Sophie Hannah - A Game for All the Family

“Hello,” I say again.

“It’s me.”

Not Alex. A woman whose voice I don’t recognize. Someone arrogant enough to think that she and I are on “It’s me” terms when we aren’t. It should be easy enough to work out who, once she’s said a few more words. I know lots of arrogant women, or at least I did in London. Arrogant men, too. I hoped never to hear from any of them again.

“Sorry, it’s a terrible line,” I lie. “I can hardly hear you.” How embarrassing. Come on, brain, tell me who this is before I’m forced to reveal how little this person matters to me. Alex’s mum? No. My stepmother? Definitely not.

“It’s me. I can hear you perfectly.”

A woman, for sure. With a voice as hard as granite and a slight . . . not quite lisp, but something similar. As if her tongue is impeded by her teeth, or she’s speaking while trying to stop a piece of chewing gum from falling out of her mouth. Is she disguising her voice? Why would she do that if she wants me to recognize her?

“I’m sorry, this line is appalling. I honestly have no idea who I’m speaking to,” I say.

Silence. Then a sigh, and a weary “I think we’re beyond lying by now, aren’t we? I know you came here to scare me, but it won’t work.”

I hold the phone away from my ear and stare at it. This is absurd. I’ve never heard this woman’s voice before. She is nobody I know.

“This is a misunderstanding. I don’t know who you think you’re speaking to—”

“Oh, I know exactly who I’m speaking to.”

“Well . . . lucky you. I wish I did. I don’t recognize your voice. If I know you, you’re going to have to remind me. And I’ve no idea what you mean, but I promise you, I didn’t come here to scare you or anyone else.”

“I’ve been frightened of you for too long. I’m not running away again.”

I lean my forehead against the kitchen wall. “Look, shall we sort this out? It shouldn’t take long. Who are you, and who do you think I am? Because whoever you think I am, I’m not. You’re going to have to give your speech again to someone else.” I should have hung up on her by now, but I’m holding out for a logical resolution. I want to hear her say, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I thought you were my abusive ex-boyfriend / delinquent child / tyrannical religious cult leader.”

“I know who you are,” says my anonymous caller. “And you know who I am.”

“No, you evidently don’t, and no I don’t. My name is Justine Merrison. You’re delivering your message to the wrong person.”

“I’m not going to be intimidated by you,” she says.

Should have hung up. Still should. “Good. Excellent,” I say briskly. “Any chance that I could not be intimidated by you either? Like, no more crank calls? Is your No Intimidation policy one-way, or could it be reciprocal?”

I’m making jokes. How bizarre. If someone had asked me before today how I’d feel if an unpleasant-sounding stranger called and threatened me, I would probably have said I’d be frightened, but I’m not. This is too stupid. I’m too preoccupied by other, more important things, and even some unbelievably trivial ones, like the list pinned to the cork board on the wall opposite: tasks Alex has assigned to me. Musts. Call a landscape gardener, find a window cleaner, get the car valeted. Alex is trying to insist I use a local firm he found called The Car Men, because of the Bizet connection. He’s written “CAR MEN!!” in capitals at the top of the list. The exclamation marks are intended to remind me that our Range Rover is a biohazard on wheels.

No, I’m sorry. Never make me look at a list again. Haven’t you heard? I do Nothing.

Apart from when I’m diverted from my chosen path by a phone call from a lunatic. Or, if not a lunatic . . .

My darling husband.

“Is this one of your hilarious stunts, Alex? It doesn’t sound like you, but—”

“I won’t let you hurt us,” the voice hisses.

“What?” All right, so it’s not Alex. Menacing isn’t his genre. Then who the hell is she and what’s she talking about?

“I don’t want to have to hurt you either,” she says. “So why don’t you pack up and go back to Muswell Hill? Then we can all stay safe.”

I stumble and nearly lose my balance. Which seems unlikely, given that I thought I was standing still. Many things seem unlikely, and yet here they are in my life and kitchen.

She knows where we lived before.

Now I’m concerned. Until she said “Muswell Hill,” I’d assumed her words were not meant for me.

“Please tell me your name and what you want from me,” I say. “I swear on my life and everything I hold dear: I haven’t a clue who you are. And I’m not prepared to have any kind of conversation with someone who won’t identify herself, so . . .” I stop. The line is dead.

I knock on Ellen’s door again. Walk straight in when she doesn’t answer. She hasn’t moved since I left her room. “Where is it?” she asks me.

“Where’s what?”

“My . . . thing. For school.”

“Thing? Oh.” The family tree and story beginning. I took them with me when I ran to answer the phone. “I must have left them in the kitchen. Sorry. I’ll bring them up in a minute.” I wait, hoping she’ll berate me for first reading and then removing them without permission. She says nothing.

“Shall I go and get them now?”

Er, yes? How would you like it if I took some important papers of yours and spread them all over the house in a really inconvenient way?

It’s like a haunting: the constant presence in my mind of the Ellen I’ve lost and wish I could find. A voice in my head supplies the missing dialogue: what she would say, should be saying.

Her real-world counterpart shrugs. She doesn’t ask me who was on the phone or what they wanted. I wouldn’t have told her. Still, my Ellen would ask.

Who would call me and say those things? Who would imagine I must recognize their voice when I don’t? I can’t think of a single person. Or a reason why someone might think I want to intimidate or hurt them.

“I can’t bear this, El.”

“Can’t bear what?”

“You, being so . . . uncommunicative. I know something’s wrong.”

“Oh, not this again.” She lies down on her bed and pulls the pillow over her face.

“Please trust me and tell me what’s the matter. You won’t be in trouble, whatever it is.”

“Mum, leave it. I’ll be fine.”

“Which means you’re not fine now.” I move the pillow so that I can see her.

She sits up, snatches it back.

“Are you missing London? Is that it?”

She gives me a look that tells me I’m way off the mark.

“Dad, then?”

“ Dad? Why would I be missing Dad? He’ll be back next week, won’t he?”

It’s as if I’m distracting her from something important by mentioning things she forgot about years ago.

She’s not interested in you, or Alex.

Then who? What?

“Can I ask you about your story?” I say.

“If you must.”

“Is it homework?”

“Yeah. But Mr. Goodrick couldn’t remember when it had to be in, he said.”

I sigh. The school here is better than the one in London in almost every way. The one exception is Ellen’s form tutor, Craig Goodrick, a failed rock musician who has never managed to get my name right, though he did once get it promisingly wrong: he called me Mrs. Morrison, which isn’t that far removed from Ms. Merrison. When I suggested he call me Justine, he winked and said, “Right you are, Justin,” and I couldn’t tell if he was deliberately winding me up or awkwardly flirting.