**The Late Night Call**
Denny stepped out of the office. A low, grey sky pressed down on the city, as if trying to flatten it. Only the crosses atop the golden domes of St. Nicholas’s Church stretched stubbornly upwards, refusing to be smothered by the drizzle.
The fine rain needled his face as he walked to his car. Inside the Toyota, there was the faintest hint of air freshener. He rested his hands on the wheel for a moment, relieved he’d picked it up from the garage at lunch—no soggy bus queues tonight.
He turned the key, and the radio blared some obnoxious pop song. Denny turned it down. “Home,” he commanded himself, pulling onto the main road. His fingers drummed along to the mindless tune.
Friday. And on Fridays, he and his mates hit the pub to unwind. What else were young, free, and childless blokes supposed to do?
The flat greeted him with silence. From the doorway, he spotted the wardrobe flung open. A bad feeling writhed in his gut. Kicking off his shoes, he padded in—then froze. Among his shirts and jackets dangled empty hangers, stripped of Ella’s dresses and jumpers.
Gone. They’d bickered lately, sure, but always made up. She’d rung him at work, said she wasn’t up for the pub tonight. He’d got distracted, then went to fetch the car… *Did she leave because I didn’t call back?* *Would she really break up over that?* Nah. She’d planned this. Left the wardrobe open so he’d step straight into loneliness and guilt. There should’ve been a dramatic note, too—accusations scribbled in fury. He scanned the room.
Six months together. Ella had been perfect—funny, pretty, just the right amount of stroppy. So *he* must’ve been the problem. Lately, she’d started talking weddings, honeymoons… He’d laughed it off. Of course. She got tired of waiting and forced his hand. Probably expected him to beg her back right now.
Which, admittedly, he *did* want to do. He dialled her number. Voicemail. He chucked his phone onto the sofa.
He pictured Ella, balanced on one leg by the sink, peeling potatoes… He wanted her back *now*. He slouched into the kitchen. Breakfast plates sat unwashed. Next to them—an empty wine bottle, leftover from some party. *”Drank it fretting, did she?”* That cheered him. He washed up, shoved the bottle neck-first into the overflowing bin.
Ella hated dirty dishes. She’d left them on purpose—a lesson. *See how rubbish life is without me?* Actress. Exactly why he’d fancied her. Though he hadn’t said “love” since the early days.
Then he spotted the note on the fridge, held by a magnet: *”I’m leaving. Not sure we should keep doing this.”* No reasons. No signature. Just that.
And he’d already picked out a ring. Just waiting for payday and the right moment to drop to one knee in front of all their mates.
*”If a girl walks away, it’s for the best,”* he sang, mangling the lyrics of some old tune.
It sounded flat and sad in the quiet kitchen. *”She’ll come back. I won’t call. Let her sweat.”* He grabbed the bin bag and headed out.
When he returned, his phone was buzzing on the sofa. An unknown number. Ignore it? *What if it’s Ella?*
“Yeah?” he answered.
“Dave? Hi.” His heart leapt—Ella? “It’s, um, me. Beth. I’ve been scared to call. You didn’t promise me anything, but… I don’t know what to do,” a girl’s voice trembled.
“Who? What Beth?” Denny didn’t even clock she’d called him Dave.
“You don’t remember me? Then there’s nothing to say.” Click.
“What the—?” He cursed aloud, then again when he saw muddy boot prints on the rug. The phone rang once more.
“Dave, I just wanted to say—”
“Not Dave. *Denny*. Wrong number, love.”
“You *lied*? You gave me this number yourself!” She recited it back perfectly.
“I’ve been Denny for 26 years, and no, I didn’t.”
“I shouldn’t have called…”
“Oh no, you don’t. You rang *twice*—spit it out.” Dead air again.
*”No more answering.”* He muted the ringer—but kept the phone on. Maybe Ella would still call, explain, lay out her terms… His phone vibrated, jangling his nerves.
“Beth, *what* do you want?”
“Sorry…” A sigh, or maybe a sob. “I thought we… I just wanted to say it’s not your fault—”
*”What’s not my fault?!”* She’d hung up again.
Denny frowned. That last call—her voice had been weak. And was that… water in the background? *”It’s not your fault.”* People say that before they—
He rang his mate Dave, infamous ladies’ man.
“Changed your mind about the pub? Get down here, it’s chaos!” Music thumped behind him.
“Dave—why’d you give some girl named Beth *my* number?”
“Who? Dunno her.” The music faded—he must’ve stepped outside. “Look, mate, if you fancy a shag, just say—”
“*Something’s wrong*. Where does she live?”
“How should I—? Wait. Grafton Street, maybe? New high-rise, but hers is that old brick dump next to it.”
“Which flat?”
“Second floor, opposite the stairs. Why?”
“Get a taxi. Now. Meet me there.” Denny hung up.
Wet tarmac glittered under headlights. Friday night traffic was thin—he made it fast. The new tower loomed over the crumbling flats like a toff at a council estate pub. *”Old one in front.”*
He jogged to the shabby entrance. *”Damn, keypad.”* He yanked the handle—unlocked.
Taking stairs two at a time, he reached the flat and jabbed the buzzer. Nothing. The door was ajar. His stomach twisted. *”Do I really want to walk into this?”* Too late. He pushed inside.
“Beth?” Light spilled from a room ahead. Another door glowed faintly—the loo. He knocked. “Coming in.”
A naked girl lay in the tub, eyes closed. One arm dangled over the edge, keeping her from slipping under the pink-tinged water. No cuts on her wrist. He dialled 999.
“What the—?” Dave stood in the doorway.
*”Your mess.”* Denny snapped. “She rang *me* thinking I was you.”
“Mate, if I married every bird I’ve shagged, I’d be in jail for bigamy. She alive? Ambulance?”
“Already called. Piss off if you want.”
Paramedics arrived. They helped carry Beth downstairs.
“What happened?” Denny asked the older medic.
“Looks like a botched DIY abortion. Drank something, then soaked in hot water. Medieval. Could’ve died. Don’t care which of you drove her to it—next time, chip in for a proper clinic.” The ambulance tore off, sirens wailing.
“Give us a lift? Sent my cab away,” Dave said, oddly sober.
At the car, Denny unlocked only the driver’s side. Dave yanked the handle.
“Oi! Let me in!”
“Walk.” Denny revved off, watching Dave flip him off in the mirror.
*”What if Ella’s pregnant?”* He pulled over and dialled. Voicemail. *”No—she’d have made a scene, not just left.”* Beth’s pale face floated in his mind all the way home.
Next day, he visited the hospital.
“Hi. I’m Denny. You called me.” He smiled, entering the ward. The woman in the next bed tactfully left.
Beth was still ghostly, which somehow made her prettier.
“Why come? Want thanks?” Her lips barely moved.
“Isn’t that why you rang? Left the door open? Dave turned up too, by the way.”
“None of your business.” She turned to the window.
Denny stood to leave.
“My ex left me six months ago. Then Dave… Didn’t want to live,” she whispered.
“My girl dumped me yesterday,” he blurted.
He visited until she was discharged, even drove her home.
“You rent this place?” He eyed the peeling wallpaper.
“Live with Nan. She’s away visiting family.”
“Parents?”
“Died in a crash years ago.” She opened the fridge—empty.
“Need anything from the shops?”
Pity? Sure. But he fancied her, too. Something aboutAs he handed her a cup of tea, their fingers brushed—just like the first time he’d met Ella—and Denny realized some endings were really just beginnings in disguise.
