Cry for Help

by Steve Mosby

  I watched her fan them out towards her. Her hands were very delicate and precise.

  ‘That’s good. Now you might think I know where in the pack your card is, so I want you to shuffle them as much as you like.’

  She did, her actions methodical and unhurried.

  Then I went through a few more things she should do. By the time we were finished, the cards were shuffled, cut, back inside the packet again, and she’d chosen a bemused man standing nearby to hold the resealed deck for us.

  I looked into her eyes.

  ‘Okay. I can’t see him. He’s not making any sounds or giving me any clues. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  We’d both leaned forwards a little now, and she was looking back at me, amused and unintimidated. I realised that although her face was pretty, her eyes - big and brown - were fully beautiful. For a moment, the trick almost got away from me.

  ‘Okay.’ I breathed deeply, apparently making a real effort, then said to one side: ‘Sir? Can you tell me - do you smoke?’

  ‘Er, yeah.’

  I nodded once, as though it mattered. ‘I thought so. Tori, would you do me a favour and look under the ashtray, please?’

  She lifted it up to reveal a single card lying face down.

  ‘Is that the card you cut to?’

  It bowed in the middle as she fumbled slightly, and then a smile broke across her face when she turned it.

  ‘Yeah.’ She looked across at the guy holding the deck, then back at me, and it felt like my heart beat a little harder. Just once. ‘Well, that’s impressive.’

  I smiled and stood up. ‘Thank you.’

  I’d noticed three couples in the group around the table, discounting Choc and Cardo, and then her. It was why I’d gone for that particular card: a small flourish that Rob swore - and occasionally boasted - by. I wasn’t so good with the cheesy come-ons, but something about her had made me think: why not?

  ‘Two of hearts. You know what that means? Maybe the man of your dreams is here tonight.’ Whatever effect Rob managed with this, it sounded a lot less suave coming from me. ‘But anyway - thanks for having me, and enjoy the rest of your evening.’ I nodded around the table. ‘All of you.’

  I got a small round of applause, Choc clapping like he was smacking something hard, over and over, one step from fucking wolf-whistling, and I acknowledged it all gratefully before moving on to the next table. And later on, when I was done for the night and a few drinks down, I tentatively went back.

  It’s at this point that I’d like to be able to tell you it was perfect. But it wasn’t. It turned out that Tori and I had very little in common. She didn’t drink, for example; I did. Her CD collection consisted mostly of women playing acoustic guitars or pianos very quietly. I liked heavier stuff, but never dared put any on in case it bruised her. I watched crap, whereas she knew a lot about obscure foreign arthouse films, and for some reason wanted to see more of them. And she was ludicrously well read: an English graduate with shelves full of poetry and proper literature, which she was actually capable of discussing. When we were together, I found I was always editing myself in a bid to keep us together, and a relationship like that is never going to last.

  Ours lasted for two and a half months. I spent most of it feeling very confused with myself, and I could tell that she did too. We both liked each other a lot, but for some reason it wasn’t enough. There was destined to be no happy ending. But at least there was an ending. The night it finished, we were lying in bed together in her house: on our backs, arms touching. We both knew it was over.

  ‘This is probably where it should stop, isn’t it?’ Tori said.

  I forced myself not to disagree. Something told me not to ruin this the way I might have ruined other things in the past.

  ‘I think so,’ I said. ‘It’s not what I wanted to happen.’

  ‘Me neither. I’m sorry it’s not worked out. I really am.’

  ‘Can we be friends?’

  ‘Of course.’ She turned on her side to face me, and I did the same. Huddled up together, she smiled and touched my face. ‘Always.’

  I looked at her and, even though I knew it was right, I felt about as sad as I could remember. I’d never been in a relationship that had ended up this way. There’d always been cheating, or screaming, or just growing indifference; whereas with Tori, I felt none of those things. Whatever would or wouldn’t work between us, something about her mattered to me more than I could explain, and I wanted her to be part of my life.

  ‘If you ever need me,’ I said, ‘I’ll be there for you. No matter what.’

  She smiled at me again. ‘The same.’

  And then, perhaps stupidly, we made love for the last time. It felt different from all the times before. There was an emotional connection that had always been missing in the past, perhaps because we’d admitted now that we were nothing more than friends, and that, at least, was something we didn’t have to pretend.

  Over time, Tori moved slowly but surely into the periphery of my existence, but she was never far from my thoughts, and I never stopped caring about her. Because what else is there? If someone’s important to you then you make an effort to keep them.

  So I never forgot what I said to her that night: if she ever needed me, I’d be there. No matter what.

  And, two years later, I found out exactly what that meant.

  It’s a rare thing to know you’ve just had the worst day of your life, but this was mine. At the time it was true, but I didn’t know how bad things would get afterwards. Later on, it would just be the day when everything began to fall apart.

  I woke up at eight o’clock, and was up by five past. It’s usually the way for me - ever since I was little, my body has felt programmed to burn the candle at one end as a default setting, whatever happens at the other.

  As it happened, the other end had been burning too, but not by choice. My mind had kept me awake last night. It had been exploring, and whenever I started to drift off, it picked that moment to nudge me awake again and show me whatever it had just found. Stuff about Emma, mostly. None of it was helpful, but it kept dredging all this shit up anyway: turning good and bad memories round and blowing the dust off them, maybe hoping that one piece or another might turn out to be gold.

  Emma had been my girlfriend for the last year. I hadn’t met her by magic - I’d met her on the internet - and things had been good to begin with, to the point that she’d actually moved into my small, rented flat only two and a half months after we met. We liked the same music, films, books. Things had been great for a while. What my subconscious had been busy searching for was the single moment when great turned into okay, or when okay had turned into indifferent. Maybe it would have settled for the shift from indifferent to suddenly miserable, but that had probably been last Monday, when Emma had told me it was over between us and moved out. Later on today, she would be calling round to collect the last boxes of her things from the lounge. The jury was still out on how that was going to feel.

  Regardless, I had work to do.

  I drank some coffee, ate some toast, and then took another coffee through to the study. It was really just the spare room: barely large enough to fit a couple of bookcases along one wall, a desk in the corner, and a ‘second bedroom’ into the estate agent’s lies. As with the rest of the flat, nothing in here matched. I’d been renting the place for nearly three years, but generally bought furniture on a whim rather than as part of any overall plan. When I ran out of shelf space, for example, I bought a new bookcase, then searched for a wall where it would fit.

  I sat down in a leather executive chair that still had the price tag on the lever, booted up the computer and thought about the day in front of me.

  Work-wise, I had an article to write for Anonymous Skeptic. That was the monthly magazine Rob and I produced. We ran some magic reviews in there, but mostly we were dedicated to debunking a wide variety of New Age claims. Ghosts, psychics, UFOs, alternative therapies, crystals, anyone who
uses the word ‘energy’ without knowing what it means - we’re onto them. The piece I had to do that day was about astrology, and it was paint by numbers stuff - just a couple of pages I would have been able to write in my sleep, if I’d managed to get any.

  Twenty minutes later, I was about halfway through the article when my mobile phone rang, jittering on its back on the desk. I paused, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.

  [Withheld number]

  I picked it up.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Dave!’ I recognised Tori’s voice, but already something about it sounded wrong. ‘It’s so good to hear you.’

  ‘You too. Sorry - it’s been ages, hasn’t it?’

  I realised I hadn’t spoken to her properly for at least four or five months; I’d barely even emailed or texted. It was mostly because of how things had been deteriorating with Emma, who’d never been pleased I was still friends with an ex at the best of times. So I hadn’t wanted to exacerbate any problems. But now, the way things had turned out, that didn’t seem like much of an excuse, and I felt a twinge of guilt over the lack of contact.

  ‘How are you doing?’ I said.

  ‘Not great. Although I’ve been sitting out in the sun this morning, and that’s been nice. There are leaves everywhere.’

  The warning bells sounded louder now.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m in Staunton. I’ve been here a couple of days. They sectioned me.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It was Eddie.’

  Without thinking, I picked a coin off the computer table and began palming it. It was a repetitive motion to keep myself on a level: I used my middle finger to slide it down my thumb and into position, held it for a second, then dropped it into my curled fingers and started again. Coin work has always been something to occupy my hands. To help me keep calm.

  ‘Tell me.’

  She did. Tori’s latest boyfriend, Eddie Berries, was a skinny little guy with long brown hair. He played music, but seemed to think that getting a job while waiting to be discovered was beneath him. He did drugs, acted flaky and for some unknown reason thought he was very important - the sort of vaguely artistic type that feels the world owes them a living and then laughs at it behind its back. But Tori had always loved ‘creative’ guys. They were a weak spot for her.

  If it was just that, I might have put my dislike down to jealousy, but something about Eddie had bothered me from the beginning. I’d only met him a couple of times and couldn’t put my finger on what it was, but it started when I saw him drape his arm proprietorially around Tori - as though she was a possession that was his by rights. Right then, I’d figured he wasn’t good for her. She looked too desperate to please him, and he seemed as though he liked that.

  But he appeared to make her happy. Of course, I didn’t know what she was telling me now - that Eddie had been losing it for quite some time. His drug use had escalated, and he’d unravelled and become increasingly unstable, exerting more and more control over her life. Tori took medication daily, but - in his wisdom - Eddie had decided that was bad. It was a weakness, he said, to rely on pills, and he’d eventually persuaded her to abandon lithium and battle through her illness ‘naturally’. Since then, there’d also been arguments and intimidation. Eddie kept putting her down: letting her know all the things that were wrong with her, all the ways she didn’t measure up to being with him. How lucky she was to have him. As a result of all this, having her self-image knocked from side to side like a mouse between a cat’s paws, Tori had descended into mania.

  Their life together had come to a head last Wednesday, when Eddie had lost it completely and beaten her up. Tori had been taken to hospital for an overnight stay. The next day, she was sectioned for her own safety and taken to Staunton.

  Despite occasional detours and distractions, the story came out simply and quickly. By the time she finished, I was still palming the coin and my face felt like it was made of iron.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I said. ‘Physically, I mean.’

  ‘My face is purple.’ She laughed. I didn’t.

  ‘What about the police?’

  ‘They’re looking for him. He’s disappeared off somewhere.’

  I put the coin down. ‘How long do you think you’ll be in hospital?’

  ‘I don’t know. Until they decide I can go. At least a week.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I can have visitors, though. If you fancied coming to see me? It’s so boring here.’

  The computer screen had gone to screen-saver. The half-finished article was only a key-press away, but it wouldn’t take long. Aside from that, there was Emma to think about. But she still had a key, and maybe it would be easier for both of us if I wasn’t here when she picked up her stuff. I’d probably only make some misguided attempt to cling on to her - the relationship equivalent of throwing yourself onto a coffin.

  ‘What time?’ I said.

  ‘Between two and five. You don’t have to stay all that time. It would just be … nice to see someone.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll be there.’

  ‘That’s so brilliant! Thank you.’

  I tried to smile. ‘No problem.’

  ‘You’re such a good friend, Dave. Honestly.’

  I wished that was true. I didn’t feel like a good friend.

  ‘I’ve got to finish something off,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

  Chapter Two

  Sunday 7th August

  It was his son’s birthday and Sam Currie was on his way across town to see him. Which meant that when his mobile rang, there was no way he was going to answer it.

  No work. Not today.

  Even so, he kept one eye on the road and picked up the mobile, just to check who was calling. When he saw it was James Swann, he immediately wished he’d left the damn thing on the seat. Swann wouldn’t be phoning unless something had come up at the office, and Currie knew he should take the call. Whatever it was, it would be important.

  His mind threw up unwanted snapshots of his son’s childhood birthday parties. Neil, in a conical hat with a string round his chin, blowing out candles. Dressed as a cowboy, playing on the lawn - or with that tooth missing, posed on his red bicycle.

  In the earlier photographs his son was always smiling, but as he hit his teenage years, he began to glower more. The only real constant over the years of photos was Sam Currie’s absence from them. Work had always come first, and that had been a mistake - but you couldn’t change the past, no matter how much you might want to. There was only this. Neil was twenty-one years old today, and Currie had booked the day off, and he was going to share a drink with his boy. It was what his father had done with him at that age, and it was one thing he could say with absolute certainty he’d been looking forward to since Linda had fallen pregnant, accidentally, all those years before.

  He cancelled the call, then replaced the phone on the passenger seat, next to the bottle of Scotch.

  Work was work. But a promise was a promise.

  And yet … as he turned the steering wheel gently and eased the car up Bellerby Grove, Currie found he was already beginning to make the familiar compromises. Deep down, he knew he had to return the call, but if he could delay it a while, at least he’d have time to say ‘happy birthday’ and have a quick drink with Neil. His son was old enough to understand that now. In fact, he’d probably expect it.

  Why didn’t I switch the thing off?

  The weather had turned out nice, anyway, even if everything else now felt a little darker. Currie squinted overhead through the windscreen. It had been grey and overcast earlier on, but now, coming up on midday, the clouds were gone and the sky was bright and clear. A good, clean day. The sun was beating down; skewed yellow squares rolled along his brawny forearms as he drove. The houses here had long front gardens, and he could hear the swish-swishing of lawn sprinklers and the buzz of strimmers as he passed, breathing in the aroma of cut grass that wafted in through the open window.
It was tranquil, and he was glad. Over the years, Neil had made his home in far worse neighbourhoods than this.

  Currie parked up just inside the gate. When he killed the engine, the world outside was quiet, broken only by birds and the peaceful rush of distant traffic, like water in the pipes.

  The car beeped twice as he locked it. Then, bottle in hand, he began the long walk up the drive. The breeze rolled warm air against his face. It hit the trees to one side a second later, and they rustled quietly together, then became silent again. When he reached the top of the steep hill, he was out of breath. Nearly forty-five now, he reminded himself ruefully. Time got away from you. He’d put some gym work in store in his teens and twenties, but that had all gone out of date by now. The promises to get back to it … well, he never seemed to find the time. And anyway, at this point it was all catch-up, wasn’t it? He’d broken the back of life, and it was all downhill from here.

  This week, he thought. Some time.

  A few paces away from the path, he found his son.

  Currie stepped carefully around.

  The stone was arched and plain. The inscription, simple: Neil S. Donald - his wife’s maiden name - and two dates that book-ended a shade over nineteen years of life. There was a spread of fresh flowers on the grave, no doubt left by his wife and her brother earlier in the day. It was what they’d agreed, but it still bit him slightly that Linda had got here first.

  A few brief words were carved into the stone.

  Beloved son.

  At last you are at peace.

  Stay safe.

  Other snapshots occurred to Currie as he read that, but he put them out of his mind. None of that mattered now, because the only truth that mattered was in those words. At last, you are at peace.

  His phone went again. This time he answered it, watching the grass waver slightly in the breeze.

  ‘Currie,’ he said.

  ‘Sam? It’s James. I’m sorry to phone, but we’ve got a major incident here and I thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘Who?’