‘I’m not with you.’
‘Today? Yesterday?’
‘I called you two days ago. We were talking about work and—’
‘But I haven’t called you? We haven’t spoken since then?’
‘What’s this about, Chris?’
‘I need to know.’
‘Are you pissed?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Listen, is everything all right?’
‘My career’s crumbling around my ears, my life’s being destroyed. Why shouldn’t everything be all right?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘No, Martin. I’m not sure I know anything any more.’
‘Listen, come down to London, we’ll have lunch. I’ll pay. I can’t say fairer than that, can I?’
‘Thanks for calling back,’ said Ward.
A STRANGE CALL
Ward sat in his large kitchen and ate the sandwich he’d made from three-day-old bread and ham that was perilously close to its sell-by date.
Music drifted from the compact sound system that stood on one worktop. Ward hardly heard it. He finished his sandwich and put the plate in the sink.
The phone rang. As he crossed the room to it he looked at his watch. 6.15 p.m.
Who the hell would be calling him at this time?
He picked up the receiver. ‘Hello,’ he said wearily.
‘Hi, Chris, it’s Jenny,’ said the voice at the other end of the line.
‘Jenny?’
For a moment he could not recall.
‘What time do you want me to come round tonight?’ she asked him.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You phoned and asked me to come to your house.’
‘What the fuck are you going on about?’
‘You rang …’
‘When?’
‘Earlier today.’
‘What time?’
‘I can’t remember exactly. Does it matter? You just didn’t say what time you wanted me—’
‘What time did I ring?’ he demanded.
‘I said, I don’t know.’
‘Morning, afternoon? When?’
‘It was this afternoon. Look, everything’s all right. I spoke to one ot the other girls and she said she’d come along. It’s going to cost you though. A hundred for me and the same for her. Her name’s Claire. She’s gorgeous. Long, dark hair, slim. She’s done this kind of thing before so—’
Again he cut her short. ‘What the fuck are you talking about? I didn’t ring you.’
He heard a deep sigh from Jenny.
‘All right, just tell me what time, will you?’ she said.
‘I don’t want you here tonight,’ he said.
‘But I’ve arranged it with Claire. I told her—’
He slammed the phone down. As he backed away, his heart was thudding hard against his ribs.
Ward turned and headed for the sitting room. He needed a drink.
NOWHERE TO RUN
Ward sat looking at the phone for what seemed an eternity.
Had he really called Jenny? Asked her to come to the house. And with another girl?
Making phone calls without being able to remember them. Writing lucidly and productively, then failing to recall doing so. What was this? Drunkenness?
Had he begun suffering from some kind of blackouts? But what manner of breakdown caused memory loss yet inspired creativity?
Ward shook his head as if to answer his own unspoken question. It was
impossible.
And yet it was happening.
He drained what was left in his glass and decided to go to bed. No matter how long he sat up pondering on his current dilemma, it wasn’t going to help.
He trudged through to the kitchen and took a couple of paracetamol. For fleeting seconds, he wondered about taking the whole bottle.
He drew the kitchen blinds slowly, peering out into the blackness of the garden. He looked towards the office. No silvery-grey light shining inside.
Nothing.
He pulled down the blind and turned to leave the room. As he did, he heard the scratching. Loud at first but then dying away rapidly.
It was coming from the back door.
Ward stood where he was as the sound came again. Then silence.
He took a step closer to the door. The handle moved slowly. Ward swallowed hard.
Someone was trying to break in.
He crossed to the kitchen drawer and slid out a large kitchen knife. It was serrated with a wickedly sharp point and fully twelve inches long.
The door handle moved slowly up and down as whoever was outside stealthily attempted to gain access. Ward wondered how long it would be before they tried a more forceful method. He crept closer to the door, his eyes riveted on the handle. It had stopped moving.
The scratching sound, however, had begun again. More insistent this time. It continued for a full five minutes.
In the silence that followed he stood motionless. Waiting. Wondering what he was going to do if someone did get inside.
Ten minutes later he was still standing there.
The scratching had not recommenced and the door handle had remained still.
He shook his head. Another hallucination?
Ward clutched the knife as he made his way out into the hall. He set the alarm and climbed the stairs, hurrying to his bedroom, anxious to see if he could detect any signs of movement from a higher vantage point.
The garden was deserted. He looked in the direction of the office and saw nothing.
For a full fifteen minutes, Ward stood at the window, the kitchen knife gripped in his fist.
Finally he laid the weapon on the other side of the bed, undressed and slipped between the sheets. He fell asleep with his fingers still touching the handle of the knife.
SWEET DREAMS
3.11 a.m. Ward woke with a start. He reached for the knife, his breath coming in gasps, the last vestiges of the nightmare fading. The images were gone as soon as he opened his eyes. He tried to remember the dream but couldn’t.
He put down the knife and tried to swallow but his throat was dry. He swung himself out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom where he spun the tap and scooped several gulps of water into his mouth.
Ward ran both hands through his hair and made his way back into the bedroom.
He stood beside the window for a moment, gazing out into the night. The silence was overwhelming. He leant forward, pressing his forehead against the cold glass.
Something smacked into the window with such force he thought it was going to shatter.
