Until recently, I didn’t think people wrote letters to each other any more. I assumed it was all emails and phone messages nowadays. In fact, it turns out that letters are like buses: you don’t see one for ages and then two come along in succession.
The second handwritten letter sent to me this year arrived at the barbershop today, only a few weeks after the previous one from Helen. Rita handed it to me earlier, following our remarkable, illuminating conversation about the future. It was part of a small pile of post delivered this morning.
I didn’t even notice it until I got home, assuming the pile contained only the usual collection of bills and junk mail. Honestly, I was still too dazed by Rita’s surprise suggestion of that new name for the business to think of much else. It’s an amazing idea, which couldn’t be more apt. However, the mind-bending implications of the real Iris having loved that particular song continue to make my head hurt to this moment.
Have I actually been talking to her in my dreams all this time?
I know that’s what Iris suggested when I was cutting her hair. But that happened in a dream too.
Believing in an afterlife is one thing – but seriously, how could her appearing to me like this be true?
There must be some other logical explanation. Maybe Iris mentioned that tune during the brief time we were together before she died. Or perhaps I overheard one of her friends or relatives say that she liked it at the funeral and it slipped into my subconscious.
I guess I’ll never know for sure, just like I’ll never know the meaning of that original recurring dream. That said, with hindsight, I now suspect the latter has always had a lot to do with Helen: the way she left me at my lowest point and made me feel like I wasn’t worthy of being a husband or father. Perhaps the second flat represented a part of me I’d closed off as a result. Who can say? If I ever have it again, I might bring it up in a session with Charles. Somehow, though, I suspect I won’t be troubled by that dream any more.
Answers are neat, but life doesn’t always provide them. I can live with that. It’s the positive way. Religious people do it all the time. Where would they be without hope and faith, neither of which is tangible? Mum and Dad took great comfort in these things. I’ve grown so far away from the church they brought me up in, I can’t see myself ever going back to that now. And yet, undeniably, some kind of core faith remains ingrained in me, deep in my soul. A part of me wants to believe that Iris did find a way to come back to help me, as incredible as that might sound.
Either way, whether it was really her or a subconscious part of myself, the Iris I met in my dreams did help me. She gave me a leg-up to get where I am now, despite all the obstacles thrown in my path. She inspired me to be a better person, to open myself up. And that in turn helped me to form a new support structure I didn’t have when I first met her under the scaffolding.
Now, as my wounds heal, both physical and mental, I have a growing sense that things are going to be all right. You could even call it optimism.
Anyhow, this letter. Standing in the kitchen of my flat, I turn it over in my hands before opening it. I don’t recognise the small handwriting on the envelope and I’m surprised to see a York postmark this time.
Who could be writing to me from there? Only one way to find out.
I run a finger under the seal and pull out the single sheet of lined paper inside. It looks to have been torn out of an A4 notebook and smells faintly of cigarette smoke.
Dear Luke,
I wanted to let you know that I’ve left Manchester to sort myself out. It’s because of you. The stuff you told me the last time we spoke, outside the supermarket, hit home. You said I should use my brain to get myself to a better place. I knew what you meant. Off the streets and away from the spice before one of them finished me off.
So I did something about it. I went to York. That’s where I am now. Why here? It’s where my little sister lives. She’s actually in her late twenties, but I’ll always think of her that way. She’s the one person I knew would help me if I asked, but previously I was too proud to do that, worried I might mess up her life in the process.
About an hour after you and I spoke that last time, I called her up from a payphone. She was so happy to hear from me, she drove over here that night to pick me up and took me home with her.
I have a job interview tomorrow with a guy she knows. He’s supposed to be a good bloke, who’s given people second chances before. It’s nothing fancy – just serving tables in a café – but if I get it, it’ll be a fresh start.
I want to thank you for helping me to get here, Luke. I know I fobbed you off the first time you tried to speak to me about the spice, pretending not to know what you were talking about. But seeing you again after what bloody Moxie did to you, it was the wake-up call I needed.
I thought I had things under control, only doing spice every now and again, but I was kidding myself. Hopefully I can stay off and away from that shit for good now.
I really think I have a decent chance of getting my life back on track here. My sister’s got loads of books to read, which is an added bonus, although I think I need to get her into Ian Rankin, as she doesn’t have any of the Rebus novels so far.
Thanks again for the much-needed haircut and, of course, the book you so thoughtfully gave me. That meant a great deal, especially knowing it used to belong to your mother. You really made me feel human – seen rather than ignored – that day at your barbershop. I’ll never forget it. And to think you were prepared to give me another novel, despite knowing about the spice. So kind. Sorry I never got a chance to come for it.
I’m also massively sorry about what happened to you because of Moxie. He was a bad apple, but most of the folk on the streets aren’t like that, as I hope you’ve seen for yourself. They’re regular people who’ve hit hard times, that’s all.
I hope you’re still recovering well and get back to work soon. Look after yourself, pal, and I’ll try to do the same.
All the best,
Tommy
Tears are rolling down my cheeks by the time I finish reading Tommy’s letter. I’m so touched that he’s written to me – and incredibly happy that my words had this effect on him. His future looks so much brighter now, in such a small space of time; it’s fantastic. I only wish he’d included his address so I could write back.
A tiny part of me feels I don’t deserve his appreciation, because of the time I abandoned him when he was off his head on spice. But I must stop being negative, as that’s not who I am any more. I left him in safe hands and, as he put it himself, I helped him to address his drug problem and get off the streets.
As Charles likes to tell me in our sessions, we must celebrate our wins unconditionally, however big or small. And this is a big one. Who knows? I might even have helped to save a guy’s life.