His knuckles dig into the underside of the lid as he holds the mobile away from his face. It’s still too close; the digits merge into a watery blur. He only has to locate the key for the stored numbers, and he jabs it hard enough to bruise his fingertip. The symbol that appears in the illuminated window looks shapeless as a blob of mud, but he knows it represents an address book. He pokes the topmost left-hand key of the numeric pad, although he has begun to regret making Daniel number one, and holds the mobile against his ear.
There’s silence except for a hiss of static that sounds too much like a trickle of earth. Though his prison seems oppressively hot, he shivers at the possibility that he may be too far underground for the phone to work. He wriggles onto his side to bring the mobile a few inches closer to the surface, but before his shoulder is anything like vertical it thumps the lid. As he strives to maintain his position, the distant phone starts to ring.
It continues when he risks sinking back, but that’s all. He’s close to pleading, although he doesn’t know with whom, by the time the shrill insistent pulse is interrupted. The voice isn’t Daniel’s. It’s entirely anonymous, and informs Coe that the person he’s calling isn’t available. It confirms Daniel’s number in a different voice that sounds less than human, an assemblage of digits pronounced by a computer, and invites him to leave a message.
“It’s your father. That’s right, I’m alive. You’ve buried me alive. Are you there? Can you hear me? Answer the phone, you – Just answer. Tell me that you’re coming. Ring when you get this. Come and let me out. Come now.”
Was it his breath that made the glow flicker? He’s desperately tempted to keep talking until this chivvies out a response, but he mustn’t waste the battery. He ends the call and thumbs the key next to Daniel’s. It’s supposed to contact Simone, but it triggers the same recorded voice.
He could almost imagine that it’s a cruel joke, even when the voice composed of fragments reads out her number. At first he doesn’t speak when the message concludes with a beep, and then he’s afraid of losing the connection. “It’s me,” he babbles. “Yes, your father. Someone was a bit too happy to see me off. Aren’t you there either, or are you scared to speak up? Are you all out celebrating? Don’t let me spoil the party. Just send someone who can dig me up.”
He’s growing hysterical. These aren’t the sorts of comments he should leave; he can’t afford to antagonise his family just now. His unwieldy fingers have already terminated the call – surely the mobile hasn’t lost contact by itself. Should he ring his son and daughter back? Alternatively there are friends he could phone, if he can remember their numbers – and then he realises there’s only one call he should make. Why did he spend so long in trying to reach his family? He uses a finger to count down the blurred keypad and jabs the ninth key thrice.
He has scarcely lowered the phone to his ear when an operator cuts off the bell. “Emergency,” she declares.
Coe can be as fast as that. “Police,” he says while she’s enquiring which service he requires, but she carries on with her script. “Police,” he says louder and harsher.
This earns him a silence that feels stuffed with padding. She can’t expect callers who are in danger to be polite, but he’s anxious to apologise in case she can hear. Before he can take a breath a male voice says “Gloucestershire Constabulary.”
“Can you help me? You may have trouble believing this, but I’m buried alive.”
He sounds altogether too contrite. He nearly emits a wild laugh at the idea of seeking the appropriate tone for the situation, but the policeman is asking “What is your name, sir?”
“Alan Coe,” says Coe and is pinioned by realising that it must be carved on a stone at least six feet above him.
“And where are you calling from?”
The question seems to emphasise the sickly greenish glimmer of the fattened walls and lid. Does the policeman want the mobile number? That’s the answer Coe gives him. “And what is your location, sir?” the voice crackles in his ear.
Coe has the sudden ghastly notion that his children haven’t simply rushed the funeral – that for reasons he’s afraid to contemplate, they’ve laid him to rest somewhere other than with his wife. Surely some of the family would have opposed them. “Mercy Hill,” he has to believe.
“I didn’t catch that, sir.”
Is the mobile running out of power? “Mercy Hill,” he shouts so loud that the dim glow appears to quiver.
“Whereabouts on Mercy Hill?”
Every question renders his surroundings more substantial, and the replies he has to give are worse. “Down in front of the church,” he’s barely able to acknowledge. “Eighth row, no, ninth, I think. Left of the avenue.”
There’s no audible response. The policeman must be typing the details, unless he’s writing them down. “How long will you be?” Coe is more than concerned to learn. “I don’t know how much air I’ve got. Not much.”
“You’re telling us you’re buried alive in a graveyard.”
Has the policeman raised his voice because the connection is weak? “That’s what I said,” Coe says as loud.
“I suggest you get off the phone now, sir.”
“You haven’t told me how soon you can be here.”
“You’d better hope we haven’t time to be. We’ve had enough Halloween pranks for one year.”
Coe feels faint and breathless, which is dismayingly like suffocation, but he manages to articulate “You think I’m playing a joke.”
“I’d use another word for it. I advise you to give it up immediately, and that voice you’re putting on as well.”
“I’m putting nothing on. Can’t you hear I’m deadly serious? You’re using up my air, you – Just do your job or let me speak to your superior.”
“I warn you, sir, we can trace this call.”
“Do so. Come and get me,” Coe almost screams, but his voice grows flat. He’s haranguing nobody except himself.
Has the connection failed, or did the policeman cut him off? Did he say enough to make them trace him? Perhaps he should switch off the mobile to conserve the battery, but he has no idea whether this would leave the phone impossible to trace. The thought of waiting in the dark without knowing whether help is on the way brings the walls and lid closer to rob him of breath. As he holds the phone at a cramped arm’s length to poke the redial button, he sees the greenish light appear to tug the swollen ceiling down. When he snatches the mobile back to his ear the action seems to draw the lid closer still.
An operator responds at once. “Police,” he begs as she finishes her first word. “Police.”
Has she recognised him? The silence isn’t telling. It emits a burst of static so fragmented that he’s afraid the connection is breaking up, and then a voice says “Gloucestershire Constabulary.”
For a distracted moment he thinks she’s the operator. Surely a policewoman will be more sympathetic than her colleague. “It’s Alan Coe again,” Coe says with all the authority he can summon up. “I promise you this is no joke. They’ve buried me because they must have thought I’d passed on. I’ve already called you once but I wasn’t informed what’s happening. May I assume somebody is on their way?”
How much air has all that taken? He’s holding his breath as if this may compensate, although it makes the walls and lid appear to bulge towards him, when the policewoman says in the distance “He’s back. I see what you meant about the voice.”