Gardens, the
pin badly bent, like it had been hastily ripped off. Wurbik hadn’t mentioned that
bit, the same way Malcolm had omitted to mention that he was Homicide.
Simon’s writing our talk—the one about John Donne and the secret wife—sitting on
the floor at the coffee table, while I stare into space between running to answer
the phone. It’s been ringing off the hook, with especial surges after each newsbreak
and late edition. Like every person who ever met Mum somehow caught the news and
wants to share it with me. Old clients, mostly; sobbing about how extraordinary she
was and wanting to know whether she’d be back, like I could answer that. The ones
who are digging for information, I hang up on straightaway.
‘It must be a terrible thing,’ I say aloud to the water stains on the living-room
ceiling, ‘to be so needed .’
Simon ignores me, his lips moving silently as he reads parts of the talk to himself.
It occurs to me that the two of us must be the two least-needed people in all the
world.
After a while, I just hang up as soon as I hear crying down the line. It’s easier
for everyone concerned, seeing as I never got around to having that standard response
ready.
‘I’m going to leave the phone on message bank,’ I say roughly, as Simon peers into
his banged-up laptop screen with a pinched expression—the one I always call his resting
bitch face —still ignoring me. I scoop up our dhal-encrusted dinner bowls bad-temperedly,
along with all the partially drunk cups of instant coffee that have gone cold. Still
his expression doesn’t change. ‘Going to bed?’ I bark as he continues typing and
deleting and ignoring. ‘Hey, I said …’
‘Yeah,’ he replies, not looking up and not missing a beat, ‘eventually. But not with you so stop asking and go, already. You make too much damned noise for someone who
claims they aren’t doing anything. It’s distracting.’
Huffing away across the room, I drop all the crockery on the counter with a loud
clatter that makes him sigh, before turning back to the phone and engaging the recorded
message button. Mum never had it on record because she didn’t like messages building
up. She always said: If it’s important, they’ll call back .
But mediation is necessary tonight. And I know I’ve done the right thing when I’m
soaking our dinner things in the sink and a couple of criers get through to the recorded
machine voice and hang up abruptly, cut off mid-sob. I turn the volume on the ringer
down, conscious that Simon will be out here later, sleeping on a couch two sizes
too small for anyone. Except maybe Mum. But as I’m turning off the kitchen light,
the phone goes again, and this time there’s the beep and then it’s just silence being
recorded.
One cat and dog , I count automatically. Two cat and dog .
I get up to ten cats, ten
dogs, and still there is only breathing. The constancy, the peculiar quality of the
waiting, the watchfulness, seem familiar, and I remember all the hang-ups. I snatch
up the handset, conscious that all this is being recorded.
Simon’s humming to himself in the other room as I say sharply, ‘Avicenna speaking.’
It might be my imagination, but the breathing seems to grow erratic, anticipatory.
Usually at this point, whoever it is just puts the phone down. But tonight the silence
stretches out further; the faintest electronic buzz in the background. And I want
to leap into that buzzing void with questions and threats and fury, but the rational
part of me is saying in Mum’s voice: Do not engage . It was a lesson we learnt the
hard way from Graham of Rainbow. But the void is still open between us, beckoning,
and unable to stop myself I grate, ‘Who is this? What do you want ?’
The breathing stops altogether and it’s unbearable: whether to hang up or hang on.
Then across the line I hear a voice—hoarse and male—say: ‘Slut got what was coming.
And you’ll get yours, too.’
I scream, dropping the
pin badly bent, like it had been hastily ripped off. Wurbik hadn’t mentioned that
bit, the same way Malcolm had omitted to mention that he was Homicide.
Simon’s writing our talk—the one about John Donne and the secret wife—sitting on
the floor at the coffee table, while I stare into space between running to answer
the phone. It’s been ringing off the hook, with especial surges after each newsbreak
and late edition. Like every person who ever met Mum somehow caught the news and
wants to share it with me. Old clients, mostly; sobbing about how extraordinary she
was and wanting to know whether she’d be back, like I could answer that. The ones
who are digging for information, I hang up on straightaway.
‘It must be a terrible thing,’ I say aloud to the water stains on the living-room
ceiling, ‘to be so needed .’
Simon ignores me, his lips moving silently as he reads parts of the talk to himself.
It occurs to me that the two of us must be the two least-needed people in all the
world.
After a while, I just hang up as soon as I hear crying down the line. It’s easier
for everyone concerned, seeing as I never got around to having that standard response
ready.
‘I’m going to leave the phone on message bank,’ I say roughly, as Simon peers into
his banged-up laptop screen with a pinched expression—the one I always call his resting
bitch face —still ignoring me. I scoop up our dhal-encrusted dinner bowls bad-temperedly,
along with all the partially drunk cups of instant coffee that have gone cold. Still
his expression doesn’t change. ‘Going to bed?’ I bark as he continues typing and
deleting and ignoring. ‘Hey, I said …’
‘Yeah,’ he replies, not looking up and not missing a beat, ‘eventually. But not with you so stop asking and go, already. You make too much damned noise for someone who
claims they aren’t doing anything. It’s distracting.’
Huffing away across the room, I drop all the crockery on the counter with a loud
clatter that makes him sigh, before turning back to the phone and engaging the recorded
message button. Mum never had it on record because she didn’t like messages building
up. She always said: If it’s important, they’ll call back .
But mediation is necessary tonight. And I know I’ve done the right thing when I’m
soaking our dinner things in the sink and a couple of criers get through to the recorded
machine voice and hang up abruptly, cut off mid-sob. I turn the volume on the ringer
down, conscious that Simon will be out here later, sleeping on a couch two sizes
too small for anyone. Except maybe Mum. But as I’m turning off the kitchen light,
the phone goes again, and this time there’s the beep and then it’s just silence being
recorded.
One cat and dog , I count automatically. Two cat and dog .
I get up to ten cats, ten
dogs, and still there is only breathing. The constancy, the peculiar quality of the
waiting, the watchfulness, seem familiar, and I remember all the hang-ups. I snatch
up the handset, conscious that all this is being recorded.
Simon’s humming to himself in the other room as I say sharply, ‘Avicenna speaking.’
It might be my imagination, but the breathing seems to grow erratic, anticipatory.
Usually at this point, whoever it is just puts the phone down. But tonight the silence
stretches out further; the faintest electronic buzz in the background. And I want
to leap into that buzzing void with questions and threats and fury, but the rational
part of me is saying in Mum’s voice: Do not engage . It was a lesson we learnt the
hard way from Graham of Rainbow. But the void is still open between us, beckoning,
and unable to stop myself I grate, ‘Who is this? What do you want ?’
The breathing stops altogether and it’s unbearable: whether to hang up or hang on.
Then across the line I hear a voice—hoarse and male—say: ‘Slut got what was coming.
And you’ll get yours, too.’
I scream, dropping the
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