I’m going to need to talk to someone.
But first, I’ve got a phone call to make.
*
36.
I’m part of the CCTV generation. I’m not paranoid enough to think my every move is being watched, but I’m smart enough to realise they might be watching, and the possibility is enough.
Helen calls it the Panopticon. She reads this guy called John Twelve Hawks. I tried to read it. It frightened me worse than zombies or werewolves ever could.
So I don’t want to phone from home. I don’t know if the police have call back, but it makes sense that they would.
There aren’t that many public phone boxes anymore. Probably justified now the world is mobile, but it worries me, while I’m on that track.
I’m not doing anything wrong, other than lying to my wife, but I can see how people get sucked into interviews, being a suspect…getting involved. I can’t afford to get involved. Not with the police. A knock on the door, and I’m busted.
Helen loses the half a husband she’s still got. I lose Helen.
If I lose Helen…
So why don’t I just tell her? Why don’t I tell her, if I’m really not crazy? Come clean, before it’s too late?
I go round and round. The short answer is, I don’t know.
All I know for sure is I’m not going to tell her.
This is mine. I see them. Helen saw the girl, though. Does that mean she’s real?
Helen gets up at ten. I’ve got crumpets ready to go, coffee on.
‘Wow,’ she says, ‘This is service.’
I smile. ‘It gets better.’
‘Mmm…already?’
I laugh. I don’t have to force it.
‘No. Not that. I’m not eighteen anymore.’
I pour. Then I go to my wallet. Pull out a hundred in twenties.
She raises her eyebrows.
‘I booked you at Amy’s. That’s the place, right?’
‘Yes,’ she says. She’s unsure, but she likes it.
‘Indian head massage, pedicure, manicure. 11 O’clock.’
‘Sam!’
I take her hug. It’s a nice thing to do. There’s some guilt behind it. But if I’m going behind her back, I’d rather do it nicely.
That’s the way the stranger thinks. Sometimes he thinks like me.
‘I just wanted to treat you.’
‘You done good.’
I beam, rub my knuckles on my t-shirt. Blow. Theatrical.
I join her in crumpets, watch her eat. I want a coffee. I have tea. I’m far enough up without a heavy hit of caffeine. I’d be shaking and Helen would never leave.
I see her out at ten to eleven. I figure that gives me two hours.
I’ve been going over it in my head the whole time.
The house phone is out.
I’m not a criminal, so I wouldn’t even know where to begin buying a ‘clean’ mobile, or stealing one.
The least suspicious way possible. That’s the trick. That’s always the trick.
If the poster had still been there, it would have been easier. If I had the internet, maybe. Maybe I could find something in back issues of the local paper, from the library. But the library presents the same problem as the internet. There’s no way I could read the print for long enough.
I’m better reading, now, but not good enough. I couldn’t do it for hours.
Besides, I don’t have hours.
The wind that had sounded so threatening last night has gone. The day is warm and still, but I put my jacket on anyway, for the pockets.
I put my mobile in my pocket.
I head out. Take the long way to the old Fakenham road.
It’s a long shot. No. It’s not. It’s way, way, beyond a long shot.
I realise, back somewhere forgotten, in the part of my mind that’s still functioning rationally, that this is really paranoid. It’s not just paranoid. It’s crazy.
But I don’t listen to that part of myself. I haven’t listened to that part of myself for a long time, now.
Normal people don’t do this.
I don’t care.
I make it to the road. It’s not the busiest road. Just busy enough for there to be chances. I figure I’m a good bet. I’m middle aged. I’ve got a jacket on, so I look trustworthy. I’ve got a cane, so I’m not a threat.
I’m limping along the side of the road. I don’t pick, I just wave down cars as they pass.
The first ten minutes pass and not one car stops.
I wonder what happened to the milk of human kindness. I’m practically a cripple, for crying out loud.
I watch another car scream past, and only hear the crunch of tyres behind me when the noise dies down.
It’s a young guy. He gets out, which is nice. He doesn’t make me walk to him.
‘You OK?’ he asks.
‘Oh, thank you,’ I say. I’m not old enough, or a woman, to put on breathless. It wouldn’t wash. But the cane is working for me.
‘I broke down a mile or so away, but I forgot my mobile. You wouldn’t have one, would you?’
He doesn’t even look unsure.
‘Sure,’ he says, leans in the car, comes out with his mobile.
‘Thank you so much,’ I say.
‘You OK with it?’ he says.
He’s not patronising, though. To him, I’m an old guy. Old guys can’t work phones.
‘Fine,’ I say, because that’s irrelevant. The phone is relevant, and only the phone.
The phone isn’t even close.
‘I’ll just wait here,’ he says.
‘Thank you,’ I say again. I really mean it. He’s a nice guy. ‘I really appreciate it.’
‘No problem.’
I make out I’m calling the breakdown company. I brought the cover note. It’s got my policy number on it. I’m still a named driver on Helen’s car. I can’t drive, but it’s cheaper to leave me as a named driver. Go figure.
I tell no one on the phone where I am – a street I know off the main road.
’30 minutes?’ I say. ‘OK.’
I hang up on the operator I never called. It’s OK, though. He won’t check the call log.
I thank him again. Pull out a fiver.
‘No way,’ he tells me.
I put up a bit of a fight, but I haven’t got enough money to give everyone a fiver to pretend to borrow their phone.
‘You want a lift back to your car?’
‘No, it’s fine,’ I say. ‘I need to get exercise. The physio says so.’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘Wish you well,’ which is a strange thing to say, but he moves on, and I’m no closer to getting a phone than I was twenty minutes ago.
The whole thing took too long.
This is such a long shot. It isn’t going to work. I’ve overthought this. It isn’t sensible. The chances are stupidly long.
I push at the doubt until it falls down, and smile for each car that passes.
Twice more, people stop. People are good, on the whole. They turn away when I’m on the phone. The phones aren’t any good, though, so I keep my make-believe calls as short as seems believable.
Come on, Sam. Stop this.
The voice of reason, nagging. It sounds like Helen to me.
What are the chances, Sam? Do you know how many makes of phone there are? How many models? How many colours?
Shut up, I say, but only in my head.
Someone’s looking out for me, though, and it’s not the voice of reason.
A woman pulls over. My fourth stop. I run my spiel.
‘Sure,’ she says, and it’s my phone.
But she’s watching me like a hawk, and her boyfriend, maybe, husband, maybe, gets out of the car, too.
I’ve practised, but in my mind I was doing this with my back turned. I thought it all through. Turn my back. Switch phones. Simple. I didn’t need to mess about with SIM cards. I wanted her phone SIM card, in her phone. I would give her mine. I’ve wiped mine, taken out the SIM card
. She might check, if she’s suspicious. But I’ll be off the road as soon as she’s over the horizon.
About thirty seconds, perhaps a minute, from when she starts the car, I’ll be in the field. Five minutes, I’ll be in the little copse of trees to the south.
I’ve got roughly 30 minutes left. If I don’t get too muddy and I’m late I can tell Helen I decided to go for a walk. Must’ve dropped my phone. I can swing it.
I’m aware of the couple watching me. I realise I’m making the whole thing too complicated.
I flip the phone shut, drop it in my pocket.
‘Shit,’ I say, take it out again. ‘Nearly made off with your phone.’
She laughs, forced. The boyfriend – neither wears a ring – is watching me.
I hand the phone back. I’m nervous, but I’m in control. Why would she check?
She wouldn’t. Nobody would. I’m sure. Why would someone switch phones? Give them an identical phone? It just wouldn’t happen. No self respecting thief would do it.
‘Let me give you some money,’ I say, ‘For the call.’
‘No, no,’ she says. He’ll take it, though.
‘Seriously,’ I say, ‘You know what those companies are like. Probably premium.’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me, Kate,’ the guy says.
‘I don’t know,’ she says.
‘Well, I do,’ I say. ‘Please, take it. For being a good Samaritan.’
I give her a tenner. She complains, but I insist. I insist because losing your phone, all the contacts, is a pain in the arse.
‘Can I give you a lift to your car?’
‘No, I’m fine. I’ve got to get the exercise, anyway, and I’m normally pretty lazy. The walk’ll do me good.’
‘Hope you get on OK.’
‘Thank you so much,’ I say.
The car’s doors close in unison. The car starts. I wave.
In maybe forty seconds I’m over the fence and into the field. She’s gone. She’s got my phone. For all the good it will do her. I’ve got her phone, and her SIM, and neither can be traced to me.
There’s a part of me that knows very well that I just went too far. The part of me that wants to go further doesn’t care.
I walk through the field, which is surprisingly hard, with all the rain we get.
I can see the church steeple in the distance. It’s a fair walk. I’m going to be late.
So I make the call while I’m walking. I don’t know if stealing the phone or actually making the call was the point at which I couldn’t turn back.
But then, perhaps by that point, none of that mattered anymore.
I’ve got the number memorised. I dial. I wait. I hold.
I’ve got enough power.
It’s like a slot machine. Something wants this to happen. The cherries are all lining up, irrespective of what I do. Things are moving of their own accord, now.
‘Police,’ the voice, a woman, says.
‘I’m calling about a missing girl,’ I say. I talk quickly, because I don’t know if they can trace a mobile and I don’t want to be holding it if they can.
*
37.
‘Can I take your name?’
‘David Keane,’ I say, quick as you please. I knew this would come, and in my head my voice sounds like I could be a David.
‘And your address?’
I’ve got an address, too. Anyone can make up an address. It’s the postcode that’s the trick. Whenever you phone somewhere nowadays, even for a pizza, they’ve got some kind of computer program to find you from your postcode and house number.
I give the address. It’s from the parish magazine. It’s David Keane’s address. I don’t know if they can check these things, but I’m not taking chances. I want the least suspicion possible. David Keane’s a plumber. I don’t know if I sound like a plumber. I don’t think that matters, though. The address and the name is enough.
‘How can I help?’
‘Well, it’s just a query, really.’
‘Regarding?’
She’s brusque and to the point. She’s probably recording the call. She doesn’t want to be human in case she’s up for review or something.
‘A missing girl.’
‘Are you reporting someone missing?’
I know I’ve already said it’s a query, but I let it slide. I don’t want to get into a pissing contest with the operator.
‘No. I saw someone I thought I saw on one of those posters.’
Now she’s interested.
‘Do you have the name of the girl?’
‘Yes, it’s Sarah Mills.’
‘Please hold,’ she says.
I check the time. I’m muddy from my calves down. I stepped in a puddle while I was looking at the phone. I’m out of the field, but I don’t want to make this call walking down the street. I stop on the road.
I look at my watch, to see how much time I’ve got left, and another voice comes on the phone. A man. I don’t know if they have a team, like on TV, just for missing people, but I guess the man knows something. The woman before probably just worked the telephones. Maybe she had access to a computer, and some files, but I doubt it.
This guy might not even be in town. He might be in Norwich, or headquarters, or somewhere.
‘Hello?’ he says. Firm.
‘I’m here,’ I say.
‘Can I take your name, please, Sir?’
I tell him. I can tell as many people as I want.
He asks my address. I tell him that, too. No big deal.
‘Can I take the name of the girl you think you saw?’
‘Sarah Mills,’ I say. I imagined this part. He’d say please hold, go away, check some list, come back, take details.
He doesn’t do any of those things. When he starts talking again, his voice is different. I can’t place it.
‘Can I take your phone number, Sir?’
‘I’m on a friend’s mobile.’
‘Your home number, Sir?’
‘Er,’ I say. Why didn’t I think of this? ‘I’d rather not.’ It’s the best I can do on short notice.
He doesn’t push, but I place the tone. It’s suspicion. I just lost ground.
‘Where did you see the poster, Sir?’
‘In the supermarket,’ I say. Then it clicks.
I need to get off the phone, but I also need confirmation. Of course I didn’t see the poster in the supermarket.
He pauses.
‘Which supermarket?’
He’s asking about the poster, not the girl. The poster wasn’t in the supermarket. It might have been there, once. It wasn’t there when I saw it, though. What I saw was the ghost of the poster.
The poster wasn’t there anymore because they found the girl.
He knows something’s wrong.
Really, he’s asking about me. He’s interested in me because he knows the girl’s dead. I don’t need him to come right out and say it. He’s as good as told me already.
I want to drop the phone. His voice is sending shivers up my spine. I’m shaking, because he hasn’t asked about the girl. I can feel him through the phone. Waving at someone passing by. Telling them to come listen, on the speaker. He doesn’t want to be the only one to hear this. He’s recording the call anyway.
The station is coming alive. They sense something’s happening. They can hear it in the officer’s voice. They’re all listening now.
She’s dead. They don’t know how. They think I might have killed her.
He doesn’t say any of these things, but I know them just the same.
My hand’s around the phone. My stupid hand. It won’t let go.
‘Sir?’ he says. I haven’t been listening. It doesn’t matter. The stranger takes my right hand. He uses it to pry the stolen phone from my grip. The phone drops to the road and cracks open.
I stamp on the phone. The phone’s guts squirm out on the pavement.
I walk down the road, but then I stop. I’m made to stop.
&nb
sp; The stranger looks out for me sometimes.
I walk back, pick up the broken phone. Put a corner of my shirt on it and polish everywhere with the fabric. There’s no way to throw it into the field without touching it, so I just drop it at the edge, out of my shirt, and walk.
I don’t remember getting home. That’s not so unusual, these days.
Helen’s there. She looks chilled.
‘Where have you been?’ More of an exclamation than an accusation. She’s looking at the mud on my trousers. I took my shoes off, but I don’t remember doing it.
There’s a jarring moment when the world, the light, seems brighter. It’s like me waking up. I’m there, and I’m racing in my head, going round the same track, but that needs to wait. The bright light fades and Sam’s there, totally.
‘I went for a walk. Thought I’d take a short cut.’
She laughs. The head massage worked.
‘You’re traipsing mud everywhere! Go and get changed.’
‘Yes, Sir, Boss,’ I say. Smile. I do.
*
38.
The weekend comes and goes. We go to Frank’s for a cup of tea Saturday morning. He makes up a bacon and egg sandwich.
Sunday we do our own thing. Helen doesn’t want to cook, and I can’t, so we phone around and find a carvery. It’s not as good as Helen’s roast, but a hell of a lot better than mine.
On Monday, we go to the library. Helen picks out ten books, no problem. I take longer. Helen uses one of the two computers in the library to order a book.
She could have ordered the book, a collection of short stories by Elizabeth Hand, with the assistant, but she does it on the computer to give me more time.
I’m a slow picker, because I’m a slow reader. I read a bit of the books I pick up, see if it’s easy enough to get into, and if the font size suits my difficult eyes. I like short stories. They don’t have a section for short stories. It’s just pot luck if I find one.
We get home, spend the rest of the day reading, go to bed, get up.
It goes like that.
Three days, and I haven’t been back.
I feel a little guilty, because all I’m thinking about for those three days is the estate, the black cat, the lost girl. I feel guilty because I only half listen when Helen speaks. I don’t really take anything in that Frank said. Mostly, I feel guilty because there’s something I’ve got to do, and I haven’t been doing it.
RAIN/Damned to Cold Fire (Two Supernatural Horror Novels): A RED LINE Horror Double: Supernatural Page 34
