‘I felt strongly that my job was to guard Samuel’

This story is part of the February 18 edition of Good Weekend.See all 18 stories.

Over the coming days, I wavered between not wanting to know anything about Samuel and wanting to know more about him.Credit: Bea Crespo/illustrationroom.com.au

It was just before seven on a crisp Thursday morning last autumn. I was walking with Lucy, my much-loved but hard-of-hearing terrier cross, when we diverted from our usual route, past the Catholic school and the bus stop, to gather pine cones in the park. Midway along the rain-eroded path that divides the park in two – a football oval used by school groups on one side and established trees that are home to magpies, parrots and currawongs on the other – I noticed a person in the post-dawn light. He was lying under a wide-canopied oak tree, face up, his arms by his sides, legs together and head turned to the right. He was wearing trackpants, a hoodie with the words “Climate change is real” emblazoned across it and Nike runners. He looked young, maybe in his late teens, perhaps a little older. He was slim, of average height, with a mop of curly, auburn hair.

It took what felt like an eternity – but which, in reality, was probably only seconds – to realise that he was dead. His ashen hue, fixed gaze and absolute unresponsiveness left little room for doubt – but I needed to be certain. Approaching, I offered my name, assured him I meant no harm and asked that he blink if he could hear me. I looked intently for a rise and fall of the chest, any movement of the eye, finger or mouth.

Nothing. I told him I was dialling triple zero and that help would arrive soon. I carried on speaking to him even though by now I was sure he couldn’t hear me, the sound of my own voice somehow helped calm me. Unbidden, John Everett Millais’ Ophelia came to mind. Instead of water, though, there were leaves. And instead of a young woman, this young man.

My reverie was interrupted by my phone ringing. It was the ambulance service – triple zero had contacted them – asking if I could resuscitate him. I said I was certain he was dead. They asked if there was a defibrillator nearby. No, I was in an open park. Could I touch his skin? I gently placed my hand near his wrist. I reported that he was very cold. I repeated that I was sure he was dead.

I heard the crunch of gravel behind me as some passers-by stopped to see what was going on. I told them the police were on their way and not to come any closer: an investigation of the scene would likely be required. I felt strongly that, in this moment, my job was to guard Samuel*, as I named him in my mind, to protect him from all prying eyes and intrusions until help arrived.

Minutes later, a gardener wearing a fluorescent-orange safety vest appeared. Since she clearly worked in the park, I didn’t ask her to stay back. She bent down and touched Samuel, too, and shook her head. Then two police officers joined us. They studied Samuel and exchanged a wordless glance. They directed me to end my call as three plain-clothes detectives, carrying well-worn folders bearing police insignia, approached. None of them attempted resuscitation.

Waiting for help to come, I’d noticed my hands were shaking. I’d briefly contemplated covering Samuel’s face with my windcheater, but decided not to disturb the scene. Lucy, as if sensing the gravity of the situation, remained perfectly still at my feet.

I knew the fact of his death would be less traumatic to me if I had no inkling of who he had been in life.

The detectives went to work sealing off the area, circumscribing it with blue-and-white “Do not cross” tape. A tent was erected, the park entrances closed and a ground search of the immediate vicinity carried out. Then one of the detectives, Sue*, escorted me to my nearby home for questioning. I remember noticing a tattoo of an open-winged blue butterfly behind her ear and the palpable relief I felt when she validated my decision not to have attempted resuscitation. She, too, believed Samuel had been dead for some hours. After hastily gargling with mouthwash – I was painfully aware I hadn’t yet brushed my teeth – I sat down with her to answer some questions. It took about an hour.

After Sue had gone, I couldn’t concentrate on anything. Who was Samuel? What had happened to him? Had his family been informed? Could I have done more for him? Questions went round and round in my head as I tried, in vain, to distract myself by working in the garden. Above all, I wanted to know if Samuel had been murdered and was enormously relieved when, later that day, I saw a post on social media that said the police were reporting his death as non-suspicious.

The next day, his family released a statement describing “a tragic and inexplicable accident”. I learnt that Samuel was a few weeks shy of his 17th birthday. (The coroner’s report is still pending.)

Over the coming days, I wavered between not wanting to know anything about Samuel and wanting to know more about him. I knew the fact of his death would be less traumatic to me if I had no inkling of who he had been in life. But as I discovered that he was a local year 11 student who liked playing football and making pizza – and heard how much he was loved by his family and friends – I knew that any attempt to remain detached and unaffected would be useless.

In the days that followed, people left dahlias, photographs, a rainbow flag and poems where I’d found him. Visiting the spot to see and read these tributes, I was becoming increasingly aware of a sadness that had lodged around my heart. I would go to bed sad, wake in the night sad, rise sad.

Samuel had been a stranger, it was true, but I believe a deep sorrow had taken hold as I’d scrutinised his body – his stare, in particular – that morning for any sign of life. It was then that I’d felt him pierce my heart. Waiting alone with him for the police to arrive, I’d seen the life he wouldn’t live, the milestones he’d never reach, the celebrations he’d never enjoy. And the family to which he’d never return.

About five weeks after finding Samuel, I awoke early one morning and instantly knew that he was gone.

The sadness continued. I’d be doing something trivial – vacuuming, say, or shopping – and feel this despondency steal over me. I felt my zest for life flatten. I laughed less and retreated inward. For a time, I wondered if I’d ever feel joy again. There was the sadness of a young life abruptly ended, yes, but also immense sorrow for the loss of parents who’d never see, hold or talk with their son again.

Now, some months down the track, I feel certain that there was a reason that our paths – Samuel’s and mine – crossed that morning. Lucy and I were meant to divert from our usual walking route so that I’d find him among the leaves. I believe I was fated to be his caretaker.

I also believe Samuel was experiencing trouble leaving this physical realm. I can’t articulate why I feel this: perhaps he needed to stay for a while to support those he loved as they began to absorb the impact of his abrupt death and help restart them on the way forward without him.

Then, about five weeks after finding Samuel, I awoke early one morning and instantly knew that he was gone. The sadness had been replaced by a sense that he was now far away – his work finished. In my mind’s eye, I saw a manifestation of warp-speed, a full-throttle forward propulsion leaving a gold plasma trail in its wake. I derived comfort from this image then, as I do now.

It feels a privilege to have played a tiny part in Samuel’s passing. I visit where he died, Lucy in tow, to keep it litter-free. I think about those who loved him and wonder how they’re coping. I hope they have moments, no matter how brief, where they experience respite from the loss.

The park gardener and I meet regularly. She saw what I saw, touched what I touched. Initially, it helped to talk about our shared shock, but now we chat about kids, school, work, relationships. Recently, she told me that when she first looked over that morning and saw me standing next to Samuel, she thought he was lying motionless on the ground because of harm inflicted by me. Sue’s questions as a detective were designed, no doubt, to rule me out as a potential suspect.

I worried that seeing the leaf-covered earth every day where Samuel had lain – fewer than 100 metres from my home – would cause confronting flashbacks. This isn’t the case. I’ve seen kids playing, people sheltering from the rain, lovers entangled, magpies feeding their young and newly hatched cicadas, their eyes set widely apart, singing shrill summer songs there. I feel at ease when I see people in the very place where Samuel died, enjoying quiet, meditative moments, or revelling in laughter with friends, unaware of what happened beneath the furrowed branches.

* Names and certain details have been changed to protect the identity of the deceased.

Support is available from Beyond Blue on 1300 22 4636, Kids Helpline on 1800 55 1800 and Lifeline on 13 11 14.

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