The mobile shivered with its first tentative ring, then erupted into an unrelenting, insistent trill. Again?
The sound sliced the quiet of the bedroom like broken glass. Stephen shut his eyes. It was heragain. The one with a name straight out of a Victorian romanceImogen. Theyd met only twice, and in a moment of foolish, fleeting weakness they’d swapped numbers. Who else could be calling? Lately nobody had called him. It was as if the world had erased him from its address book, leaving him alone with that maddening ringtone and his own thoughts.
He pressed his forehead against the mattress, trying to drown out the clamor. He wanted nothing more than to hurl the phone out the window, smash it on the pavement until it was nothing but shards of glass and plastic. If he couldnt fix his life, he could at least smash the tether that bound it to the outside world.
But the phone would not be silenced.
Stephen swung out of bed and stalked toward the sound. The device seemed to sense his approach, ringing louder, almost daring himCome on, pick up!and he answered, obeying some ancient instinct.
Hello?
Its me! a bright young voice cut through, carefree as a spring breeze. Why did you take so long?
Im busy, Stephen growled.
Then why did you answer? Imogen asked, and Stephen imagined her smiling slyly.
Because my nerves arent steel! he snapped, his voice a low growl. Whats so hard to understand? Youve driven me mad with these calls!
I just feel youre home and I know youre not well.
And what else do you feel there? his tone turned venomous. You waited for my call.
Me? Waited? he snorted.
He wanted to slam the handset down, curse with every filthy word he could summon. Those three weeks of daily calls had arrived at the very bottom of his existence, when nothing seemed worth doing: no work, no laziness, no food, no drink. All he wanted was to vanish, to evaporate, to stop being a grain of sand in the massive, indifferent meat grinder of life.
Listen, his voice suddenly fell, flat and exhausted. What do you want from me? What?
A brief, heavy pause hung in the line.
Nothing. I think you need help.
Dont decide for me. I dont need your help. Not at all.
But I can feel it!
Then stop feeling! his patience snapped. Who are you to think you can feel for anyone? A saint? A saviour of lost souls? Go help old ladies cross the road, feed stray cats. Leave me alone. Got it?
Silence thickened the line, heavy as lead, before a short buzz. She hung up.
Great, Stephen thought, she just begged for trouble and got it.
That day brought no more calls. Not the next, nor the one after. Imogen didnt ring after a day, a weeknothing. The silence hed coveted pressed against his ears, ringing, absolute, unbearable. It offered no salvation, only loneliness. Stephen caught himself staring at the phone each evening, waiting. A ridiculous, humiliating hope grew inside him: maybe now maybe any moment
He stopped going out at night, terrified of missing a possible call. What if she calls and I dont hear? Shell think Im ignoring her, be hurt forever. The word forever scared him more than the stray dogs barking from the corner, as if they could sniff out his vulnerability.
Then a new torment arriveda need to speak, to pour out the black, sticky mass that had been building inside. But to whom? The neighbour? He lived in a simple world of wages, football and girlfriendsa happy bloke.
So Stephen began talking to himself, out loud, in his empty flat. His voice sounded hollow and unnatural against the bare walls.
Why isnt she calling? he asked his reflection in the dark window.
You drove her away. Roughly, without a second thought.
But she called every day! Persistently! That means she cared, doesnt it?
You told her she wasnt needed. You brushed away the hand that reached out in your darkest hour.
He argued, proved, cursed himself. In the end his inner dialoguehis own selfwon. It forced him to accept a simple, chilling truth: those calls were his lifeline, a gulp of air for a drowning man, proof that he still existed to someone else, that he wasnt a ghost.
Imogen didnt call.
Stephen spent evenings just watching the phone. Inside, everything contracted into a huge, mute scream. Please just ring he whispered.
The phone stayed silent.
He collapsed onto the bed well past midnight, never seeing a miracle. He slipped into a restless, jittery sleep, and it seemed as if he heard that call again.
He jolted awake. He hadnt been sleeping. The phone was ringing, real and insistent. He snatched it up.
Hello? his voice trembled.
Hi, the familiar, forgotten voice answered. Did you call me?
Stephen closed his eyes. A smile spread slowly across his facethe first in weeksbitter, weary, and oddly relieving.
Yes, he exhaled. I think I did.
A pause followed, not the heavy, accusatory one of before, but a living, taut silence, like a string ready to vibrate. He could hear her quiet, steady breathing and the uneven thump of his own heart.
I, he stammered, searching for words that werent excuses or fresh barbs, just plain truth. I sat and waited. Every night.
I knew, she said, soft yet firm, without a trace of triumph. I was hurting too. But I decided I couldnt be the one to call first any more. Thats your decision now.
He imagined her, probably also clutching her phone, battling the urge to dial his number. The picture struck him as oddly touching.
Sorry, he breathed, the hardest word hed ever managed, burning his throat like hot coal, but necessary. For acting like an arse.
Accepted, she replied, a light, forgiving smile in her tone. Though, yes, I was a right pain. I almost broke the kettle in my frustration.
He laughed involuntarily, a short, relieved chuckle. That domestic, absurd detail snapped him back to reality.
Is he okay? he asked, suddenly serious.
Fine. Ill keep him safe as a jewel.
They fell quiet again, but now the silence was shared. They listened together.
Stephen her voice turned serious again. Whats happening? Really.
He closed his eyes. Earlier this would have sparked rage; now it only brought a strange weakness and an urge to finally speak.
Everything, he said slowly, sliding down onto the floor, his back against the sofa. Work has turned into hell. Debts piling up like a snowball. I feel like Im teetering on the edge of a chasm, about to fall. And an emptiness inside, as if Ive burnt out. I want nothingno work, no food, no people.
He talked at length, disjointed, not crying, just stating facts as a doctor would give a diagnosis. For the first time in months, someone listened. No interruptions, no advice, no pull yourself together or itll get better. Just listening.
When he fell silent, only her breathing filled the line.
Thank you, Imogen finally said. For saying it.
Now you understand why I was a mess? he asked with a bitter grin.
I do. Its no excuse for the rudeness, she replied, firm again. But now I know what Im dealing with. Thats better than guessing.
What will you do with that? he asked, curiosity sparking.
For starters, she said decisively, go to the kitchen and put the kettle on. While it boils, open a window for at least five minutes. Fresh air does wonders for the brain, and youre clearly short of it.
Stephen rose obediently from the floor.
Im going, he said.
Good. While you do that, Ill stay on the other end. Then well sort out work, debts, this abyss youre in.
There was no pity in her voice, no coddlingonly confidence, solid as a rock. That confidence was the strength hed been lacking.
He shuffled to the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, and followed her instructions: the kettle sputtered, the jammed window gave way with a grunt, letting in cool, rainsoaked air that smelled of wet pavement. He took those first small steps forwardtoward life.
And he realised this was only the beginninga long, hard conversation, perhaps even a meeting. But for the first time in ages he didnt feel alone in his crumbling fortress. Someone was reaching a hand from the outside, and he was finally ready to take it.
