changed to
B A D T H I N G S 51
25, and then 26. The longer I thought about it, the later it was going
to get. I picked up my phone and dialed.
It rang fi ve or six times, and then picked up.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice.
“This is John Henderson,” I said.
There was silence for three, maybe four seconds. “I’ll call you
back,” the woman muttered, the words running into one. Then the
line went dead.
I grabbed my cigarettes and went out onto the deck. I couldn’t sit,
so I stood, watching the rain.
And waited.
I don’t smoke inside anymore, or drink alcohol under a roof. It’s one
of the ways I’ve learned to stop myself from doing things all the time.
I’d had two cigarettes out on the deck before the phone buzzed in my
hand.
“Yes,” I said, heading quickly back indoors, away from the noise
of the storm.
“I’ve only got a couple of minutes,” the woman’s voice said. It
sounded as though she was walking.
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Ellen Robertson.”
“I got that. But—”
“I need your help.”
“What do you mean, ‘help’?”
She paused. “I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“I think the same thing’s going to happen to me.”
“Look, I’ve got no idea what you think you know about—”
“I live near Black Ridge,” she continued calmly, as if I hadn’t spo-
ken at all. “Twenty miles from where you used to live.”
52 Michael Marshall
For a moment this derailed me, but then I thought—so what?
What happened was in the local papers. Available from district li-
braries, and doubtless on the Internet.
“So?”
“Wait a moment,” she said.
Again I heard a noise like the swishing of a coat worn by someone
who was walking quickly. It lasted maybe twenty seconds, and then I
heard her breathing harder, her mouth back at the phone.
“I have to go,” she said, and the quality of her voice had changed.
She sounded apprehensive, nervous. Maybe more than that. “I’m
sorry, but—”
“Look,” I said, fi nding a tone of voice I hadn’t used in a long time,
except perhaps to Kyle the night before. “I don’t know who the hell
you are. You’re telling me things that don’t make sense.”
“I’m the one who needs help, ” she said, her voice abruptly strong
again—too fi rm, as if held right up against the brink of hysteria.
“There’s no one who’s going to believe except maybe you, and now
I realize you won’t either. I thought perhaps you knew but evidently
you don’t and I can’t risk e-mailing again because he’s scanning the
Wi-Fi now. If I tell you on the phone you’re going to think I’m crazy
and—”
She stopped suddenly. There were two seconds of nothing. Then
she said “Good-bye,” very quickly, and I was listening to the roaring
silence of a dead line.
The obvious thing was to call right back, but the “good-bye” had been
smeared, as if the phone had been jerked from her mouth on its way
to being stuffed in a pocket. I could pretend she was a lunatic trying
to take advantage of me in a way I hadn’t yet determined, but I know
how people sound when they’re scared and freaked out. By the end of
the call, the woman I’d been talking to was at least one of these, pos-
sibly both. I couldn’t just throw a ringing phone into her world.
B A D T H I N G S 53
It sounded like an e-mail wouldn’t be a good idea either. The
idea that “he”—whoever “he” was supposed to be, a husband presum-
ably—was pulling her messages out of the ether sounded paranoid
(it’s not as easy as people think), but an e-mail is an irrevocable act.
Call someone, and if the wrong voice appears at the end of the line
you can claim a wrong number or put the phone straight down and
take your chances with caller ID. Once an e-mail’s sent, it’s gone. It
paints what you’ve said on the wall and no amount of scrubbing will
get it off again.
“Fuck,” I shouted. It was the loudest sound the house had
B A D T H I N G S 51
25, and then 26. The longer I thought about it, the later it was going
to get. I picked up my phone and dialed.
It rang fi ve or six times, and then picked up.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice.
“This is John Henderson,” I said.
There was silence for three, maybe four seconds. “I’ll call you
back,” the woman muttered, the words running into one. Then the
line went dead.
I grabbed my cigarettes and went out onto the deck. I couldn’t sit,
so I stood, watching the rain.
And waited.
I don’t smoke inside anymore, or drink alcohol under a roof. It’s one
of the ways I’ve learned to stop myself from doing things all the time.
I’d had two cigarettes out on the deck before the phone buzzed in my
hand.
“Yes,” I said, heading quickly back indoors, away from the noise
of the storm.
“I’ve only got a couple of minutes,” the woman’s voice said. It
sounded as though she was walking.
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Ellen Robertson.”
“I got that. But—”
“I need your help.”
“What do you mean, ‘help’?”
She paused. “I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“I think the same thing’s going to happen to me.”
“Look, I’ve got no idea what you think you know about—”
“I live near Black Ridge,” she continued calmly, as if I hadn’t spo-
ken at all. “Twenty miles from where you used to live.”
52 Michael Marshall
For a moment this derailed me, but then I thought—so what?
What happened was in the local papers. Available from district li-
braries, and doubtless on the Internet.
“So?”
“Wait a moment,” she said.
Again I heard a noise like the swishing of a coat worn by someone
who was walking quickly. It lasted maybe twenty seconds, and then I
heard her breathing harder, her mouth back at the phone.
“I have to go,” she said, and the quality of her voice had changed.
She sounded apprehensive, nervous. Maybe more than that. “I’m
sorry, but—”
“Look,” I said, fi nding a tone of voice I hadn’t used in a long time,
except perhaps to Kyle the night before. “I don’t know who the hell
you are. You’re telling me things that don’t make sense.”
“I’m the one who needs help, ” she said, her voice abruptly strong
again—too fi rm, as if held right up against the brink of hysteria.
“There’s no one who’s going to believe except maybe you, and now
I realize you won’t either. I thought perhaps you knew but evidently
you don’t and I can’t risk e-mailing again because he’s scanning the
Wi-Fi now. If I tell you on the phone you’re going to think I’m crazy
and—”
She stopped suddenly. There were two seconds of nothing. Then
she said “Good-bye,” very quickly, and I was listening to the roaring
silence of a dead line.
The obvious thing was to call right back, but the “good-bye” had been
smeared, as if the phone had been jerked from her mouth on its way
to being stuffed in a pocket. I could pretend she was a lunatic trying
to take advantage of me in a way I hadn’t yet determined, but I know
how people sound when they’re scared and freaked out. By the end of
the call, the woman I’d been talking to was at least one of these, pos-
sibly both. I couldn’t just throw a ringing phone into her world.
B A D T H I N G S 53
It sounded like an e-mail wouldn’t be a good idea either. The
idea that “he”—whoever “he” was supposed to be, a husband presum-
ably—was pulling her messages out of the ether sounded paranoid
(it’s not as easy as people think), but an e-mail is an irrevocable act.
Call someone, and if the wrong voice appears at the end of the line
you can claim a wrong number or put the phone straight down and
take your chances with caller ID. Once an e-mail’s sent, it’s gone. It
paints what you’ve said on the wall and no amount of scrubbing will
get it off again.
“Fuck,” I shouted. It was the loudest sound the house had
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