final board, tacked to the edge: a simple glossy black sheet with the image of a bright red telephone – an old-fashioned one, with a circular dial – and big white text.
MAYDAY.
A problem shared …
We are here just to listen.
He stood there for a few moments, staring at the flyer, considering its message. We are here just to listen. Could that be true? His thoughts circled the idea, pondering the words and their meaning. He knew, of course, that such helplines existed. And they were confidential, weren’t they? At least, they were when it came to the standard calls – the abuse, the depression, the loneliness. But would that be the case with him? For the special things he would talk to them about?
He ran his hand over his rough stubble. He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure.
Once the idea had settled in his head, though, it wouldn’t leave. How good it would be to talk to someone. What if , he thought, what if I could? That would be something, wouldn’t it. A problem shared . Because that was the point. It had always been bad in the past, but this time it was intolerable: the burden of the woman’s murder was too heavy to carry. Perhaps if he could share that with another human being, it would bring him some degree of peace.
He didn’t know.
After standing there for perhaps a minute longer, he looked carefully both ways, saw that nobody was watching, and plucked the flyer from the board. It felt like he was stealing it as he folded it away in his pocket and left. It tingled there, the possibility of some kind of release. He found himself almost huddling over it.
If he was going to do it, he realised later, he would need to be very careful.
He would have to make plans.
And so now he sits outside on a bench and prepares.
It is early afternoon, and this end of the park is mostly deserted. Across the spread of sunlit grass he can see clusters of people sitting, and a few others wandering along the dappled stone paths by the overhanging trees. There is a bandstand in the centre, and a couple of young men in shorts are on either side, arcing a frisbee to each other between the old green poles. A man is walking his dog; every now and then he throws a ball that’s as bright and red as an apple, and the animal tears off across the grass. He watches them all: normal people doing normal things. They have nothing heavy to carry.
From the bench, he has a good enough view of the park to see that there’s nobody nearby. Nobody close enough to overhear the conversation he is about to have. It is far from ideal, of course, but his options were limited and he needs to be safe. When he’s not using the phone, he intends to take out the battery and SIM card. In case he’s wrong about the call being confidential, he won’t risk using the phone at home, or anywhere there might be CCTV that could catch him. He drove for a while before finding this park. It will do. If he phones again, then next time he’ll choose somewhere else.
He looks down at the phone in his hands.
The plastic feels polished and awkward, as though it might slip from his grasp like a smooth pebble. He purchased it, along with a pay-as-you-go SIM card, from a dirty newsagent’s just outside the city centre. It came pre-loaded with a thousand minutes. No need to enter credit card details or talk to a salesperson or set anything up. He doesn’t even need to know his own phone number. He paid for everything with cash.
And now, his heart leaping, he turns the phone on and forces himself to calm down. One last check around, but there is nobody nearby. All anyone in the distance will see is a man talking on a mobile phone, having an emotional conversation. If they see anything at all.
He takes out the flyer, unfolds it, and dials the number, then presses the phone to his ear as it rings.
‘Hello,’ a woman’s voice says. ‘This is Mayday. My name’s Jane. How can I help you today?’
Twelve
‘He’s doing this on purpose,’ Chris
MAYDAY.
A problem shared …
We are here just to listen.
He stood there for a few moments, staring at the flyer, considering its message. We are here just to listen. Could that be true? His thoughts circled the idea, pondering the words and their meaning. He knew, of course, that such helplines existed. And they were confidential, weren’t they? At least, they were when it came to the standard calls – the abuse, the depression, the loneliness. But would that be the case with him? For the special things he would talk to them about?
He ran his hand over his rough stubble. He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure.
Once the idea had settled in his head, though, it wouldn’t leave. How good it would be to talk to someone. What if , he thought, what if I could? That would be something, wouldn’t it. A problem shared . Because that was the point. It had always been bad in the past, but this time it was intolerable: the burden of the woman’s murder was too heavy to carry. Perhaps if he could share that with another human being, it would bring him some degree of peace.
He didn’t know.
After standing there for perhaps a minute longer, he looked carefully both ways, saw that nobody was watching, and plucked the flyer from the board. It felt like he was stealing it as he folded it away in his pocket and left. It tingled there, the possibility of some kind of release. He found himself almost huddling over it.
If he was going to do it, he realised later, he would need to be very careful.
He would have to make plans.
And so now he sits outside on a bench and prepares.
It is early afternoon, and this end of the park is mostly deserted. Across the spread of sunlit grass he can see clusters of people sitting, and a few others wandering along the dappled stone paths by the overhanging trees. There is a bandstand in the centre, and a couple of young men in shorts are on either side, arcing a frisbee to each other between the old green poles. A man is walking his dog; every now and then he throws a ball that’s as bright and red as an apple, and the animal tears off across the grass. He watches them all: normal people doing normal things. They have nothing heavy to carry.
From the bench, he has a good enough view of the park to see that there’s nobody nearby. Nobody close enough to overhear the conversation he is about to have. It is far from ideal, of course, but his options were limited and he needs to be safe. When he’s not using the phone, he intends to take out the battery and SIM card. In case he’s wrong about the call being confidential, he won’t risk using the phone at home, or anywhere there might be CCTV that could catch him. He drove for a while before finding this park. It will do. If he phones again, then next time he’ll choose somewhere else.
He looks down at the phone in his hands.
The plastic feels polished and awkward, as though it might slip from his grasp like a smooth pebble. He purchased it, along with a pay-as-you-go SIM card, from a dirty newsagent’s just outside the city centre. It came pre-loaded with a thousand minutes. No need to enter credit card details or talk to a salesperson or set anything up. He doesn’t even need to know his own phone number. He paid for everything with cash.
And now, his heart leaping, he turns the phone on and forces himself to calm down. One last check around, but there is nobody nearby. All anyone in the distance will see is a man talking on a mobile phone, having an emotional conversation. If they see anything at all.
He takes out the flyer, unfolds it, and dials the number, then presses the phone to his ear as it rings.
‘Hello,’ a woman’s voice says. ‘This is Mayday. My name’s Jane. How can I help you today?’
Twelve
‘He’s doing this on purpose,’ Chris
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