sandals, the heat making them swell and the straps rub, and I can’t believe I’ve just done what I’ve just done …
What the hell have I just done?
I’m so fired.
So totally fired.
I sit on the empty bench dedicated to Gladys. I put my head between my knees. I’m not ashamed of what I did. I imagine that boy opening my reply and I feel good that he will read what I’ve written. Even though it’s unethical blah blah blah. He needs to read it. He has to be told. They all need to be told. I think of that poor girl and what she woke up to and how confused she must be and how confused she’ll always be because he did what he did. I just detonated my life like a landmine but it’s worth it. Even though my job is the only thing in my life I ever feel good about. It’s where I’ve carefully allocated all my worth and self-esteem and sense of self. It’s what rebuilt me after Ryan, the way I felt I was in some control of it, able to make sense of it in some way. And I’ve ruined it but I’m glad I said it, but I don’t want to have ruined it …
Matt finds me soon enough. He sits down. ‘Oh April,’ is all he says.
‘I’m not sorry.’
‘Your response didn’t reach the user. I saw it and cancelled it before he was able to open it. I’ve sent the template perpetrator reply instead.’
My whole body stiffens. I dig my nails into the soft wood of Gladys’s bench. ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’
‘I think, in time, you’ll be glad that I did.’
I wipe under my eyes. I can’t think of anything to say. I can’t think how or what to feel.
‘What’s happening April?’
I shrug.
‘Talk to me.’
‘There’s nothing to say.’
‘These questions come up a lot, and you’ve never done this before. What’s going on? You can tell me. I’m your buddy – in both senses of the word.’
I wipe my eyes again. I guess it’s worth pointing out that today’s question isn’t, indeed, anything that remarkable. During training, they dedicated half a day to perpetrators who use our services to alleviate their guilt. It’s a tricky ethical one. Some of them just want to be told that what they did was OK, even though they know it isn’t. Some of them get off on telling services about what they did. Some of them haven’t even done anything but get off on pretending they have. And some of these questions may come from victims, using a story to ‘test’ a service before they feel brave enough to open up. I’ve been trained in how to spot these questions immediately. I’ve been trained to treat them as genuine users who want help, because there’s no way of knowing that they aren’t. I’ve been trained in handling the difficult emotions these questions evoke. They’re never easy when they come up. I often push them straight over to Matt and need a long walk and some deep breathing. But not today, not any more.
‘I just can’t do it.’
‘Do what? Your job?’
I shake my head and wipe a stray tear using my finger. ‘Any of it. Just waking up and living my life when it’s all too much and there’s no point anyway.’
Matt hangs his head, quiet. I don’t fill the silence either. We sit and look out at the scorched grass that looks like crushed Weetabix. I can’t remember what it was like for grass to be green.
Eventually he says, ‘I’ve had to tell Mike. You know that, right?’
‘Whatever.’
‘April, you know I had to.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
He looks like he’s about to reach out and take my hand, but he stops himself. Instead he raises his face to look right at me. ‘Look, I know we’re just colleagues but I also think this job makes us more than that. If you need to talk about anything, I’m here. I’m a friend.’
I look into his eyes behind his thick glasses and I’m glad there is at least one man in this universe that I can believe is good. Of course he’s fucking gay, but it’s a start. ‘Thank you. I don’t know what’s going on with me.’
‘Burn out?’
‘Yeah, I guess that’s a good way of putting it.’ I look up, the sun making my eyes crinkle to slits. ‘I don’t think I can go back in there, Matt,’ I say. ‘Everyone’s going to be talking about me.’