Allan Guthrie - Call Me, I'm Dying

“He said my name.” He looks at me. Looks away.

“And?” I make a circular motion with my fingers to try to speed him up.

“He told me I had thirty minutes to live.”

* * * *

7:32 p.m.

That’s weird, I have to admit.

“Why would anyone say that to you?” I ask him.

He doesn’t answer, just sits at the table staring into his plate. He picks up his fork, holds it for a second, drops it. It clatters against the plate.

“Maybe it was a wrong number,” I say.

He says, “He said my name.”

“Maybe it was another James Twist,” I say.

He doesn’t bother to answer. We both know that’s unlikely.

“It’s a joke, then,” I say.

That piques his interest. “You think?”

“Sure,” I say. “A friend, a colleague.”

“I don’t think so,” he says.

I spread my fingers, palms up. Why?

“I don’t have any friends,” he says. “And I haven’t worked in ten years.”

* * * *

7:33 p.m.

Well, well.

“You’re not an architect?” I ask him.

He shakes his head.

“Were you ever an architect?”

He shakes his head again.

“What did you do? What was your last job?”

“Postman,” he says.

I can’t believe I’m angry at him, but I am.

“You’ve been lying to me for years,” I say.

“Sorry,” he tells me.

“How can you afford to buy a new boat?”

He doesn’t answer.

“That was a lie too?”

“Yes,” he says.

“What about this place?”

“My mum pays for it.”

“Oh,” I say. “She didn’t die when you were four?”

* * * *

7:34 p.m.

It can’t be helped, I suppose. The guy I didn’t like wasn’t the guy I thought he was.

Interesting.

“If it’s not a friend or colleague,” I say, “then maybe it’s a member of your family.”

“Just me and Mum,” he says.

“And it wasn’t her?”

“It was a man,” he says.

“What happened to your dad?”

He pulls a face.

For a second, I don’t know what he’s doing, or why. Then I realize it’s involuntary. A spasm. I’ve never seen him do that before.

He does it again, his eyes screwing up tight, lips curling.

Like he just sucked a grapefruit.

And then it’s gone.

“Your dad?” I remind him.

“He’s dead,” he says. Looks at me. “Honest.”

“I’m sorry.” I reach over and place my hand on his.

* * * *

7:35 p.m.

He moves his hand so it’s on top of mine. He squeezes.

We stare at our hands, don’t look at each other.

Time drags past.

He strokes my hand. Over and over and over again.

I’m intrigued by the phone call. And by what I’m finding out about James.

“Your mum have a boyfriend, maybe?” I say, at last.

He tears his hand away from mine, swipes his plate onto the floor.

Don’t fucking hit me. Don’t you fucking dare.

He doesn’t, although he looks at me like he wants to.

* * * *

7:38 p.m.

He picks up shards of broken plate, lays the pieces on the table.

“I don’t know why—” he says.

“I should leave.”

“Please don’t,” he says. He sits, wipes his fingers on his napkin. “That call, it’s thrown me.”

I shrug. “Not surprising,” I say.

“I’d like you to stay,” he says. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“All right,” I tell him. “But don’t get violent.”

“I won’t.”

“If you do,” I say, “I’ll kick the shit out of you.”

He grins. Doesn’t believe me.

He’s never been aggressive before. I try to avoid men who are. But I’ve learned to deal with them just in case.

I can look after myself.

I teach self-defense classes when I’m not working.

I’m not scared of James.

* * * *

7:39 p.m.

“We should clear up that mess,” I say. “The carpet’s a state.”

“Just leave it,” he says.

“It’ll stink.”

“That’s okay.”

“It’ll stain.”

He’s quiet.

“You don’t care if it stains?”

He shakes his head.

“Your Mum’s carpet anyway,” I say. “Her problem. That what you’re thinking?”

“No,” he says. “I have other things to think about.”

“Then let me do it,” I say.

“It’s our anniversary, Tina,” he says. “You can’t clean the floor tonight.”

I sigh. If I can’t clean the carpet, I might as well eat. “What’s for pudding?” I ask.

* * * *

7:40 p.m.

He thinks I’m joking.

I don’t push.

He already looks like he might cry and I don’t want to send him over the edge.

“Why did you stop working?” I ask him.

He looks at me, eyes dark and uncomprehending.

“You said you used to be a postman.”

He nods. That’s it, though,

I have to help him.

“Were you a postman for long?”

He plays with his fork again.

I anticipate another clatter.

“Five years,” he says.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Yeah.”

“So what happened?”

“They let me go.”

Another topic I shouldn’t have introduced. I’m on a roll.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say.

“Me too,” he says.

And as I’m watching, he slams the fork into his hand.

Screams.

I scream too.

He wrenches the fork back out.

Blood’s leaking out of the four holes he’s made, running together, tracking down the back of his wrist.

“What the fuck?” I say. “What the fuck are you doing?”

His mouth’s open and he’s panting.

“He’s after me,” he says. “Don’t look at me like that. He is.”

“That’s maybe so, James,” I say. “But put the fork down and let’s see what you’ve done to your hand.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “I feel better.”

“It doesn’t hurt?”

“It does,” he says. “But it takes a little pain to let the evil out.”

* * * *

7:42 p.m.

Holy shit.

I’m torn between legging it out of here and making sure James is okay. He needs to go to the hospital. Leave him here on his own and God knows what he’ll do to himself.

Between last year and now, he’s turned into a headcase.

Presumably there was nobody on the phone. He made all that up about somebody telling him he only had thirty minutes to live.

This guy who was after him was a figment of James’s fucked-up brain.

But the phone had rung. Someone had called.

I get to my feet.

* * * *

7:43 p.m.

“Where are you going?” he says. “Don’t leave me.”

He’s cradling his hand now.

“I’m going to check something out,” I tell him. “I’ll be right back.”

I walk over to the phone. Punch in the code to find out who just called.

And hear: You were called today at 7:30 p.m. The caller withheld their number.

So much for that theory.

* * * *

7:44 p.m.

“Let me take you to get your hand fixed,” I say.

“No.” He shakes his head hard.

“Then let me look at it.”

He thinks about it. Then relaxes. Holds his hand out to me.

It’s a bloody mess. The puncture wounds have coagulated, though. The blood’s stopped flowing.

Not that deep.

Good.

He’ll be okay.

“You got a first-aid kit?” I ask him.

“No,” he says.

“Antiseptic wipes? Plasters?”

He looks vague.

“A clean cloth? Water?”

He grins. “Of course.”

* * * *

7:46 p.m.

So I’ve got the stuff and I’m cleaning his hand.

He winces like I’m scraping my nails on his heart.

“How come you had to do that?” I ask him.

For a moment he forgets to act pained. “Huh?” he says.