Ben Elton - Blast From The Past

Perhaps he would not telephone Polly tonight after all. His hand stung and his head hurt and he felt in no shape to begin the delicate task of restarting their relationship. What is more, he had promised his mother faithfully that he had no current plans to call her. She had made him promise again only that night. He had been trying to sneak out of the house quietly, but she had heard him and had come running from her room in her nightie. Peter hated seeing his mother in her nightie; she seemed so much older and more shapeless.

“It’s gone midnight, Peter. Where are you going? You’re not going to phone that bitch, are you?”

“I’m going for a walk, and don’t call her a bitch. She’s all right.”

“I’ll call her what I like, lad, and as long as you live in my house you’ll leave her alone.”

Peter had shrugged and headed for the door but she’d grabbed him by the ear.

One day she would do that one too many times.

“Do you promise?”

“Yes, Mum, I promise.”

In fact, Peter’s promises to his mother were pretty worthless. He had also promised that he would not obtain Polly’s new ex-directory telephone number. Computer hacking was something that the law took more seriously than swearing at people over their intercoms. Peter’s mother was worried that if Peter did it again he would be put away. He had done it again, though, and Polly’s number had been burning holes in his thoughts for weeks now.

But he would not phone her tonight. The tough American in his phonebox had spoilt it. He would just walk up the street, round the corner and past the building in which Polly lived. Peter liked to stand there in the emptiness of the night and stare up at her window. Imagining her alone in her bed. Imagining himself beside her.

Polly was not in bed. She was standing, phone in hand, shaking with shock.

“It can’t be you, Jack. That’s insane,” said Polly. “What, now? You want to visit now?”

“Yeah, I’m in town.”

“In town!”

He had said it like it explained everything.

“This is insane.”

“Don’t keep saying it’s insane, Polly. Why is it insane?”

There were so many reasons why it was insane that Polly couldn’t begin to answer that question adequately. It would have taken her all night, all week, the rest of her life.

“I’m coming round,” said Jack.

“No! Where are you? How long will you be? How long is not long? Jack! Jack!”

But the line had gone dead.

Polly put down the receiver and slumped into her office chair, which was actually one of her kitchen chairs. Polly only had four upright chairs, one of which was kept permanently by her desk, except on the rare occasions when it was required for a dinner party. If Polly ever entertained more than three people at the same time someone had to bring their own chair.

Polly’s insides were doing somersaults. What could be going on? Why had Jack come back? Where had he come from? What could he possibly want with her now?

Such were the larger questions that tormented Polly as she sat there, shaking, in the shadowy half-light of her room, but they would have to wait. There were practical considerations to be dealt with and she must pull herself together. First and foremost she was in her night attire, if night attire was not too grand a term to describe the slightly ratty, threadbare old man’s shirt she was wearing. She must get dressed and quickly. No matter how weird the situation, Polly had standards. She did not receive visitors dressed only in a shirt.

Rushing to her knickers drawer she grabbed a vaguely current-looking pair and put them on. The jeans she had worn on the previous day were still con-certinaed on the floor where she had stepped out of them a few hours earlier. She stepped back into them and began hurriedly to pull them up. Then she had second thoughts. With her jeans already lodged halfway up her legs, she waddled across her flat and, flinging open a cupboard, began pulling out dresses. She held one up to herself in the mirror and, finding it unsatisfactory, tried another. Then a third and a fourth. Finally she chose the shortest and most flattering of the selection. She told herself that it was simply the smartest and most practical choice, but actually it was the sexiest.

Polly was about to remove her nightshirt and put on the dress when the front door buzzer buzzed.

“Christ’s buggery bollocks!”

Polly stepped back out of the jeans and rushed over to the front door of her little flat. She lived on the top floor of a large house, one of the thousands of houses that once were home to prosperous Mary Poppins families. Places built to house twelve people and which ended up providing for twelve households. “There’s room in this conversion for four decent-sized flats or six small ones,” the property developers of the early eighties would say. “So what do you reckon? Fourteen? Or is that pushing it?”

That particular speculative bubble had, of course, long since burst, and there were now a mere six buttons on the front of Polly’s building. One of which led right up to the attic of the house, which was Polly’s home.

Polly gingerly took up the receiver of the entryphone intercom that hung on the wall beside her front door. Her hand was shaking. This was insane. Why had he come back? She was furious, of course, all the old emotions returning, the ancient wound exploding open, but she was thrilled as well. How could she not be? Never had she expected to hear his voice again, and yet here he was, only four floors below, standing at her own front door.

“Hello,” she said, attempting a noncommittal, matter-of-fact tone and failing entirely. “Is that you?”

Suddenly she was half her age. A young girl again, young and nervous and excited.

“Is that really you?”

“Your light was on. It’s never been on this late before.”

Polly stepped back as if she had received a blow. She nearly fell. The receiver dropped from her hand and bashed against the wall, swinging on its curly flex.

“Can’t you sleep?”

The hated voice, the hated and shocking voice drifted up from the dangling receiver.

“I thought you might want company. If you tell the police I came round my mum will say I was at home with her. Are you wearing any clothes, Polly? Have you got a bra on? What colour are your knickers? I bet you aren’t wearing any this late at night, are you?”

Polly’s eyes were full of tears now. Through the watery mist she focused on the red panic button that stood out upon the wall behind the door. It was so located that should an intruder ever push open the door, forcing Polly backwards into her flat, the button would then be in immediate reach. There was another one on the wall by her bed. Polly wanted to push those buttons, she wanted to alert the whole house to her persecution, to set alarm bells ringing there and in the local police station, but she knew that she must not do it. Her enemy was not at the gate, he was in the street and would no doubt soon scurry off as he always did. He was no physical threat. There was no justification in summoning a screaming squad car, and the police did not take kindly to having their services abused. One does not cry wolf with panic buttons. When you push them you need to be believed.

Blinking back her tears, Polly grabbed up the receiver.

“I’m calling the police. I am calling the fucking police right now! Fuck off! Please fuck off!”

“You use that word a lot, don’t you, Polly?” said Peter. “Is that because you like it, Polly? Fucking? Is that what you like?”

Downstairs the Bug turned and scurried away. He had taken a big risk ringing her doorbell like that. He’d certainly not intended to do it. He knew it would probably mean a police visit, more social workers, his mum in tears. But seeing her light shining so late, knowing that she, like him, was still awake in the small hours of the night, perhaps even thinking about him, that had been too much for him to resist. Now, however, he must retreat. If Polly did call the police and he were found in her street no denial from him or testimony from his mother would prevent his arrest.