by Lauren North
I didn’t mean it, Mark. I was so scared when he ran off. I didn’t mean to hit him. I wouldn’t do that. I’d never do that.
I close my eyes, freeing the tears. A phone is ringing somewhere and it takes me a moment to realize it’s coming from inside the house. I force myself to move, praying it’s Shelley calling. She’ll know what to do.
Sweat cloaks my skin under my winter coat and I’m panting as I wrestle open the bolt on the side door and kick off my boots. The ringing is louder now and I remember Shelley’s comment about the answerphone being full.
I dash through the downstairs and into the dining room, snatching it up mid-ring. “Hello?” I say all breathless from my dash and my fight with Jamie.
The line is quiet.
“Hello?” I say again.
There’s a click and the dial tone purrs in my ear. They must have been hanging up as I answered and didn’t hear me, I think.
I’m all the way in the hall when it starts ringing again and I turn back and snatch up the receiver on the second ring.
“Hello?”
Silence.
I wait for a beat and listen to the sound of nothing. No heavy breathing, no dodgy signal, just nothing.
“Mark?” It’s only when I whisper your name, when I hear myself say it out loud, that I realize what I’m thinking. I slam the phone into its cradle and stumble until my back hits the edge of the dining room chair. It’s not you, it’s . . . it’s a stupid call center or a wrong number or a hundred other things. It’s not you calling me.
CHAPTER 19
Thursday, March 1
38 DAYS TO JAMIE’S BIRTHDAY
People are screaming. So many screams. Men and women alike, wailing loud and shrill. The man two rows ahead of us struggles out of his seat and throws open the overhead compartments. I want to ask him why—why is he bothering? I want to scream too but I can’t open my mouth, I can’t move. An invisible force is pinning me against the chair, crushing the breath right out of me.
There is smoke pouring through the plane. My eyes are stinging and I can taste it in my mouth. More people leap from their seats and a suitcase flies down the aisle, slamming into the headrest of a nearby seat.
The window is a kaleidoscope of blue sky and green, then gray—the tarmac, the ground.
Any second now. Any second and we’ll hit it.
* * *
—
My eyes shoot open and I gasp for air. My lungs hurt and I can taste the smoke of the bonfire I lit the same day you died. The top of my head throbs with every furious beat of my heart pounding in my ears.
I blink in the gloom. There’s a moon out tonight and its pale silver light illuminates the shapes of the furniture and bounces off the giant TV in the corner. I must’ve fallen asleep on the sofa.
The nightmare clings on and all I can think about is how scared you must’ve been. How alone you must’ve felt.
It’s another minute before my heart stops hammering in my ears and I hear the silence of the house. Outside an owl is hooting nearby. I stretch my arms up, my neck stiff, my eyes puffy and sore, and I remember I was crying.
I waited until Jamie was asleep. After he’d slunk into the house for dinner and we’d eaten leftover casserole in a stilted silence. I guess both of us felt a bit sorry and a bit more upset and pretended we were neither. I know I did anyway. I read him a story and kissed him good night before carrying myself to the living room and shutting the door so Jamie wouldn’t hear me. I collapsed on the sofa and cried and cried until there was nothing more inside me.
The heating has clicked off by the time I sit up again. The house is freezing. I’m shivering all over and need to move. I’m not sure how long I’ve been here for, but it feels like hours have passed. I’ll check on Jamie and wrap myself in our duvet for warmth. You can tell me the story of the night we met. Remember that, Mark? The housewarming party we both ended up at. Neither of us knowing anyone but Stacey.
Of course I do, Tessie. You were the most beautiful woman in the room. You always are.
Not anymore.
Jamie is fast asleep, and beautiful in the soft light of the nightlight. I’m just tiptoeing down the hall to our bedroom when the phone starts ringing—the sound is fire-alarm loud in the still of the night. I don’t know what time it is, but it’s late. A past-midnight kind of late. Too late for a phone call.
I rush along the upstairs hall all the way to the end by the back stairs and your study. I wanted you to take one of the downstairs rooms as a study. It’s not like we didn’t have enough rooms to choose from. I wanted this spare for a nursery, but you liked being tucked out of the way, overlooking the garden and the tree house you built for Jamie, and I couldn’t tell you what I was thinking. I couldn’t bear your eye roll, your “Not this again” comment if I mentioned the baby we were trying so hard to have.
I flick on the light. There’s no lampshade, just a bare, dusty bulb casting a harsh light. The room is empty except for the old desk you had as a boy growing up in this house and one of your mother’s old bookshelves—both are covered in a fine layer of dust.
There are three columns of cardboard boxes stacked neatly up against the wall. Mark’s study is scribbled across the side of each one. Seeing your handwriting causes a stab of longing in my gut that shudders through me.
The phone is resting in its holder, propped on the nearest box, and I grab it, throwing the house into silence.
“Hello?” I say before it’s even at my ear.
There’s no sound, just like the calls earlier.
I hang up quickly and feel goose bumps prickle the skin on my arms. A gust of wind hits the window, rattling the panes and making me start. With the light on, the window is a black mirror. A shiver races over my body when I see my own frightened face staring back, and I flick off the light.
It takes only a few seconds for my eyes to adjust and the room to fall back into focus. Since the moon is out, there’s just enough light for me to see and I don’t feel so scared anymore.
The flashing red of the answerphone blinks into the darkness. Shelley’s voice plays in my thoughts. “I couldn’t leave a message because your answerphone is full.”
I try to remember when I last listened to the messages, but I’m not sure.
I sink onto the worn carpet and press play, jabbing my finger on the volume button until it’s as low as it can go. I don’t want to wake Jamie.
“Answerphone storage full,” an electronic voice informs me. “You have twenty-five new messages. Message one.”
“Hi, darling, it’s me.” The frail voice of my mum seems to echo in the empty room. “I’m settled back in now. How are you? I know it wasn’t ideal me staying in that house, but why don’t you come and stay here instead? The sea air will do you the world of good. I don’t like to think of you shut in that house all day. I love you so much, my darling. Call me anytime, day or night.”
My jaw tightens with every word she speaks. No mention of Jamie. No thought of school. So typical of my mother to think about what is best for her. We can’t just drop everything. I’m glad Shelley has spoken to her. I’m glad she won’t be calling as much.
The message clicks off and another begins.
“Hey, Tess,” my brother’s voice speaks into the room, undoing the tightness in my chest. There is the bustle of the hospital noise in the background. “I’m grabbing a quick break and phoning for a chat. It’s your birthday soon and I haven’t spoken to you for a while. I need your help with yesterday’s cryptic crossword in the Guardian. One word, five letters. The clue is ‘old.’ Give me a call when you can.”
No mention of Jamie or asking how I’m doing, but Sam doesn’t need to ask. It’s there in his voice and in his excuse to call. Sam was the one who got me hooked on crosswords to start with, back when we were teenagers and being dragged on camping holidays we were far to
o old for. There is no way he didn’t know the answer to his clue. It’s a joke about my age and I smile. The answer is biddy.
I think about snatching up the phone and calling Sam, but something stops me, a barrier. I don’t want to speak to Sam or my mum right now. They want to know I’m OK, but I don’t have the energy to lie. Besides, it’s the middle of the night. Sam will be working or sleeping, and calling at this time will only worry him more. I’ll call him tomorrow. Maybe.
The next message clicks on and I push thoughts of my family to the back of my mind.
“Tess, it’s Ian. I hope you’re OK. Can you call me, please? I need to talk to you about the money I mentioned at the funeral.”
Beep.
“It’s Ian again. Call me, please, Tess. This is important.” Each word is short and punctuated with impatience.
There are two messages from a secretary at Clarke & Barlow Solicitors asking to get in touch, and one from Jacob Barlow himself. I wonder if all solicitors are this pushy or if Ian is behind their persistence.
There’s a call from a kitchen company I’ve never heard of, then more shaking pleas from my mother. The next call is a hang-up, and the next and the next and the next until I lose count. Whoever it is, they stay on the line just long enough for the recording to begin and then they’re gone.
I turn my head to the side each time and listen to the silent message, trying to hear any kind of background noise, but there’s nothing. And yet, it’s something, isn’t it? Why is someone calling and hanging up? I shiver again and swallow hard.
I’ll call the phone company tomorrow and see if they can do something. It’s probably a malfunction on one of those stupid electronic messages telling me we’re eligible for free loft insulation.
I skip them forward until the message from Shelley on Saturday morning. “Hi, Tess, it’s Shelley. I thought I’d check in after our chat on Monday and see how you’re getting on after yesterday. I’m free all day so give me a call when you get this, or I’ll try again later. Bye.”
Shelley’s message is bursting with energy, and when it clicks off, the room and the house feel too quiet.
Then the phone rings again. It’s siren-loud this time and I reel away from it, hitting my back on the wall.
Who is calling? This late at night, while I’m sitting right here next to the phone? Who would call me?
My hand hovers midair, my heart thuds in my chest, dragging back the fear, the panic of the nightmare. I close my eyes and see the gray tarmac and hear the screams in my ears.
I’m about to pick up when the answerphone beats me to it.
“Hey, you’ve reached Tess, Mark, and Jamie. We’re not here right now, so leave a message after the beep.” My tone is game-show-host peppy and sounds like a stranger’s voice.
I hold my breath and wait for the silence, the hang-up just like the others, but this time there’s a noise—a rush of wind in the microphone. This isn’t a machine. Someone is there. Someone is calling our house in the dead of night.
“Mark, where the hell are you? We were supposed to meet an hour ago,” a man’s voice barks out with such force that I cry out before throwing my hands to my mouth as if he might hear me.
“It’s been three months,” he says, his words gravelly and laced with anger and intent. “You were supposed to have delivered by now. I told you at the start of all this that I’m not a patient man. Don’t test me. We need to talk. Call me.”
There’s another rustle on the line, and from inside your study, half a meter away from where I’m sitting with my back against the wall, the window panes rattle inside their crisscross lead.
My body freezes. Is it the same gust? Is he outside wandering around our driveway? Was it his footsteps I heard when you told me it was a deer?
I hug my knees to my body and bite down on my bottom lip. I’m scared, Mark.
The answerphone beeps. He’s gone. All I can hear is my own breath gasping in and out. My mind is racing as fast as my heart. Who was that man, Mark? What is he losing patience with?
I sift through my memories of your work parties, the colleagues I’ve met over the years, but none of their voices fit, and besides, why would anyone from your office call you? They were all at the funeral. They all know you died in the plane crash.
With a shaking hand I reach out and press play, jumping all over again when the man’s voice growls in the silence.
I hug my knees tighter and close my eyes as I listen. The fog is creeping over me and my thoughts begin to muddle. I think of Denise, but I don’t know why.
Who is that man, Mark? What does he want from you, from us?
CHAPTER 20
Ishould’ve dialed that call-back thingy that tells you the last number that’s called when I had the chance. I should’ve let you buy the caller ID phones you wanted to get last year that I said were pointless. “Why do we need caller ID on the landline? The only person who calls our home phone is my mum. We always use our mobiles.”
Of course, that was before we moved a million miles away from a cell tower and four bars of signal. Now we use the landline all of the time.
I’m not even sure why I want to know the number of the man who is losing patience, only that it’s what you’d have told me to do if you were here. But I didn’t think about it until this morning and by then Ian had called and left another message. He didn’t mention the money or the form he wants me to sign; he didn’t even sound impatient this time.
“Hi, Tess, Ian here. Er . . . your friend Shelley said you weren’t feeling too good. I hope you’re feeling better. I’m just on my way to work right now but I was thinking of popping by at some point. Let me know if there’s a good time and if you need anything. OK, well give me a call if you feel up to it. Hope the chili wasn’t too spicy. Bye.”
I told you, Tessie. He’s my brother. He means well.
And now the last number that called is Ian’s, so the call-back service won’t work. I’m trying the phone company instead. I can ask them the number when I tell them about the hang-up calls. If I ever speak to someone, that is. I’ve been on hold for ages, listening to the same Take That song over and over, and before that I was transferred twice, my call pinging from India to Newcastle.
“Mrs. Clarke?” someone says when the music stops. The voice is young and I imagine a spotty teenage boy working shifts in a stuffy call center on his days off from college.
“Yes.”
“Good afternoon, my name is Paul. How can I help you?”
“I’ve just explained it all to one of your colleagues.” I sigh, wishing I didn’t sound so whiny and desperate. “I’m getting hang-up calls and I want them to stop. I think it’s a call center or one of those recorded messages. I want to know if there’s a way to block them, please? And also, there was a call made to the house at one this morning and I’d like the number.” My heart flutters in my chest. Do I want the number of the man who makes my insides twist every time I think of his voice? No.
“Well,” Paul says. “I can see from our computers that your husband is the account holder. I’m very sorry, but you’re not listed as a named person on the account, so I’m unable to give out any information regarding your account. If you can ask your husband to give us a call and tell us it’s fine for us to speak to you—”
“I can’t do that.” Oh God, I’m going to cry again. I can feel the tears and hear the rupture of emotion tugging at my voice.
“I’m afraid without—”
“He died,” I sob, feeling pathetic and stupid for crying down the phone to some kid, some stranger, who doesn’t care about me and my problems.
“I . . . I’m very sorry,” he stammers in my ear.
There’s a long pause and I picture the teenager scrambling for his script and finding the page about the death of an account holder. I’d feel sorry for him if I wasn’t so busy feeling sorry for myself.<
br />
“So in that case, Mrs. Clarke, what we’ll need you to do is send a copy of your husband’s death certificate to an address I can give you, and once we’ve received it we’ll be able to transfer the account into your name.”
“Please,” I say. “I just want the calls to stop.”
Another pause.
“What I can tell you, Mrs. Clarke, is that we have a nuisance call system for all of our customers. If any call comes in from, for example, a double glazing company and you don’t want them to call anymore, you hang up and dial 1572 and that company will go on a list of people who can’t call you anymore.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. “That’s all I wanted.”
“Except . . .” he says, lowering his voice, “it won’t work if the caller has a blocked number.” The way he speaks, his tone, the slowness of his words, I know he’s trying to tell me something. The calls I’m getting are blocked. The code won’t make a difference. Damn.
“Mrs. Clarke?”
“Yes?”
“Do you have a pen and paper there? I’ll give you the address to send the certificate to. Once we’ve put the account in your name I would suggest you call back. It may be that you decide to change your phone number.”
“Right, yes, hang on.” I dash out of the dining room and into the kitchen and grab the first thing I see—the notebook from Shelley. I’ll change the number. That’s what I’ll do.
After the call I move through the downstairs, the notebook open in my hands, slippers scraping and slapping on the floors. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Something to do probably. It’s ten a.m. The day is stretching out ahead of me. Five hours of nothing until Jamie comes home.
The antidepressants must be working, because I don’t want to lose myself in the fog today. There are so many boxes still to unpack. You were supposed to help me sort through your mum’s stuff. You were supposed to hire a dumpster. “It’ll all be done by Christmas,” you told me back in October when we moved. But it wasn’t. You kept putting it off and now it’s just me and the job is too big.