The Call

THE CALL

Inspired by real events

MARC

Thursday August 15th 2013 5.30pm

The strange thing was, when the call came after all those months, it still took him by surprise. That morning, he’d woken up and found he was unusually happy. The sun shone. He thought he might dare go out for a short while and indeed had taken a turn around the block at lunchtime, watching the kids in the street playing tag. Feeling a sense of odd familiarity at being outdoors again. But still wary. Jumping at the sudden roar of a motorbike starting up. Still edgy. He’d smiled wryly at his nerves.

The call came while the kids were having their tea, and Amira took it. She handed him the cordless with an odd expression Marc couldn’t read and said it was someone from Viceroy Human Resources.

He went quickly into their living room, apologising for the delay, and he heard a woman’s voice which surprised him, though he couldn’t have explained why. She called herself Rochelle Fields, and Marc immediately wondered if it was her real name and job at all.

He stood in the middle of the room, curtains drawn as he’d had them for four months, though it worried Amira. Spots of sunlight cheated their way through holes in the material, burning his skin, telling him to leave. Of course, he knew he should have left months ago. He’d thought he’d done enough to keep them away.

The HR woman asked him to confirm his full name and address, and to his dismay she had them correct, but he said nothing. She asked again.

Apologising again. Marc lied that his address had changed like he’d always planned to say, and gave one he’d found online miles away, but with his nerves, he muddled it, and she said the postcode didn’t match.

‘Sorry,’ he said, annoyed with himself for apologising too much. ‘We haven’t been here long.’

She’d called his landline, which they never used and which he’d meant to cut off but hadn’t got round to it. So, he told her to hang on and googled the other address on his mobile to find the correct postcode for it.

As the woman spoke again, he could hear Maya and Ras having their tea in the narrow kitchenette, now giggling, then squabbling while he ached to be with them, giggling with them, pretending to eat their fish fingers like he used to.

‘You see, Mr Holgate,’ she said, ‘you’ve been a difficult person to track down. Somehow you got deleted from the employee database. It was only by chance I came across your insurance records. We must owe you a ton of sick pay. If you can give us your bank details…’

She spoke briskly. Almost cheerfully. But in his mind, the clock was ticking. He said as little as he could. He needed to get off the phone as soon as possible, but not so fast as to alert her.

‘I’ve been ill.’ Word for word, as he’d rehearsed it. ‘First, it was flu, then my GP diagnosed clinical depression. I sent the sick notes.’ He said he’d email his bank details later.

‘I’m sorry to hear this,’ the woman said. ‘How are you now? We could talk about a phased return if that works for you.’

He calculated the distance to the living room door. From the living room to the bedroom. From the bedroom to the front door.

He tried to sound calm, but the lies were acid on his tongue…

Amira came in and insisted on taking over the call. Marc thrust the phone into her hand and ran into their bedroom. He’d kept the curtains closed here too and it smelled flowery from Amira’s perfume. He could hear his wife through the door, telling the HR woman how worried she was for him, sleeping late, refusing to go out except when she forced him to. No matter. He focused on the sounds on the walkway outside and in the street below, listening for cars arriving fast.

Nothing yet. Just one neighbour grouching to another about bin collections as they passed. What was the real reason for that phone call? Could he trust ‘Rochelle Fields’ was who she said she was? Could he even trust his own instincts?

Marc had been deliberating for weeks, going over and over the possibilities in his head—flying abroad, not flying abroad?

He’d managed to buy a French passport on the dark web. He’d hesitated for a month before paying for it, then hadn’t slept for a week, convinced he’d been conned by Albanian gangsters. But eight days later, a FedEx envelope had arrived.

He tore it open and took out a maroon passport in the name of Jerome Lepaix, born Marseilles, August 1984, but with Marc’s face, serious, nervous, his blond hair scraped across his forehead. He’d heard such passports often used the names of dead babies and the thought sickened him. Still, he decided he’d been able to give poor Jerome a fresh life. And soon the new J Lepaix owned his first Visa card too. He’d hidden them carefully along with a burner phone.

Now, he pulled open a drawer and felt under his shirts, but the passport, card and phone weren’t there.

In a panic, he searched drawer after drawer—under jumpers, socks, and pants—searched inside cupboards, under and on top of cupboards, in boxes, under coding books, under the bed. Sweating.

Now, no passport. Every delay frightening, like trying to escape from a burning building.

Why hadn’t he ended the call sooner? Why had he let Amira go on talking to the HR woman?

In the end, he found phone, card and passport where he must have moved it: in his gym bag, hidden under his running gear. He told himself to be more careful. He couldn’t afford mistakes like that again.

Remember Daniel…

#

When Marc finally came out of the bedroom, Amira had finished with Rochelle Fields and was standing in the hall, still holding the cordless phone, frowning, doing the thing she always did when she was anxious, wiping her fringe from over her forehead.

‘You’re going somewhere?’ she said.

‘For a walk, bae.’ He tried his best to appear normal, but he couldn’t stop his voice shaking. Until four months before, he’d never lied to her. They’d shared everything.

‘Get some fresh air?’ She touched him on the cheek. ‘That’s wonderful.’ She’d been going on at him for months to get out more, and now she smiled. ‘Bae.’ She added ironically.

Bae? What had he said “bae” for? He never called her “bae,” it was what kids used on the internet.

She was staring at the rucksack, so he tossed it beside the lined-up boots, large and small under the coat-hooks by the front door as if it meant nothing to him. As if the little boots meant nothing to him too.

‘Going out?’ she said. ‘I’m so pleased.’

‘Yes, fresh air,’ he said lightly. ‘And I could do with the exercise.’

‘We could come with. Give me time to get the kids ready.’

‘No, that’s OK. Really. No need. I’ll only be a few minutes…’ He touched his wife on the cheek in return. ‘I love you.’

Was he making a stupid mistake? Once he was away, he’d be able to think properly. Drive to the airport and dump the car to make them think he’d already left the country. Wait a few weeks in a B&B that takes cash, then get a flight somewhere safe and find a way to send her a message. Marc wanted to say goodbye properly, but he didn’t dare and it would only make things worse.

‘I love you all,’ he repeated.

‘Now you’re frightening me, really.’ Amira put her arms round him, but he pushed her gently aside and hated himself for it.

‘I’m just going out for a walk.’

Her face froze. For a moment he thought she’d guessed—he wouldn’t have been at all surprised, he almost hoped she had—but she turned away.

The HR woman’s voice stayed with Marc—soft yet firm—as he shut his front door quietly behind him. He’d already lost an hour. Too late, too late. He’d gone into the kitchen with Amira, ruffled Maya’s thick hair that smelled so sweet and promised Ras he’d read to him at bedtime, the words wrenched from him. Then he’d left them, silently taken the rucksack from where he’d thrown it and slipped out.

He hurried along the third-floor walkway and down the stone steps away from his family. The sun was dropping, but the sky glowed molten steel and the open walkways to the flats radiated heat like the Sahara. He found it beautiful and strangely awe-inspiring.

He’d always loved the geometric rigour of the low, rectangular ex-council flats. But this afternoon he felt very visible. Pale from spending months indoors. Thin from picking at his food. Wearing the torn hoodie, T-shirt and jeans he’d thrown on that morning. Hood up for security, despite the heat. No time to do more.

Marc felt an unexpected mix of scared and relieved to be on the move. He’d delayed too long. He’d told himself Daniel was an accident. Lizzie was overreacting as she so often did. Was he overreacting himself now? Ruining his family’s life for what?

He reached ground level and peered through the steel mesh security gate. The street beyond was deserted. Only lines of parked cars. It had been so long since he’d been out in the late afternoon. Was this usual? Or were they already here…?

He needed to go left, but he turned right down the street to fool anyone who was watching and jogged a hundred metres then stopped. Behind him was a man with a shopping bag. Walking slowly. Marc waited and watched him pass, disappearing round the corner.

He stayed another three minutes to check the man wasn’t coming back, feeling foolish going through all these rituals he’d seen in movies.

When the three minutes were up, Marc doubled back and took a hard left alongside their block of flats into an alleyway of lock-up garages.

His lockup was half-way down, the metal door dented where someone had tried to break in a month ago. That had scared him, but neighbours said it was teenagers playing around.

He checked up and down the alley. No-one. Unlocking the garage door, he levered it up. The mechanism creaked and didn’t go the whole way, but he could stoop underneath. Being short had its advantages sometimes. The only noise came from the low growl of far-off traffic on the Euston Road. The lockup was dingy and smelled damp, but he’d kept the Honda in good condition, ready for use, though he’d not driven anywhere since April.

He unlocked the car with the fob and threw the rucksack into the boot.

Went to the driver’s door.

As he did, behind him the garage door slammed shut.

Marc swore in the darkness—he should have had it repaired—and tried to turn, but something blocked his way. It felt like a thick fabric. It stretched across his arms and chest and started to wrap round him. This confused him. He struggled, unable to see, but it held him tight.

‘What the fuck?’ he said.

An invisible hand grasped his wrist and wrenched away his car keys.

‘Let me go,’ he shouted. He tried to grab them back, but his arms could hardly move.

He heard the driver’s door open behind him, and the attacker jerked him backwards. Marc tried to resist, pushing against the fabric wrapped around him, but hands forced him off balance and down into the driver’s seat.

He yelled for help. He could hear breathing close to his face, metallic, as if through a mask. He could smell sweat and aftershave and rubber, and it reminded him of being put to sleep once as a child in a dentist’s chair.

‘My wife’s coming down right behind me,’ he shouted. ‘She’ll call the police.’

Nothing but the metallic robotic breathing. The blackness was thick like oil. Like he’d been plunged into a deep cave.

He tried to kick out, but more fabric wrapped over his legs and held him to the seat.

He tried to negotiate. ‘I won’t say anything. I don’t know anything. I deleted everything.’

He felt the other man reach across him.

Marc called again for help. Surely someone could hear.

Then the car engine started, unusually loud, drowning out his voice. And the garage filled with fumes.

Friday August 16th 2.30am

She saw the flickering lights as she drove into the Gordon House Estate. She was back in Camden and she wished she wasn’t.

Rochelle pulled over fifty metres from a police car that had stopped by a low-rise, blues flashing off the walls. A police cordon cut across an alleyway. The blocks of flats rose either side, dark and sullen. Switching off her engine, she went to open the car door when an ambulance swept past, almost hitting her. A moment later, two more cop cars arrived.

What was she even doing here in Camden again? She got out and dialled Amira. It went straight to voicemail, so Rochelle left a snappish message to call her. She didn’t need this. Amira had phoned her sounding desperate. Rochelle was angry with herself for even taking the call. Angry for agreeing to come.

She opened her car door again. The drive back would take her another half hour. The cops, the ambulance, they probably had nothing to do with Marc and Amira, she told herself irritably, but in her guts, she knew better.

The police arrivals were pulling on white forensic coveralls while a PC came out of the alley to meet the paramedics and forensics team and take them back in. All so familiar. Rochelle slammed shut her car door and started to walk over.

An audience of teenagers had gathered in the warmth of the night, shouting across the do-not-cross tape.

‘Doing over some innocent dude, yeah?’

‘What gear you planting? Plant some on me!’ Laughter. A man shouted out of a window for fucking quiet.

Rochelle knew the Estates, a confused mix of council housing and right-to-buy flats, north of Euston Station. Half had been right-to-bought by residents and then rapidly right-to-sold—snapped up by young families with an income, workers in dot-com companies, up-and-coming corporate lawyers. She remembered the little cobbled alley lined with lockups, where kids kicked footballs against the garage doors and dealt drugs.

She dialled again. Again, the voicemail. Why the hell wasn’t Amira picking up?

Rochelle turned to the flats. Each grey stairway protected by high steel fences and an electronic gate. She went to the nearest and punched Amira’s flat number into the entryphone. No answer.

She swore, turned away ready to drive home, had a sudden thought, went back and tapped a different number. Silence, but then a thick Greek voice came. ‘No pizzas, no complaints about the heating, no plumbing problems ’less you are swimming round your flat already. Come back in the day.’

‘Tomaz, I always said, you’re such a caring caretaker.’

‘Rochelle? Is you? I don’t hear you for years.’

‘A year and a half. And I missed you too.’ Tomaz was a prickly character, but it was worth the try. ‘I need to see someone, and they’re not answering.’

‘You have warrant?’

‘I’m not on the force any more. I need a favour.’

‘Say the magic word.’

‘Please?’

‘I’m thinking “have a cigarette,” but “please” will do.’

‘Ah, cigarettes! I gave them up too.’

The gate unlocked with a buzz and Rochelle pushed it open. She called thank you, though she wasn’t sure he heard. Beyond was a small concrete space with a lift and on the lift was a sign saying it was out of order. A third time she tried phoning Amira; a third time she got only voicemail. She was getting angrier, but also more fearful. She walked up the stone stairs to the third floor, the blues still flickering self-important zigzags from the road below.

Along the outside walkway, only one flat had its lights on at this time of night, though the curtains were almost fully closed. Through a gap she glimpsed a slight young woman, hunched over on a settee. Was that Amira? There seemed to be someone with her, no more than a shape, dark and stooped, but whoever it was moved rapidly out of sight. Rochelle held back a moment, then forced herself to go to the front door. She couldn’t see a bell, but before she could knock it opened and a man came out.

She knew him immediately. And wished she didn’t.