Run To You

So I suppose it’s more of a jolt to hear that voice, in the middle of all of this. Back there at The Harrington he belonged, but even then it was a shock. Now it’s almost impossible … like hearing a lion roar in a library. You turn around expecting dusty books and there it is, sleek and predatory and ready to devour you whole.

‘Hello, Alissa,’ he says, and I think he might devour me whole. In fact, I know he will. He’s barely said a word and I’m already speechless and frozen, unable to process his presence in my silly basic office. How did he know where I was? Why does he care where I am? He wrote those words – ‘Call me’ – but I didn’t think they were serious.

‘I’m very disappointed in you.’

Or that I was capable of provoking an emotion like disappointment. I’ve never been important enough for anyone to be disappointed in me. No one has ever expected me to make something big of myself; I’ve never done anything so awful that it let anybody down.

This is entirely new territory, and so disturbing because of that fact. It’s like I’ve stepped into another dimension, while drunk. The world slants sideways and my stomach goes with it … if this carries on for much longer I’m going to lose my lunch. I’m sweating already, and my skin is prickling, and worst of all: I don’t know how to answer him.

I don’t know.

I don’t belong in your world, I think at him, but phones don’t pick up thoughts. He has to make do with my stupid silence, and my shaky breathing.

‘Calling then hanging up? That’s hardly polite. Why would you do such a thing?’

‘I don’t know,’ I tell him, while the image of my own fear and panic rises inside me. It’s like seeing a bird caught inside a bottle.

‘Perhaps you were busy, and couldn’t complete the call,’ he says, in this purring persuasive tone – almost as though he’s daring me to say yes. Make it easy on yourself, he seems to be suggesting, but weirdly I can’t quite do it.

I can’t say, ‘Yes, go away, I’m busy’ now.

‘Perhaps.’

‘Or maybe you had an appointment you had to attend.’

‘That could be the case.’

‘You have such an important life,’ he says, and I know for sure then. He’s teasing me, in the most subtle and strange way I’ve ever been teased in my life. I can almost hear a lick of laughter in the back of his voice, but it’s not unpleasant. It’s not even infuriating.

It’s something else, instead.

‘I really do.’

‘So many matters to attend to.’

‘Absolutely.’

He makes a little hmm-ing noise in the back of his throat, like some friendly psychiatrist. I can almost see him nodding with understanding, though of course it’s obvious the understanding is fake. It’s obvious even before he knifes me with his next words, hard and fast and right under my ribs.

‘Nothing at all to do with being afraid and intimidated.’

I fall silent again then – mainly because I have to. It’s impossible to talk when your throat has sealed itself up, and your body is frozen in one weird position. I’m almost bent double over my desk and my hand has made a fist in my best suit jacket, as though my body just had to prove him right. Naturally I’m afraid and intimidated.

I’m a completely ridiculous person talking to this scion of business. He probably eats people like me for breakfast. I’m probably not even good enough for his breakfast. I’m the water he swills around his mouth after brushing his teeth with his gold toothbrush, before spitting me into the sink.

‘Are you still there, Alissa?’

I wish I wasn’t. I wish I could tell him where to go, but there are so many reasons why I won’t. There’s Lucy and what happened with her, and that place and its mysterious allure. And then of course there’s the real reason:

Him.

‘Possibly.’

‘This makes me think of you as something ephemeral, that I might blow away with a whisper. Is that so?’

‘I’d probably phrase it a different way, but generally yes.’

‘Really? How would you phrase it? Tell me, enlighten me, let me hear your voice.’

That’s too much pressure. He has to know that’s too much, right? Just the idea of enlightening him is making my armpits prickle.

‘I wouldn’t use the word ephemeral.’

‘I see. And there is a reason for this?’

‘Yes. It’s too … pretty. It needs to be more basic.’

‘Ah, then perhaps insubstantial would do.’

‘That’s better.’

‘Or invisible.’

‘I could deal with invisible.’

‘Of course you can. Of course. Because that is how you feel, is it not? You feel so perfectly invisible, like no one could ever notice a single thing about you. And, in fact, you’ve grown so used to this state of affairs that you’ve started to fall in love with it. You like being in the background, hidden from view … lingering around the edges at parties … keeping out of conversations in case someone finds you as insufferably dull as you’ve always suspected you are. You can’t even talk to me because what if I don’t care either? Surely my life must be so expensive and jaded that anything you say will sound like the simperings of a child.’

He pauses just long enough for me to say something here – a denial, perhaps, or an accusation. But truthfully, I think he knows I’ll only answer with this hollow, horrified silence. I think he was hoping for it, so he can just go ahead and fill it up with this:

‘And yet I feel I have to ask: if this is all the case, and you are so little and so weak … why is it that I could feel your presence through five inches of wood? Can you tell me, invisible Alissa? Why are you – in silence – stronger and stranger than any woman I’ve actually met?’

* * *

I don’t know why I hung up on him so abruptly. When I look back on it now it seems like something a person would do if the phone suddenly bit them, and they really needed to get away. I can even picture it in my head: the receiver clattering back down onto the cradle, my hand jerking back.

He probably thought I was insane.

But that’s OK, because I think he’s insane. I think he’s so insane I can’t stop thinking about him. What did he mean by invisible, exactly? And more importantly: how did he know that I was? Surely the point of being invisible is that no one can see you. He must have X-ray vision, I think, but doing so doesn’t help me.

It only makes things worse, because who wouldn’t be intrigued by a man with superhero eyes? If I call again I might find out he has other skills, like the ability to fly in through a window and save me from this stultifying existence.

And for a while I come close to calling him. I get as far as the last digit, but before I can hear the purring ring in my ear I slam the phone back down again. I’m not a weak person, tricked by strange mind games and just waiting for some Superman to come rescue me. I know that he never will, for a start.

But oh, my foolish heart.

How my foolish heart fails me when my phone suddenly goes, ten seconds later. It actually seems to jerk in my chest, before slowly dissolving through my insides. I flick my gaze to that previously innocuous piece of machinery, angry at it for changing. Angry at the ring that now seems as sharp as a knife and dark as midnight.

It makes me think of horror movies, when you know the killer’s calling. The startled heroine, that lonely drilling tinkle, the wide-eyed stare in the phone’s direction … it’s all there. I actually catch myself with my mouth open. I have to compose myself and close it, before I pick up the receiver. And it’s a close call, even then.