EIGHT
Leaning over the suspension bridge, peering down at the icy cold waters of the Dee, he wondered if he had the courage to jump. He knew he did not.
Darren Fox, thirty-six years of age, waistline thickening every day, often spent his moments alone contemplating suicide. For him, nothing had any purpose anymore. Married for too long, no kids, despite plenty of effort in the early years, and a wife he rarely saw. A small house just outside Chester, what once had been termed a ‘new build’, garden overgrown, paintwork tired, garage packed to the rafters with a lifetime of crap.
He closed his eyes and pulled in a long, deep breath. Three months ago, he had come home early from work, headache banging like a drum, nauseous, tired, wanting nothing more than to go to bed. His boss seemed ind
