The phone jolts with its first tentative ring, then erupts into a relentless, endless trill. Again?
The sound slices the quiet of the room like glass. James Turner shuts his eyes. Its her again. The one with a name straight out of romance novelsPoppy. Hes only met her a couple of times, and in a moment of foolishness he swapped numbers. Who else could be calling? No one has phoned him lately; it feels as if the world has erased him from its contact list, leaving him alone with that insistent melody and his own thoughts.
He presses his forehead against the mattress, trying to drown out the grating tone. He wants to fling the phone out the window, smash it on the pavement so only shards of glass and plastic remain. If he cant mend his life, at least he can smash the thing that ties him to the outside world.
But the phone doesnt quiet.
James throws the bed, follows the sound. The handset seems to sense his approach, ringing even louder, as if daring him: Come on, pick up! He obeys some ancient instinct and answers.
Hello?
Its me! a bright, carefree voice cuts in, its lightness bruising his ears. Why did it take so long?
Im busy, James grumbles.
Then why did you answer? Poppy asks, a sly smile almost audible.
Because my nerves arent steel! he snaps, halfhowling. Whats so hard to understand? Your calls are driving me mad!
I can feel youre at home and that youre not well.
And what else do you feel? his tone drips with acidic sarcasm.
That you were waiting for my call.
Me? Waiting?! he huffs.
He wants to slam the handset down, curse with the dirtiest words. Her daily calls for the past three weeks have hit the lowest point of his life, the time when nothing appeals: work, idleness, food, drink. He only wishes to vanish, to melt into the indifferent grind of existence.
Listen, his voice suddenly drops, flat and weary. What do you want from me? What?
A brief silence hangs on the line.
Nothing. I think you need help.
Stop deciding for me. I dont need your help. Not at all.
But I feel it!
Then stop feeling! His patience snaps. Who are you to feel anything? A saint? A saviour of lost souls? Go help grandmothers cross the road, feed stray cats. And leave me alone. Got it?
The silence in the receiver thickens, heavy. Then a couple of beeps. She hangs up.
Great, a thought flashes through his mind. She barged in uninvited, climbed where shes not wanted.
That day no one calls again. Not the next day. Poppy doesnt ring a day later, a week later, not even a fortnight.
The quiet he craved now presses on his ears, ringing, absolute, unbearable. It offers no salvation, only solitude. James catches himself lingering over the phone each evening, eyes glued to it, waiting. A ridiculous, humiliating hope blooms inside: maybe now maybe any second
He stops going out at night, fearing hell miss a possible call. What if she rings and I dont hear? Shell think Im ignoring her, get hurt forever. The word forever scares him more than the stray dogs barking from the corner, as if they can smell his vulnerability.
Soon a new urge appearsa need to vent, to pour out the black, sticky mass roiling inside. But to whom? The neighbour? He lives in a simple world of wages, footie and girls. A happy bloke.
So James starts talking to himself, aloud, in his empty flat. His voice sounds hollow, unnatural against the bare walls.
Why isnt she calling? he asks his reflection in the dark window.
You drove her away. Rough and unceremonious.
But she called every single day! Relentlessly! She must have cared.
And you told her she wasnt needed. You swatted away a hand reaching out in your darkest hour.
He argues, proves, rages at himself. In the end his inner voice wins, forcing him to admit a simple, terrifying truth: those calls were his lifeline. A breath for a drowning man. Proof that he still mattered to someone, that he wasnt a ghost.
Poppy doesnt call.
Every evening James sits staring at the phone. Inside his chest contracts into a silent scream. Just call please he whispers.
The phone stays mute.
He collapses onto the bed well past midnight, never seeing a miracle. He drifts into a restless, jittery sleep, and it seems he hears the ring again.
James bolts awake. He isnt dreaming. The phone rings for realpersistent, alive. He snatches it up.
Hello? his voice trembles.
Hey, the familiar voice says, already a little faded. Did you call me?
James closes his eyes. A smile spreads slowly across his face, the first in weeksbitter, weary, and oddly relieving.
Yes, he exhales. I think I did.
A pause follows, not the heavy, reproachful one from before, but a living, taut pause, like a string, free of battle. He hears her quiet, steady breathing and his own heart thumping unevenly.
I, he stumbles, searching for words that wont sound like excuses or new barbs. Just words. Truth. Ive been sitting and waiting. Every night.
I knew, she replies softly, confidently, without a hint of triumph. I was hurting too, but I decided I couldnt be the one to call first. Thats your decision now.
He imagines her, perhaps also holding a phone, battling the urge to dial his number. The picture oddly touches him.
Sorry, he says, the hardest word, burning his throat like hot coal, yet necessary. For acting like a twit.
Acceptable, her voice lifts with a light, forgiving smile. Even though, yeah, I almost broke the kettle in a fit.
He laughs involuntarily, briefly, relieved. That mundane, almost slapstick detail snaps him back to reality.
Is he okay? he asks, suddenly serious.
Fine. Ill keep him safe like the apple of my eye.
They fall silent again, but now the silence belongs to both of them. They listen together.
James her tone grows serious again. Whats really going on?
He closes his eyes. Earlier that question would have sparked rage; now it only brings a strange weakness and a craving to finally speak out.
Everything, he says slowly, sliding onto the floor, back against the sofa. Work has become a nightmare. Debts pile up like a snowball. I feel Im teetering on a cliff, about to tumble. And theres this hollow, empty feeling, as if Ive burned out inside. I want nothingno work, no people.
He talks at length, in fragments, not sobbing, just stating facts like a doctor giving a diagnosis. For the first time in months, someone truly listens. No interruptions, no advice, no pull yourself together or things will get better. Just listening.
When he stops, the line holds only her breathing.
Thank you, Poppy finally says. What did you say?
Now you see why I was out of my head? he asks with a bitter grin.
I understand. Its no excuse for rudeness, she replies firmly. But now I know what Im dealing with. Thats better than guessing.
What will you do about it? he asks, curiosity sparking.
For starters, she says 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 you seem to be short of it.
James obeys, rising from the floor.
Im going, he reports.
Good. While you do that, Ill stay on the other end of the line. Then well sort out work, the debts, this abyss youre in.
Her voice bears no pity, no coddlingjust rocksolid confidence, as sturdy as stone. That confidence is the strength hes been missing.
He shuffles to the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, turns the kettle on, struggles with a stuck window, and lets the cool, rainscented air flood the flat. He takes his first small steps forwardtoward life.
And he realises this is only the beginning of a long, hard conversation, perhaps even a meeting. For the first time in ages, he doesnt feel alone in his crumbling tower. A hand reaches in from the outside, and he finally feels ready to take it.
