Phil Rickman - The Cold Calling

She was in tears. The column would have lasted about two weeks but for Lyndon. He’d pull off-the-wall snippets from the news mush, pass them on to Grayle who, in the early days, with only student and underground newspaper experience, was, frankly, floundering. Lyndon was a great newspaperman.

‘Of course, after more than a quarter of a century, the payoff, as you would guess, is considerable. We could retire to Florida, Norah and I. Play a little golf. Maybe edit the senior citizens’ community newsletter.’

‘Without you there … I wouldn’t want to stay anyway.’

‘You don’t need me any more. You’re established. Why, you’re almost … never figured I’d say this … almost a pro.’

‘That’s the kindest thing I ever heard you say to anybody. But even if I really was a pro, it would make no difference. It wouldn’t be the same paper.’

‘You know,’ Lyndon said, ‘I was just lying in the tub thinking, this is how a life goes. Leastways, the years between sunup and sundown. Just wish I’d realized twenty years ago that the higher you go the thinner the air gets. What I mean is, yesterday, I would have been trying to talk you out of this. Now … Well, nearly thirty … In the novelty-column department, you could be close to peaking, Grayle. Close to peaking. How important’s the money?’

‘The money never was important. Money just holds you down. I have enough to get by. I could always sublet the apartment.’

‘You plan to go find Ersula in her Neolithic sanctuary?’

‘I think we could talk now, for the first time, on something like level ground. I think we need to talk. Because, in some ways, she’s been the big sister. You know?’

‘You could take a vacation, do it that way.’

‘I may find Ersula in a couple weeks; finding myself could take a little longer. Holy Grayle carries a lot of excess baggage.’

‘You’ll go to England?’

‘Wherever.’

‘Beats Florida. Climate excepted.’

‘You won’t go to Florida, Lyndon. You will never go to Florida.’

‘That a firm psychic prediction, Grayle?’

The wine all gone. The decision made. A decision made, if truth be told, some while back.

She’d give in her notice tomorrow. Maybe she’d tell them it was a protest thing, about Lyndon McAffrey and the cult of youth. Holy Grayle was through with cults.

She’d have to tell the parents. Mom, who read the column avidly, would be sorry to see it go but she’d understand all the stuff about finding yourself, having found a whole new (and arguably monstrous) self at the age of fifty-eight. Dad, who hated the column and all it stood for but believed in the need for a firm career structure, would come on like she was one of his more valued students planning to drop out before next semester. If things became difficult she would have to show him Ersula’s letter, the whole bit.

He ought then to understand why she needed to be pulled out of this before she went as crazy as Grayle.

Grayle’s eyes began to prickle. It was as if Ersula was reaching out to her. As if, thousands of miles apart, they were seeking a common bond.

Automatically, she closed her eyes, pictured Ersula with her blond hair and her steady, watchful, almost cold blue eyes.

Slowing her breathing, reaching out for Ersula.

Nothing. It never did work, did it? Especially when your senses were swimming in stale wine.

‘OK. Mr Lazarus. Where is he?’

‘My flat.’ Good-looking girl with very dark hair, dressed for aerobics. She kept biting her thumb, looked scared half to death but doing her best not to show it.

She’d been waiting for Andy in the lobby, where there was a uniformed doorman, who must be the only one in Elham. A digital wall clock showed 20.30.

She ought to be miles from here by now. She ought to be there . So no time for formalities.

The doorman lifted Andy’s beaten-up holdall after them into the lift. Jesus God, but this place had changed. Not so long ago, the Edwardian building overlooking the park used to be full of old-established solicitors’ and insurance brokers’ offices and dentists’ surgeries. Brass plates and steps up. Then, some consortium headed by Tony Parker, the ‘leisure operator’, had somehow acquired the building, and now it was very expensive luxury apartments — not flats — and it was all cream walls and concealed lighting.

She didn’t recognize the woman. One of Elham’s fortunates, then: never crashed the car, attempted suicide, got mugged, burned, battered by the husband.

Half an hour ago, she’d phoned the hospital, sounding panicky, demanding to talk to Sister Anderson. The night sister, Sharon Fox, had refused — as was customary — to give out Andy’s home number, but the woman had left her own and her name — Suzanne — and a message: It’s about Mr Lazarus .

Andy had called her back in seconds.

It was one of those lifts you couldn’t even tell when it was moving. The girl leaned against the doors, breathed out. ‘Thank Christ. I owe you one, Mrs Anderson. I’m useless in these situations.’

‘You’re Suzanne?’

‘Emma. Em. Forget Suzanne. Bobby said you could be trusted. But not the hospital.’

‘Aye. Maybe so.’

The lift doors opened. Directly across was a fancy, dark-wood apartment door with a brass 7 on it. The girl banged the panels with her fists. ‘Me, Vic.’

No problem recognizing the grizzled guy who let them in. Not one of Elham’s fortunates, Andy having glued him together more than twice in the bloodied hour after closing time.

‘Could be a messy one, Sister,’ Vic Clutton said, and Andy’s heart sank, because if even he thought it was messy then it was very messy.

Big picture window in the bedroom. The lights of Elham, but it might have been Paris; distance, the night and the trees hiding all the scars and cavities and bruised, smashed people. The wee lights making it look pretty and contented.

‘Peas,’ Andy demanded.

Em said, ‘Sorry?’

‘Frozen peas. Soft packet. Beans. Sweetcorn. Anything like that.’

‘I’ll get it,’ Vic said. Aye, he’d been down this alleyway before. ‘I’ll check the freezer.’

They’d put Bobby Maiden on the bed. Blood was soaking into the cream duvet where it had poured down from the eye to join another river from a long cut under the jaw. As for the eye itself … Jesus God. How could this happen … again? Tonight, of all nights.

‘Put the big light on. OK, son, look up. And open it. I need it open.’

It would have to be the left eye again. He tried his best to open it, but she had to do it for him, which was like getting into a walnut. If this turned out the way she feared, it was going to be 999, no messing. And prayers.

Holding his head. It felt familiar, in an awfully disturbing way, but no time for that now. ‘Keep still. Good boy.’

The woman, Em, standing with her back to the picture window, biting her thumbnail.

Andy peered into Bobby Maiden’s left eye.

‘Jesus God.’

‘What?’ Em sprang up. ‘What?’

‘It moved. Shit.’ Andy sagged. ‘The damn pupil contracted in the light.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘Calm down, hen. It’s a good sign. If the pupil wouldnae move we’d have big trouble. This is the eye that took it last time. I was convinced the pupil wasnae gonny contract, but it did, so we breathe again. You got pain anywhere else, son? No , don’t shake your head, you daft sod! Jesus God.’

‘Can I get you some tea, Mrs Anderson?’

‘No time, hen … Aye, OK.’

Vic Clutton came back with the frozen peas, and she arranged the bag over the eye, instructing Bobby not to move. ‘Any numbness?’