I thought I’d found my answer on a forum where a poster suggested attaching defibrillator paddles to my chest and placing the machine on a timer so I could be shocked back to life. Rash, I know, but in my excitement I sold my PlayStation 4 to Cash Converters so I could afford to buy a second-hand set from eBay. Then, when it arrived, I realised the button requires continuous pressing before the shock is administered. I can’t do that alone. I suppose I was a little relieved given my fear of currents. The thought of charging them up and being that close to a device that could shoot volts of electricity through me is more than a little queasy-making.
So I’ve had little choice but to think outside the box and search for help elsewhere. That’s when I stumbled across him, hiding within the depths of an obscure internet message board catering for people like me, fixated on what lies between life and death. Within an ongoing topic discussing our ‘life reviews’, as they’re known, I shared my own experience under the username Jude St Francis from the novelA Little Lifeby Hanya Yanagihara.Those users aware of that story and its many references to suicide would appreciate how fixated by death I was. Albeit temporarily.
As far as I can see, the only way to find out more about my missing past is for me to die again, I typed, but without mentioning the murdered boy.And I don’t know how to do that alone.
Soon after, a message appeared in my account’s inbox.
I read your thread with interest, he wrote.To clarify, your dilemma is not the means by which you end your life, but how you return to it?
Yes, I replied.I’ve searched and searched but I can’t find a way of doing it alone.
Minutes passed before he responded.
I might be able to help you. If you’re serious.
I stared at the words on the screen, my stomach beginning the first in a series of somersaults.
How?
I can assist you with ending your life. And then I can bring you back. If that’s what you want.
I pushed my laptop to one side, took a few deep drags on my vape as my mind raced. I was desperate, but I wasn’t naive. What kind of person volunteers to end another person’s life? How could I be sure he wouldn’t leave me after I died? I should have dismissed his offer, deactivated my account and shut down my device. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I knew he might be my last hope. So I responded.
He went on to explain how he understood why I was compelled to do this. How, like me, he wasn’t afraid of death. He claimed to have medical training, and that he’d do his utmost to resuscitate me in time. Nothing he said suggested he was anything aside from genuine. However, I remain conscious of the risk of inviting this stranger into my life, and giving him the power to take it away from me. And I can’t rule out the possibility he might not even turn up. He could still be a fantasist.
Regardless, I have accepted his offer. Only today have I dropped a pin in a Google map and sent him my address. He should be on his way to my flat now.
I inspect the bedroom again, because this is where I plan to die. It contains a built-in wardrobe with a metal railing that can support my full weight. I’ve tested it in the past with chin-ups during my periodic fitness programmes. And I have a rope all ready.
The overly aggressive door buzzer sounds and my stomach cinches as I stare at the black-and-white image of him from the camera installed one floor down, above the front door. He’s wearing a baseball cap and is holding his head down, doing his best not to be filmed, I assume. I don’t blame him. I only realise my hand is trembling when I push the button to allow him entry.
I hear his feet echoing lightly up the flight of metal stairs, and when I open my door, we are finally face to face. I hesitate because I’m a little taken aback. Throughout all our chats, I assumed him to be male. But this is a woman.
‘Hi,’ I say.
‘Hello.’
‘You must be The Good Samaritan,’ I continue, referring to their message board username.
She nods. ‘Call me Laura.’
Chapter 21
Laura
She is immediately reassured by how ordinary he appears. He’s skinny, and at about five foot seven or eight, he is only slightly taller than her. She hides her enthusiasm and tries to mimic his nervousness to help put him at ease. His apprehension quietly pleases her. He poses about as much threat to her as plankton might to a shark. However, she’s aware looks can be deceiving. She is evidence of that. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, she’s been told. Which is precisely what allows her to behave as freely as she does.
She glances around the room. No sign of a third party: no shadows behind cracked-open doors, no shoes visible in the gaps between doors and floors. No stray noises. Damon appears to be alone, but she will remain hypervigilant regardless. That’s how she operates. With care. She doesn’t take unnecessary risks. Well, not anymore. She has learned from her mistakes.
Having been sent his address, she knew what to expect from the flat itself before reaching it. She found images cached on property website MoveMe’s pages from the last time it was up for let seven years ago. A phone call to the local council tax departmentin which she masqueraded as a debt collection agency revealed its sole occupier.
Lister. Why was Damon’s surname familiar to her? She didn’t recognise his face when a Google search offered images of him in a five-aside football team, then a charity fun run. A DBS search on the dark web revealed no criminal record. She must have been mixing him up with someone else. For all intents and purposes, he was who he said he was and posed no threat. So she thought no more about it.
The flat is open-plan but compact, to say the least. If Ikea made coffins, she’d be standing in one. There’s about enough room for a double sofa and a single chair in the lounge, a circular dining table and four chairs by the window overlooking the town, and a light-grey galley kitchen with a metallic splashback. No art on the walls, the only ornaments on surfaces a LegoFriendsCentral Perk set and somethingStar Warsrelated. This manchild’s bachelor pad has all the personality of an Airbnb.
She removes her baseball cap to reveal blonde hair scraped back into a tight ponytail. She wears frameless glasses, a little make-up, and is casually dressed in jeans and trainers. Nothing that might make her stand out if she was ever caught on CCTV. She may have reached her mid-forties, but she’s confident she can pass for a decade younger because people tell her that. It pleases her when they’re surprised by her age. She puts it down to her vegan diet, vitamin regimen, moisturisers, Pilates, jabs every four months to paralyse her facial muscles – and, most importantly, to what she takes from people. What she is about to take from Damon.
He introduces himself, asks for her coat, then leaves it hanging loosely over the back of the armchair. She’ll have it dry-cleaned tomorrow. He’s about to close the door behind him but she insists they leave it ajar. He doesn’t protest, and props it open with a thick copy ofA Little Life. ‘My favourite book,’ she finds herself saying aloud, and he smiles. It’s true: no other written words have placedas much joy in her heart as that novel. Aside fromWe Need to Talk About Kevin.A bookmark protrudes from a page towards the back of the tome, suggesting he’s almost finished reading it. The irony of the plot and Damon’s situation isn’t lost on her. She knows that his username and the book are indications he is serious. He wants to die. And she wants to help him.
