Dumped, Actually(12)

He rolls his eyes again. Given how sunken his face is, this gesture is amplified almost to the point of caricature. ‘No. You weren’t,’ he agrees. ‘You looked like you were doing the bloody hokey-cokey, chief. Somebody who looks like they’re doing the hokey-cokey is not someone who is one hundred per cent committed to the idea of ending their life – if you don’t mind me saying.’

I don’t quite know what to reply to that. The idea of a suicidal hokey-cokey is something I can’t get my head around at all. How would it go?

You put your whole soul in, your whole soul out . . .

‘Who are you?’ I ask the man, feeling my body and mind starting to calm down a little from their brush with the infinite.

The man sticks out a hand. ‘Derek Wimslow. Though my mates call me Wimsy.’ His face darkens. ‘The pricks. You might as well call me it too, though. Everybody has for years, no matter how much I ask them not to. Why should the last person I ever speak to break the habit?’

‘The last person you ever speak to?’

He nods. ‘Oh yes. Unlike you, buddy, I’m definitely going to kill myself this evening. I was just waiting for you to stop shagging the wall first.’

I blink a couple of times. For the first time, I really acknowledge the fact that Wimsy here is sat on the wall I was leaning against (and not shagging), with his legs dangling out over the drop. My stomach lurches.

‘Don’t do it!’ I say, moving towards him slightly.

He holds up the hand that he’d proffered for me to shake. ‘Don’t come any closer, mate! I’m quite happy to wait for you to piss off, but if you force me to do it, I will with you watching!’

‘No! No! Don’t do that!’ I cry.

He gives me a disbelieving look. ‘Why not? You were obviously thinking the same bloody thing!’

‘No, I wasn’t!’

‘Oh . . . you usually spend your evenings rubbing your goolies up and down against a car park wall, do you?’

Again, I have no answer to this. Possibly because this is the first time I’ve heard someone use the term ‘goolies’ in reference to testicles for about twenty years.

‘Why are you going to jump?’ I ask Wimsy. For some reason it’s very important to keep this man talking. If I can do that, maybe I can persuade him not to go through with it.

Dabbling with the sweet embrace of non-existence is something I seem to have no problem doing myself, but I’ll be buggered if I’m going to stand by and watch somebody else top themselves.

‘Why do you care?’ Wimsy asks with a sneer.

‘Because . . . Because . . .’

Why do I care?

‘Because . . . if someone’s going to do something that drastic, I want to know why!’

Wimsy squints at me. ‘You really want to know why I’m here?’

I don’t. Not really. I have a whole heap of my own problems, without wanting to hear about – and possibly take on – anybody else’s . . . but I can’t just let this man join the other inhabitants of Street Pizza Central, can I?

‘Yes, I do.’

He sniffs. ‘Why should I tell a total bloody stranger about myself?’

I think for a second. ‘You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine?’ I venture, hoping this will be a good enough deal for him.

Wimsy thinks for a moment, and then swings his legs around so he’s sitting towards me, instead of with his legs dangling over the edge. This makes my heart rate slow considerably. If I can keep him talking, I might be able to get through this without watching him hit the concrete at terminal velocity.

All thoughts of initiating my own demise have fled from my head at this point. My sorry, sorry situation has been temporarily forgotten as I try to stop this man from doing something I’d most definitely regret.

‘Alright,’ he says, scratching his chin. ‘But don’t you come any closer than where you are, pal.’

I hold up my hands. ‘No, no. I won’t.’

Wimsy nods and then thinks for a second before speaking. ‘My dog died,’ he says matter-of-factly.

I don’t actually come out and say, Is that it?, but you can see from the expression on his face that he knows I’m thinking it.

‘No, that’s not it,’ Wimsy says, rolling his eyes. ‘Though some people love their dogs enough to kill themselves, you know. Don’t be so judgemental.’

Oh great. Now I’m getting lectures about morality from a man about to break the ultimate taboo.

‘My dog died, because I had to move into a rental flat. He fell off the balcony.’ Wimsy’s lip trembles. ‘One minute I can see the little fella barking happily away at a passing pigeon. The next, he’s leaping into the air to catch it, and . . .’ He trails off for a moment. When he looks at me, that haunted look in his eyes has grown even darker. ‘I never knew a bichon frise could fucking jump like that, did I? What with them stubby little legs of his. But up he went, like a bloody kangaroo, and over that balcony with a last little yelp.’ Wimsy wipes a tear from one eye. ‘He was nowhere near that fucking pigeon either, the silly little sod.’

Don’t laugh, Oliver.

If you laugh, Wimsy will tip himself backwards over that wall before you know it.

‘It was seeing him do that earlier that gave me the idea to come up here tonight. If it’s good enough for Mr Sparkles, then it’s good enough for me!’