God’s sake listen.’
‘That’s not my name,’ I breathed. ‘You know it isn’t.’
‘You might have to get used to it again,’ he said.
‘Wha—’
‘Look, I need to see you. I have something to say and I need to say it in person. When can we meet?’
‘Scott, we can’t meet. We agreed when you left. I have a husband; I have a completely new life. I thought you did, too. I thought you were in New Zealand.’
‘I did; I was. But I’ve been back in the UK for a few years now. I was in London for a while, but now . . . Jo, I’m dying.’
I half laughed. It was the sort of thing he’d have said when he’d wanted one of us to roll him a joint or make him some tea.
‘I mean it. I’m ill; cancer. There’s a tumour in my stomach and there’s nothing more they can do. I have a few months at most, maybe less.’
I was listening now, of course I was. He wouldn’t lie about such a thing, would he? The pain throbbed behind my eye as I tried to guess what this meant. He’d sworn he would never . . .
but if he was dying . . .
‘Jo? Are you still there?’
‘Scott, I’m sorry, but we agreed, no contact, no matter what—’
‘I know that’s what we agreed, but things change, Jo, and anyway—’
‘Don’t keep calling me that.’
‘And anyway, that’s not what I want to see you about. Listen, he’ll be back soon, your husband.’
I felt the anger rise in my throat. I wanted to scream at him but my head would explode if I shouted so I tried to control my voice. ‘You’ve been following me around the town and now
you’re watching my house? You’re
stalking
me? Look, Scott, I’m sorry if your life hasn’t worked out—’
‘I’m not quite dead yet.’
‘I didn’t mean that. I meant, look, I’ve made a good life for Hannah. Duncan has been a good father to her, and you . . . you said . . .’ I could feel my voice rising and
I had to make a conscious effort not to lose control, not to scream and shout and cry. ‘You said you wouldn’t do this. You swore you’d never contact us –
Tell her
I’m dead,
you said. The only reason I didn’t is because she’d have probably wanted to see your grave.’ A big boulder of pain rolled to the front of my head with a
thud.
‘I know.’ He spoke quietly, calmly. ‘But things are different now. When can we meet? Do you have a free day this week? Or an afternoon?’
‘No. I’m not meeting you. You have to go away; you have to leave me alone.’
‘Or what? You’ll call the police?’ There was a silence that felt full up, like swollen black clouds before a thunderstorm. ‘Jo.’ His voice was gentle, almost
tender. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not going to let this go.’
I was still hanging on to the carpet as though I might fall off the landing into thin air. Neither of us said anything, but I could sense him there on the other end of the line, waiting. After a
few more seconds of silence, I realised why he was waiting so patiently – it was because he knew there was nothing I could do; that I really didn’t have any choice. ‘All
right,’ I said, and as I spoke, I felt a sudden stab of vulnerability, as though I’d just unleashed something destructive and must now brace myself for the consequences. I took a breath
and tried to steady my voice. ‘I suppose I could meet you at lunchtime on Wednesday, or any time on Friday – I’m off work then, anyway.’
‘Friday’s cool. As long as you don’t have anything else to do in the afternoon, because I think you’re going to need some time to yourself afterwards. You’ll want
some time to think.’
‘Scott, I’m sorry you’re ill.’ I paused. He was only a few years older than me; early fifties at most. And the last time I’d seen him – well, apart from when
I saw him in town before Christmas – he’d looked so strong, so
alive.
‘I mean,’ I said more softly, ‘I really am sorry. But can’t you just tell me what
this is about?’
‘Not on the phone,
‘That’s not my name,’ I breathed. ‘You know it isn’t.’
‘You might have to get used to it again,’ he said.
‘Wha—’
‘Look, I need to see you. I have something to say and I need to say it in person. When can we meet?’
‘Scott, we can’t meet. We agreed when you left. I have a husband; I have a completely new life. I thought you did, too. I thought you were in New Zealand.’
‘I did; I was. But I’ve been back in the UK for a few years now. I was in London for a while, but now . . . Jo, I’m dying.’
I half laughed. It was the sort of thing he’d have said when he’d wanted one of us to roll him a joint or make him some tea.
‘I mean it. I’m ill; cancer. There’s a tumour in my stomach and there’s nothing more they can do. I have a few months at most, maybe less.’
I was listening now, of course I was. He wouldn’t lie about such a thing, would he? The pain throbbed behind my eye as I tried to guess what this meant. He’d sworn he would never . . .
but if he was dying . . .
‘Jo? Are you still there?’
‘Scott, I’m sorry, but we agreed, no contact, no matter what—’
‘I know that’s what we agreed, but things change, Jo, and anyway—’
‘Don’t keep calling me that.’
‘And anyway, that’s not what I want to see you about. Listen, he’ll be back soon, your husband.’
I felt the anger rise in my throat. I wanted to scream at him but my head would explode if I shouted so I tried to control my voice. ‘You’ve been following me around the town and now
you’re watching my house? You’re
stalking
me? Look, Scott, I’m sorry if your life hasn’t worked out—’
‘I’m not quite dead yet.’
‘I didn’t mean that. I meant, look, I’ve made a good life for Hannah. Duncan has been a good father to her, and you . . . you said . . .’ I could feel my voice rising and
I had to make a conscious effort not to lose control, not to scream and shout and cry. ‘You said you wouldn’t do this. You swore you’d never contact us –
Tell her
I’m dead,
you said. The only reason I didn’t is because she’d have probably wanted to see your grave.’ A big boulder of pain rolled to the front of my head with a
thud.
‘I know.’ He spoke quietly, calmly. ‘But things are different now. When can we meet? Do you have a free day this week? Or an afternoon?’
‘No. I’m not meeting you. You have to go away; you have to leave me alone.’
‘Or what? You’ll call the police?’ There was a silence that felt full up, like swollen black clouds before a thunderstorm. ‘Jo.’ His voice was gentle, almost
tender. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not going to let this go.’
I was still hanging on to the carpet as though I might fall off the landing into thin air. Neither of us said anything, but I could sense him there on the other end of the line, waiting. After a
few more seconds of silence, I realised why he was waiting so patiently – it was because he knew there was nothing I could do; that I really didn’t have any choice. ‘All
right,’ I said, and as I spoke, I felt a sudden stab of vulnerability, as though I’d just unleashed something destructive and must now brace myself for the consequences. I took a breath
and tried to steady my voice. ‘I suppose I could meet you at lunchtime on Wednesday, or any time on Friday – I’m off work then, anyway.’
‘Friday’s cool. As long as you don’t have anything else to do in the afternoon, because I think you’re going to need some time to yourself afterwards. You’ll want
some time to think.’
‘Scott, I’m sorry you’re ill.’ I paused. He was only a few years older than me; early fifties at most. And the last time I’d seen him – well, apart from when
I saw him in town before Christmas – he’d looked so strong, so
alive.
‘I mean,’ I said more softly, ‘I really am sorry. But can’t you just tell me what
this is about?’
‘Not on the phone,
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