In Too Deep

by Bradd Chambers

  He’d done a lot for the company, even letting his mate Michael know about the volunteering vacancies. Michael took early retirement from Foyle College in 2012 when half the staff were replaced by younger models. Despite this, he’d always been interested in mental health, and still argues today for school funding money to be spent on counselling services for the students, depicting that teenage years are hard going, and some people might need to talk. He’d got a special recognition at the leaver’s ceremony, which had instantly made Ava sit up and take in his application.

  Now, there he sits at the back of the office, one hand on the mouse of his computer and another holding a cup of coffee, the same huge grin on his face.

  “Alright, Ave?”

  “Aye, Michael. You?”

  “Grand, grand,” he nods his head towards the mug on her desk. “Milk and two sugars.”

  She blushes.

  “Thank you, Michael.”

  “So,” he raises his eyebrows and purses his lips as she sits down. “How was date night then?”

  “Aye, it was nice.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Quaywest.”

  “Hmmm, let me think… 50/50 with tobacco onions?”

  “No, had the salmon actually.”

  “Ohhhh,” Michael winks, “excuse us. Fancy pants paying, was he?”

  She turns her head towards the computer and enters her password. She doesn’t like when people talk about Mark’s money. Although it may be in jest, she hates the fact of anyone thinking she’s some sort of gold-digger.

  “Looks like it’s not the only thing he paid for,” Kat, a fifty-year-old single mum at the desk behind Ava, squints. “What are those beauties?”

  Ava follows her gaze down to her feet. To her shoes. Pushing her hair behind her ear, she instinctively looks at Michael, who nods with wide eyes.

  “Erm… No, actually. Mark didn’t buy me these.”

  “They look expensive,” Kat lifts her mug and nods towards them again. “Much?”

  I don’t know, Ava thinks, willing Michael to inform her as much. She would 100% pay him back. When she doesn’t answer, Michael stands and swerves between the desks towards the printer already bursting to life, supplying them with dozens of posters for their latest fundraiser on Wednesday.

  “Nosy was hung,” he wags his finger at Kat, who scowls back at him. “If Ava wants to treat herself every now and then, she can. Who else will?”

  He rests a reassuring hand on her shoulder, a warm smile on his face. She surprises herself by grimacing and edging away from him. So it isn’t him? Surely it’s not his fault, and she shouldn’t take it out on him. He senses her tension and holds two hands up, palms facing forward, before moving to the printer and inspecting the latest copy.

  “These should be ready for Facebook and Twitter and that by this afternoon, Ava. What you think?” He holds the red poster towards her and she half-pretends to scan it.

  “Looks great, Michael. Sorry, I’m just not myself today.”

  “Hope you’re not pregnant,” he raises his eyebrows and chortles.

  “Hope not too,” she gives an attempt at a laugh, but it comes out sloppy and forced. “No, I barely slept the other night worrying about yesterday’s meeting, and then too much drink last night meant I didn’t get the best of sleeps then either.”

  The two nod as Claire fights her way through the door, her arms filled with the typical handbag and shopping bags with Christ knows what in them. She’ll never show up without half her house with her.

  “I think I’m just going to step outside for some air,” Ava coughs, but the others are too preoccupied in their own conversations to give her much attention.

  She heads to the back area where there’s a small meeting room and kitchen, before pushing the back door. Sitting on the step, she sighs and covers her head from the already blistering sun. Who could this be? Bringing out her phone, she scrolls through her list of people with names beginning with ‘m.’ Another fruitless attempt, as no one would be overly close with her. She keeps her distance with people. Ever since…

  A knock at the window in front brings her back to her senses. Looking up, she sees Michael with one hand to his head, his thumb and pinky finger extended with the other three curled in, his attempt to tell her that there’s someone on the phone for her.

  “Hello, Foundation for Fiona. Ava speaking. How can I help you?”

  She’s breathless as she reaches her phone.

  “Hi, Ava. This is Cathal O’Flaherty from the Londonderry Letter. I’m just wondering if I could interview you regarding your conference yesterday to prohibit raising the railings on the Foyle Bridge?”

  The boy sounds like he’s reading straight from the press release. Ava rolls her eyes towards her colleagues to show that it isn’t anything serious, and they return back to their screens, uninterested in anything that doesn’t involve raising money or awareness.

  Chapter Nine:

  It doesn’t take Ava long to walk the short distance down Spencer Road to their destination. Whereas her charity, the FFF as they call it, is at one end of the road, closer to Clooney Terrace, the Londonderry Letter is at the other, closer to Victoria Road and the Craigavon Bridge into the town.

  Their meeting point is the Sandwich Company, a little up the street from the paper’s headquarters. She still gets there before the journalist, ordering herself a tea and a sandwich and taking a comfier looking chair towards the back of the café. Ten minutes later, she sees him crossing the road, pushing open the door and searching the room, nodding when she acknowledges him, before ordering a coffee from the barista.

  As he waits for his drink, she inspects him discreetly. He’s much younger than she expected. Wearing a wrinkled shirt far too big for him and bum fluff on his chin that can’t be passed off as a five o’clock shadow. There’s something oddly familiar about him, but she can’t decide what. He catches her staring at him and she smiles, returning to her hot drink until he crosses the room.

  “Ava?”

  “Aye, nice to meet you,” she hovers out of her chair as she takes his proffered hand.

  He sits opposite her, bringing out his notepad from his back pocket.

  “So, basically I want my story to have a bit of meat. The press release I received was just facts, facts, facts. I want emotion,” his eyes light up as he speaks, his hands flailing around dramatically.

  She can tell he’s very passionate, whether about mental health in general or just his job is unknown, as he continues his spiel. So many people in this city are affected by suicide. It takes her a while before she realises that he must have asked her a question, as he stares at her in silence. She wracks her brain to remember what he was saying.

  “I’m happy to help,” she nods.

  He smiles back. Good save.

  “So..."

  He licks the tip of his finger as he flicks through his overfilling notepad before resting on a blank page. Hovering the pen over the page, he glances up at her.

  “Tell me, why don’t you want the railings of the Foyle Bridge higher?”

  Ava leans back, getting herself comfortable.

  “It’s not that I don’t want the railings higher. Obviously, that would be great. But, in complete contrast to suicide, it’s a temporary solution to a permanent problem.”

  She watches as he writes in shorthand, his hand flying across the page, his brow frowned slightly.

  “There are… What? Dozens of ways to kill yourself? The Foyle Bridge is merely one of them. If we raise the railings, or put a net down, someone isn’t going to decide against suicide. They’ll just find another way, won’t they?

  “What we really need is more facilities and money being put into the mental health community. I understand there’s doctors and counsellors and that, but, in the experience of some people that have came to us, that could take weeks, months. That’s too long. Someone suffering with mental health issues, whether having suicidal thoughts or not, should have
a place to go and chat. Obviously, we urge people to talk to loved ones, but some people aren’t comfortable with that. Some prefer a complete stranger. Or a professional.

  “There isn’t enough money being put into the NHS for mental health. That’s why I set up this charity. I want to provide the people with a solution. Train up counsellors, God knows there’s plenty of them graduating from the colleges and universities every year. But they go off somewhere else. You know why? Because there’s no jobs for them here.

  “We need facilities in the town where anyone can go to talk things through, or get prescriptions if that’s what they need. But they can’t wait that long. The doctors’ surgeries are so packed, if you want to go for the common cold, by the time you get an appointment, it’s been and gone. You’re cured. I respect Darrell Boyle and his party’s offers, and the people of this town’s pleas and petitions, I really do. But the money should be used elsewhere, for solutions rather than deterrents.”

  It takes a while for Cathal to stop writing, so Ava takes a sip from her tea, now gone lukewarm. After a few minutes, he looks up, smiling. Shifting in his seat, sticking a foot under his bum in a juvenile way, he gazes at her for several moments. Drinking her in. She stares back. Why is he so familiar?

  “Do you think the extended railings, or nets, would be an eyesore?”

  She protrudes her bottom lip and shakes her head.

  “I don’t know. Maybe? But that isn’t the main issue he-”

  “You lost your mother to suicide, right?”

  “I did, aye.”

  She doesn’t like where this is going.

  “And how did she die, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  I do, she thinks.

  “She entered the river.”

  “So, she jumped?”

  “She did,” she bites her tongue.

  He wants to be sharp with her? She’ll be the same back.

  “Would you not, taking in your own experience, therefore, want to protect others from feeling the way you’ve felt for the past three years?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly why I’m doi-”

  “And would that not be possible with there being no way to jump from the Foyle Bridge?”

  “That would be great, in an ideal world, yes. But what’s to stop them overdosing? Hanging themselves? Getting drunk and driving into a bloody wall? If a net or a higher railing or any of that other craic could stop suicide completely, then happy days. I’d be all for it. But, it’s not that easy. You’re not looking at the bigger picture here. We need to stop people feeling suicidal, not limit the ways in which they can take their own lives!”

  She coughs and looks around her, flustered. A few people have stopped their conversations and are staring at her, embarrassingly looking away once she makes eye contact with them.

  “It isn’t your company’s own money that they’re spending on the railings, correct?”

  “Correct, but think about how expensive that would be for the taxpayers. If we added our money together, who knows how many counsellors we could fund. Not everyone in this city has money to be throwing at big fancy therapists with their degree certificates on the wall and luxurious settees to lounge on. Sometimes, an ear to listen is all these people need.

  “Which is what we’re trying to do. To open a small space in the city centre where people can feel safe. Volunteers to start out, before gradually getting in professionals. We’re planning a fundraiser on Wednesday. The details will be released within the next few hours. We want people to come support us. Help us raise the money and awareness we need for this space.”

  Cathal observes her for a moment longer, he hadn’t written any of what she had just said down. Finally, when the silence gets unbearable, he sits forward.

  “Are you aware of the suicide prevention programme in place in San Francisco, Ava?”

  Ava gives a nervous laugh.

  “Yeah, I am fully aw-“

  “The Golden Gate Bridge is just over 80-years-old,” he ignores her. “Yet, there has been close to 2,000 deaths from people jumping off. That we know of,” he raises an eyebrow. “They’ve put in a programme to place nets around it. It’s taking years. But, with that in place, that will save who knows how many lives in the future.”

  “You don’t know that,” Ava spits. “And America is very different to Derry. I’m sure there’s lots of money to throw about in San Francisco, on both mental health and physical preventions. But, in case you haven’t noticed, we aren’t very prosperous here, are we, Cathal? You’re a reporter, I’m sure you know of all the budget cuts, closing down shops and God knows what else? We need all the money that we can get, and that’s what I’m here for. I want to raise awareness, collect money and put it to good use, with or without Boyle’s help.”

  A smirk is prominent on Cathal’s face. Draining his untouched coffee in one, he stands and thanks Ava for her time before she watches him skirt around the dispersed chairs and tables and step out onto the street, losing him as he leaves the glass of the shop window behind. Ava stares after him in disbelief. How could that have gone any worse?

  Chapter Ten:

  It wasn’t posted. The parcel. It was hand delivered. After coming home from work an hour early, Ava sat again on her rug, examining the parcel over and over for some sort of clue as to who could’ve sent it. Then, she remembered the novel she read last summer on holidays, where a crazy ex-husband was able to track down his wife through the stamps on the letter she wrote him. Ava checked the front of the parcel, but there was no sign of any postage whatsoever. Just her name and her address in bold capital print.

  That means, whoever sent her this, hadn’t sent it at all. They dropped this on her front doorstep. The thought sends a shiver down her spine. Someone had crossed her beautifully kept lawn. Had stood in front of her front door. Possibly looked in through her windows at the life she made. Did they try and get in? Thank God she is religious on locking the doors and windows.

  Should she contact the police? Surely they have enough on their plate without chasing up something as silly as this? She’s sure the money that would be spent on fingerprint analysis would be worthwhile if there was some threat of violence in the package. Or a weapon of some sorts. But shoes? Gorgeous shoes? She can’t imagine the police wasting their time.

  Should she go around the neighbours and ask if they seen anything? Anything, or anyone, out of the ordinary? But how could she do that without arousing suspicion? A thousand thoughts run through her head. Thinking and thinking of ways for a legitimate reason to ask around. None spring to mind.

  Maybe she could talk to Dermott? He’s retired now, but he’d been so helpful when he was in the police force. She thinks back to the ways he helped her. A broken and alone 17-year-old. But the thought of talking about it out loud to anyone scares her.

  It’s hard enough discussing it with Mark. She’d texted him just after lunch to ask if he’d kept it a secret. She’d gotten a curt confirmation in reply. Maybe she is just making this all up in her head? Making a big deal out of nothing? But she can’t help it, she’s programmed like this. To think the worst. Ever since that night.

  ****

  So, there I was. Out the town. For the first time in years. And you know what? I was actually enjoying myself. After a few vodkas, I’d let my hair down. Literally and metaphorically. I was chatting away, even surprising myself, and everyone else, with giving Christina a birthday hug. But it was half way through the night. When Phil had actually managed to get me drunk enough to loosen me up on the dancefloor. That’s when I saw him.

  We were bopping along to Whigfield’s ‘Saturday Night’ and laughing at Rachel’s ridiculous dance moves. I felt two hands on my hips as I jumped away from them. Turning around to square up to the culprit. I fell in love with him right away. His long blonde hair. His piercing green eyes. His wide smile. He held both hands up and shouted something that I couldn’t hear.

  “What?” I screwed up one eye, brandishing my hand to my ear in an
attempt to hear him.

  He leaned in close and I smelt his aftershave.

  “Sorry, was only trying to squeeze past.”

  I smiled as I pulled away, winking at him and turning back to Phil. What was I at? Winking? Flirting? That wasn’t me.

  Phil told me much later on that his face dropped then. When he saw me dancing with him. Completely unaware of Phil’s raging homosexuality.

  Danielle pointed towards the toilet and I took her hand, deciding to join her.

  “So, looks like you’ve pulled,” Danielle giggled at me through the cubicle wall.

  “Eh?” I laughed, zipping myself up and flushing the toilet.

  “That boy with the blonde hair. He’s been staring at you for ages. He must like you.”

  I guffawed as I washed my hands, her eyeing me suspiciously when she joined me.

  “What’s wrong? Got someone at home waiting for you?”

  Definitely not, I felt like saying, but made do with shaking my head.

  “Then go for it. He’s gorgeous,” she elongated the final word, rolling her eyes back in her head and laughing.

  We staggered out of the toilets then, me trying to discreetly search the room for him. I found him by the bar. Grabbing Danielle’s hand again, I marched us over. Where had this sudden confidence come out of? It must’ve been the vodka. I stepped into the throng of people at a spot far enough away that we didn’t look keen, but close enough that he could see us. I felt his eyes on me and looked over quick enough to only flash him a swift smile.

  “I’ll get these,” he handed the money over when we’d received our drinks and were faking to look in our bags for our cash.

  “Thanks,” Danielle raised her glass to him with a giggle, before deserting me.

  Raising the straw to my lips, I took a sip while he ordered his pint. He tried to talk to me again, but I still struggled to hear him, my ears not adjusted to the loud music of the club. After the third attempt, and the arrival of his drink, he entwined our fingers together and dragged me along outside.