the wrong number.’ He must be able to hear my hesitation because he suddenly sounds distraught and I hear paper rustling down the line. ‘I have, haven’t I? There are two numbers on here and the leaflet’s all wet and the ink’s blurred. God, I’m such an idiot.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re not. Trust me, it’s our fault; I’ve been trying to get those leaflets redesigned for years,’ I say, feeling panic claw at my chest. What if he’s going to hang up and go through with the jump because of a silly mistake?
‘I’m so sorry.’ He makes a noise of frustration. ‘I’m so, so sorry to have disturbed you. Please forget this ever happened. I’ll leave you to your naked mannequin wrestling.’
He says the words in such a rush that I can’t interrupt him quickly enough. ‘Please don’t go,’ I say, my voice going high at the fear of what he might do. I need to give him the number of the real helpline. There are business cards on the counter right in front of me. It would be easy enough to read out the number and tell him to phone there instead, where there are people who do this all the time and have a lot of training in dealing with these situations. But what if he doesn’t phone them? What if he feels stupid for phoning the wrong place? What if he decides to jump rather than make another phone call?
I can’t tell a suicidal man to hang up and try again, can I?
‘Please stay and talk a minute,’ I say cautiously. Surely the best thing I can do is talk to him? There are testimonials on the One Light website that say the most important thing in deciding not to go through with a suicide attempt was having someone to talk to, and the charity have run campaigns about how important making small talk with a stranger can be. ‘I don’t have enough people to talk about chocolate with. And I feel like I shouldn’t let you go without clarifying that it’s the mannequins who are naked, not me. It’s way too cold for that.’
He lets out a guffaw. ‘Ah, so if I’d phoned on a summer night, it would have been a different story, huh?’
I laugh too. ‘What did I expect from a conversation that’s revolved entirely around chocolate, naked mannequins, and wrestling?’
‘I think I’d be letting the male species as a whole down if I didn’t derive something dirty from a conversation like that.’
‘I think we’ve both done our duty with weird conversations so far tonight,’ I say. I need to end this and get him on the phone to an actual counsellor who can help him talk things through, but I don’t know how to broach the subject. I can’t just say, ‘Right, here’s the number, off you go’. It’s too abrupt, it could make him feel rejected, and it could make him more likely to jump.
‘Where are you?’ I ask instead. Maybe getting back onto the subject is a good start.
‘The suspension bridge over the Barrow river. It’s on the outskirts of Oakbarrow town.’
He’s local. I know exactly where he is. Turn right at the end of the high street and go past the churchyard, it’s a ten-minute walk away. The old steel bridge on the road that leads out of Oakbarrow. I was up there two days ago putting One Light leaflets out. I leave a few of them weighed down with a stone in the corner of the pavement, next to the safety barrier that was replaced after an accident a few years ago. The replacement part is just a bit lower than the rest of the barrier; the part where anyone thinking of jumping would be most likely to climb over.
‘What are you doing up there at this time of night?’
‘I don’t know. God, I don’t know. It seemed so clear when I walked up here, but I got to the edge and looked down, and I couldn’t see the water, just blackness in the dark, and I went dizzy so I sat down on the pavement, and I just… I don’t know. Sorry, I’m rambling.’
‘Not at all,’ I say, thinking his voice sounds familiar. He’s got an English accent but he puts a little emphasis on his ‘r’s. It’s typical for this part of Gloucestershire. That must be why I think I recognize it.
‘I walked across the bridge yesterday and saw a stack of your leaflets. The thought of … you know … jumping … has been in my head for a while and I grabbed one and stuffed it in my pocket. As I stood there and looked over the edge tonight, I put my hands in my pockets and my fingers brushed it, and it was like I didn’t even remember putting it there.’
That must’ve been one of the leaflets I put out the day before. It makes me feel weirdly connected to him. This man has reached out in his darkest moment because of something I did. I have a responsibility to help him.
‘I sat on the pavement and unfolded it and thought about my dad – he died on this river – and I just felt … compelled to ring you. He’d be so disappointed if he could see me now. He thought life was the most precious thing any of us have.’
‘You didn’t jump. That’s the most important part. Life is precious and you chose to sit down and call me instead of throwing it away. That’s the first step to making things better.’
‘I didn’t choose to sit down, I thought I was going to pass out.’
‘That’s okay too. The only thing that matters is that you’re here and talking. It’s got to be better than the alternative,’ I say carefully, trying to sound as neutral as possible.
‘I shouldn’t be talking about this to you though, should I? I phoned the wrong number. I wouldn’t mind betting this is definitely not part of your job description …’
‘It’s okay, it’s absolutely fine.’ I’m glad he can’t see the expression on my face because it definitely doesn’t match the lighthearted tone in my voice. ‘It’s just the people on the helpline are properly trained counsellors, and I’m not. I don’t want to say the wrong thing and make this worse,’ I say, deciding honesty is the best policy.
‘Please don’t hang up,’ he says after a long moment of silence. He sounds so cautious, almost afraid, and kind of hopeful, that there’s no way I could refuse. ‘I know I shouldn’t be asking you to talk to me but I don’t know what to do, and you’re reminding me of normal people and normal conversations and feeling normal and you’ve already made me laugh and it’s been so long since I …’ His voice goes choked up again and I can hear him sniffle.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I say quickly, trying to reassure him. My hand tightens around the plastic of the handset. In my head, I’m wondering if I could somehow get in touch with the helpline while he’s still on the line and try to transfer the call without hanging up on him, but I can’t think of a way to do it. The phone in the shop that I’m talking on is an old corded one that’s attached to the wall behind the counter so no one can accidentally sell it – been there, done that – and my mobile is in my locker upstairs. I’d have to leave him for a few precious minutes to dash up there and get it. It would be too obvious what I was doing. What if he felt like I was just shafting him off onto the next person because I didn’t care? If he feels like I can’t get rid of him quick enough, it might make this situation worse. Even if I could get my phone and text the helpline and ask them what to say, I’d still have to leave him hanging here in silence while I got right the way across the shop floor, through the back room, up the stairs and into my locker and all the way back again, and who knows what he might do in that time? He phoned because he needs someone to talk to now. I can’t just leave him.
I wind the cord of the phone around my fingers and sink down into a sitting position. I thunk my head back against the wall behind the counter and listen to the rain pounding on the shop roof.
