James Harper kept dialing his mothers number, over and over, each time hearing the cold, unchanging message: The number you have dialled is no longer in service. He hadnt spoken to her in two years. His wife had forced him to choose her or his mother. He had chosen his wife.
The number you have dialled is no longer in service
A shiver seized James; a slick of cold sweat broke out beneath his white work shirt. Across the small park where he sat, a gang of laughing teenagers roamed. He stared at them like a wild animal, unsure of who he was, where he stood, why any of it mattered life, laughter, joy, the careless hours A letter lay on his lap. In bold block letters on the envelope read simply: James. A period followed. His mother always put a period at the end of everything. He had already printed it out. The envelope was still sealed, so his sister hadnt read it. Inside, his mothers flawless, blocklettered script spanned two pages, each letter precise, without a flourish the style of a topclass Soviet schoolboy: onetoone, immaculate, no mistake. It began: Dearest James, my son. If you are reading this, I am no longer here
James choked on the words. He tried to hold back tears, but as he read on, they broke through.
That day he barely thought of his mother. He stepped out for lunch, craving a greasy doner kebab, the meat sizzling, wrapped in a soft roll with cabbage, tomato, cucumber and a generous drizzle of the vendors secret sauce. He paused at the revolving doors of the Riverside Shopping Centre and thought he saw his mother emerging onto the street a figure he hadnt seen in two years. A brown coat, dark wavy hair that fell just past her shoulders, a weary gait of a woman stretched thin by work and life It was his mother, exactly as she had haunted his dreams for the past three months sometimes packing bags to leave, sometimes a small boy pleading for protection, sometimes distant and sad, just sitting there, unlike the fierce shield she used to be. The memory made Jamess heart pound as if the world might crumble around him.
Three months earlier a bedraggled creature a rabbit or a mouse had crawled into Jamess bed. It was bruised, trembling against his warm, halfshaggy body. Though repulsed, pity won; he let the animal curl into a tight ball on his pillow, right beside his head. The creature lay there, breathing shallowly, its strength gone. Then James realised there were no rabbits or mice in his flat. In the darkness the animal vanished, leaving only a warm indentation on the pillow. He swore he hadnt dreamed it.
That night his wife, Alice, was already asleep. James fumbled for his phone, scrolling until he found old photographs of him and his mother, a picture of a happy family still together, no quarrels. He didnt know what to think.
He lingered near the exit of the shopping centre, ready to chase the apparition of his mother, when a courier asked a security guard:
Which floor are the appliances? Ive got a delivery.
Third, the guard replied.
What floor are you on? Could it be for me? James interjected, eyes flicking from the door.
The courier hesitated, then read the label on the package: For James Harper.
Its for me, James said, reaching out.
ID, please, the courier asked.
James patted his chest, retrieved his passport from his coat pocket, signed, and stepped back onto the bustling street. Cars hissed, strangers chattered. He tore open the parcel; inside was a note from his sister, Emily:
Mum died on 12 June. She asked me to give you this letter. Dont call me I wont answer. Youre a traitor to me.
June 12. Today was 15 September. Three whole months had passed without anyone telling him.
A nausea clenched his stomach, his head throbbed, and he almost fainted, bracing himself against the dusty, pinkbrick wall of the centre. His mother was dead the woman who gave him love, loyalty, protection, the one he had once shouted to his wife, I am no longer your son! He forgot the kebab, the cappuccino, the hunger that had gnawed at him for two hours. The thought was too much to swallow; he couldnt open the letter there. He walked, eyes unfocused, to the small park, sat down, and finally tore the envelope.
I am no longer here. I have cancer, stage four. Today I felt a sudden surge of strength and wrote this while my hand could still hold a pen. They say such a burst often signals the end is near.
James, dont blame yourself. I called your number countless times, hanging up before the rings. Pride has made both of us prisoners. Even now, pride stops me from calling you. Perhaps you think of me, perhaps not, but you are my son and I can never stop loving you.
Im sorry I never got along with Alice. I was wrong in many places, but she isnt easy either. Im sorry for the gaps in your upbringing; I raised you alone as best I could. Maybe I was a bad mother, to have you turn away so easily. You have punished me, son. Thats enough. Forgive me.
I wish, even in death, I could hear your voice one last time
James sobbed, clenching his fists over his mouth. He had never felt unloved or neglected. His mother always made time to listen, to soothe, to advise. She guarded him and Emily like a wolfess. When two schoolmates tried to bully him in Year 5, she caught one on the street and pressed a pocketknife to his ear: Touch James again and Ill cut off your ear. She enrolled him in karate, teaching him to fight, to stand his ground, to hide no weakness, only courage and, if needed, desperation.
He pressed the phone to his ear, imagined the ringing, and whispered in his mind: Im calling you, Mum, please pick up. Im sorry for being weak. Let this letter be a joke! The line was a crushing silence, like a coffin, then
The number you have dialled is no longer in service.
No! No! I cant believe it! James shouted, dialing again and again, each time the same cold reply: No longer in service. No longer in service.
Desperate, he called Emily. She answered with a scream: Go to hell, you and slammed the phone down.
He left work early and trudged home, feeling like a statue on his doorstep, jacket and shoes still on. His strength drained. Alice, on maternity leave with their newborn, sat at the kitchen table.
Whats happened so early, James? she asked, feigning concern.
He stared at her, words choking. Mum died.
What? she clutched her chest, the gesture feeling false to James. Did Emily call? Whens the funeral?
It happened three months ago, he said.
And you never knew? she snapped. What a perfect family we are! Not that we
Shut up! James snapped. Dont bring my family into this.
Calming down, they decided to drive to Emilys flat in Coventry, where their mother had lived before moving in with Emily. James drove like a madman, rage tearing at him at himself, at Alice, at his relatives, especially at Emily. He burst into the flat, fists clenched, eyes blazing.
You should have told me! You should have said Mum was ill! You vile
I should? Emilys face flushed with anger. I owed you nothing! You should have spoken to her yourself! Youve swapped the woman who raised you for this
Alice, stay out of this, James shouted, but she tried to intervene.
The argument escalated, accusations flying. Emily claimed the mother had refused a loan for Jamess wedding, forcing them to marry on a shoestring. Alice, already strained, was depicted as a lazy, bitter motherinlaw who never helped, whose presence was a constant irritant. Their mother had tried to mediate, to help with the baby, to bring tea, but Alice would snap, saying she was depressed, kicking the cot, and the mother would sneak in to soothe the child, which only infuriated Alice further.
Emilys motherly instincts resurfaced, recalling how she used to scold Alice for never cleaning, never cooking, always sulking about the baby. Emily had once promised to swap the flat for a small council house, but her resolve faded. A visiting aunt had once commented on the filth, prompting a furious outburst from Alice. The shouting grew louder, each word a blade. James, standing in the doorway, felt the walls of the flat close in the pictures, the lamps, the coat hooks, the furniture all screaming his mothers memory and his own guilt.
Emily finally warned, If you want the flat, youll have to leave. I wont let you stay. Alice, trembling, pleaded, James, you have to choose us or her. James, drained, whispered, Im not your son any more. Ill block the number dont call.
He kept his word only partially; he stopped speaking to his mother, but eventually unlocked her number, hoping she might call. Pride held him back from apologising first. He now stood before Emily, fully aware of his own faults, seeing the cracked plaster and the lingering scent of his mothers perfume.
Emily shouted, Leave, I wont talk to you. Call the police if you stay.
Not a chance, Alice retorted, the flat is half mine!
The flat is mine! a distant relative interjected, Mum left it to me in her will.
Alice gasped, I dont need the flat. James said quietly, Emily, I just want to talk.
Alice snarled, Were renting, you remember?
James paled, but before he could answer, Emilys brother, who had stayed out of the feud, stepped forward.
Get out. Both of you, leave this house, he barked, and take that poisonous snake of a mother with you.
He shoved them out, slammed the door, and the hallway fell silent. Alice trembled, tears streaming, while James sank onto the grimy staircase, weeping.
Later, in the car heading home, James spoke coldly, What happened is partly your fault, Alice. Im also to blame, but you bear the greater share. How can I live with you after this?
Alice replied, The final decision was yours, dont dump it all on me. Two people are at fault: you and Emily. She should have told us!
The argument raged through the journey until James stopped answering her calls entirely. He disappeared from the house; Alice never knew where he slept. He stopped answering his phone. A month slipped by, the divorce hanging over him like a storm. The only anchors left were the shabby flat and his infant son. Eventually he returned, but he was distant, cold, his grief for his mother a dark veil over any affection for Alice. Alice, meanwhile, felt no remorse for the motherinlaw, only pity for her husband, the virus who let his own mother ruin everything at the last breath.
Sometimes James swore he saw his mother on the street, a phantom drifting past, unnoticed. Hed turn, only to find an ordinary woman. Yesterday he thought he saw her on the commuter train, staring out the window, a crowd pouring in at the station. He slipped through the sea of bodies, heart clenched like iron, almost stepping on her foot but it was another lady, not his mum.
Out of habit he still dials his mothers number, hoping for even the faintest buzz, a single ring from the darkness.
The number you have dialled is no longer in service, the automated voice intones.
I am his son! Mother, hear me!
Do not call this number again. Be grateful you have a wife.
