THE VIEW from the cliff edge was stunning. Out over the calm sea, the sun was just dipping below the endless horizon, casting a heavenly amber glow across the rippling waters. The Seven Sisters, just a mile or so to the west, were picked out in crimson in the sun’s dwindling rays, and further on Seaford Head stood out prominently in the fading light. The ferry from Newhaven was chugging along, tiny in the distance, as it ploughed a course for Dieppe, leaving a white wake like a turbulent arrow disturbing the calm of the Channel.

It was so clear that Trevor wondered if he might catch a glimpse of the so-elusive green flash, as the last arc of the sun’s orb dropped beneath the sea. Something he had only seen once before. Should he wait for it? It would be his last-ever chance, after all.

But it was not for the view of the sunset that Trevor had come here.

He had lost count of the number of attempts he had made. Every one of them a failure.

But this one would be different. It would succeed. This time, he had opted for the cliff edge at Belle Tout, about half a mile west of Beachy Head. And he’d parked at Birling Gap and trudged the few hundred yards up to the disused lighthouse near the cliff’s edge. He was known in the area—the Chaplaincy, who patrolled the area aiming to deter potential suicides, had encountered him at least three times before now—and there was a chance even his car number-plate would be recognised and ring a few alarm bells. He was hoping that he’d parked far enough away to avoid suspicion—and that the Chaplains didn’t keep such a tight watch for jumpers here as at Beachy Head. After all, most jumpers were from way outside the area: they didn’t know the geography, but did know that Beachy Head famously was the spot...

So many failures!

He had to be in control of the end of his life. He was convinced of that: nothing could deter him. What was the point in waiting for Nature to take its course? Of his fifty-three years, the last forty-odd had been one long misery. Bullied at school, his first attempt—twenty paracetamol tablets—had been just before O-levels—but he’d lived to suffer the ordeal of the stomach pump in hospital.

After school had come the series of no-hope jobs, none of which had lasted long. At a call centre, launching cold calls at unsuspecting households, trying to persuade them to buy loft insulation ... he’d only lasted three days at that job: couldn’t take the abuse any more.

On the supermarket tills, first at Asda, then at Morrisons: he’d tried passing the time of day with customers during slack periods, but had invariably been cold-shouldered (perhaps it was only the pretty girls that got chatted to). Then came the discrepancy in the till cash, for which he was blamed—unjustifiably. As a ‘first offence’ he wasn’t sacked, just cautioned—but it was a humiliation and the end of till work for him: demotion to shelf-stacking.

At length—to his surprise—had come the more or less long-term post at a rather dubious software outfit. Was he to be set writing code?—after all he had some ability at maths. Not a whisper of it—he was merely testing other people’s code, and preparing benchmarks. Or merely specifying tests—preparing pro forma procedures to be carried out by his colleagues. As stultifying a job of work as they come, and nowhere near the plum appointment he forever hankered after. But he was kept on for many years—the dogsbody supremo...

As to relationships: what relationships? Yes he had dated Alison for many years, but she had peremptorily ditched him when Mr Handsome had appeared on the scene ... after that came Naomi, who’d actually agreed to marry him—but it hadn’t lasted long. There were no kids.

Trevor knew he was a failure, both at work and with women. He had no hobbies to enjoy. He hated meeting people, socially or otherwise. Why should he go on?

So there had been the attempts. Trying to hang himself—but every time it had failed. First time, the rope had broken. Then again with a stronger rope, but this time it was the tree branch he’d tied it to which broke. He’d been hospitalised after that attempt: broken arm and pelvis. He’d been sent to a shrink—even to a hypnotherapist—much good they had done him! On his next attempt, nothing broke, but the ‘drop’ was too short: he was left choking in mid-air until—curses!—a passer-by had arrived in the nick of time and ‘rescued’ him...

There had been the Tube station: Green Park wasn’t it? But the driver had been alert and prompt to apply the emergency brake, bringing the train to a stop before it hit him. And he hadn’t even managed to lay a hand on the live rail: too many helping hands, other passengers and station staff, were already dragging him to safety on the platform...

He’d driven all the way to Grimsby, parked, then taken a bus ... but the Humber Bridge was too well policed. He didn’t even try.

The sleeping pills—a good handful of them, washed down with half a bottle of whisky. Surely that would work! But, not being a seasoned drinker, he’d overdone it on the whisky. Only a few minutes later, he’d thrown up—the whole lot.

Was he fated never to take his own life? Should he give up and live out the rest of his worthless existence, until he eventually succumbed to ‘natural causes’?

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Trevor sat on the cliff edge, his legs dangling into the void. The sun had finally set, and a light mist had arisen over the sea. No chance of the green flash. Ah well. The car ferry was almost hull down on the horizon. He lifted his legs briefly and gazed at his worn-out shoes and frayed jeans. He put his hands to his face, shutting out the view, and felt his straggly moustache. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair...

A hand rested lightly on his shoulder.

Startled, Trevor nearly pitched over the cliff edge anyway—which would have meant the attainment of his object after all. But instead he froze.

This was all wrong. Something wasn’t right, here. The Chaplains weren’t supposed to lay hands on a potential suicide. There was always a risk that he would jump anyway, dragging the Chaplain with him. Two deaths instead of one. All the Chaplains were meant to do was talk to him—engage him in conversation—try to talk him out of it.

He unfroze and looked over his shoulder. A young woman was standing behind him. She wasn’t a Chaplain—at least, she wasn’t wearing the usual red jacket with its badge. She wasn’t in the uniform of a Police officer or a Coastguard. Was she just a friendly member of the public trying to Do A Good Deed, save the life of a despairing soul?

Backing away from the edge, Trevor scrambled to his feet and turned to face the woman. She was extraordinarily beautiful: even in the fading light he could make out her lovely hazel eyes smiling at him—such a wonderful smile! She was dressed in a light silken frock which reached to her ankles, and hugged her splendid figure so as to show it to best advantage. No outer garment over the dress, despite the increasing chill. Down her back flowed an expanse of fine, almost glowing, fair hair reaching almost to her waist.

‘My Good Fairy?’—thought Trevor. But he was frightened all the same. Frightened and a little bit angry. What business was it of hers, interfering with his momentous final act? Who was she anyway? He was not disposed to be polite.

“What the fuck is your game?” were his first words. He nearly choked on the oath, but it came out all the same.

“You can’t do it, Trevor,” she replied, calmly and sweetly. How did she know his name?

“What do you mean, I can’t do it? Just you try and stop me.”

“I said that you can’t do it—not that you don’t want to do it. That’s what I meant, Trevor. You will fail to take your life again, just as you failed every time before.”

“What do you know about me?” blurted out Trevor, becoming more and more afraid. “Who the devil are you anyway? Do I know you?”

“Yes, you know me—even though you’ve never met me. Everyone who sees me knows me.”

“I don’t understand. What are you?”

“You will understand. And I repeat—you can’t take your life Trevor. It’s just not possible for you. You’ve tried before, haven’t you? Right here. Once you landed on a ledge just ten feet down, and slid down the scree to the beach. Once you hit the water feet first but survived with broken ankles. Once a police officer grabbed you. And there have been other places. All failures. I’m right, am I not?”

“What the hell!—were you watching, all those times?”

“I was there, Trevor. Even though you never saw me. I’m your ... call me your Guardian Angel. I’m watching over you because you’re fated never to die...”

“ ‘Never to die’! What bullshit is this?” retorted Trevor, really angry now. “Everyone dies—you know that. Even that Frenchwoman—122 years old she was, but she died in the end. I’m going to die one day. And so are you.”

But Trevor’s mind was whirling, even as he spoke these words. Was this some sort of ‘epiphany’ moment for him? The moment in his life when he decided he wasn’t going to commit suicide after all? Was this girl winning him over somehow, despite her crazy ideas?

“There’s no such thing as being immortal,” he continued, after a pause, during which the woman just kept on smiling at him. “It’s all a myth. The Greek Gods on Olympus, the Elysian Fields, Avalon, all that nonsense. Real life is different. It just ends. We all know that.”

“What do you know, Trevor?” said the woman. “You were good at maths, weren’t you?—look at the figures. About seven percent of all the people who have ever lived on Earth are alive today. Human longevity is increasing, as well as the world’s population. How many centenarians do you know? How many did your parents—your grandparents—ever meet?”

That was true, thought Trevor. At least four people he’d known had reached their hundredth birthday. One of them was still alive, having just turned 107. But surely a long step from there to immortality...

But this strange woman was casting her spell on him. He needed to know more about her. Could he overcome his natural shyness with women, and...?

“I say,” he managed to blurt out, after collecting himself. “You wouldn’t like to ... er ... to have dinner or something, would you?”

“I’d love to, Trevor,” she said, charmingly.

“But I don’t even know your name.” Though somehow, he felt he knew it already, even before she spoke—just as she had known his name...

“Gabrielle,” she said, simply, confirming his guess.