The Cliff Walker

 The Cliff Walker 

        I often wonder what it is that 'makes' a suicide spot. Is it just a semi-random accumulation of infamy around some place, each act of self-annihilation leading inexorably to another, or is there something more inherent, some genius loci that draws people to certain landmarks, something beyond the simple availability of means? There are surely many woods where hanging corpses are almost never found, many high places from which people rarely hurl themselves. Perhaps there is something in the air, or the arrangement of scenery that calls to the despairing. Certainly, it seems that some locations offer a grander aesthetic experience that appeals to a certain sort of suicide. Hundreds more die annually on the London Underground than ever plummet off of Beachy Head, but where is the romance of being smeared under the 19:09 to Upminster? 
 

        Yet practicality is important even in these grim matters, and the sandy cliffs that range from about a mile south of the town of Whitemouth, down to the tall chainlink fence that marks the border of the MOD range, are certainly practical in many ways.
 

        For a start, the cliffs are both high and sheer, their base lapped by water except at the lowest spring tides. Instant death is more or less assured, the waves rendered hard as concrete to a body still accelerating at the end of a four or five second plunge. Owing to the strong currents bodies are often not recovered, which must appeal to some people. There are no serious fences or other obstacles to impede access to the precipice; indeed, there is a very serviceable cliff-top path, the closure of which has been vigorously opposed by the Rambler's Association. Access is easy, with no less than three convenient viewpoint car parks, in which abandoned vehicles are all too often found; it's not impossible to reach the area on foot. Moreover, it is private; though the lights of the town spread out softly below in the middle distance, dwellings in the immediate vicinity are sparse. My house is the only one permanently inhabited for nearly half a mile in any direction, and the sinister reputation of the area leaves the holiday cottages empty half the time, even at the height of the season. I suspect I would have trouble selling the Old Place, if I wanted to.
 

        However, I do not want to. Though I didn't really choose to live here, this bleak place has given me purpose, filled up an otherwise all too empty life. It has even given me a measure of local fame. I have set up as a charity, and take enough in the way of donations these days that I only need an occasional shift at the farm shop to help make ends meet. In fact, I almost find it embarassing; I was always brought up to be self-reliant, and I try and provide for my own needs where I can. For a while, I was even beset by volunteers from the local churches, who came up to try and 'relieve' me, but I was so nervous about the potential consequences of their interference that I ended up shadowing them almost everywhere, and eventually they mostly lost interest. Generally, the world seems content to let me operate alone, in my quiet way, approving but distant. That I can just about cope with; for despite my calling I am a very private sort of person, really. I am sure my face must have been a picture when I read that profile in the Nexport Echo. 'One woman's crusade'; terribly over-romantic. I have my successes, surely; but too many lost souls slip through my net, even in the summer months when I can stay up all through the short nights, most days of the week.
 

        This young man, I swore to myself, would not be one of the escapees. Though he carried no light with him, the moon was strong enough that early August morning that his pale face shone like a shipping beacon at noon in my binoculars, even across a couple hundred metres of sparse downland. The general shape of him was dark, unseasonably swaddled in clothes as he picked his stumbling way between clumps of gorse and rabbit holes. Perhaps he was drunk (they sometimes are) or perhaps his eyes were simply fixed on that sharp horizon, the place where the world ended. It was warm, but not close; a gentle breeze turning the surface of the midnight black sea to velvet, the moonlight tinted yellow. I turned off my torch and set up a brisk walk along the more established paths, aiming to intercept him. I learned long ago that suprising them near, but not actually right at the cliff edge normally proves to be the best tactic. Once, early on, I had chased after a woman across the open ground, pleading for her to stop, only to watch appalled as she accelerated instead. I will always swear that I could see her legs still pumping empty air as she went over.
 

        Such determination is, thankfully, rare, but I make sure to do nothing to encourage it. There are normally a few minutes, sometimes as long as half an hour, of contemplation, a few looks over the edge, a final calculation. Some, confronted by that awful terminus, retreat on their own. A few times I've met them only coming back, humbled by their confrontation with eternity. I count those ones as neither successes, nor failures. They just are.
 

        He was in the reverie when I approached him along the cliff-top path. I got within twenty or thirty paces of him when he turned from the dark sea to stare at me; I could see tears glistening on his cheeks.
 

        “Hey there,” I began, as I always do, stopping with my hands held loosely in my jacket pockets, unthreatening. “My name's Agnes. Would you like to talk about something?” I smiled. He blinked back at me, as if straining in the half-light.
 

        “I've seen you.” he said, at last, “On the internet.” I nodded.
 

        “When you were looking up about this place?” I asked, still not advancing one pace. He shook his head.
 

        “When I was reading about her.” I felt a sudden pang of recognition, of course. But this was no time for assumptions. With only a few steps, he would disappear from human life; the splash would hardly be distinguishable from the waves breaking against the base of the cliff.
 

        “Did you lose someone here?” I asked, gently, taking my first step a little closer. I imagined myself as he saw me. 'Dumpy', my mother always called me; she meant it as a term of endearment, though I could never see it as one. Short hair always a mess, no need for a woolie hat tonight, wellies and wax jacket of course, wire frames glasses slightly wonky. Perfectly unthreatening. He didn't move away; instead he nodded.
 

        “She's...Mia.” he supplied. Of course. Mia Lee. They had never found the body, though a shoe had come up on Nabchurch Sands a few weeks back. I shook my head, spoke softly.
 

        “I'm really sorry.”
 

        “You didn't...” he began; the thought came to me suddenly that perhaps he had come here looking to confront me. Perhaps I was in danger? But he stopped, perhaps struck by the absurdity of holding me responsible for her plunge off the cliff, and turned away. I stepped in a little closer.
 

        “There's three miles of cliff-top. I can't be everywhere. Some people...get through. But if I could, I'd make sure no one went over. I don't want anyone going over tonight. There's always another way. What's your name?” He turned back to stare at me, and then stepped back a few paces from the edge.
 

        “Josh...” I nodded, taking my hand out my pocket and holding it out towards him, offering a box of tissues.
 

        “Do you want to come back to my house, and have a cup of tea and a chat, Josh?” I asked. He didn't take my hand, but he did take a tissue, and he followed me back home like a lost lamb. We walked in utter silence; I kept having to turn to make sure he hadn't leaped sideways.
 

        I always leave the lights on at the Old Place when I'm out walking the cliffs, in the big downstairs room with the flagstone floors that functions as kitchen, dining room and sitting room. I got him comfortable on the sagging sofa, and bustled around as I got things ready for a nice cup of tea.
 

        “Do you want to call anyone?” I asked, as the kettle gurgled on the propane hob, to break the ice. He shook his head. “Left my phone in the car, I don't think I can remember anyone's number off the top of my head. They'll be alright.” I nodded.
 

        “One sugar or two?”
 

        I handed him the tea and sat down in my armchair nearby.

        “Tell me about her.” I said, simply, and he stared into his tea, finally taking a big gulp before he spoke.
 

        “We hadn't been together for that long, really. I mean...not in the scheme of things. But longer than I've ever been with anyone else, and I was sure...it sounds so fucking stupid. I was sure she was the one. You know?” I smiled sadly.
 

        “I've never had that myself, but I know what you mean. You're not the first person I've talked to here that's lost someone...someone that seems like they're so much of their life that there isn't anything left afterwards. I can definitely relate to that. I used to live here with my mum. I was her carer, I was all she had, and she was all I had.”
 

        He leaned back a little on the sofa, taking another sip. “What happened?” I shook my head, and smiled.
 

        “The same thing that always happens. She died, but I didn't. I went on, and I had to give my life a new purpose...not forgetting her, never forgetting her, I couldn't...but moving on on my own. Doing something with my life.” He nodded towards the logo on my t-shirt, the one I'd had made. A hand gripping another. 
 

        “Trying to save people...from...” he jerked his head towards the little window, out towards the sea. I shook my head and put my own cup of tea to one side, standing up and walking over to where he'd nodded.
 

        “It's not the cliffs that kill people...it's a choice people make when they think they don't have any other choices. But there's always another choice, Josh. There's as many paths leading away from the cliff as there are leading to it. Do you understand what I'm saying?” I paused. The room was silent but for the hum of the ancient chest freezer in one corner, and the tick of the slightly newer clock in the other, drowning out the distant waves. There was something oppressive in the atmosphere that I decided suddenly needed lightening “...would you like something to eat?”
 

        “...sure.” he said, and I moved to the fridge.
 

        “Vegetarian?”
 

        He shook his head and I smiled as I retrieved two of my home-made sausage rolls.
 

        “You're in for a treat. A minute in the microwave and they're good as new.”
 

        I sat back down and watched anxiously as he took a bite before tucking in to my own, raising his eyebrows slightly and having the decency to make approving noises, flecks of pastry falling on the front of the sweatshirt he wore under his open jacket. They were a good batch. He was a little thin, I noticed. They often were, unfortunately; the effects of drink, drugs or misery, who could tell which preceded and caused which?
 

        He swallowed a mouthful and washed it down with more tea, then he yawned.
 

        “What time is it?” he asked. I checked my watch.
 

        “It's nearly three in the morning. You must be knackered.” He shook his head.
 

        “Just feeling weird...still feeling...I mean, how can I move on if they haven't found her? What if she's not dead? What if she...walked another path as well? What if she didn't choose to end it...just to end...well, us?” He finished his sausage roll, while I kept on smiling softly at him, standing up to take his empty plate, gently righting the cup and the saucer that were drooping in his faltering hand. I patted him on the shoulder.
 

        “There's some things you might never know, and I'm sure there's some things you don't want to know. Do you really want to know what paths she walked that night? What she was thinking, what she was feeling...or do you want to remember her as she was?” I walked behind him to the sink, stacking the dirty dishes and taking a moment to root around in the cupboard for a rattling biscuit tin.
 

        “But just...the idea that she might be...that I might just run into her one day, after all this...all this sadness...” his breath was coming a little heavily, his speech sounding as if it was taking him an effort. I tried not to make too much noise opening the biscuit tin, crossing back over to the sofa behind him.
 

        “You know Josh...I'm not a religious person, but I think tonight you've come closer to her than you realise. And I think that's going to help you find some real closure.”

        I didn't get a response; he had nodded off from the tea, which was good in a way. It meant he didn't catch on to the somewhat smirking, deliberate tone of my last sentence...and of course he didn't see the very meaningful glance I made towards the buzzing freezer in the corner, half empty now. It was all a bit humorous of course, and it was a shame he couldn't appreciate it, because he could have done with a good laugh. But then again, I reflected, as I pressed the muzzle of the bolt pistol against the base of his skull and pushed the firing block into the ready position, he probably wouldn't have found the situation to be the least bit funny...