It’s almost 4am and I’m starting to feel the effects of twenty-one hours awake. With my heightened senses I notice every movement in the corner of my eye - hear every creak and groan in this ageing former office block.

​“I’m going to start now.”

David is shift supervisor; he’s behind me, listening to my call; I can feel him hovering there. His presence comes closer and he reaches over me; a gentle hand on my shoulder; a brief but compassionate smile in my direction. He places a fresh cup of coffee beside the telephone.

​“Forgive me.”

Some callers are just lonely and need to talk, some are more-likely clinically depressed, and you do get some who are feeling physically lonely, (you can hear the distinctive sounds on the other end of the line, like they are unblocking a small plug hole with a miniature plunger).

The toughest though, are the suicide-in-progress calls. We don’t try to stop them – it’s one of the founding principles of the organisation that no one should have to die alone – so we listen.

“I’ve swallowed the last one.”

I’m sitting down, sedately listening, not even talking, but my adrenaline is high, and my heart beats out of my chest. I couldn’t sleep now if I wanted to. I allow my mind to wander; my shopping list; what I’ll cook for lunch; seven-down in the crossword.

​“Thank you for being here.”

It’s the last thing I hear before the disconnect tone.