Saving Grace

10

At approximately nine thirty the following morning, Grace, for the second time, spoke with the man who would ruin our lives – and figured out that I was not Him. She was in a vintage boutique in the city – a cosy little place that sold revamped clothes from the forties and fifties, along with handfuls of thirties-style necklaces, authentic fur coats, leather bags and feathered scarves.  I wasn't there, but I sometimes imagine how things might have played out. Fiona would've led Grace through every isle, excited at nothing, squealing when she saw a certain fabric or colour. Grace, I think, would've been quite studious about the whole ordeal, and perhaps she would've dismissed her once too often, or retreated, as I had. Honestly, all I really know about that trip are the two key things that occurred whilst on it: one, Grace bought a dress – fiery red, strapless, with a lace bottom. It curved over her full chest in two voluptuous waves, before slimming down to cling to her waist, and finally spreading out down her slender hips and ending at her thighs. Two: Grace made a phone call. The idea to do so had grown from a suggestion that Shelley made while looking at a rack of stylish flannel shirts, hung by the main window. The conversation, I'm sure, went something like this:

"He keeps calling me," Grace growled, trying to distract herself with gold-plated bracelets or black hand-crafted high heels.

"Why?" Fiona inquired, staring into a mirror as she held various items of clothing to her chest.

"I don't know. Every time I pick up he doesn't say anything. Just breathes into the phone."

"Sounds like a freak to me," Shell butted in, checking sizes.

Fiona scowled at herself, discarded the ugly dress on the floor.

"How do you know it's him?" She asked, finding a new one.

"Who else could it be?" Grace wondered. "Besides, it only started after I gave him my number."

"Yeah, sounds like you need a new plaything."

"He is not my plaything," Grace snapped, glaring at Shelley. "He's... he's a good guy. Too good, really."

Shell scoffed.

"Too good at impersonating Dennis Rader."

"Shut up, Shelley."

Shell fell silent, wore a look.

"Who's Dennis Rader?" Fiona asked.

"You know, the BTK killer."

Fiona frowned. Shell rolled her eyes.

"Never mind." She paused for a heartbeat. "G, if he's calling you, trying to intimidate you or whatever, why don't you just call him? Turn the tables, throw him off? If he sees you're not afraid of him, he'll probably just forget about you."

"I've already called him. It didn't do anything."

"Did you call him on the same number he's been using to harass you?"

Grace frowned.

"No, just his cell."

"Well, there you go. Call him on his second line. Use my phone, if you want."

"I don't know," she fussed.

"What do you have to lose?" Fiona asked. "If it'll get him off your back, isn't it worth a shot?"

Both looked at her with convincing expressions. Grace buckled.

"Fine. Give it here, then."

Shell pulled out her phone – an old, buttoned brick – and gave it to her. Grace's brow furrowed as she punched the number in. Six times, it rang; a wait which I am certain was gruelling for Grace. When the ringing stopped, a voice answered with just one word:

"H-hello?"

When she described this experience to me some time later, she recalled how strange His voice was – certainly that of a man, but higher than expected, almost childlike. Her throat closed over and sweat began to bead on her forehead.

"Hello?" He asked again.

When she didn't answer for the second time, she heard Him gulp and later swore that in that moment He knew who she was and why she was calling. He hung up, and she lowered the phone.

"Grace?" Fiona asked. "Are you alright? You've gone so pale."

She shook her head, breathed again.

"It wasn't him," she whispered. "It wasn't Richie."

Shell, with a look of concern, leaned forward and took her phone back.

"Don't worry, G. I'm sure it's just some kid pulling a prank."

And just like that, the matter was dismissed. Fiona and Shelley went back to arguing over the stylistic qualities of flannel, the shoppers around them continued wandering from aisle to aisle, and the workers continued pocketing absurd amounts of cash, but Grace was caught in a freeze frame. A sinking feeling had weighted itself deep inside her gut and she knew that something was terribly wrong. But, you have to understand that at the time, all we had was that voice, that word, and that feeling. There was no proof of anything, no rational reason to panic. Unfortunately, a lot of the time we don't really know what to do until it's too late, and there's nothing either of us can do now.

© A.G. Travers 2018