Desperate Measures

Joshua tugged on the rope he had fastened over the beam in the cavernous hay barn. Lifting his feet from the floor he swung on it, twisting around to face out of the large wooden double doors and onto the public footpath that led from Constantine Village to Scott’s Quay on the Helford River.

Satisfied it would hold his weight, he released his grip and dropped a few inches to the floor. He dusted off the mildew from his hands which had transferred to his fingers and palms from the rope. Stepping over various bits of Land Rover engine parts, he passed the dismantled rusty and corroded vehicle itself to find something to turn into a platform. A platform on which he could stand and easily tip over with his feet.

The midday summer heat of that Wednesday in July had already warmed the barn and the surrounding hedgerows. It hadn’t rained for months. It had been the longest drought since records began. The inclement weather was mainly why Joshua was doing what he had to do today. His crops had failed for the last three years and the bank was now calling in his loan due to the lack of frequent payments. His wife, Siobhan, had supported him throughout these troubled times. But even she had had enough of late. His bad moods depressed both her and their kids, and with the endless moaning, coupled with his violent temper, with him smashing glasses and crockery, she had left him earlier in the month, taking their three children, all of whom were under five years of age, with her to her mother's. 

He walked to the corner of the barn and wiped his brow free of sweat with a handkerchief from one of his overall pockets. Piled in the corner were lengths of sawn timber of differing thicknesses and lengths, an old wheel from a boat trailer, a collection of empty five and ten-litre tubs that once contained chemical insecticides, tins of dried-up paint, and the item he was looking for. He pulled it out from amongst its neighbours and blew the dust from the seat of the round, wooden three-legged stool. He smiled. He could clearly remember as a boy the day his father had turned the legs for the stool on the lathe in his workshop. ‘Here’s to you, father,’ he said in a thick Cornish accent, raising the piece of handmade furniture to the rafters, saluting his old man as if holding a pint of beer at his wake. 

He didn’t expect a reply. After all, he was used to being ignored. By the bank especially. He had prayed to God night after night since Christmas, hoping that this year would be different from the rest, and he had found that God was great at ignoring him also; with the Deity remaining silent throughout his soul-crippling prayers of sorrow. Thanks a bunch, Lord!

He took the stool over to where he had secured the rope, set it beneath the beam and made sure it was level and steady. He didn’t want to fall off prematurely, thus breaking his ankle, or worse. He laughed at his ludicrousness. He was about to end his life, and here he was fretting about taking an unprepared tumble and landing awkwardly. Placing one foot on the stool he stepped up and stood centrally on the improvised platform. He reached up and took hold of the rope in both hands so he could tie a loop in it with a slip knot. He decided to forgo the traditional noose. He had tried several times the evening before to tie one and failed. Something else he was no good at. So, a slip knot would suffice.

After tying the knot, Joshua climbed down and sat on the stool. He leant forward, elbows on knees and, from his overall top pocket, he pulled out a half-empty packet of tobacco and a cardboard book of cigarette papers. He pulled out a length of tobacco from the packet in strands and placed it inside a folded-out paper which rested on his knee. Joshua then rolled himself a coffin nail; licking the adhesive strip with the tip of his dry tongue several times before the glue took effect. Pinching off any excess at either end, he brushed off any stray tobacco flakes from his legs, dropped the packet between his feet and flicked open his gas-filled Zippo. Lighting the end of the cigarette, Joshua drew long and hard on the roll-up. He wanted to savour this final moment of pleasure. Tilting his back he looked up at the looped rope above him and blew out a plume of greyish-blue smoke toward the beams and rafters. He sighed, closed his eyes and took another draw on the cigarette.