Box number three ticked – the fewer people in his personal or working life the better. I was glad I’d answered his call after all.
‘A week is a long time not to have a proper conversation with someone,’ I replied, empathising with his situation and keeping him on point. ‘Have you seen your doctor and told them how you’re feeling?’
‘Yes, and she put me on antidepressants.’
‘And how have they worked for you?’
‘It’s been four months and I still don’t feel there’s anything to get up for in the morning. Sometimes I think I’d be better off just saving them all up and . . . you know . . .’
‘Sometimes or often?’
‘Often,’ he whispered, so quietly I could barely hear him. It was like he was ashamed of his suicidal thoughts.
Box four usually took much longer than this to tick, which made my job a little easier. I might have something to work with here, I thought.
I scanned the room. Zoe was playing a game on her mobile phone while speaking into her headset; Sanjay’s legs were jiggling up and down as he listened to a caller; and Mary was drinking something from a thermal flask that smelled like toxic soup. Nobody was paying me the slightest bit of attention in my corner.
Inside my bag, I fished for a second notebook, the one used solely for callers I might be able to help in my own unique way. Inside it, I kept detailed notes on everything they told me. Later, I’d bring them up again as conversation points to reinforce that I’d been listening and I understood. I wrote Steven’s name on a fresh page and underlined it.
‘You don’t need to be embarrassed, Steven,’ I replied. ‘We’ve all thought about ending our lives at some time or another. Have you ever tried to do it before?’
‘No. But I did plan it out once.’
‘You planned it out once?’ I was careful to mirror his language, making him aware I’d listened and of how seriously I took his admission. ‘Can I ask what you had in mind?’
‘I printed out my bank details and bills and left them in envelopes on my desk, along with the passwords for accounts and deeds to the flat for the police to find. I’d plotted out the route to a bridge in the countryside over the railway line, near the village of Wolverton. Do you know it?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘There’s a gap where the railings have rusted so you can squeeze through to get to the tracks. I made it halfway down the bank and waited for ages for a train. I was just going to jump in front of it and that’d be it. But it took so long for one to arrive that I talked myself out of it.’
‘I see. While you were waiting for that train, did you wonder how death might feel?’
‘It won’t feel like anything, because after death there is nothing.’
‘Will it bring you peace?’
‘My life hasn’t, so I can only hope.’
Everything I’d asked, he’d already asked himself. He hadn’t made his decision rashly.
I’d become increasingly frustrated by ditherers of late. There were too many callers who all-too-casually threw around suicidal threats, but when it came down to it they were too gutless to do anything about it.
So I needed to push and pull Steven to reinforce how serious he was. The ‘fear-then-relief technique’, that’s what psychologists call it. I lowered my voice, held the phone closer to my mouth and launched into a well-rehearsed but selectively used speech.
‘Perhaps, deep down, you aren’t serious about ending your life,’ I began. ‘Maybe it’s a cry for help? I get plenty of calls from people who tell me they want to die, but when it gets down to the nitty-gritty, all they’re really doing is just feeling sorry for themselves. Are you one of those people, Steven? Are you just trapped in a cycle of self-pity? Are you so deep into it that you don’t realise nothing is going to change unless you find the courage to do something about it yourself ? Because if you don’t take charge, for the rest of your life – maybe another forty, fifty years – the pain you’re feeling right now, the pain that’s so bad that it led you to call me, is only going to get worse. This – how you’re feeling right now – is going to be it for you. Can you live like that, Steven? I know I couldn’t.’
I’ll only use those words if I come into contact with a potential candidate, and often my directness catches them unawares. They’ll have called expecting me to be sympathetic towards them and perhaps reassure them everything’s going to be okay in the end. But I’m not that person. I know from personal experience that everything isn’t always okay in the end. Often, it’ll get much worse than it is right now. And sometimes it’s completely unbearable. But I can make it stop. They just have to trust me.
‘I – I – I’m not a timewaster, honestly,’ Steven stuttered, taken aback. ‘It’s something I’ve thought long and hard about and it’s what I want, but if I can’t do it, that must make me a coward, right?’
‘No, Steven, you’re not a coward. You called me today and that makes you courageous. Maybe you just chose the wrong day when you were waiting for that train. It happens to plenty of people. Just remember, we’re here for you in whatever capacity you want us to be.’
‘You mean to listen to me?’
He was fishing. I’d let him sniff around the bait before I withdrew it. ‘If that’s all you want from me, then yes.’
‘What if . . . what if I need . . . what if I decide . . .’ His voice went quiet and then faded away.
What Steven needed was someone to tell him death was the right choice. But first I needed to know for certain what he wanted from me. I’m not supposed to finish a sentence, even if I know what they’re going to say, but I make exceptions for potential candidates.
‘Are you calling to tell me you want to end your life and are looking for my support in doing it?’
‘I . . . I suppose I am.’
Once a candidate thinks they understand me, I’ll wrong-foot them by going back to how I was when I first answered their call. I trust no one until I know just how desperate they are.
‘End of the Line is an impartial, non-judgemental space,’ I began. ‘We are here to listen to you. We won’t try to talk you out of anything you decide to do, we just ask that you talk to us first and explore all your options before you take such a huge step. Do you understand that?’
‘Yes,’ Steven replied. A silence hung awkwardly between us. ‘But . . .’
‘But?’ I repeated.
‘But if I wanted to, you know, go ahead with it, would you . . . ?’
‘Would I what, Steven? What would you like me to do?’
He became quiet again and I sensed his increasing anxiety. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go,’ he said before the line went dead.
I tapped my fingers on the desk and examined my fingernails. There was a slight chip in the burgundy varnish on my index finger. I’d need to make an appointment to get them repainted.