3 October
My hand actually trembles as I open the wooden box that houses the wall-mounted entryphone panel. Could I convincingly write off this tremble as being down to the cold?
Feels as if I’m about to ring the entryphone of a total stranger. I have the deeply weird sense that reality itself has shifted and Scott no longer exists – or no longer wants me to move in with him, which would amount to much the same thing.
Having entered the digits for Flat Twenty-Three, I hit Call and stare at the entryphone’s speaker grill. A ringtone pipes out through this cluster of tiny holes in the stainless steel.
My heart fills my mouth.
Three rings later, Scott’s wonderful warm voice bursts out of those holes.
He blurts, “Kate? Thank God! I’m so sorry, there’s been this whole crazy thing going on where my phone totally stopped working. The whole thing just died and your number was only on my phone, nobody actually remembers numbers these days, do they, and… and… Anyway, sorry, come on up!”
Buzzzzz, clunk. Door opens electronically. Hooray, we live happily ever after.
Except none of this actually happens. This was only a stupidly optimistic scenario in my head.
What really happens is the entryphone keeps on ringing. Such a cold, empty, soulless sound.
How big is Scott’s flat? I picture his bedroom, the part that’s furthest away from the entryphone. I picture how long it would take for him to cover the L-shaped hallway corridor that leads to the door so he can grab the cream-coloured plastic handset off the wall-mounted cradle. Twenty seconds, max?
What if he’s in the shower, or lounging in the bath?
Oh, you sad, sad person. Next, you’ll seriously consider how he might be trapped under a fallen wardrobe.
The ringing stops and so does my breath. Did Scott pick up?
Nope, because now there’s only this dead tone. The system must disconnect the line after a limited number of rings. The small LCD screen has reset itself to await new requests.
What the hell do I do now?
Could there really have been some kind of vastly coincidental comms breakdown – one that even includes the functionality of Scott’s entryphone? He did mention deadlines when we last spoke, so he may have buried his head so deep in the sands of work that he’s forgotten what day it is. And his entryphone could be on the blink.
Look, he’s dead or he’s dying or he hates you.
A powerful pocket of icy wind swoops in from the beach, as if urging me to leave right now. Maybe the wind even wants me to cancel The Beardie Boys, who’ve texted to say they’re en route down from Leeds with all my boxes, and save myself any further embarrassment.
No. I’m sure there’s still a perfectly good explanation for all of this.
Two, Three, Call.
The entryphone’s ringtone witters on, while my fertile mind enters overdrive. What if Scott is secretly a druggie? Cocaine might be his bag, or even heroin. Yeah, what if he’s a great big smackhead who’s trying to quit but decided to have one more blowout for old time’s sake before I moved in? And what if he got a little too enthusiastic while riding that horse and OD’d himself into oblivion?
Ack. Here’s where my job’s a real bitch. Because of course now I’m thinking about all the dead junkies I’ve encountered while at work. And that’s just in the office.
Ha ha. Hello, I’m Kate Collins and I make jokes to stave off bad thoughts. Right now, though, that method isn’t working so well because my brain presents me with a delightful dead-junkie montage video.
Cold, pale flesh. Blue lips and fingernails. Sightless pupils, the size of pinpricks.
Come to think of it, Scott did look pretty bloody pale, last time I saw him. What if he didn’t really have a virus, like he claimed? What if he actually had the raging heroin-hungers and couldn’t wait for me to leave so he could chase that dragon?
Keen to stem the panic that wraps sly tendrils around me, I stare at a seagull violating a sealed black rubbish bag with savage tugs of its beak. God, I admire seagulls so much. They care about nothing except food, squawking and flying about. A seagull would surely not give two feathery fucks if another seagull invited it to move into a nest then enigmatically disappeared.
An explosive clunk jangles my nerves as the front door bursts open.
A thin, jittery woman in her early thirties is leaving the building. She’s pushing two babies in one wide pram, so I hold the door open for her. Having shredded the bin bag, the seagull delves inside. Time for me to do the same with the Van Spencer.
“Good timing,” I say with a smile, and make to enter.
She holds up a hand to block my path. “I’m really sorry, but we have to keep strangers out.”
A stranger. That’s what you are here now, and that’s all you’ll ever be.
“Otherwise, homeless people get in,” she goes on, “and drug people, and…’
Who does this woman think she is: Gandalf? You shall not pass? Her voice trails off and she looks awkward, as we both consider her implication that I resemble one of those people. And in truth, I don’t look my best. Before leaving the Leeds flat, I’d pulled on the first practical, drive-comfy clothes that hadn’t already been boxed. My favourite jumper with the big holes in it, saggy jeans and the most knackered trainers known to man. And now that my mascara’s all runny from the rain, I probably resemble The Joker.
I approximate what I hope is a reassuring grin. “I’m sure you can make an exception for me, since I’m moving in today.” But I speak these words with zero conviction, because I don’t fully believe them. This sounds, for all the world, like the desperate ploy of someone who secretly needs to take a really big dump in the stairwell.
“Sorry,” she says primly, “it’s just the rules. I have to stick to the rules.” Then she clunk-slams the big door, and her pram wheels rattle off along Marine Parade.
Fuck you, Gandalf. My quest ain’t over yet.