Fifty/Fifty and Other Stories by Matthew W. McFarland Read Free Book Online Page A

hundred yards from where he had grown up, becoming friends as we did so. I don’t play with him as much as I should. When I come home from a long day, I don’t feel like I have the energy to hike the foothills where our club is situated Most of the time going out and playing will clear my head, and striding down the first fairway, I am instantly wide awake and super-aware. But the odd time, I find myself zig-zagging around the course, unable to find my sweet spot, my true swing. It puts me in a bad mood for days, and this is why sometimes I make excuses.
     
    These days, when I catch up with the friends I played with at university, I find that I have turned into one of those dads at the barbecue, talking swings and technique. The golfing wisdom which I like to impart however, and which has been working successfully for me for quite a few years now, in so much as that I enjoy playing, is very, very simple. The ball. Hit the ball. Just hit the fucking ball. Don’t talk to me about the latest club technology and 45 quid for a dozen balls. Titanium, ceramic, new-and-improved launch angle, spin velocity, straighter, truer, change your life oh my god our golf clubs are so amazing, buy them! I don’t need to hear about your new grip, or the swing plane you saw on TV.
     
    Hit the ball. That is all.
     
     
     

 
 
 
 
 
    Fifty/Fifty
     
     
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    O n a wet Tuesday night in July I was called out to an attempted suicide on the Forth Rail Bridge. We get these calls a few times a year, except that it is always on the road bridge, which has a pedestrian walkway making it easy to access, and so is a favourite spot for jumpers in central Scotland. This is partly why South Queensferry has a larger police contingent than a place of its size would usually need.
     
    We have a laminated plastic folder which sets out the protocols for dealing with suicides, attempted or otherwise. There are bullet points and bold lettering to emphasise the important sections. Above all we are told not to put anyone else’s safety at risk. Usually, the hardest part is preventing pile-ups on the bridge as cars and trucks slow down to see what is happening. Getting permission to close the bridge takes too long, and is generally a bad idea, as the traffic builds up very quickly until there is suddenly a huge audience.
     
    In my short career, I have attended six such call outs. Three have jumped and three have been talked down. Page one of our manual tells us that we must establish a rapport by assigning one person to be the negotiator. On the two occasions where I have been the negotiator one has jumped and one came down. I am currently fifty/fifty.
     
    The one who jumped was a man in his forties. He only spoke to me for around ten minutes before he went. He had lost his highly-paid job in the banking sector, and then when he couldn’t find another one he had taken to sitting around the house drinking. His wife had left him and taken their three kids, and was now living down south with a man she had befriended over the internet. The jumper’s name was Albert Scott. He told me to call him Scotty. I’ll never forget the despair in his eyes.
     
    The psychologist at the mandatory assessment told me that even if I had managed to stop him then, he would have tried again and again until he succeeded. His was not a cry for help.
     
    At his funeral the two oldest children wept openly, whilst the youngest, who was only two or three, held his mother’s hand. She was stony-faced throughout, and stared at a spot on the ground a few feet in front of her as the empty coffin was lowered into the earth. Judging by their expressions, Albert Scott’s extended family did not appear to be letting grief get in the way of anger. The last words anyone ever heard him speak were, simply, “Tell them all I’m sorry...”
     
    The one who came down was a younger guy, only twenty-three. We talked for ninety minutes before I got him