‘What’s happened?’

‘It’s Stephen Finnegan. It wis his burd, Toni, that—’

‘Aye we know, son. He’s been declared missing. Are you a pal?’

‘Aye, A just found him. He’s tried tae … In the stables there’s a vodka bottle n there wis a rope roon his neck.’

The woman polis is on hur radio, callin fur an ambulance. A’m lightin a fag n kneelin doon tae help the woman talk tae him. The paramedics turn up in ten minutes n roll him away on a stretcher. The polis woman takes ma arm on the way back tae the motor. A stare oot the back ae the motor intae the dark woods on the way doon tae ma bit n try tae compose maself as the polis walk up n in ma gate wae me.

We walk intae the livin room. Finnegan’s maw starts gaspin fur air like invisible hands ir roon hur neck chokin hur. The polis wuman tries tae reassure her. ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Finnegan, your son has just been located and taken to hospital as a precautionary measure. We can take you to the hospital now to be with him.’ Connor is pickin up Joanne fae the couch n followin them oot the door. He looks back before he walks oot n grabs ma hand tight n shakes it hard. He doesnae say thanks, but he looks like he wants tae. A dunno wit ma face looks like. Maybe showin the usual mix ae pain n futility that yi become accustomed tae aboot here, routine tragedy, run ae the fuckin mill.

A’m strugglin tae remember hur face awready, knowin A won’t see it again. Suicide always leaves yi wae a gut-wrenchin feelin. Nae cunt likes tae talk aboot it. It’s uncomfortable. Even when yi huv tae tell cunts, it feels like a word yi shouldnae say n it scares yi, as if dwellin too long upon it could make yi catch it like some contagious disease. A try tae imagine walkin the path doon the woods, a last time, ready tae carry oot the ultimate act ae self-violence. Yi never know wit’s goin on in cunts’ heeds. They always say that. Yi never know wit’s goin on in cunts’ heeds is a fuckin cop-out. Aye we do. They wur sufferin n scared n frustrated n lonely n depressed n ashamed n ignored or put on a waitin list fur help. Or, they never sought that help n limped on, till they couldnae limp any more. There comes a point where cunts’ sufferin becomes hopeless n they want tae actually cease tae exist – tae cure their problems n current condition. The whole thing depresses me n fries ma nut. Yi wish they hud reached oot n grabbed yi n screamed they wur strugglin n yi wid dae anyhin yi could tae help them, as anybody wid, tae pull them back fae the edge ae their personal abyss, tae show them love n hold them tight n no let them go.