by David Waine
*
A solitary telephone box stood at the corner of Marie’s street. The door opened, somewhat creakily and Joe tested the receiver. With a relieved nod, he confirmed to Marie that it was working. Smiling her thanks weakly, she unfolded the scrap of paper in her hand and dialled the number that she had written. Joe was bewildered, but patient. There was a perfectly good telephone in her house, but she had insisted on using this one. She paused with a fifty pence piece poised over the slot, waiting for the pips. They came and she pressed the coin home with a clatter.
“Sally Ferguson’s office,” the voice at the other end of the phone line was clipped, professional and female, “Sandra speaking. How may I help you?”
Marie’s stomach was churning. It was only the presence of Joe by her side that prevented her from returning the receiver to its hook immediately. She looked to him in desperation and was greeted by a stern nod. The words dried in her throat.
“Hello.” The metallic voice at the other end of the line betrayed a hint of annoyance. Sensing that the call would be terminated before she was able to speak, Joe grabbed the receiver from her and barked into it, “Can I speak to Sally Ferguson, please?”
There was an ominous pause. “Who is calling, please?”
The thought that a male voice would cut no ice in this situation ran through Joe. Fortunately, Marie had recovered her wits and took the receiver back. She was just in time to hear a very impatient, “Hello?” from the other end.
“Hello,” she squeaked, her voice a good octave higher than it normally was, “I have to speak to Sally Ferguson urgently. It’s about the broadcast last night.”
There was a further pause. Marie groaned inwardly. This wasn’t Sally Ferguson, but some snooty receptionist who would hang up as likely as listen to her.
“Listen to me, please!” pleaded Marie, panic obvious in her voice. “I really must speak to Sally Ferguson about last night. My life is at stake. Please!”
There was a further ominous pause. Marie fancied she could hear the woman breathing on the other end of the line.
Miles away, Sally Ferguson was wrapping up a news shoot with her camera crew in the rain outside a travel agent’s shop in Hounslow that had just been robbed.
“This is Sally Ferguson, in Hounslow.”
She maintained her professional stare straight at the lens until the cameraman indicated that he had stopped shooting. Immediately the atmosphere changed as the large parasol held out of shot over her head was removed, and she hoisted an umbrella of her own while the crew set about getting their plastic-packaged gear back into the radio car.
“Okay, boys, that should do it,” she announced with a smile. “I've had enough for one day, haven't you? Is there somewhere round here where we can get a coffee?”
“Sally!” An arm was gesticulating animatedly from the window of the radio car. “Call for you! GHQ.”
Oh, no, not more work. Not now. Sally, tired from a long day of dodging the rain and talking to people she didn’t want to know about subjects she would rather not consider, rolled her eyes in frustration. Her mind was on coffee and perhaps an illicit cream cake. The last thing she wanted was another assignment. With a quick frown, she gathered the lapels of her coat about her throat and hurried the few steps to the radio car, where an arm held out the receiving handset for her.
“Thanks, Peter,” she said automatically as she raised it to her ear. “Hello? Oh, hello, Sandra, what is it?”
The metallic voice at the other end spluttered a few words. Sally’s heart sank. It was the ninth such call today, the first eight of which had all turned out to be useless. She was really beginning to regret making that appeal. Four of the calls had been made by stupid men having a laugh, and a further one had been made by an even stupider man trying to sound like a panic-stricken woman. The remaining three were at least female, but none had a name that sounded remotely like any of the victims. They were simply neurotic women who needed someone to talk to.
“Another one?” she asked more testily than she should have. “Is this one the right sex?” Sandra confirmed that she was. “Not another time waster?” Sandra repeated the apology that she had already offered eight times that day, with emphasised stiffness and pointed out that that this one seemed to be in very genuine distress.
A pang of conscience stabbed Sally, who castigated herself for her intolerance and gave her own apology. Sandra was simply doing the job that she had set her. “You think so?” Sandra did. “All right, put her through.”
There was a click and a momentary crackle of static as Sandra transferred the call.
“This is Sally Ferguson,” she said, adopting the professionally calm tone that she used when reporting ghastly events. “I understand that you want to talk to me.”
The voice on the other end was definitely of the correct gender, sounded young, tearful and terrified. Sandra had been right to transfer this one, she thought to herself, making a mental note to take some chocolates into the office for her the next day.
Marie’s voice was cracked and hesitant. “Yes, I — oh!”
Recognising the symptoms — interviewees often did likewise when the camera was turned on them — Sally reassured her gently. “Don’t get stage fright. Take your time. Tell me what you have to say.”
There was a long pause before she heard anything other than choked sobs.
“I need your help,” gasped Marie finally.
“Help with what?” The words were slow and measured.
She heard a long, shuddering metallic sigh. The poor girl was beside herself with fear. Sally felt a pang of alarm in the pit of her stomach.
“My name is Mary Jane Kelly,” was the gasped response.
All traces of the professional mask dropped from Sally’s face. Her watching crew looked to one another in concern. For the first time that they could remember since they began working with her, she looked absolutely deadly serious when off-camera.
“You have my full attention, Mary,” she replied earnestly. “Where can we meet?”