I turned the living-room upside down. I threw cushions, lifted rugs, left drawers hanging open. This had to be a dream, this had to be a nightmare. I couldn’t have done what I thought I had. There was not enough booze on the fucking planet to make a man do something so fucking stupid. There had never been, in the whole history of the species, sufficient drink fermented, distilled or brewed to make anybody, anybody, anybody at all no matter how stupid, how thoughtless, how much of a total fucking complete and utter fuckwit of the first water, do something that suicidally imbecilic. There were physical laws, immutable rules written into the very warp and woof of the fabric of reality itself, which would prevent any supposedly sentient creature doing anything a tenth as cretinously, murderously insane as that.
A dream. A nightmare. The worst one ever; a new low-water mark in the sump of human fright and terror. I must still be asleep and my heart was probably about to stop out of sheer horror. I had to wake up. I really did.
I stumbled into the bathroom, turned on the cold tap and splashed my face, splashing and slapping my cheeks and staring at myself in the mirror, at the white, terror-struck face of a man who was not going to wake up from his nightmare because it was the worst sort of nightmare, the kind that’s real, the kind you can die from but never wake from. The face of a man who’d killed the one woman he really loved in all the world, consigned her to a horrific, slow, painful, pitiful death because he’d got drunk and been stupid, because he just hadn’t thought, because he’d selfishly wanted to talk to her, because he’d thought it would somehow be funny or sexy to leave a totally shite dirty message on her phone, because he couldn’t read a fucking display and see that it was a different number, a land-line number, because he couldn’t hear the difference between a mobile message service and a common-or-garden domestic answering machine.
Why had it been her? Why the fuck couldn’t the fucking man of the house have recorded the fucking answering machine spiel? Why had that cunt Merrial made his wife record the message, the pathetic, useless, disgusting, inadequate piece of shit?
I looked down at the shelf above the sink. The phone was there. I grabbed it. But I must have left it on last night, because it was dead; no power.
I screamed at it. No words, just a scream. Yes, scream, I thought. Get in some practice for later, because you’re probably going to be doing quite a lot of screaming in the very near future. Scream when you see the two chairs drawn up just a leg-length apart, when you see the big blond guy smiling at you and bouncing up and down on his toes, scream when they tie you in, scream when they bring out the knives or the pliers or the blow torch. Yes, screaming now was a very good idea. Might even energise the phone in some spooky way, jar its battery into life. Because I had to check; I needed the fucking useless silvery little piece of shit on and working so I could hit the Last Calls Made list and find that – hey – of course I hadn’t called Ceel (even though I could still hear her voice, still remember standing on the deck in the darkness and listening to her beautiful voice); no, I’d called somebody else. Any-fucking-body else.
Ceel. I had to phone her. I ran out, put the phone into the recharging unit on the living-room desk, and lifted the boat’s own land-line phone.
Nothing. Oh, Jesus! They’d cut the phone line! They were – the dialling tone sounded. I hesitated. Right thing? Was I doing the right thing? Yes, of course. Right to check, just in case this was somehow as stupid as what I’d done last night, but the right thing. Definitely the right thing. I called her mobile number, the number I knew by heart. Oh please be there, please have it switched on. No; please don’t be there at your house, please be somewhere else, anywhere else, somewhere you can run, hide, get away from him.
Oh sweet Jesus Christ, answer, Ceel, answer. Please, please answer.
‘Hello?’
Oh, Christ, yes!
‘Celia. Hi. It’s Ken. Kenneth. Ken Nott.’ Oh God, I was going to have to tell her, going to have to admit I was an imbecile, that I’d put her in the most fucking awful danger, all through my sheer drunken stupidity.
‘Yes?’
‘Listen, I’ve done something really, unbelievably stupid. You need to get away, you need to run.’
‘Yes,’ she said calmly. ‘I’m in Scotland.’ Behind her voice I could hear what sounded like a car engine.
‘ Scotland?’ I yelped. But then that was good. Anywhere away from London was good. Unless she was with him, unless she was with him and he was going to access their answering machine remotely, from wherever they were in Scotland. Oh, shit.
‘Oh, you’re breaking up, I’m afraid,’ she lied. ‘I’ll call you back when I’ve got a clear… oh, no; gone. Well,’ I heard her say to somebody else, ‘that was unusua-’
And she was gone.
I picked up the mobile, hoping it had recharged sufficiently. No.
I sat down, shaking. Ceel was alive. In Scotland. She’d had a warning of sorts and she was going to call back when she wasn’t with whomever she was with.
If I had done what I feared I had – and I had to accept I probably had because I could remember her voice and something of the words she’d used on the answering machine message – then what could I do? I looked at my watch. The massive Breitling said it was – shit – half ten. Had to give it back, I thought; go back to my more elegant Spoon… what was I thinking of? Fuck the watch, fucking thinking about the watch or anything else apart from the fucking suicidal, murderous position I’d put myself and Celia in. Think; maybe Merrial was with her. Maybe – probably – they were away for the whole weekend. That gave me a day and a half to do something.
What could I do? Burn their house down? Break in? Hope there was a maid or a butler or somebody (but then why the answering machine?) and try to impersonate a… I didn’t know. Gas man? Cop? Jehovah’s fucking Witness?
Could I access the tape or the chip from outside somehow? What if I rang again and just left an immensely long message, would it overwrite the one from last night? No. Of course not. No answering machine I’d ever encountered would do that. Nobody would design one like that. Well, nobody with any sense; a fuckwit like me would, obviously.
Set fire to the fucking place. Heave a petrol bomb through a window, pour lighter fluid through the letter box; when the fire brigade came – ring them first, ring them just beforehand, but not the police – let them break down the door and then go in with them, pretend to be a plain-clothes cop, or from special branch, or find a fancy dress shop and hire a police uniform…
Oh, please let it still not have happened. Please let it be a really vivid false memory syndrome thing. I’d imagined her voice on the answering machine message. It hadn’t been her. I’d put the wrong number in from Merrial’s card, misplaced a digit and it had been there all the time and the first time I used it I got some female who happened to live at the house that had the phone with the one-digit difference from the Merrials’ and so I’d left this filthy, sexually abusive message on the answering machine of a total stranger. Oh, God, it had to be that. It had to be.