Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Client Session Transcript: HCOOK090819
Chapter 24
Chapter 25: October 2008
Chapter 26: Now
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue: Several days later
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Also by S.D. Robertson
About the Publisher
She waves goodbye to him through the windscreen of her car and congratulates herself on a fine acting performance. She’s fairly certain she managed not to give anything away while driving the short journey to the station. It wasn’t as hard as it might have been with another person. Things were bound to be awkward between them anyway, particularly after last night and everything they discussed. But still. She could easily have said or done something to raise his suspicions – to signal her intentions – yet she didn’t. Now she’s confident he’ll be almost as shocked as everyone else by her death.
Not long to go, but first things first. She drives the car a short distance until she spots a post box. Then she parks at the side of the road, unzips her handbag and pulls out the small padded envelope she placed in there earlier. She holds it in her hands for a moment, her eyes briefly scanning the name and address plus the postage label she printed off in the early hours, then lets out a slow sigh and feels a couple of tears trickle down either cheek. This little package looks like so many others she’s posted out, selling bits and bobs on eBay, but it couldn’t be more different. And by posting it, she will be sealing her fate. There will be no going back after that.
She gets out of the car and stands in front of the red pillar box. Hesitates for a moment. Looks at the name and address one more time, checking again that they’re right, and shoves it through the open slot before she can change her mind.
It’s done.
She returns to the car, looks at her pale face in the mirror and then drives on, one step closer to the end.
She arrives at Costa a few minutes later. It’s the coffee shop branch they always used to go to together before doing the shopping on a Saturday morning; it’s much quieter this early on a weekday. She orders the same as they always did – a latte and a hot chocolate – even though it’s only her now. She’s tempted to order a biscuit or cake too but decides she probably won’t be able to manage it.
She sips the latte and pretends she’s not alone. Trawls her memory for an image of another hot chocolate in a pair of hands on one of those glorious Saturdays, which she never properly appreciated until they were over. It’s the same with so much in life, she thinks. You take wonderful things for granted, only realising how amazing they are when they’re no longer there. It’s incredible what imminent death does for your sense of perspective.
She doesn’t actually drink much of her coffee, fearful the caffeine might upset her stomach. Ordering a decaf would have been more sensible, or drinking the hot chocolate instead, but she wants to experience the taste exactly as it was in the days she remembers so fondly.
That and the smell certainly do the trick. When she closes her eyes, she’s hurtled headfirst into the past. She stays there as long as she can, revelling in its warm glow, until the cup her hand circles grows cold, and wearily she returns to the present: her last morning on earth.
‘Goodbye,’ a chirpy staff member, barely more than a girl, says to her as she gets up to leave. ‘Have a nice day.’
‘Thanks. You too,’ she replies with a smile, conscious of the fact that this could be the last thing she ever says to another person.
Before she starts the car, she has a moment of panic. For a second it feels like she can’t breathe as a voice in her head tells her she’s handling everything wrong. That she shouldn’t go ahead with it.
It certainly wasn’t her first choice of how to proceed, but it’s the only option she has left now. Isn’t it?
She stares at a tree in the distance and tries to focus her mind on it, counting the number of branches and watching its leaves flutter in the light breeze as she fights to slow down her breathing and take back control. Eventually it starts to work and, as she feels herself calming down, she speaks out loud in a bid to continue the process: ‘You’re doing the right thing. It’s hard, but ultimately it will be best for everyone. Doubts are normal, but you mustn’t give in to them. You’re doing the right thing. You’re doing the right thing …’
A few minutes later she starts the car and, still regulating her breathing, finds some classical music on the radio. It sounds like something from an epic film; she draws strength from its sweeping strings and triumphant trumpets.
Her final destination isn’t too far away, but she’s chosen it carefully. It’s an unremarkable residential street with a mix of terraced and semi-detached houses on both sides. There are plenty of parking spaces at this time on a weekday morning, presumably due to many of the residents having left for work. She pulls into an empty spot outside one of the street’s smarter properties, with neatly trimmed ivy nuzzling its red bricks and a colourful array of shrubs, pots and hanging baskets making the most of the small front yard.
Methodically, she removes her watch, rings, necklace and ear studs, placing them into the glovebox after first looking around to check no one’s watching. She had intended to do this at home before leaving, but it slipped her mind.
Next she steps out of the car, pats her hand gently on the roof to say goodbye, locks it and walks towards the footpath that will bring her close to the railway and the broken fence that will give her access to it.
She passes a couple of dog walkers along the way, beaming a broad smile at them so as not to raise any suspicions. This is ridiculous, she muses, because why would they be suspicious of her looking grumpy or upset? They might if they later spotted her near the track, she counters, if they lived in a house that overlooked it or something. So no harm in being careful. She needs this to go the right way. Well, as right as killing herself ever could. It would be a disaster if someone somehow managed to stop her.
This isn’t a cry for help. She absolutely wants it to work – one hundred per cent, first time, instantly, no messing about. That’s why she’s chosen such a brutal method. With the right conditions, the mortality rate is very high. It’s fast too. Even if she isn’t killed instantly, she should at least be knocked unconscious straight away. There’s still a small chance it could go wrong, of course, meaning survival with horrific injuries. But that’s why she’s done her homework, scoping out the optimal spot in advance; visiting several other possible locations before selecting this as the most suitable.
