Alex Barclay - The Caller

‘No. Save it for Christmas.’

Her face fell. David rolled his eyes. ‘Of course you can open it.’

‘Yay!’ She ran to the sofa and opened the bag.

He closed the door behind them and waited for a reaction.

‘Ohmygod! This is so cool,’ said Mary. ‘So cool.’

‘Do you like it?’

‘No.’

‘Very funny.’

Mary was holding a huge grey scrapbook with ‘There’s Something About Mary’ written across the top. On the first page was a photo of her – age two – almost in silhouette with a random streak of light covering her head. The caption read: Why Mom Should Never Have Taken Photos. Mary laughed out loud. The next photo was of Mary holding up the winning end of a giant Christmas cracker with David beside her, his face frozen in the shock of defeat. The caption read: Traumas of David’s Young Life: Part I.

‘Is there a Part II?’ said Mary.

‘See page twenty-five,’ he said.

‘Oh God,’ said Mary when she found it. Sellotaped to the page was a Motley Crue/Whitesnake ticket stub from Madison Square Garden 1987. And beside it, a photo of a tanned and sweaty David in tight jeans and vest top with long shaggy hair and bandana, giving the peace sign.

‘It needs no caption,’ said David, shaking his head.

Mary laughed until she cried. ‘Oh my God! Do you remember meeting that girl afterwards and she said, “What’s your name?” and you said, “David” and she said, “David who?” and you said, “David. Lee. Roth, baby.”’

‘I did not!’

‘You did, you loser.’

‘Hmm. Yeah, I may have filed that memory under “Destroy. Destroy.”’

‘What is it about teenage years that no matter who you are, you look back and are like, “What the hell was I thinking?”’

‘It’s so that no matter who we end up being, we can never take ourselves too seriously. Because at one point, we were all proud to wear snow-wash.’

Mary glanced down at her jeans.

David laughed. ‘Like, I’d ever let you do that again. Anyway, look, I’d love to stay and talk, but I’ve got to get back to the office. I just wanted to drop that in.’

‘It’s the best present ever. Thank you.’

‘Wait ‘til you see the secret compartment at the back.’

He hugged her and left before she had a chance to open it. He jogged down the hallway, nodding at Stan Frayte as he passed.

Mary turned to the back of the album and to a flap in the cover with a loop of red ribbon. She pulled it and it opened a little door. Inside was a disk: Rebecca on DVD with a note saying, ‘Can’t believe you’ve never seen this. Awesome! XX’.

Magda Oleszak rode the elevator to the second floor. She stepped out and was hit with the grinding stop/start sound of drilling from down the corridor. She took a right then a left, away from the noise and towards Mary’s apartment at the end. As she got closer, she sensed something wasn’t quite right. She walked a little faster, holding tight to the shoulder bag that banged off her hip. When she reached the door, it was open. Stan turned to her, his face stricken. Mary was lying on the floor at his feet.

Magda rushed to Mary’s side. ‘What the-’

‘I don’t know! I have no idea.’ Stan’s voice was pitched high. He wiped the sweat from his face with a stained yellow cloth from his belt, his eyes moving everywhere around the room.

‘Did you hurt her?’ said Magda.

‘What? No!’

Magda shook Mary’s shoulders gently, looking up at Stan. ‘What were you doing in Mary’s apartment?’

‘Coming to show her paint samples. That’s all.’

‘Did you call the doctor?’

‘I just got here! Right before you walked in.’

‘What’s all this?’ she said, looking at the floor around the body. ‘Did she do this while you were here?’

Stanley shook his head. ‘I don’t know anything about this.’

‘Call the doctor,’ she snapped. ‘And get security up here.’

Mary’s eyes flickered open.

Anna sat at the kitchen table in a long black silk robe. Her eyes sparkled, she was smiling, she was eating pancakes. It reminded Joe about how everything used to be.

‘This is great,’ he said. ‘Seeing you sitting there, eating pancakes.’ He walked over to her, took her two small hands in his and pulled her towards him. He hugged her tight.

‘You’re a midget,’ he said, stroking her hair, kissing the top of her head. They stayed there for minutes, quietly, holding on.

‘How does he kill them?’ said Anna.

Joe pulled away slowly. ‘What?’

She stayed with her head against his chest. ‘The Caller guy,’ she said. ‘I saw the news.’

Joe tilted her chin up, but still couldn’t get eye contact. ‘Are you for real?’

She nodded.

‘I’m not going to go there with you,’ he said.

Anna finally looked up. ‘Please.’

Joe put a hand on her chest and felt her heart beat rocketing underneath it.

‘This is not good, you thinking this way.’

‘What way?’

Joe’s expression was patient. ‘Come on,’ he said.

‘But what if it’s…’

‘Sweetheart, I’ve been to the crime scenes. This is not Rawlins. This is no-one that has anything to do with Rawlins. This is a different guy. Trust me enough that you don’t need to know the details.’

‘But if I knew the-’

Joe shook his head. ‘You’re so beautiful. I look at you and it breaks my heart that inside that head… there is so much pain and fear.’

Tears welled in her eyes.

‘I know what that feels like,’ said Joe. ‘But I’m used to it. So you’re going to have to trust me. I’m not about to come home with all the details and add more to what you’ve already got going on.’

‘Is it worse than what the papers-’

He smiled with sad eyes. ‘You know the answer to that.’

‘You can’t filter the world for me forever, you know.’

‘Yeah?’ said Joe. ‘Well, I’ll die trying.’

Anna went to the worktop and took a tissue to wipe her eyes.

‘Do you want to go on a date tonight?’ she said.

‘What?’ said Joe. ‘Are you serious?’

She laughed. ‘That’s so depressing.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ he said. ‘I’m just-’

‘Yes or no: do you want to go out?’

‘Yes,’ said Joe. ‘I’d love to.’

‘Then we will.’

‘Where would you like to go?’

‘Cardino’s.’

He smiled. ‘Cardino’s? I don’t know. I think I got some lightweight French girl drunk there once and she ended up having to marry me. “ I am a French woman! We do not drink beer like this! ”’

‘That is the worst accent.’ She smiled, about to walk away, but her robe slid wide open and off her shoulders. She slowly shook her head. Joe dangled the black silk belt high in his hand.

‘You gotta be quick,’ he said.

Artie Blackwell was the shortest journalist in the five boroughs. He had short, spiky grey hair and a perfect, tight grey beard, yet always managed to look unwashed. When he walked, he leaned left, weighed down by one of a number of free, branded shoulder bags. He was hovering outside the Manhattan North building, sweating in the early morning sun.

‘Woo, Case Detective Lucchesi. Someone’s being good to you.’

‘Artie,’ said Joe, glancing down. ‘Pleasure.’

Artie snorted. ‘You got to admit – it’s an odd choice, all things considered, what with the shooting and the whole Rawlins fiasco.’

‘You know the deal,’ said Joe, smiling and calm. ‘I caught the Lowry case. My partner caught the Aneto case. Oh, and I was cleared of any wrongdoing in the Riggs shooting, so here I am. And here we are, Artie.’

‘Good to see you again,’ said Artie, tipping his dark blue fisherman’s hat.