Page 35 of The Perfect Son
I turn my head to the side each time and listen to the silent message, trying to hear any kind of background noise, but there’s nothing.And yet, it’s something, isn’t it? Why is someone calling and hanging up? I shiver again and swallow hard.
I’ll call the phone company tomorrow and see if they can do something. It’s probably a malfunction on one of those stupid electronic messages telling me we’re eligible for free loft insulation.
I skip them forward until the message from Shelley on Saturday morning. “Hi, Tess, it’s Shelley. I thought I’d check in after our chat on Monday and see how you’re getting on after yesterday. I’m free all day so give me a call when you get this, or I’ll try again later. Bye.”
Shelley’s message is bursting with energy, and when it clicks off, the room and the house feel too quiet.
Then the phone rings again. It’s siren-loud this time and I reel away from it, hitting my back on the wall.
Who is calling? This late at night, while I’m sitting right here next to the phone? Who would call me?
My hand hovers midair, my heart thuds in my chest, dragging back the fear, the panic of the nightmare. I close my eyes and see the gray tarmac and hear the screams in my ears.
I’m about to pick up when the answerphone beats me to it.
“Hey, you’ve reached Tess, Mark, and Jamie. We’re not here right now, so leave a message after the beep.” My tone is game-show-host peppy and sounds like a stranger’s voice.
I hold my breath and wait for the silence, the hang-up just like the others, but this time there’s a noise—a rush of wind in the microphone. This isn’t a machine. Someone is there. Someone is calling our house in the dead of night.
“Mark, where the hell are you? We were supposed to meet an hour ago,” a man’s voice barks out with such force that I cry out before throwing my hands to my mouth as if he might hear me.
“It’s been three months,” he says, his words gravelly and lacedwith anger and intent. “You were supposed to have delivered by now. I told you at the start of all this that I’m not a patient man. Don’t test me. We need to talk. Call me.”
There’s another rustle on the line, and from inside your study, half a meter away from where I’m sitting with my back against the wall, the window panes rattle inside their crisscross lead.
My body freezes. Is it the same gust? Is he outside wandering around our driveway? Was it his footsteps I heard when you told me it was a deer?
I hug my knees to my body and bite down on my bottom lip. I’m scared, Mark.
The answerphone beeps. He’s gone. All I can hear is my own breath gasping in and out. My mind is racing as fast as my heart. Who was that man, Mark? What is he losing patience with?
I sift through my memories of your work parties, the colleagues I’ve met over the years, but none of their voices fit, and besides, why would anyone from your office call you? They were all at the funeral. They all know you died in the plane crash.
With a shaking hand I reach out and press play, jumping all over again when the man’s voice growls in the silence.
I hug my knees tighter and close my eyes as I listen. The fog is creeping over me and my thoughts begin to muddle. I think of Denise, but I don’t know why.
Who is that man, Mark? What does he want from you, from us?
CHAPTER 20
Ishould’ve dialed that call-back thingy that tells you the last number that’s called when I had the chance. I should’ve let you buy the caller ID phones you wanted to get last year that I said were pointless.“Why do we need caller ID on the landline? The only person who calls our home phone is my mum. We always use our mobiles.”
Of course, that was before we moved a million miles away from a cell tower and four bars of signal. Now we use the landline all of the time.
I’m not even sure why I want to know the number of the man who is losing patience, only that it’s what you’d have told me to do if you were here. But I didn’t think about it until this morning and by then Ian had called and left another message. He didn’t mention the money or the form he wants me to sign; he didn’t even sound impatient this time.
“Hi, Tess, Ian here. Er... your friend Shelley said you weren’t feeling too good. I hope you’re feeling better. I’m just on my way to work right now but I was thinking of popping by at some point. Let me know if there’s a good time and if you need anything. OK, well give me a call if you feel up to it. Hope the chili wasn’t too spicy. Bye.”
I told you, Tessie. He’s my brother. He means well.
And now the last number that called is Ian’s, so the call-back service won’t work. I’m trying the phone company instead. I can ask them the number when I tell them about the hang-up calls. If I ever speak to someone, that is. I’ve been on hold for ages, listening to the same Take That song over and over, and before that I was transferred twice, my call pinging from India to Newcastle.
“Mrs. Clarke?” someone says when the music stops. The voice is young and I imagine a spotty teenage boy working shifts in a stuffy call center on his days off from college.
“Yes.”
“Good afternoon, my name is Paul. How can I help you?”
