The Late Call
Daniel stepped out of the office. A low, ash-gray sky pressed down on the city, heavy and oppressive. Only the crosses atop the golden domes of St. Nicholas’ Church stretched defiantly upward, piercing the gloom.
A faint drizzle needled his face as he walked to his car. Inside the Ford, the lingering scent of air freshener was barely noticeable. Daniel rested his hands on the wheel for a moment, relieved he’d picked up the car from the garage at lunch. No waiting in the rain for the bus, no squeezing into a crowded ride home.
He turned the key, and the cabin filled with the tinny melody of a pop song. He turned it down. “Home,” he told himself, pulling onto the high street. His fingers tapped the wheel in time to the simple tune.
Friday. On Fridays, he and his mates hit the pub, letting loose after the workweek. What else were young, free men without families or obligations supposed to do?
The flat greeted him with silence. From the doorway, he saw the wardrobe flung open. A bad feeling twisted in his chest. He kicked off his shoes and padded across the carpet in socks, already knowing what he’d find. Among his shirts and jackets hung empty hangers, the ones that had once held Emily’s dresses and blouses.
She was gone. They’d argued a lot lately, but always made up quickly. She’d called him at work earlier, said she wouldn’t join him at the pub. He’d been distracted, then went to fetch the car… “Was she really upset over a missed call? Do people break up over that?” That was his first thought. “No. She planned this. Left the wardrobe open so I’d walk straight into loneliness, so I’d feel guilty. There should be a note—accusations, goodbyes.” He scanned the room.
They’d lived together six months. Emily suited him—pretty, cheerful, just sharp enough to keep things interesting. So it was him who hadn’t suited her. Lately, she’d started talking about weddings, honeymoons… He’d joked it off. Of course. She’d waited for a sign, then forced his hand. Thought he’d call, beg her to come back…
Daniel realized that was exactly what he wanted to do. He dialed her number, but her phone was off. He tossed his onto the sofa.
He imagined Emily now, perched on one leg by the sink, peeling potatoes… He wanted her back, right this second. He shuffled to the kitchen. The sink held breakfast dishes, unwashed. Beside them, an empty wine bottle—leftover from some party. “Drank it alone, then. Hesitated, second-guessed.” That pleased him. He washed the dishes. The bottle went neck-first into the overflowing bin.
Emily hated dirty dishes. So she’d left them for him, a lesson. “See how hard it’ll be alone?” She was a performer. That’s why he’d loved her. Though he’d only said it early on.
A note was stuck to the fridge door with a magnet. “I’m leaving. Not sure we should keep this going.” No explanations, no accusations, no signature.
And he’d already picked out a ring. Just waiting for payday, for the right moment to kneel, to surprise her in front of all their friends.
“If a girl leaves you, it’s for the best,” he half-sang, twisting the lyrics of some old tune.
In the quiet kitchen, it sounded off-key and sad. “She’ll be back. I’ve got pride too. Won’t call. Let her stew.” He grabbed the bin bag and headed outside.
When he returned, he heard his phone ringing before he’d even shut the door. He lunged for the sofa, still in his boots. An unknown number flashed on the screen. Ignore it? But what if it was Emily?
“Yeah?” he answered.
“Dave, hi.” For a second, Daniel thought it *was* Emily. “It’s me, Sophie. Took me ages to call. You never promised me anything… But I don’t know what to do…” A girl’s voice, soft and uncertain.
“Who? What Sophie?” Daniel didn’t even notice she’d called him Dave.
“You don’t remember me? Then we’ve nothing to talk about.” The line went dead.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered.
He noticed muddy boot prints on the carpet and swore again. Then the phone rang once more.
“Dave, I just wanted to say—”
“I’m not Dave. It’s Daniel. You’ve got the wrong number,” he explained.
“You lied to me? Why? You gave me this number yourself,” she recited his digits back to him.
“Didn’t lie. Been Daniel for twenty-six years. Never gave you my number.” His voice sharpened.
“I shouldn’t have called…”
“Oh no, you don’t hang up now. If you called, say what you want.” But she was already gone.
“No more answering.” He silenced the ringtone but left the phone on. Some hope still flickered—that Emily would call, explain, set terms for coming back. He barely had time to finish the thought before the phone vibrated, grating on his nerves.
“Sophie, was it? Why keep calling if you won’t say what you want?”
“Sorry…” A sigh, a sob, or the sound of water cut her off. “I don’t know what to do. I thought there was something… I wanted to say it’s my fault… You didn’t do anything wrong…”
“Wrong how?” Daniel shouted into the silence—Sophie had hung up again.
He frowned. Her voice had sounded weak, drowsy. And that noise in the background—water? Was she crying? “It’s my fault, you didn’t do anything…” People said that before they— “Christ, what’s happening?”
He dialed his friend. Dave was notorious for his flings, picking up girls in pubs.
“Changed your mind about joining us? Get down here, it’s kicking off!” Dave’s voice fought against loud music.
“Dave, why’d you give some girl named Sophie my number?”
“No idea who you’re on about. Can’t remember.” The music faded—he must’ve stepped outside. “Mate, forget it. Met some bird, had a laugh—”
“Where? You been to her place? Give me the address,” Daniel demanded.
“Fancy cheating on Emily? About time—” Dave chuckled.
“Something’s happened to her. Where does she live?”
“No clue. Wait—Church Street, maybe. That new tower block? Her place is the old maisonette opposite.”
“Flat number?”
“How should I know? Second floor, front door by the stairs. Maybe.”
“Right. Get a cab and meet me there. Now!” Daniel hung up.
Wet tarmac glistened under the headlights. Friday night, and the roads were quiet. He made it fast. The tower block loomed over the crumbling maisonettes like a prize stallion among nags. “From the road, it’s the maisonette in front.”
Daniel got out and scanned the building. A few lights were on. Second floor—just one flat lit. He approached the entrance. “Damn. Keypad. Have to wait for Dave.” He yanked the handle on impulse. Unocked.
Taking stairs two at a time, he reached the flat and pressed the buzzer. Silence. The door was ajar. A sick feeling settled in his gut. “Do I really want this?” But he was already pushing inside.
“Sophie?” he called toward the brightly lit living room.
A strip of light seeped under a door to his left. He knocked. “Coming in,” he announced, opening it.
In the tub lay a naked girl, eyes closed. One arm hung over the edge, stopping her from slipping entirely under the water—red with blood. No doubt in his mind. Unconscious or worse. He called an ambulance, studying her wrist. No cuts.
“What the hell?” Dave’s voice came from behind.
“Ask yourself. She thought I was you on the phone—”
“Girls say all sorts. If I married every bird I’d shagged, they’d lock me up for bigamy. She alive?” Dave peered in. “Call an ambulance. Maybe we should go—”
“Already did. Run if you want. I’ll stay.”
The ambulance arrived. Together, they carried Sophie downstairs.
“What happened?” Daniel asked the paramedic.
“Looks like a backstreet abortion. Took something, then got in hot water. Could’ve died.” The older man gave them a hard look. “Next time, give her the money for a proper clinic. Jim, call ahead—theatre four.”
Lights flashing, the ambulance sped off.
“Drop me home. Sent my cab away,” Dave said, sober now.
They reached the Ford. Daniel unlocked his side, then blocked the passenger door.
Dave yanked the handle. “What’s your problem?”
“Get yourself home,” Daniel snapped, sliding into the driver’s seat.
Through the rearview, he watched Dave shouting, waving his arms.
“WhatSix months later, Daniel sat across from Sophie in a sunlit café, stirring his tea as she laughed at something he’d said, and for the first time in years, the weight in his chest didn’t feel quite so heavy.
