He's met whoever he thought was me when he was heading for the tunnel. I'm holding my breath—I can't breathe or swallow—and I don't know if I feel hot or frozen. "Let me past," he says as if he's trying to make his voice as big as the tunnel. "My son's waiting for me on the beach."
There are so many echoes in the tunnel I'm not sure what I'm hearing besides him. I think there's a lot of shuffling, and the other noises must be voices, because my father says, "What kind of language do you call that? You sound drunker than I am. I said my son's waiting."
He's talking even louder as if that'll make him understood. I'm embarrassed, but I'm more afraid for him. "Dad," I nearly scream, and run down the steps as fast as I can without falling.
"See, I told you. That's my son," he says as if he's talking to a crowd of idiots. The shuffling starts moving like a slow march, and he says, "All right, we'll all go to the beach together. What's the matter with your friends, too drunk to walk?"
I reach the bottom of the steps, hurting my ankles, and run along the ruined street because I can't stop myself. The shuffling sounds as if it's growing thinner, as if the people with my father are leaving bits of themselves behind, and the voices are changing too—they're looser. Maybe the mouths are getting bigger somehow. But my father's laughing, so loud that he might be trying to think of a joke. "That's what I call a hug. No harder, Love, or I won't have any puff left," he says to someone. "Come on then, give us a kiss. They're the same in any language."
All the voices stop, but the shuffling doesn't. I hear it go out of the tunnel and onto the pebbles, and then my father tries to scream as if he's swallowed something that won't let him. I scream for him and dash into the tunnel, slipping on things that weren't on the floor when we first came through, and fall out onto the beach.
My father's in the sea. He's already so far out that the water is up to his neck. About six people who look stuck together and to him are walking him away as if they don't need to breathe when their heads start to sink. Bits of them float away on the waves my father makes as he throws his arms about and gurgles. I try to run after him, but I've got nowhere when his head goes underwater. The sea pushes me back on the beach, and I run crying up and down it until Iannis comes. It doesn't take him long to find my father once he understands what I'm saying. Iannis wraps me in a blanket and hugs me all the way to Elounda, and the police take me back to the hotel. Kate gets my mother's number and calls her, saying she's someone at the hotel who's looking after me because my father's drowned; and I don't care what she says, I just feel numb. I don't start screaming until I'm on the plane back to England, because then I dream that my father has come back to tell a joke. "That's what I call getting some tongue," he says, leaning his face close to mine and showing me what's in his mouth.
End Of The Line (1991)
"Pook."
"Is this Mrs Pook?"
"Who wants to know?"
"My name ... My name is Roger and I think you may be interested in what I have to offer you."
"That's what you say. You don't know a thing about me."
"Don't you wish you could see what I look like?"
"Why, what have you got on?"
"I mean, don't you wish you could see my face?"
"Not if it looks like you sound. Mum, there's some weird character on the phone."
"Hang on, I thought you said you were Mrs—"
"He's saying would I like to watch him."
"Who's speaking, please? What have you been suggesting to my daughter?"
"My name is Rum, that is, my name's Ralph, and I think you may be interested in what I'm offering."
"I doubt it. Don't I know you?"
"My name's Ralph."
"I don't know anyone called Ralph, but I'm sure I know your voice. What's your game?"
"He said his name was Roger, Mum, not Ralph."
"Did he now. Charlie? Charlie, pick up the extension and listen to this."
"Mrs Pook, if I can just explain—"
"Charlie, will you pick up the extension. There's one of those perverts who like to hide behind a phone. He can't even remember his own name."
"Who the fuck is this? What do you want with my wife?"
"My name's Ralph, Mr Pook, and perhaps I can speak to you. I'm calling on behalf of—"
"Whoever he is, Charlie, his name isn't Ralph."
"My name isn't important, Mr Pook. I should like to off—"
"Don't you tell me what's important, pal, specially not on my fucking phone. What do you want? How did you get this number?"
"Out of the directory. Can I take just a few minutes of your time? We'd like to offer you a way of avoiding misunderstandings like this one."
"It's we now, is it? You and who else?"
"I'm calling on be—"
"Charlie, I think I know who—"
"Tell you what, pal, I don't care how many of you there are. Just you say where I can find you and we'll settle it like men."
"Just put it down. Just put it down."
"What are you mumbling about, pal? Lost your voice?"
"Mrs Pook, are you still there?"
"Never mind talking to my fucking wife. This is between you and me, pal. If you say another word to her—"
"That's enough, Charlie. Yes, I'm here."
"Mrs Pook, would your first name be Lesley?"
"That's it, pal! I'm warning you! If any fucker says another fucking word—"
"Just put it down," Speke told himself again, and this time he succeeded. The long room was full of echoes of his voice in voices other than his own: "I'm speaking on behalf...", "Don't you wish..." During the conversation his surroundings—the white desks staffed by fellow workers whom he scarcely knew, the walls to which the indirect lighting lent the appearance of luminous chalk, the stark black columns of names and addresses and numbers on the page in front of him—had grown so enigmatic they seemed meaningless, and the only way he could think of to escape this meaninglessness was by speaking. He crossed out Pook and keyed the next number. "Mrs Pool?"
"This is she."
"I wonder if I could take just a few minutes of your time."
"Take as much as you like if it's any use to you."
"My name is Roger and I'm calling on behalf of Face to Face Communications. I should have said that to begin with."
"No need to be nervous of me, especially not on the phone."
"I'm um, I'm not. I was going to ask don't you wish you could see what I look like."
"Not much chance of that, I'm afraid."
"On the phone, you mean. Well, I'm calling to offer—"
"Or anywhere else."
"I don't rum real um realura really under—"
"I could have seen you up to a few years ago. Do you look as you sound?"
"I suppum."
"I'm sorry that I'm blind, then."
"No, it's my fault. I mean, that's not my fault, I mean I'm the one who should be sorry, apologising, that's to sum—" He managed to drag the receiver away from his mouth, which was still gabbling, and plant the handset in its cradle. He crossed out her name almost blindly and closed his eyes tight, but had to open them as soon as he heard voices reiterating portions of the formula around him. He focused on the next clear line in the column and, grabbing the receiver, called the number. "Mr Poole?"
"Yes."
"This is Mr Poole?"
"Who, you are?"
"No, I'm saying you are, are you?"
"Why, do you know different?"
"Yum, you don't sound—" To Speke it sounded like a woman trying to be gruff—like Lesley, he thought, or even his daughter, if hers had been the voice which had answered the Pooks' phone. "My name is Roger," he said hastily, "and I'm calling on behalf of Face to Face Communications. I wonder if you can spare me a few minutes of your time."
"It'd be hard for me to spare anyone else's."
"Well, qum. Dum. Um, don't you wish you could see my face?"