“He—Hello?”
“Is this Miss Halliburton?”
“Who…who on earth is calling me at this time of night?”
“Guess.”
“Excuse me?”
“Take a guess.”
“I…what? Who is this?”
“Wow, you don’t even recognize my voice. I’m offended.”
“Is this some sort of prank call?”
“After all we went through.”
“If you don’t tell me who you are and why you’re calling, I’m hanging up right now. It’s too early for this.”
“Then I’ll just call again. Well actually, don’t hang up, I’ve only got eight pence left and these collect calls are expensive.”
“For God’s sake, who are you?”
“I already told you to guess, Ilex—I thought you were clever.”
“Simon?!”
“Took you long enough.”
“Simon…Simon it’s—goodness, it’s two in the morning! What’s the matter? Are you all right?”
“Well, it feels as though I’ve got at least a kilogram of shit building up in my airways, I can’t breathe without an oxygen tank and I’m an insufferable asshole.”
“Yes, I already knew all that. Can you just tell me why you’re calling me in the middle of the night—and did I hear you say you’re at a payphone?”
“Yes, there’s one on the bottom floor of the hospital.”
“What are you doing out of bed? That’s dangerous!”
“I fancied a little midnight stroll.”
“Twelve hours ago you had a tube shoved down your throat, an oxygen mask on your face, two IV’s and at least four wires fed into your arms, neck and chest. I don’t want to be foreword, but you quite nearly died last night! Is Dr. Purefoy aware of this?”
“Are you crazy? Of course he is. Completely in favour of it.”
“Just answer my question.”
“Which one?”
“Simon, please.”
“I’m just being practical—you’ve asked an entirety of ten questions and I don’t feel like doing the process of elimination.”
“Why are you out of bed, why are you calling me and why did it have to be done in the middle of the night?”
“Technically speaking, Holly, it’s the early morning.”
“Simon.”
“Fine. 1) I’m out of bed because I wanted to call you. 2) I’m calling you because I have something of yours. And 3) To call you, I had to steal your card from Purefoy’s office, and he gets off work at 12 AM, so I couldn’t very well do it before then, therefore I had to forego calling you until I accomplished this.”
“So this urgent call couldn’t wait until the morning?”
“Well I couldn’t make the call during the day without Purefoy knowing I’d nabbed your card, and I don’t think he’d be very keen on my breaking and entering. Anyway, I have your thing.”
“My what?”
“Your poem book. You forgot it. And if you ever want to see your beloved book again, you will wire me a payment of ten-thousand quid by 7 AM tomorrow.”
“You’re hilarious. But you have my book? I knew I would forget something—thank you for finding it! Goodness, I’m a bit of a divvy, that one’s my favourite. Is there any way you could mail it to me, Simon?”
“Perhaps. But you see, Holly, if I do send it, what incentive will you have to speak with me again?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Collateral, Holly. I’m blackmailing you.”
“For Goodness sake! I am absolutely exhausted right now and I have to be up early for work tomorrow, so can you please just—just not do this to me right now? Can this wait until tomorrow?”
“You’re acting very cavalier for someone being blackmailed.”
“Simon, you’ve kidnapped my poem book, you’re essentially confined to a hospital bed and I have the number of your doctor who can confiscate it if I asked him to. Hardly promising material for proper coercion.”
“Do you want your book or not?”
“Yes, I do!”
“Then I’ll send it to you, but when I do, you’ll owe me a letter every three days and one phone-call a week.”
“What?”
“Disbursement.”
“Do you have a brain tumour, Simon?”
“Cystic Fibrosis, actually. Good guess, though.”
“So you’re telling me that you’ll only return my book to me if I agree to become your pen pal?”
“Accurate.”
“That is the reason you dislocated yourself from your life support machines at two in the morning and paid money out of your own pocket to collect call me?”
“Actually, it wasn’t my money—I’ve got a key to the vending machine’s cashbox, so technically this conversation was paid for by one of Prestwich’s hungry patrons.”
“What am I going to do with you, Simon?”
“Come on, please?”
“Okay, fine—I’ll send you a few letters so long as this stays between us. I’m not supposed to keep in contact with past clients.”
“Wouldn’t you need a Ouija board for that?”
“The one’s that don’t die, you sconehead.”
“Well I’m honoured to be your fluke, Holly. Shit, time’s running out. I expect a letter within the week!”
“And my book?”
“Patience is a virtue, child.”
“And silence is golden—I suggest you practice it.”
“Touché.”
End of call.
YOU ARE READING
The Things That Stay
Teen FictionThe year is 1965: a year thrumming with promise and hope and change all around the globe. But for two people, change seems out of the question. Their worlds are rigid, stuck, fixed—and completely contradictory to one another. Holly is a frazzled and...
