing that’s partly because you still think it’s your fault I died, because I pushed you out of the way. Don’t. I’d do it again in a flash. And in direct answer to your question: no, I have no regrets whatsoever. I led my short life to the full and I loved it. Could it have been longer? Of course, but it wasn’t meant to be. What would be the point in having regrets? They’d only make me miserable. Nothing would change. Positivity – blue-sky thinking, if you like – was at the heart of everything I did then and it remains so now. And with that, I bid you farewell, my friend. Choose love. Be happy.’

  She pulls me towards her and kisses my cheek as the song ends and so does my dream.

  CHAPTER 38

  I receive a phone call from Rita as I’m walking through Piccadilly Gardens on a warm, sunny Wednesday at the end of April.

  ‘Hello there,’ I say. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘He’s here again.’

  ‘Connor?’

  ‘Yep. I saw him a moment ago, walking past for the first time.’

  ‘Right. I’m only a few minutes away. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  It’s just over a week since I told Rita to call me when Connor next appeared.

  I spot him passing the barbershop and stopping for a moment to look through the window as I approach from further down the road. I’m tempted to shout something to get his attention but decide against it, not wanting to scare him off. His hair is the longest I’ve ever seen it. Being wiry and thick, it’s grown up and outwards, reminding me of the stereotypical image of a science boffin. He’s unshaven too, I see as I get closer, with quite some beard growth evident. Oh dear. Things clearly aren’t going well.

  ‘Hello, Connor,’ I say once I’m within a few yards of him. He’s still standing in front of the window and jumps when I speak, like he’s been caught out doing something wrong.

  Turning to look at me, his eyes are wild for a moment and then they soften. ‘Luke,’ he says. ‘You’re back.’

  ‘Um, yeah, I’m not exactly back, back,’ I tell him. ‘I’m just calling in to see how Rita’s getting on.’

  Eyes falling on my hands, he adds: ‘But the bandages have gone.’

  ‘Yes, I know, Connor. But I’ve not returned to work yet. I—’

  ‘Please, Luke,’ he says. The desperation written all over his face startles me. Makes me re-evaluate my position. Do I understand why it’s so important to Connor that I’m the one to cut his hair? Absolutely not. But I know what it’s like to feel despair; to be wretched; to be riddled with grief, to the point where up feels like down and down feels like up.

  As much as I don’t want to cut his hair right now – as afraid as it makes me feel – I think back to the head-scratching dream I had last week in which I cut Iris’s hair. I know it was only a dream. Well, I think it was, although Iris’s words were confusing and, so far, I’ve not dreamed of her again, as she predicted. Anyway, the point is that I cut her hair in the dream without issue. And, as Charles said to me in our latest counselling session, sometimes optimism means taking a leap of faith.

  Before I can change my mind and start doubting the decision I’ve already made in my head, I tell Connor: ‘Fine. Come inside and I’ll cut your hair.’

  His face lights up like a lamppost at dusk. ‘Really? You’ll do it for me?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘on one condition.’

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘You stop with the weird walking up and down outside the barbershop. I’m worried you’ll freak out Rita, especially after what happened to me with the knife guy.’

  ‘I’d never hurt anyone,’ he replies, looking hurt himself at the suggestion. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to come back, that’s all.’

  I pat him gently on the shoulder. ‘I know that, Connor. But she’s only met you once, remember. She barely knows you. Next time you want me and I’m not around, call. My phone number’s back up and running now. Anyway, come on in and let’s make you look human again.’

  I sit Connor down in the chair next to the one Rita’s using and explain what’s going on. If she’s surprised or perturbed by this in any way, she doesn’t let on. In fact, if anything, she seems pleased.

  ‘Good to see you both,’ she says.

  ‘Sorry if I freaked you out, Rita,’ Connor says to my surprise. ‘It won’t happen again.’

  My hands shake with nerves when I first pick up the clippers to start the haircut, but I manage to steady them and my breathing; I blank my mind and get on with it.

  Connor doesn’t say much, but Rita helps, making jokes and small talk to take my mind off the bigger picture.

  It goes all right, muscle memory kicking in and taking care of much of the process. Still, it’s a relief when I reach the point of getting the hand mirror to show Connor the back. ‘How’s that for you?’ I ask.

  He turns his head left and right in the mirror. ‘Yes, that’ll do nicely. Thank you.’

  Wow, he’s happy first time. Thank goodness.

  I did consider offering to trim his facial hair too but decided not to overcomplicate things.

  Instead, with a wink, I say: ‘Unless you’re growing a beard, you might want to have a shave when you get home to complement your new smart look on top.’

  Luckily, he takes it in good humour.

  Later, after Connor has gone, promising to call me if I’m not around next time he needs a trim or even just to chat, Rita and I get five minutes alone during a quiet moment between customers.

  ‘How did that feel?’ she asks.

  ‘Better than expected.’

  ‘It was good of you to do that for him – and for me.’

  I raise an eyebrow.

  ‘You think I didn’t know that you were worried about me feeling safe?’ she says. ‘After all these years of hairdressing, I can read people pretty well. I also know you didn’t feel ready to start cutting yet, but you did a great job of hiding that. And it was a good cut, of course, but I’d expect nothing less. I hope it’s helpful with your recovery.’

  She goes on to chat about how several people have taken her up on the new services she’s trialling, following our conversation in the pub last week. And when she gives me a breakdown of the figures she’s predicting they’ll rake in, I’m seriously impressed.

  ‘You’re making me wonder whether I ought to leave you to it and not come back at all,’ I say, grinning.

  ‘Who says it has to be one thing or another?’ she replies. ‘I’m really enjoying it here. It’s confirmed what I already suspected: I’m way too young to b
e semi-retired. I have too much left to give. If you wanted me to, I’d be happy to carry on alongside you, for a while at least. That way, you could also ease yourself back in as gradually as you like, starting part-time and working up from there. If that’s what you want, of course. You’re the boss.’

  Her response blindsides me, but my instant gut reaction is that it’s a great suggestion. I hadn’t really considered that she might want to stay here beyond this period of covering for me, but now she says it, I can’t think of anyone I’d rather work alongside. Plus, if I’m totally honest, one of the key reasons I’ve resisted cutting, until Connor forced my hand today, is the fear of eventually having to work alone again here. This suggestion would negate that problem. My one concern is whether we could consistently generate enough business to support two salaries. Mind you, the numbers have been good of late and Rita’s new services might help as well.

  I say most of this to her, skipping over the bit about me being afraid to work alone, and next thing I know, she’s pulling me into a hug and getting emotional.

  ‘It’s so strange how Iris brought us together, isn’t it?’ she says, her voice catching. ‘We’d probably never have met otherwise, but I really feel like we have the makings of a great team. I also have a few more suggestions that might help boost takings. Nothing crazy … I know poncey isn’t your style, and it’s not mine either. But a lick of paint and a few new fixtures and fittings wouldn’t go amiss. That, um, sign outside could really do with replacing.’

  She hesitates before continuing: ‘It’s totally up to you, obviously, but, er, maybe a change of name might even be worth considering as a way to attract new business.’

  I automatically bristle up at this but, rather than getting shirty, I make myself listen to what she has to say.

  ‘Change can be good,’ I imagine Charles telling me. ‘Don’t reject it before you give it a chance.’

  ‘Anything you have in mind?’ I ask Rita.

  ‘There is, but I’m afraid to tell you in case you hate it.’

  I laugh. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘It’s very different from Luke’s Barbershop – but it’s actually, sort of, inspired by Iris.’

  My ears prick up at this. ‘Right, you’ve got me interested now. Come on. Spit it out.’

  ‘Well, there’s this song she loved. It’s a classic from the seventies; she’d play it all the time. She said it always put her in a good mood. Helped her stay positive after a tough day at work, that kind of thing. We even talked about playing it at the funeral, but it wasn’t right for that. I, er—’

  ‘Are you going to tell me what it is, Rita, or do I have to guess?’

  ‘Okay, but don’t say no straight away. Promise you’ll at least give it some thought.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘So the song’s “Mr Blue Sky”. Do you know it? It’s quite famous. Anyway, I was thinking something along the lines of Blue Sky Barbers? Oh no, what does that look mean? Why are you laughing? You hate it, don’t you?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ I say, shaking my head and grinning so hard my face hurts. ‘It’s perfect. I can’t even begin to explain why, but … I love it.’

  CHAPTER 39

  Until recently, I didn’t think people wrote letters to each other any more. I assumed it was all emails and phone messages nowadays. In fact, it turns out that letters are like buses: you don’t see one for ages and then two come along in succession.

  The second handwritten letter sent to me this year arrived at the barbershop today, only a few weeks after the previous one from Helen. Rita handed it to me earlier, following our remarkable, illuminating conversation about the future. It was part of a small pile of post delivered this morning.

  I didn’t even notice it until I got home, assuming the pile contained only the usual collection of bills and junk mail. Honestly, I was still too dazed by Rita’s surprise suggestion of that new name for the business to think of much else. It’s an amazing idea, which couldn’t be more apt. However, the mind-bending implications of the real Iris having loved that particular song continue to make my head hurt to this moment.

  Have I actually been talking to her in my dreams all this time?

  I know that’s what Iris suggested when I was cutting her hair. But that happened in a dream too.

  Believing in an afterlife is one thing – but seriously, how could her appearing to me like this be true?

  There must be some other logical explanation. Maybe Iris mentioned that tune during the brief time we were together before she died. Or perhaps I overheard one of her friends or relatives say that she liked it at the funeral and it slipped into my subconscious.

  I guess I’ll never know for sure, just like I’ll never know the meaning of that original recurring dream. That said, with hindsight, I now suspect the latter has always had a lot to do with Helen: the way she left me at my lowest point and made me feel like I wasn’t worthy of being a husband or father. Perhaps the second flat represented a part of me I’d closed off as a result. Who can say? If I ever have it again, I might bring it up in a session with Charles. Somehow, though, I suspect I won’t be troubled by that dream any more.

  Answers are neat, but life doesn’t always provide them. I can live with that. It’s the positive way. Religious people do it all the time. Where would they be without hope and faith, neither of which is tangible? Mum and Dad took great comfort in these things. I’ve grown so far away from the church they brought me up in, I can’t see myself ever going back to that now. And yet, undeniably, some kind of core faith remains ingrained in me, deep in my soul. A part of me wants to believe that Iris did find a way to come back to help me, as incredible as that might sound.

  Either way, whether it was really her or a subconscious part of myself, the Iris I met in my dreams did help me. She gave me a leg-up to get where I am now, despite all the obstacles thrown in my path. She inspired me to be a better person, to open myself up. And that in turn helped me to form a new support structure I didn’t have when I first met her under the scaffolding.

  Now, as my wounds heal, both physical and mental, I have a growing sense that things are going to be all right. You could even call it optimism.

  Anyhow, this letter. Standing in the kitchen of my flat, I turn it over in my hands before opening it. I don’t recognise the small handwriting on the envelope and I’m surprised to see a York postmark this time.

  Who could be writing to me from there? Only one way to find out.

  I run a finger under the seal and pull out the single sheet of lined paper inside. It looks to have been torn out of an A4 notebook and smells faintly of cigarette smoke.

  Dear Luke,

  I wanted to let you know that I’ve left Manchester to sort myself out. It’s because of you. The stuff you told me the last time we spoke, outside the supermarket, hit home. You said I should use my brain to get myself to a better place. I knew what you meant. Off the streets and away from the spice before one of them finished me off.

  So I did something about it. I went to York. That’s where I am now. Why here? It’s where my little sister lives. She’s actually in her late twenties, but I’ll always think of her that way. She’s the one person I knew would help me if I asked, but previously I was too proud to do that, worried I might mess up her life in the process.

  About an hour after you and I spoke that last time, I called her up from a payphone. She was so happy to hear from me, she drove over here that night to pick me up and took me home with her.

  I have a job interview tomorrow with a guy she knows. He’s supposed to be a good bloke, who’s given people second chances before. It’s nothing fancy – just serving tables in a café – but if I get it, it’ll be a fresh start.

  I want to thank you for helping me to get here, Luke. I know I fobbed you off the first time you tried to speak to me about the spice, pretending not to know what you were talking about. But seeing you again after what bloody Moxie did to you, it was the wake-up call I need
ed.

  I thought I had things under control, only doing spice every now and again, but I was kidding myself. Hopefully I can stay off and away from that shit for good now.

  I really think I have a decent chance of getting my life back on track here. My sister’s got loads of books to read, which is an added bonus, although I think I need to get her into Ian Rankin, as she doesn’t have any of the Rebus novels so far.

  Thanks again for the much-needed haircut and, of course, the book you so thoughtfully gave me. That meant a great deal, especially knowing it used to belong to your mother. You really made me feel human – seen rather than ignored – that day at your barbershop. I’ll never forget it. And to think you were prepared to give me another novel, despite knowing about the spice. So kind. Sorry I never got a chance to come for it.

  I’m also massively sorry about what happened to you because of Moxie. He was a bad apple, but most of the folk on the streets aren’t like that, as I hope you’ve seen for yourself. They’re regular people who’ve hit hard times, that’s all.

  I hope you’re still recovering well and get back to work soon. Look after yourself, pal, and I’ll try to do the same.

  All the best,

  Tommy

  Tears are rolling down my cheeks by the time I finish reading Tommy’s letter. I’m so touched that he’s written to me – and incredibly happy that my words had this effect on him. His future looks so much brighter now, in such a small space of time; it’s fantastic. I only wish he’d included his address so I could write back.

  A tiny part of me feels I don’t deserve his appreciation, because of the time I abandoned him when he was off his head on spice. But I must stop being negative, as that’s not who I am any more. I left him in safe hands and, as he put it himself, I helped him to address his drug problem and get off the streets.

  As Charles likes to tell me in our sessions, we must celebrate our wins unconditionally, however big or small. And this is a big one. Who knows? I might even have helped to save a guy’s life.

  CHAPTER 40