by John Marrs
‘Okay, thanks.’
‘That sounds more positive than last time. Has something in your circumstances changed?’
‘Nothing much really, I guess.’ The biggest change was now I knew a lot more about who was on the other end of the phone.
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. But regardless, you’re having a good day today at least?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Well, sometimes after a good night’s sleep, we just wake up in the morning feeling better about things.’
‘It doesn’t mean the bad stuff goes away though, does it?’
It was like our first conversation had never happened. She was laying on the positivity thickly and I wondered if there was any way she could be on to me. Maybe this is what she did – she played with people to find out how serious they were about wanting to die. They say the best way to drive a dog mad is to stroke it then smack it so it never knows where it stands. Was I her dog?
We danced around each other like a scorpion circling a rattlesnake, neither of us striking. Finally, when I refused to offer any positive answers to the questions she asked, she took the bait.
‘Steven, I hope you don’t mind me saying, but earlier you said you were okay, but you don’t sound like you are.’
‘I think I’ve just got in the habit of saying I am so that people don’t worry about me.’
‘This is a neutral place. You don’t have to pretend to be anything you’re not with me. Is there anything you’d like to talk about in particular?’
‘Um . . . the last time we spoke . . .’
‘I remember . . .’
‘I told you something.’
‘You told me a lot of things.’
‘About me thinking about killing myself . . .’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘You asked me if I was prepared to do it.’
‘I don’t recall those being the exact words I used, Steven. I think you may have misinterpreted what I was saying.’
That threw me. ‘Oh.’
‘What conclusions have you made regarding ending your life since last time?’
I flicked through my notebook but couldn’t find the page where I’d written what she’d said before. I had to bluff it.
‘I’ve given it a lot of thought. In fact, it’s been the only thing on my mind and I can’t make it stop. You’re right – no matter what I do, nothing is going to change. All I’m going to feel like is this.’
‘And how do you think you can you rid yourself of these feelings?’
I couldn’t go in with all guns blazing. She had to think she was in control. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I think you do though, don’t you? If you’re being really honest with yourself.’
‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘I’m ready. I mean, I want to . . . I want to die . . .’
‘Steven, I’m very sorry to interrupt but I’m afraid I’m going to have to go now, as my shift is coming to an end. Unfortunately, I can’t transfer you to one of my colleagues, but if you call back, I’m sure someone else would be happy to pick up where we’ve left off.’
‘What? But—’
‘Take care, David,’ she continued.
The phone went dead and I sat rigid in the armchair listening to the rain lashing against the balcony window. I ran my hands through my hair trying to suss out whether Laura, our conversations, what I thought she’d encouraged Charlotte to do – everything, in fact – was actually all in my head. Had a combination of grief, booze and a lack of sleep meant that, first time around, I’d only been hearing what I wanted to hear? Or had she seen straight through Steven and found Ryan?
No, she couldn’t have. It was far more likely that she was testing me to see how genuine I was and how far she could push me.
And who the hell was David?
For the rest of the week, I continued to park close to Laura Morris’s home at various times of the day to watch or follow her. Nothing about surveillance was fun. A heatwave decided to kick in that very week, so to avoid heatstroke I’d either wind down the windows or give myself frequent blasts from the air conditioner. The nearest public toilets had long since closed, so I was forced to empty my bladder in an alleyway instead. My eyes were sore from constantly straining to look at the wing and rear-view mirrors.
When Laura was in view, I’d snap as many pictures as I could of every mundane task. She went nowhere without me following close behind and learning the minute details of her everyday life.
Sometimes, when she was at home, my eyes followed her darkened figure through the tinted windows as she moved from room to room. I could just about make her out through the gaps in her open blinds and in the kitchen, where she’d sit, mostly alone. Once, as evening fell and before she closed the blinds, I stood close to her kitchen window and watched as she spoke to someone out of view. I wondered who else was there that I didn’t know about.
I checked the electoral register, and she shared the space with her husband Tony and three unnamed children under the age of sixteen. I already knew the boy wasn’t there anymore, and another I assumed was the Effie pictured in the newspaper and who I’d found on Facebook. That left one more.
Tony wasn’t hard to find, as Laura had mentioned him in her newspaper interview. He owned an IT support business and was easy to recognise because the name of his company – and his photograph – was plastered across the side of an Audi saloon.
I’d only just pulled up outside his place of work in an industrial estate when I spotted him leaving his office. I trailed him just like I followed his wife, only by car this time, taking photos as we were held at red lights and then from the other side of the street as he made his way into a gym. Then, once he changed into his vest and shorts, I sat in reception pretending to surf the Internet on my phone when I was actually taking pictures through the glass wall of him knocking the hell out of a punch bag.
Next it was Effie’s turn to be the focus of my attention, and by the end of the week I knew exactly how I was going to take away everything that Laura had stolen from me.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
FIVE MONTHS, TWO WEEKS AFTER CHARLOTTE
Laura appeared to recognise my voice instantly.
She sounded relieved I’d called a third time, almost grateful, as if I’d proven something to her.
I hit the record button on my Dictaphone, and once again she began our conversation playing by the book. She hadn’t got away with what she’d been doing by being sloppy. And this time, I’d already rehearsed in my head everything I thought she might ask, so there’d be no more surprises and I wouldn’t need to hang up like I had the first time. I’d even written down some fake background history about Steven to throw into the conversation. She had to believe he was desperate, naive and vulnerable enough to manipulate.
‘If you can’t see yourself getting any better, what’s the best outcome you could hope for?’ she asked some time into our exchange.
I paused as long as I dared for dramatic effect. ‘That one morning I just don’t wake up.’
‘You don’t want to wake up. I understand.’
‘Aren’t you going to ask me what I have to live for?’
‘Would you like me to? Would you listen to me if I came up with some reasons?’
‘No, probably not.’
‘In our first conversation, you mentioned ending your life by standing in front of a train,’ she reminded me.
‘I’ve changed my mind.’
‘What are your thoughts now?’
‘Hanging.’
I’d done a little Internet research and learned it was the most popular way men choose to kill themselves. She wanted to see just how much thought I’d given to it, why I’d chosen it, where it might happen and how I’d do it. I sensed my answers were irritating her.
‘There are a lot of complications involved in . . . your method, if that’s what you choose,’ she snapped, and then quickly gathered herself. ‘But we can work through that another time if it’s the
direction you decide to take.’
With that one sentence, I knew I had her. If there’d been even the slightest inkling of doubt in my mind, she’d just erased it.
The balance of power between us had shifted. She’d lapped up everything I’d told her and had stopped trying to help me find the positives in my life. Whatever test she’d spent weeks putting me through, I’d just passed.
‘So you’ll help me?’ I asked.
‘As I’ve explained to you before, it’s not my job to try to talk you out of anything or into my way of thinking. I’m just here to listen.’
‘What if . . .’ My voice trailed off. This wasn’t part of my plan, not yet. My heart was pounding quickly and I debated whether to take the risk and ask her point-blank. My mouth opened, but I hesitated.
‘David?’ she asked. ‘Are you still there?’
‘David?’ I replied.
‘Sorry, I meant Steven. You were saying, “what if”?’
Fuck it. Just say it. ‘What if you were with me when I did it?’
‘If you need someone to be with you, then I’m happy to listen and keep you company.’
‘I don’t mean on the phone.’
I’d caught her completely off guard. She knew exactly what I meant, yet she wanted me to spell it out for her.
‘What if I asked you to be with me, Laura, here in my house, when I hanged myself? Would you come?’
There was complete silence before she answered. All either of us heard was the sound of each other’s nervous breaths.
‘I – I . . . don’t think that would be appropriate,’ she stuttered.
I had to think on my feet and justify my offer.
‘I need you here to tell me if I’m messing something up and reassure me it’s all going to be all right. And to be there for me . . . you know . . . at the end.’
‘Are you having second thoughts?’
‘No, no, I’m not. But it’s just that you, like, get me.’ I continued to appeal to her ego by insisting she had been more helpful to me in three conversations than months of counselling. ‘Would you at least think about it?’ I finished.
‘I can’t, Steven. I’m sorry but you’re asking me to do something that’s illegal and completely unethical. I could get into so much trouble.’
‘You’re right and I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,’ I replied. ‘I won’t do it again.’
I was grinning from ear to ear as I ended the call on my terms. My plans for Laura all hinged on her saying yes. Now all I had to do was wait.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Laura was anxious, I could sense it. From the moment she answered the phone and I identified myself, something in her voice told me she was trying hard to keep her emotions under control. But she wasn’t that good an actress.
I sensed she didn’t want me to know how pleased she was to hear from me again, and I wondered if Charlotte had been fooled by the same veiled enthusiasm.
The flat had been feeling claustrophobic and, when the walls threatened to close in on me, I grabbed my phone and my notebook and headed to Becket’s Park instead. I was watching ducks fight over a crust of bread in the smallest of the park’s three lakes when I reached Laura again. I’d allowed a few days to pass after asking if she’d be with me in person when I died. I’d wanted my request to sink in and for her to mull it over – then, fingers crossed, agree.
I began with a fake apology for putting her in a difficult position.
‘Honestly, Steven, I’m not here to judge you. I’m here to listen to everything you have to say to me.’
Her breath was more uneven than normal and her tone forcibly controlled. It was as if she wanted to tell me something but was battling with herself over whether she should. We chatted some more and I began asking her questions about herself. I deliberately flattered her by saying I imagined she looked like that actress from The Hunger Games films. Of course I knew exactly what Laura looked like, because I’d been so close to her so often. But when she asked if I’d thought of having children, she caught me by surprise.
‘There was someone once, I guess, who I considered having a family with,’ I replied. ‘She was sweet and kind and I thought that she really loved me, but suddenly she disappeared from my life.’
I hoped that the more vulnerable I made myself, the more she’d recognise weakness and want to take me up on my offer. Another quarter of an hour of small talk passed before she couldn’t hold herself back any longer.
‘I’ll do it,’ she said suddenly. ‘If you’re serious about wanting to end your life, then I’ll be with you in person when you do it.’ She was whispering, probably scared of being overheard.
I tried to sound appreciative, when really I was both ecstatic and disgusted by her enthusiasm. She went on to explain that she only worked with people whom she felt she knew inside and out. So she expected me to be open with her about every aspect of my life. She would provide me with her work rota and I was to call and check in with her at set times and at least three times a week. Only then would we set a date for my death.
‘I will be on your side from the beginning to the end of this process, but this is a business relationship,’ she added. ‘We both have our parts to play, Steven. Yours is to tell me who you are and mine is to ensure your transition is a smooth one.’
The first test had been about persistence and convincing her I was ready to die. The second was to make her believe one hundred per cent that Steven was real. And if there was even the tiniest crumb of doubt, I knew she would spot it.
I had to be on the top of my game to knock Laura from the top of hers.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SIX MONTHS AFTER CHARLOTTE
‘The knot needs to go high and behind your neck so it pulls tighter as more pressure’s applied,’ Laura explained. Her tone was quiet and sometimes I had to strain to hear her. ‘When you practise it, make sure that when the rope’s tied to the beam, it doesn’t slip. It’s so important to remember that.’
She had given me five weeks until the day of my self-execution. By week two, she’d begun detailing the practicalities of how I should hang myself. I lay on the bed with the phone clamped to my ear, my knees pointed upwards like two pyramids and my notebook resting on my thighs. Sometimes I’d draw stickmen doodles. Today, I was hanging them from stickmen gallows. As long as she heard the sound of rustling or my voice repeating her words, she seemed happy.
Next, she advised me to test the rope’s strength and to use padding so it didn’t dig into my neck and make it bleed. She explained where exactly I should put the knot and what type to use. She seemed to want to make sure my death was clean and, if possible, pain-free. I couldn’t work out why someone so eager to watch me die cared whether I was hurting as I swung from the beams. Surely it made no difference to her?
I closed my eyes as she spoke and tried to imagine her hunched over the desk in her office, whispering to me down the receiver, getting a kick out of giving me instructions on how to end it all, while surrounded by a room full of people who didn’t have a clue what she was up to.
There’d been times when we’d spoken about more mundane things. In fact, death and how I was going to achieve it made up less than a quarter of our conversations. She wanted to know details about my life, from my relationships with my parents and Johnny, to my favourite meals, films, the songs I wanted played at my funeral, ex-girlfriends . . . You name it, she asked it. I believed she was genuinely interested in what I had to say. It was as if she wanted to harvest everything she could in our time together so she’d have the perfect picture of who would be dying in front of her.
At times, I even wondered if I’d got it wrong about her, and perhaps Laura was just a bored housewife with a fantasy, seeing how far she could take it before she or I gave up and admitted it was all make-believe. However, as the weeks went on and the day of my ‘suicide’ approached, she gave no indication she was ready to quit.
Creating the persona of a man preparing to take his own lif
e was a lot tougher than I imagined. It became all-consuming and I had to make a note of every lie I told her. My notebook was a biography of a man who didn’t exist.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ I began during another conversation.
‘Yes, of course,’ Laura replied.
‘Can you tell me something about you? It doesn’t have to be too personal or anything.’
She paused before answering. ‘Why?’
‘Because I want to know more about the person who cares enough about people like me to help them.’
‘What would you like to know?’
I knew where she lived, the place where she worked. I’d seen her family. I’d followed her around her favourite shops. I’d watched her read a book to her disabled son. She seemed like a perfectly normal woman. But I didn’t have the first clue about why she did what she did.
‘Can I ask if you’ve done this for anyone else? Have there been more people like me?’
‘Yes, there have been.’
‘Can you tell me more about them?’
‘Would you like the next person I choose to know about you?’
‘No, not really.’
‘Then you have to respect their privacy.’
We were on our twelfth conversation so I was familiar enough with the slight nuances of her tone to know when she was leaving her comfort zone. But with not long left to go, I gambled that she was too invested in me to be put off by my familiarity. Instead, she explained how everyone was different, so with each person she took a different approach. It was as if she tailor-made suicide packages for them. Not that I ever heard her use the word ‘suicide’. She seemed to deliberately shy away from saying it out loud.
‘This life is difficult to negotiate alone,’ she continued. ‘Some people fall by the wayside and need help in finding their way back onto the right road. Others want to stay off the road completely and that’s where I come in.’
I thought of Charlotte and how if only Laura had encouraged her to stay on the road for a little longer, I’d be watching my four-month-old baby son playing with soft toys on the floor right now. I wouldn’t be planning to take down the woman who destroyed his mother and his own life.