The Late Night Call

The Late Call

Oliver stepped out of the office. A heavy grey sky pressed down on London, suffocating the city. Only the spires of St. Nicholas Cathedral pierced stubbornly upwards through the gloom.

A thin drizzle needled his face as he walked to the car. Inside the Mini, the faint synthetic scent of air freshener hung in the air. Oliver gripped the wheel and sat for a moment, relieved he’d picked it up from the garage at lunch. No waiting for a bus in the rain, no shoving through crowds on the way home.

He turned the key, and the radio blared some insipid pop tune. Oliver turned it down. “Home,” he muttered and pulled onto the high street. His fingers tapped the wheel in time with the mindless melody.

Friday. And on Fridays, he and his mates hit the club—letting loose after the grind of the week. What else were young, free men with no wives, kids, or responsibilities supposed to do?

The flat greeted him with silence. From the doorway, he saw the wardrobe hanging open. A cold twist clenched his gut. He kicked off his shoes and padded in socks to the bedroom, already knowing what he’d find. Among his shirts and jackets, empty hangers dangled where Sophie’s dresses and tops once hung.

Gone. They’d argued a lot lately, but always made up. She’d called him at work, said she wouldn’t join them at the club. Then he’d been distracted, fetching the car… “Was she really that upset over an unreturned call? People don’t split over that,” Oliver thought. No. She’d planned this. Left the doors open so he’d walk straight into the crushing weight of loneliness, steeped in guilt. “There should be a note,” he mused, scanning the room. “Something dramatic. Accusations. Goodbyes.”

They’d been together six months. Sophie suited him—pretty, fun, just sharp enough to keep things interesting. So it must’ve been him who didn’t suit her. Lately, she’d brought up marriage, honeymoons… He’d dodged with jokes. Right. She’d tired of waiting and forced his hand. Probably thought he’d call, beg her to come back…

Oliver realised that was exactly what he wanted to do. He dialled her number, but her phone was off. He tossed his onto the sofa.

He pictured Sophie, hip against the sink, balanced on one leg like a crane, peeling potatoes… He wanted her back. Now. He shuffled to the kitchen. Breakfast dishes sat unwashed in the sink. Nearby, an empty wine bottle—leftover from some party. “Drank it alone, then. Hesitated, second-guessed.” That pleased him. He washed up, crammed the bottle neck-first into the overflowing bin.

Sophie hated dirty dishes. So she’d left them. A lesson. Let him see how hard it’d be alone—no one to tidy up after him. Actress. That’s why he’d loved her. Though he’d only said it early on.

A note clung to the fridge, pinned by a magnet. “I’m leaving. Not sure we should keep doing this.” No explanations. No signature.

And he’d already eyed a ring. Just waiting for payday, for the right moment to drop to one knee in front of everyone and give it to her.

*If the girl walks out, it’s for the best*, he half-sang, twisting the lyrics of some old chart-topper.

In the quiet kitchen, it sounded hollow. “She’ll come back. I’ve got pride too. Won’t call. Let her sweat.” He grabbed the bin and headed out.

When he returned, the phone was trilling from the sofa. Still in his shoes, he lunged for it. An unknown number. Ignore it? What if it was Sophie?

“Yeah?”

“Tom? Hi.” Oliver’s heart leapt—Sophie? “It’s me, Emily. Took me ages to call. You never promised me anything… but I don’t know what to…” a girl’s voice faltered.

“Who? Emily?” He barely registered her calling him Tom.

“You don’t remember? Then there’s nothing to say.” The line died.

“What the hell?” Oliver hissed.

He noticed muddy shoeprints on the carpet and swore again. The phone rang.

“Tom, I wanted to say—”

“Not Tom. Oliver. Wrong number,” he cut in.

“You lied? Why? You gave me this number,” she recited it perfectly.

“I didn’t. Been Oliver 26 years. Never gave you my number.”

“I shouldn’t have called…”

“No, you don’t hang up now. If you called, spit it out.” But she was gone.

*No more answering.* He silenced the ringer but left it on. Maybe Sophie would call, explain, set terms for coming home… The phone vibrated, gnawing at his nerves.

“Emily. What do you want?”

“Sorry—” The word dissolved into a sigh—or was it a sob? Water splashing? “I don’t know what to do. I thought we… I wanted to say it’s me… You’re not to blame…”

“Blame for what?” Oliver shouted into dead air.

Something was wrong. Her voice had sounded faint, slurred. And that noise in the background—crying? Water? *It’s me, you’re not to blame.* People said that before…

He rang his mate Tom, notorious charmer, always picking up women in clubs.

“Changed your mind? Get down here, it’s kicking off!” Tom yelled over music.

“Why’d you give some Emily my number?”

“No clue. Don’t remember her.” The music faded—he’d stepped outside. “Mate, who cares? Met some bird. Few nights, that’s it.”

“Where? Her place? Address. Now.”

“Fancy cheating on Sophie? About time—” Tom laughed. “Bad timing, mate.”

“Something’s wrong. Where does she live?”

“Dunno. Wait—Church Street, maybe. New tower block there. Her place is that old maisonette right in front.”

“Flat number?”

“Second floor, opposite the stairs. Maybe.”

“Get a cab. Meet me there. Now.” Oliver hung up.

Headlights glinted off wet tarmac. Friday night, roads quiet. He drove fast. The tower loomed over the squat maisonettes like a lord over peasants. *The one right in front.*

Oliver got out. A few lights were on. Second floor—just one, corner flat. He tried the main door. *Damn. Keypad.* He yanked the handle. Unlocked.

He took the stairs two at a time, rang the bell. Silence. The door was slightly ajar. His stomach lurched. *Walk away. But he pushed inside.*

“Emily?” he called towards the lit lounge.

A strip of light under the bathroom door. 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. Blood. No question. Unconscious—or worse. He called an ambulance, scanning her wrists. No cuts.

“What the hell?” Tom’s voice behind him.

“Your mess. She called—thought it was you.”

“Mate, if I married every girl I shagged, I’d be done for bigamy. She alive? Ambulance. Maybe we should leg it.”

“Already called. You can go. I’ll wait.”

The paramedics arrived. They helped carry Emily down.

“What happened?” Oliver asked by the ambulance.

“Looks like a home abortion. Took something, then a hot bath. Stone-age stuff. Could’ve died.” The older medic glared at Tom. “Next time, give her the cash for a clinic. Dave, ring ahead—prep theatre.” Sirens wailed as they sped off.

“Give me a lift. Sent my cab away,” Tom said, sober as a judge.

At the Mini, Oliver unlocked only the driver’s side. Tom tugged the handle.

“Oi! Open up!”

“Walk.” Oliver revved off, watching Tom flail in the rearview.

*What if Sophie’s pregnant too?* He pulled over, dialled her.

*“The number you have called—”* He hung up. *No. Sophie’s a drama queen. Would’ve made a scene.* The girl’s pale face in the tub haunted him all the way home.

Next day, he visited the hospital, found Emily’s ward.

“Hi. Oliver. You rang me.” He smiled, stepping in.

A woman on the next bed tactfully left. Emily was still pale, her face delicate, almost ethereal.

“Why come? Want thanks?” Her lips barely moved.

“Isn’t that why you called? Left the door open? Tom came too, by the way.”

“None of your business.” She turned to the window. He turned to leave.

“My ex left me six months ago. Then Tom… Didn’t want to live,” she whispered.

“Girl left meHe hesitated, then reached for her hand and said, “Seems we’ve both had a rough go of it—fancy giving life another shot together?” and for the first time in months, the weight in his chest didn’t feel quite so heavy.

Rate article
The Late Night Call