The next day, she began with the master plan. She felt like a criminal, digging furtively through the out-pile for the sheet with his account number on it. She hastened back to her office, and typed it in, scribbling down both is mobile and work numbers. She called the mobile then and there, before she could lose her bottle, and waited for him to pick it up, tapping her pen against the desk.
“Hallo?”
She hadn’t checked this in the book, what the hell was she supposed to say?
“Um, hallo, um, Mr Reed, I’m sorry to bother you, this is Sarah from the bank calling.”
“Oh, ok, is everything ok?”
“Yes, fine, fine, unfortunately, we missed a few questions with you during your recent appointment. I am sorry about that. Would it be possible for you to pop in soon and go through them with me?”
There was a pause and she held her breath, pen frozen between thumb and forefinger. When his voice came back, it had an edge, distracted like he was reading something at the same time.
“To be honest, I don’t really have the time. Can we not do them over the phone, now?”
“I’d love to do you over the phone Mr Reed, but unfortunately, for security purposes, you do have to be in branch.”
She waited again, teeth worrying her lip like a cat on a moth.
“Well I’m sorry, but that just isn’t possible. Perhaps you can work out what the solution could be and then call me back.”
The phone went dead and she stared at it. What a dick! Then again, she was feeding him a line, so she couldn’t really complain. Still, she had a reason to call him back now. All she needed was a way to get talking about something other than work. Maybe if she called him in the evening…
The seventh time she called, the book got shorter. A lot shorter. The previous six times had been variations on a theme, none of them happy. Now, there were just a few pages left.
Her flat was just the same as it had always been, but everything seemed tired, and worn. She stared at wall, the book cradled in her lap, noticing for the first time the cracks in the plaster, the flaws in the mantle-piece. She glanced down the hall at the craft room door. When was the last time she’d gone in there?
“Read it, Sarah. You know what it’s gonna say anyway, why not find out how?”
She opened the book, and read on. This time, she died as the sun went down, the pills dissolving slowly in her stomach. It sounded like a peaceful way to go, and she found herself stood before the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, not-so-idly flicking through the tubs of aspirin and assorted other painkillers. Then she closed it, carefully, and came back to the bedroom. Not yet. She would call him one more time, give him that last chance to recognise what she already knew.
She hit his number in her recents, and listened to the soft buzzing. It clicked and his voice came through, warm and somehow still pregnant with potential.
“Sarah, I’m sorry, I understand that you have some issues, but you need to stop calling me now. If you do I’ll have to report it, and you’ll lose your job. I don’t want th—“
“Daniel, we have two boys. They’re called Isaac and Jason, and they’re beautiful, and—“
“Sarah, stop it. You need to get help. Please don’t call me again.”
The line clicked and then nothing. She stared at the phone, then threw it at the wall, jumping when it smashed against the plaster. She hadn’t meant to throw it so hard. She checked the book. It was even shorter.
They found her a week later. The bank got worried and called the police, and when they got no answer, they broke down the door. She was lying in bed, peaceful despite the rot crawling around her eye sockets and the foul-smelling belch that came as the coroners lifted her onto the stretcher. He gave it the once round, but it looked pretty simple. The empty bottles of pills and lack of a note meant this was the real deal. No one faked a suicide without leaving a note, it just wasn’t done. There was a book on the bedside, no name, not even on the spine. Without realising, he picked it up and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
Next installment, Monday 15th July
