Alex Barclay - The Caller

‘Look, Bobby,’ said Joe. ‘How far into your investigation were you? Come on. What you were doing with the papers was after – what? – nine, ten attacks? You knew a lot about the perp. What are we? At the start of a homicide investigation, no witnesses, no nice descriptions, no suspect, nothing predictab-’

‘I still think he could-’

‘No,’ said Joe, too loud. ‘I’m not doing it.’

Cardino’s on Broome Street was small, loud and pumping out angry music. Anna was sitting in the corner in jeans, a black off-the-shoulder top and scuffed black ankle boots. Her hair was in a ponytail and she had dangly silver earrings on.

Joe was laughing as he walked over to her. She laughed too and kissed him on the lips. He guessed by her eyes she was about two glasses of wine down.

‘Is that what you were actually wearing?’ he said.

‘Nearly. The jeans and boots are. But I don’t think I can do these for much longer.’ She let the ponytail down and pulled off the clip-on earrings.

Joe looked around the bar. ‘All the girls here are going for the same look.’

‘Yeah – they’re about twenty years old. You get to do every look once,’ said Anna. ‘That’s the rule. Second time round, you’re always going to be too old.’

‘I never knew that,’ said Joe.

She nodded. ‘It’s true.’

‘Does that mean I never get to wear skinny jeans ever again?’ said Joe.

‘Who said you could the first time?’

‘My physique.’

‘Oh my God. Are we back in time? Can I change my mind?’

They laughed. But Joe got a flash of something that made him wonder how Anna’s life would have turned out if she had walked away from their first date.

‘Let me go to the bar,’ he said. ‘You want some Coors for old times’ sake?’

‘You know what happened that night-’

‘Exactly.’

‘Sauvignon Blanc, please.’

She watched him walk away. The man beside her got up and left his newspaper behind. Anna waited a few minutes for Joe, then dragged the paper across the seat towards her and started reading. She jumped as Joe put the drinks down on the table.

‘Am I boring you?’

‘Never,’ she said, folding the newspaper and pushing it back where she got it. ‘Thanks.’

‘Cheers, sweetheart. Thank you for going on a date with me.’

‘My pleasure,’ she said.

‘And thanks for putting out on the first night.’

Shaun Lucchesi sat at his desk, scrolling through his cell phone. His myspace profile was open on the laptop in front of him. Behind the Explorer window was iTunes, behind that was Skype and hidden at the very back was a blank Word doc he had opened an hour earlier to write an English paper. His phone rang and Tara’s face filled the screen. He turned the sound off on the computer.

‘Hey, Tara.’

He clicked onto iTunes as he listened to her. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Just English. And I have not written one word. I can’t even remember the title.’

As she kept talking, he lost interest in the screens in front of him. ‘Hmm. I’d like that a lot,’ he said, spinning around in the chair and standing up.

‘Wow,’ he said. ‘I… don’t know what to say back to that.’ He paced the room, listening to every word she breathed down the phone.

He sat on the bed, then lay back. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘I’m not good at this. I’m too sober to have this conversation.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Why don’t you come over?’

Joe and Anna arrived back from the bar hungry. Joe went to the fridge and pulled out a dish of leftover meatballs. He slammed the door and slammed the dish onto the counter.

‘Shhh,’ said Anna, pointing upstairs.

Joe ignored her and put the meatballs into the microwave.

‘What is wrong with you?’ said Anna.

‘Nothing.’

‘There is something wrong. Just tell me.’

‘I didn’t want to stay that late, that’s all. I’ve a lot on.’

‘It was fun.’

‘After lots of drinks, maybe.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing,’ said Joe. ‘Do we have bread?’

‘Yes,’ she said, pointing to a baguette right in front of him.

‘Oh.’ He grabbed a knife and started cutting it.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘You enjoyed yourself.’

He was somewhere else, staring ahead, his face set.

‘Do you know who I liked?’ said Anna. ‘I liked Ireland Joe. I mean, before everything… the guy whose face was relaxed, who didn’t have a frown all the time, who made jokes, actually laughed.’

‘I still know how to laugh.’ He glared at her.

‘Maybe you just don’t put it into practice, then.’

‘Come on, Anna, there’s always something.’

‘No there isn’t.’

‘We were having a nice night,’ said Joe.

‘And then we weren’t. Because you had to-’

‘No, no, because you had to,’ said Joe. ‘You can’t face what’s inside you, so you look outwards, you’ve got your little roaming red crosshairs. Who can they land on? Who can they land on? Oh yeah, nearest person: me.’

‘It’s not that at all. You can’t bear anyone criticising you.’

‘Ditto.’

She shook her head. ‘You can’t. You come home from work complaining every time your judgment is called into question. Maybe it’s you who can’t face who you are or what you’ve done.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘I think you feel guilty.’

‘About what?’

She stared at him. ‘I think that’s obvious.’

‘If you’re talking about you, damn right I feel guilty. What guy – not to mention detective – is not going to feel guilty that he nearly got his wife killed?’

‘I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with you feeling guilty-’

‘Since when did I need your blessing on what I can or cannot feel?’

‘Joe, stop.’

He took a breath. Anna reached out and held his hand.

‘I’m just saying, I think you feel guilty, but you’re not dealing with your guilt and… you’re like a time bomb.’

He tilted his head. ‘OK. Well, I think you feel scared, but you’re not dealing with your fear and you’re like a time bomb.’

‘You are impossible to talk to.’

‘So are you.’

She dropped his hand. ‘How old are you? Grow up.’

‘Oh,’ said Joe, ‘just to let you know, I knocked over one of your boxes last night. I think something broke.’

Anna turned to him. ‘Which box?’

‘I don’t know. A navy blue one?’

‘No,’ said Anna, raising her hand to her mouth, running down the hallway into the front room. She grabbed a pair of scissors from the floor and cut through the tape on the box. She pulled it open.

‘Oh, no, no,’ she said, gently lifting out one half of a broken glass lampshade. Joe stood behind her.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Was it expensive?’

‘You don’t want to know… because you’ll have to replace it.’

‘What?’

‘It’s only on loan for a shoot. I’m responsible for it. You broke it.’

‘Well, how much is it?’

‘Eight hundred dollars.’

‘Eight hundred dollars. You are shitting me. For a lamp?’

‘Oh, come on,’ she said. ‘I’m not working for the Bay Ridge Gazette.’

‘I don’t really have to replace it, right?’

‘You do,’ she said. ‘It’s in my care.’

‘Tell them it broke in transit.’

‘They know it arrived here OK.’

‘I don’t have that kind of money to hand over to some fucking… and who the hell spends eight hundred dollars on a lamp?’

‘You’d be surprised.’

‘I am surprised. I’m also surprised that more things don’t get broken in this house. It’s out of control, Anna. It’s crazy. It’s like a bomb site in here. I can’t live this way. Meanwhile, you’re happy as can be, getting a ton of new stuff in every day. Every day’s your birthday. Every time, you open the door to the mailman, UPS guy, whoever, sign, take the package, walk five steps into the front room, throw it in there, maybe open it, see what’s inside or hey, just leave it lying there-’