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Authors: Ramsey Campbell
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everything had been recorded for his workmates to hear. He grabbed the remote control and set about searching the audio channels on the television. He thought he’d scanned through every available radio station, since the identifications on the screen had run out, when a voice he very much wished he couldn’t recognise came out of the blank monitor. “This is Night Owl signing off,” Terry Rice said, and Edgeworth thought he heard a muffled sobbing. “Another night, another game.”
Edgeworth gazed at the silent screen until he seemed to glimpse a vague pale movement like a frantic attempt to escape. He turned off the set, nearly breaking the switch in his haste, and sought refuge in bed. Very occasionally his thoughts grew so exhausted that they almost let him doze. He did without breakfast—he couldn’t have borne to watch a film. Once the shower had made him as clean as he had any chance of feeling he dressed and hurried to work.
He had to ring the bell twice at length to bring Mr Gittins out of his office. The manager’s plump smooth face set not much less hard than marble as he saw Edgeworth. He was plainly unimpressed by Edgeworth’s timeliness; perhaps he thought it was a ruse to gain his favour. “I hope you’ll be doing your best to get on with your colleagues,” he said.
“Why, who’s said what?”
Mr Gittins didn’t deign to answer. He was turning away until Edgeworth blurted “Do we know if Mary Barton’s coming in today?”
“What concern is it of yours?” Having gazed at Edgeworth, Mr Gittins said “She won’t be in for some time. I’m told she can’t walk.”
Edgeworth swallowed, but his voice still emerged as a croak. “Do we know why?”
“It really isn’t something I’m prepared to discuss further.”
Mr Gittins looked disgusted by Edgeworth’s interest and whatever it revived in his mind. Edgeworth gave him a grimace that felt nothing like apologetic and dashed to the staffroom. For once the list of staff and their phone numbers on the notice board was of some use. He keyed Mary Barton’s number on his mobile and made the call before he had time to grow any more fearful. Well ahead of any preparation he could make for it a woman’s tightened weary voice said “Hello, yes?”
“I’m one of Mary’s friends at work. I was wondering how she is.” With more of an effort he managed to add “Just wondering what’s wrong with her.”
“Has it got something to do with you?”
The woman’s voice was loud and harsh enough to start two children crying, and Edgeworth felt as if the sounds were impaling his brain. “I wouldn’t say it has exactly, but—”
“If I thought you were the man who did that to Mary I’d find you and make sure you never went near a woman again. Just you tell me your name or I’ll—”
Edgeworth jabbed the key to terminate the call and shoved the mobile in his pocket. As soon as it began to ring he switched it off. He couldn’t loiter in the staffroom in case Mr Gittins wondered why, and so he ventured into the lobby, where a stray lump of popcorn squeaked piteously underfoot and then splintered like an insect. He’d hardly reached the ticket counter when the phones on it began to ring in chorus. “See who it is,” Mr Gittins said.
Edgeworth clutched at the nearest receiver and hoisted it towards his face. “Frugoplex Cinemas,” he said, trying not to sound like himself.
When he heard the woman’s voice he turned his back on the manager. While she wasn’t the caller he’d been afraid to hear or the one he might have hoped for, she was all too familiar. “Congratulations, Eric,” she said. “Three wrong means you’re our next contestant. Someone will pick you up tonight.”
He dropped the phone, not quite missing its holder, and turned to find Mr Gittins frowning at him. “Was that a personal call?”
“It was wrong. Wrong number,” Edgeworth said and wished he could believe. Mr Gittins frowned again before making for
Edgeworth gazed at the silent screen until he seemed to glimpse a vague pale movement like a frantic attempt to escape. He turned off the set, nearly breaking the switch in his haste, and sought refuge in bed. Very occasionally his thoughts grew so exhausted that they almost let him doze. He did without breakfast—he couldn’t have borne to watch a film. Once the shower had made him as clean as he had any chance of feeling he dressed and hurried to work.
He had to ring the bell twice at length to bring Mr Gittins out of his office. The manager’s plump smooth face set not much less hard than marble as he saw Edgeworth. He was plainly unimpressed by Edgeworth’s timeliness; perhaps he thought it was a ruse to gain his favour. “I hope you’ll be doing your best to get on with your colleagues,” he said.
“Why, who’s said what?”
Mr Gittins didn’t deign to answer. He was turning away until Edgeworth blurted “Do we know if Mary Barton’s coming in today?”
“What concern is it of yours?” Having gazed at Edgeworth, Mr Gittins said “She won’t be in for some time. I’m told she can’t walk.”
Edgeworth swallowed, but his voice still emerged as a croak. “Do we know why?”
“It really isn’t something I’m prepared to discuss further.”
Mr Gittins looked disgusted by Edgeworth’s interest and whatever it revived in his mind. Edgeworth gave him a grimace that felt nothing like apologetic and dashed to the staffroom. For once the list of staff and their phone numbers on the notice board was of some use. He keyed Mary Barton’s number on his mobile and made the call before he had time to grow any more fearful. Well ahead of any preparation he could make for it a woman’s tightened weary voice said “Hello, yes?”
“I’m one of Mary’s friends at work. I was wondering how she is.” With more of an effort he managed to add “Just wondering what’s wrong with her.”
“Has it got something to do with you?”
The woman’s voice was loud and harsh enough to start two children crying, and Edgeworth felt as if the sounds were impaling his brain. “I wouldn’t say it has exactly, but—”
“If I thought you were the man who did that to Mary I’d find you and make sure you never went near a woman again. Just you tell me your name or I’ll—”
Edgeworth jabbed the key to terminate the call and shoved the mobile in his pocket. As soon as it began to ring he switched it off. He couldn’t loiter in the staffroom in case Mr Gittins wondered why, and so he ventured into the lobby, where a stray lump of popcorn squeaked piteously underfoot and then splintered like an insect. He’d hardly reached the ticket counter when the phones on it began to ring in chorus. “See who it is,” Mr Gittins said.
Edgeworth clutched at the nearest receiver and hoisted it towards his face. “Frugoplex Cinemas,” he said, trying not to sound like himself.
When he heard the woman’s voice he turned his back on the manager. While she wasn’t the caller he’d been afraid to hear or the one he might have hoped for, she was all too familiar. “Congratulations, Eric,” she said. “Three wrong means you’re our next contestant. Someone will pick you up tonight.”
He dropped the phone, not quite missing its holder, and turned to find Mr Gittins frowning at him. “Was that a personal call?”
“It was wrong. Wrong number,” Edgeworth said and wished he could believe. Mr Gittins frowned again before making for
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