The Caller (22 page)

Magda Oleszak looked out from under the hood of a black waterproof jacket as she pulled the zip closed under her chin.

‘Are we crazy going out in this?’ She turned to the support staff standing next to her in the lobby of the Colt-Embry Homes.

‘No,’ shouted the residents.

Magda smiled. ‘OK then. Let’s get soaked.’

Mary made a move for the door. Magda grabbed her arm gently. ‘Are you sure you won’t join us for dinner?’

‘Yes,’ said Mary.

‘Or I can come with you?’ said Magda. ‘And we can meet the others before the movie?’

‘I’ll be OK.’ Mary held up her phone and switched between a screen with written directions to the church and one with a map from there to the movie theater. ‘I just want to be alone. But thanks, Magda. I’ll see you all at eight.’
She gave a small wave, pulled up her hood and dashed out into the rain.

St Martin’s Church was empty but for the last of the congregation from evening mass. They were spread out across the pews that bordered the centre aisle or standing by the altar, putting money in slots to light candles. The smell of incense and wet umbrellas hung in the air. Mary kneeled in one of the pews near the back, setting her bag on the seat behind her. She prayed to each of the statues mounted high on plinths along the walls. She lost herself in the words, shutting out the sounds around her. She felt close to David, close to her parents, far away from all the bad things that had happened. She knew the intensity of her faith was a side-effect of her injury, but at least it was a positive one. She was at ease reciting childhood prayers that had been locked away safely in her long-term memory. She loved discovering new prayers, reading them from little cards, comforted by how right it was to find positivity in the darkest times.

After half an hour she picked up her bag and walked to the door, reaching into the front pocket to take out her phone. It wasn’t there. She patted the other pocket. Nothing. Her heart immediately started to speed. She glanced around to see if anyone was watching her but then, she didn’t
care. She shook the contents of her bag all over the damp tiles: makeup, notebooks, loose pages, a hairbrush, Band-Aid, headache pills … things rolled away from her, paper blew into the air, but all Mary could see was that her phone wasn’t there. Her phone was her memory. And now it was gone.

‘No,’ she said out loud. ‘This is not happening to me.’

She pulled the lining of her bag out, checking it for holes. She started to cry. Her panic rose, pounding through her body. Her fingers trembled as she tried to drag everything back into the bag. She managed to stagger down the steps of the church, out the gate and make her way onto the street, where she grabbed the first person she saw.

‘I’m looking for the Colt-Embry Clinic,’ she said.

The person shrugged and walked on. The fourth person Mary asked pointed ahead, directing her left and then giving more instructions that Mary knew she wouldn’t remember. She pulled her notebook out and wrote it all down, ignoring the woman’s reaction. She walked quickly, then jogged, her eyes moving back and forth between the notebook and the pavement in case she had dropped the phone on the way to the church. She arrived at the apartment building to the warmth of the light at the empty reception desk. Everyone had left. She steadied her key with both hands as
she unlocked the main door and ran in. She made her way quickly to the elevators, pressing the button for her floor, desperately trying to talk herself calm. Her phone would be on her bed, she left it there, or it would be on the floor, or it was by the sink in the bathroom, or it was on the kitchen counter top or it was gone. Maybe it was gone. It was definitely gone. But didn’t she have it in the lobby? She couldn’t recall. All her fears gripped her internally, there was no outward show. If anyone saw her, all they would think was that she was determined, not that her lifeline was gone and she could fall apart at any moment. She imagined being found again by Stan or Magda or Julia curled into a ball on the floor like a crazy woman.

She made it to the second floor, rushed past the library. She got to her apartment door and was pushing on it before she even had the key turned. She burst in and ransacked the place, pulling out drawers, turning over cushions, sweeping things onto the floor, falling to her knees to look under every space a phone would or would not fit. She stopped suddenly. She could hear a noise coming from further down the corridor. But she didn’t care. She just needed to find her lists, her names, her whole life, lost in one tiny silver product.

She didn’t hear him come in behind her. He was so quick, he held her in his arms and had his
hand clamped around her mouth before she had time to scream.

For the second time in his life, Preston Blake sat in a small room with Mary Burig. His skin was covered in a film of greasy sweat that bled into his scalp, leaving his hair limp and flat against his forehead. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed furiously at his face, throwing it, damp and grey, to the ground when he had finished. He studied Mary, searching for signs of recognition.

Mary could feel the tightness of dried tears on her skin. They had streamed down her cheeks as he carried her away, brought her to one of the vacant apartments, sat her on the chair. The walls had been painted that day. The carpet was covered in sheets. Most of the furniture was gone or protected with plastic covers. There was a ladder and paint pots in the corner, some machine she didn’t recognize, brushes, newspapers, mugs, a radio. An overpowering smell of onion filled her nostrils. She looked around the room and saw one halved on a plate in the corner to absorb the paint fumes. It was dried out and useless. She couldn’t stop shaking. She still had her coat on and pulled it around her to keep her warm, even though she knew that the cold wasn’t the problem.

The memories Mary had of the man sitting opposite her were fragmented, the same broken narrative she tried to put back together before her
seizures. A plug-in light, glowing on a baseboard, a tall figure standing in her office doorway, his voice strangled, his breathing shallow, “
I need your
help I need your help I need your help, sit down. Don’t
do anything else. Just fucking listen to me, OK? Just
listen to me. I’m looking for a little help here, OK? OK?
I think I’m losing my mind. I just need you to listen to
me. OK? Listen. That’s all. That’s your job, right? To
listen and to help
.” Recoiling from him, he must have been only six or seven years older than her, but looked so much older, worn down … beyond her knowledge, “
Are you listening to me? Help me. I
don’t want to be who I am. Please help me. Stop me.
His teeth. Liar. He was a fucking liar. I can rebuild some
of the damage. But he’s gone, he won’t come back. I’m
going to do it again. I’m going to kill again
.” Then David arriving, angry, protecting …

Mary shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t remember.’

Blake tilted his head, saw the confusion in her face.

‘What are you going to do to me?’ said Mary.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did you kill my brother?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’ Her voice was pleading and desperate.

‘I made a mistake.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, I thought I could be prepared. For prison. For anything. But I made a mistake. I was
wrong. I tried. It didn’t work. And all I wanted then was to stay free. And I would have stopped killing … after you.’

‘Please don’t—’

He stared at her. ‘I didn’t start out this way. I just … something snapped. I wanted confirmation. That’s all. I tried to make friends with people …’

‘You must have some people who care about you.’

‘Not everyone has friends. Not someone like me. Maybe beforehand … but not now.’

‘Maybe you left it too late.’

‘What?’

‘For help.’

‘That would suit you to think that way.’ Mary said nothing.

‘You’re nearly normal, aren’t you?’ said Blake. Mary nodded.

‘That’s got to be hard.’

She stared at him.

‘We’re tied together by lies,’ he said.

‘You and me?’ said Mary.

He nodded.

‘No,’ said Mary. ‘We’re not. Lies were just – something to you.’

‘They
are
me. But … they’re everyone.’

‘That’s not true.’

He laughed sadly. ‘That’s my point. It
is
true. You called me a freak, remember? You kept
screaming at me to get out and calling me a freak. I lost it. I know I did. But I’m not a freak. It turns out really I’m not. Everyone lies like me. No-one wants to admit it. I’m just proving it. Push people far enough and they’ll tell you the truth. But why do you have to push so far?’

Lies had been a huge part of Mary Burig’s life and what had led her to this point, what had brought Preston Blake into her world. It was the evening before her final exam. She sat in one of four quiet corners at Tewkes, the deadest bar in Boulder. Her Biopsychology textbook was spread out on the small round table in front of her with notes written in the margin. She knew how her mind worked. Intense bursts of studying right before an exam paid off. She kept up with most subjects all year, but for the ones she didn’t, she could concentrate all her energies in a twelve-hour session and still come out on top. She waited an hour, focused on reading, wired on coffee.

Then Jonny Tewkes walked in, the son of the owner, followed by most of his class on the trail of free beer. Mary kept her head down. But Jonny had seen her and walked over, pulling out the stool opposite her and closing the textbook shut.

‘Mary Burig. Now is not the time.’ He smiled.

She smiled back. ‘No. It’s way past the time.’

‘When’s the exam?’

‘Tomorrow morning.’

‘Then you’re done. You need to relax for the evening. In preparation.’

Mary rolled her eyes.

‘You do psychology, right? So isn’t it proven that sex releases endorphins and they make you relaxed and happy?’

‘So we’ve just skipped straight to that then?’

‘Not at all. I’m obviously going to get you drunk first.’

‘You really are such a loser.’

‘A sincere one. I can not stop thinking about last week.’

She smiled. ‘Me too.’

‘So, what’s your problem?’

She opened her book. ‘This.’

He shook his head.

‘Look,’ said Mary. ‘Let’s hook up tomorrow night, OK?’

‘I can’t keep this up for twenty-four hours.’

She smiled. ‘From what I saw …’

A waiter came over with a beer and a glass of white wine.

‘Cheers,’ said Jonny.

‘One mouthful,’ said Mary, reaching for her wine.

Mary didn’t make it to her final exam. She didn’t graduate. And after months of partying with Jonny Tewkes, she moved in with him to the apartment above the bar and took a job as a waitress. But alcohol-fuelled sex and constant
conversations about having it, could sustain her only so long. And Jonny didn’t have much more to offer.

Mary left. She moved to New York. She opened a small office in SoHo that David paid for. The plaque on the wall had read Mary Burig, Psychologist. It sounded right to her. Her friend reproduced a University of Boulder Certificate and created a Masters certificate to go alongside it. He knew she was bright. She’d helped him get off drugs in his sophomore year. He knew she could help other people. David didn’t agree with what his sister was doing, but he covered for her then and right through their first meeting with Julia Embry.

Mary stared at Blake. One word flashed into her mind: CORRUPT, a mnemonic from college for the symptoms of Antisocial Personality Disorder: Cannot follow law. Obligations ignored. Remorseless. Recklessness. Underhandedness. Planning Deficit. Temper. Mary realized she also ticked some of those boxes.

Blake raised his voice. ‘Did you hear me?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Mary. ‘I was thinking.’

‘I wonder how your brain works now,’ said Blake.

‘So do I,’ she said. She looked away. ‘Did it make a difference?’

‘What?’

‘Killing those people. Did it prove to you what you wanted it to prove? That you’re normal, that everyone else is just like you, that you’re not … a freak?’

‘Everyone is just like me,’ he said. ‘Everyone lies. Everyone who told me I was a freak was wrong.’

‘Why am I here?’ said Mary.

‘Because I wanted to see you. Because I want to get away with my crimes now. Because I think it might be too late.’

‘You can’t blame me for what you’ve done,’ said Mary.

‘I want to give you something,’ he said.

Mary started to shake. She was watching the gun in his right hand.

‘And what I will give you is time,’ said Blake, standing up. With his left hand, he started to pull something from his pocket. She could see a flash of silver in the moonlight through the window. He was handing her back her phone. Giving her a lifeline. Letting her go. She reached out and took it from him.

Suddenly, the door behind him flew open and he jerked around. Mary shut her eyes tight, aware of an explosion of light and gunshot. The window behind her shattered. She flung herself flat on the floor and clawed her way towards the door. Screams, more gunshot, footsteps, a terrible smell. She could feel something warm on her face,
something trickle down her cheek. She wiped it away before it could reach her mouth. As soon as she got into the hallway, she ran. She could hear the random workings of the building that went on all day and all night, sounds she would never notice, only that now she was alone and it was dark and she was afraid. She cried quiet, desperate tears.

She made it to the elevator bank. A sign told her it should not be used in the case of a fire. She thought about how quickly it would get her down to the first floor, to the lobby, to the outside. Then she imagined being trapped in there. Anyone could push a button on any floor and step into that tiny space with her. She turned her head and knew the only way to go was back towards the emergency stairs, back through the half-finished renovation. She ran, under the eerie black void of missing ceiling tiles, exposed wires, conscious that all around her were doors to empty apartments.