’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.
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.
Like when you’ve got a shit job to do, and don’t do it. Maybe it’s painting the fence, or calling for a doctor’s appointment when there’s a spot of blood in the toilet bowl.
You don’t want to do it, but you’ve got to. So it plays on your mind, you put it off. You think of ways to avoid that shit little job, but it’s there, niggling. Blood in the water, tainting it, so it’s neither one thing nor the other.
I know it’s not over.
I want it to be. In my head, the estate is separate from our lives. She a mistress I’ve finished with. She’s coming between me and my wife. It’s a choice people make, one or the other. You can’t have both.
But I can’t walk away because the girl is there, somewhere.
I can’t leave her there. She’s my responsibility. I saw her. I’m not crazy, not even a little bit. She was there. She was in my dream. She’s mine, and I’ve got to save her.
Sure, she’s dead, but that doesn’t mean it’s too late. I know that know.
I just wish I’d thought a little more about why Helen saw her. I didn’t. Not then. Not until later, when it was too late.
*
39.
I go at midday. It’s one of those spring days that could just as easily be summer. Maybe it is. Time slips by, and you don’t even notice.
Bob’s there.
I’m in no mood for my surly neighbour but he’s standing by his front wall and I’ve got to go past him to get to the alley.
I think about ignoring him, but he catches me.
‘Sam.’
A simple greeting.
He’s looking at me.
‘Afternoon,’ I say. I want to leave it at that. I don’t want to talk to him. I’m firmly in the Bob’s-a-dick camp.
‘Going over the estate?’
None of your fucking business, I think.
‘Just out for a stroll.’
He nods.
‘It’s not for you.’
I stop. I’d been walking while I was talking, making steady progress toward the alley.
‘What?’
He nods, again. He’s not going to say anything.
‘You take care.’
I feel like he’s threatening me. He doesn’t look threatening. In fact, I don’t think anyone could look like they cared less one way or the other about me.
I’m confused as hell and he’s pissing me off. The anger’s there, flooding back. I can well imagine just walking up to him and slamming my cane into his smug fucking face.
I take a deep breath.
‘Goodbye, Bob,’ I say through gritted teeth. I don’t know why he makes me so angry. I’ve met plenty of wind up merchants in my time. At work, in pubs, round people’s houses for boring dinners. Bob rubs me up the wrong way so hard I could catch fire.
But he’s not smart enough to see the anger in my face, in the set of my body, in the way I’m gripping my cane like it’s his neck I’m squeezing. I can feel the blood pounding in my head. But I don’t give in to it. Anger’s not the way.
It’s doesn’t matter, Sam, I tell myself. Let it go or have a heart attack. You pick.
I pick and turn away but Bob’s not done.
‘You know, people come and go here. Nobody stays for long.’
I’ve had enough but I bite it back. Swallow it down like malted cod liver oil.
‘Do you have some problem with me, Bob? Because if you do, Bob, I’d appreciate it if you’d come right out and say it, Bob. I’ve just about…’
He shaking his head, with this sad smile on his face.
‘It don’t matter what I
want. Don’t matter a damn.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Don’t matter a damn,’ he says. He turns to go. ‘Nobody stays for long.’
I’m about five seconds shy of hopping right over his stupid fucking wavy wall and caning him to death.
He turns and goes into his house. I think it’s the set of his shoulders that stops me. Slumped, like whatever fight he had went out of him a long, long time ago.
The fight goes out of me, too. The blood cools in my head. My body and my blood both feel dirty, though. Like when I was down, the day after a coke bender. Filthy on the inside.
I hate him for making me feel that way. I do that for a while. Staring at his front door.
What the hell am I so angry about? Some Norfolk yokel type being an arse to an outsider? He’s probably been here all his life, a Norfolk boy, born and bred. A sad old man, full of bile. Probably got no family. And what had he said, really?
Nothing in particular that should make any difference to me.
I’m suddenly tired and want to go home. I want to abort, but what am I? Some teenager being bullied, wants to go home to his mummy, cry off school?
Suck it up, Sam.
I resolve to have nothing to do with Bob ever again. For the good of both of us.
It plays on my mind, though. Then I dismiss it as best I can. Cryptic old bastard.
Fuck him.
I square my shoulders and shrug it off. Turn down the alley and off on my jaunt.
*
40.
I walk easier, now. My bum leg and my hand are stronger as the days go by. My cane’s more of a stabiliser. The strange encounter with Bob’s already fading. I can’t remember why I was so angry. It’s a beautiful day. Too sweet to spoil.
Until the estate. It’s beautiful on Cedars, on De Champs. Then the estate.
I don’t get it. The sun’s still there. The sun’s bright in both my eyes. Through my dead eye there are still shades of grey, but it’s not black anymore, and there are shadow things in it, shadow cars and lampposts and houses. I could pretty much walk with just my dead eye looking out for me now and not have to worry too much about breaking my nose.
Cold Fire Page 14
