Last Night Together Read online

  The Call

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  A letter from P.D. Viner

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  Chapter One

  11.59 p.m.

  Mia

  I can’t breathe.

  Calm down, Mia, hold it together.

  It’s almost midnight. Time is running out. I wish I didn’t have to call – Christ, I wish I didn’t – but I can’t do this alone. I need Ben. I need my husband. I reach out to the phone again, though now my hand is shaking too much to pick it up.

  Breathe, Mia.

  Oh god, please don’t let this be the end, I’ll do anything to make this right… anything… please.

  Breathe.

  I have to calm down, I need the world to stop spinning. My lungs are on fire. I’m holding my breath, like a petulant child, because I want to freeze time and keep the new day from starting. I want to push it back, just a few hours, to before all this happened. That isn’t much to ask, is it? A second chance?

  Oh god, Ben, I’m so sorry to pull you into this mess, but I need you. You’re my lifeline, my phone-a-friend, and I know you’ll come, like a true hero – like Sir Galahad, or Romeo or John Wick. You’ll come because you love me. I know you do, because you’ve told me so a trillion times.

  ‘I love you and I will always come when you need me, even if I have to cross an ocean or break into hell itself, I will come. It will always be the two of us against the world.’

  He said that before he put the ring on my finger, in front of all of our friends and everyone that loved us. That was twenty years ago. Christ, where did the time go?

  Our wedding day was beautiful. We were married by a lake, in an ancient stone circle. Ben made the confetti himself, from old law books he’d bought and shredded. He gave every guest a little bottle of bubble liquid and when the celebrant said ‘You may now kiss the bride,’ a hundred thousand bubbles floated into the air. It was magical. I wore a dress that floated like tissue paper, and Ben was in a suit the colour of oil on water. Our friends sang us songs and we’d rented doves, and someone brought a peacock, and afterwards there were fireworks and a ceilidh and… oh my god. I haven’t thought about that day in such a long time. Haven’t recalled how truly wonderful it was. I’d forgotten how much we loved each other.

  We wrote our own vows – of course Ben’s were off-the-scale romantic and I knew that I’d never be able to match him; that I could never show how I felt, or express it like he could, like a poet. I knew that I would always lose to him at the game of love. So what I said, in front of everyone, was:

  ‘You want me, you got me.’

  People laughed, ‘Just sooooo Mia,’ they said, but it was honest and true. I was his, and I couldn’t imagine that changing. Not then.

  Ben’s vows were next, and of course they were epic and eternal and beautiful and haunting… there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. Not even mine. Bloody romantic idiot.

  But tonight – well, I’ve broken it, haven’t I? Trampled our marriage into the dust and… oh god. What have I done to him and what have I done to us? When he knows the truth, about what I did, who I am… Will he still love me?

  It’s all such a fucking mess. Sometimes life gives you lemons, but you can’t make lemonade because there’s no sweetness left in the whole wide world, only sourness and bitterness and hate. Only the stench of blood and death and… I can’t breathe. I can’t…

  I would do anything to put this right. Anything. What are the stages of grief? Shock, denial, anger, bargaining… I’m absolutely at bargaining. This can’t be it – I will not let this be the end of me, the end of us. Please. Just give me one last chance.

  I grab the phone, as the final sands of the day drain away. Midnight is striking. I have to get hold of him. I need him.

  Wake up, Ben.

  ‘Ben!’ I scream.

  Chapter Two

  Midnight

  Ben

  ‘Wha—’

  I’m suddenly awake. For a second I’m lost, but then I realise I’m at home, in bed, though I feel groggy and a little weird. I think I just had a nightmare, but I don’t remember what happened in it except… Mia… Mia shouted my name, and that’s what woke me.

  I try and sit up and, oh Christ, I’m almost sick from the room spinning. It’s like being on a boat in a storm. My stomach’s pitching, and my head’s cracking open; I need some ibuprofen, and about three pints of sweet fizzy Berocca. And I really need to brush my teeth, as my mouth tastes like something died in it. I breathe deep, and let the rollercoaster finish its loop-the-loop and calm down. When I’m okay again, I reach out into the gloom, grab my glasses and search for my phone. It should be next to the bed but I can’t find it.

  ‘Mia?’ I whisper into the dark, but there’s no reply. ‘Mia?’ I call louder, but there’s still nothing. She isn’t here. I sit up carefully, and realise that I’m lying on top of the bed, not under the covers. I’m in my underwear, which is a stupidly snug Siouxsie and the Banshees T-shirt (as I still haven’t lost my lockdown tummy), and I’m wearing underpants that are fifty shades of grey, and not in a sexy way. I don’t understand what’s going on. Where’s Mia? What happened last night?

  By the dim glow of the digital clock I can see it’s 12.03. Why am I in bed so early; did I get really smashed tonight? I try and drag my memory out from whatever rock it’s hiding under, but there’s nothing there. I don’t know why. I stretch my arm out again, feeling for my phone. Maybe it fell and— what’s that? In the gloom, I can just about make out a cut on my hand, a jagged scratch crusted with dried blood. Underneath, there’s a wash of black, like smeared ink. It doesn’t hurt, but it looks like it would have hurt like hell when I did it. I have no memory of it happening. No memory of anything at all.

  And then I hear something, a burble from another room in the house, maybe downstairs, but I think it’s Mia talking. She’ll know why I’m in bed this early and why I can’t remember what happened tonight. She’s not a doctor, or a mind reader, it’s just that in our marriage she’s the practical one – I mean, we both wear the trousers, but hers fit properly.

  ‘Mia,’ I call, as I roll off the bed and steady myself, letting the dizziness settle down. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but I know it’s her. She must be on the phone, and at this time of night it can only be Sandi – an old friend whose life’s a total car crash. I’ll go and find Mia; if she can’t talk, then I’ll just kiss the top of her head, and then get some drugs to stop my brain exploding. Sounds like a cunning plan.

  I walk out onto the landing. There’s no sound. I can’t hear Mia anymore. The house is cold – like, really freezing. Mia’s always chilly and I’m always hot, so turning the heating on is a constant tug of war between us. Normally she wins, so I don’t know why it’s off, or why it’s so bloody dark. I can’t see a thing, but that doesn’t matter; I know the house like the back of my hand. On the wall to my left are our wedding photos, in old antique silver frames that we found in a little junk shop in Exeter. Next to them is a doll in a glass case. On our wedding night we stayed in a bed and breakfast a
nd the owner’s daughter made these woollen dolls, so we bought one and framed it. Then there are two paintings of Mia’s parents, and then an old photograph of my grandmother as a beautiful fresh-faced twenty-year-old on a fruit-picking holiday in Sussex. Below that there’s an old table with a lamp on it that my great grandfather made, and to the ri—

  ‘Jesus,’ I trip on something, right at the top of the stairs and fall forward. My arms cartwheel as I topple headfirst into the blackness. I shoot my hand out, grabbing at the bannister, and swing into the wall. Ouch.

  I’ll have a nasty bruise there later, but it’s better than breaking my neck. My heart’s racing. I don’t know what I fell over, but whatever it was, it shouldn’t have been there. I don’t know how or why, but something’s changed. The feel of the house is different, like I don’t belong here, as if it isn’t my house anymore.

  Downstairs, I call: ‘Mia!’ But my voice just rattles around in the empty hallway. What’s going on, did I sleep for a year? Have I missed another virus, the Triffids taking over, a zombie attack? What the hell has happened?

  ‘Mia,’ I yell. ‘Mia, where are you? I know you’re here, I just heard you.’ But there’s no reply, nothing. I flick on the light in the hallway – I should have done that upstairs – and everything looks normal.

  ‘Mia?’ I call again, but there’s still nothing, so I push open the living room door. I expect to find her on the phone, frantically waving me away because there’s some new crisis with Sandi, but the room’s empty. Where is she? I turn to explore the rest of the house, though stop as something catches my eye. There’s a tiny green light, flashing in the corner of the room. I have no idea what it is; I’ve never seen it before. I go over and bend down to look.

  ‘Huh.’ It’s the answering machine. I’d totally forgotten we had one. Only scammers and chuggers call on landlines these days, I don’t even remember what our home number is, but the light’s flashing; there’s a message. I push the play button.

  ‘You have nine new messages. First message recorded today at twenty-three, twenty-two hours,’ a cold, mechanical voice tells me. Nine? The first one plays.

  ‘Ben… Oh Ben, where are you? I need you. I need help, oh god, I need help. Pick up the phone… pick up the—’ Beep.

  ‘Message two.’

  ‘I am in so much trouble, Ben wake up… Please wake up… WAKE UP!’ Beep.

  ‘Message three.’

  ‘Ben… Ben, answer the phone. I’m sorry to call. I don’t want to drag you into this but I need you. I need you.’ Beep.

  Mia’s voice chills me. Normally she’s so calm and collected, but now she sounds desperate, full of panic. It’s not like her. And why did she call the landline and not my mobile? I don’t—

  ‘Message four.’

  ‘Ben? Ben? BEN?’ Beep.

  ‘Message five.’

  ‘It was an accident but… Christ… Ben, there’s so much blood…’ She begins to cry.

  I feel nausea bubble up in my throat, and I run, only just making it to the kitchen sink before I’m sick. Behind me, I can still hear her voice – the panic rising – and I realise it was her message that woke me. She called out for me, and somehow her voice worked its way into my dream. Somewhere she’s alone, scared – and she needs me.

  I cup my hand under the cold tap and splash water across my face. From behind I can still hear her, and as the last message plays she sobs:

  ‘Ben… I need you. Help me. PLEASE HELP ME!’

  And like the most annoying earworm, the line repeats and repeats through my head, spreading into the fault line of my headache, and blowing it open with dynamite.

  Ben… I need you. Help me. PLEASE HELP ME!

  I have to find my damn phone. I look in all the places I’d normally leave it – my bag, my coat, the kitchen counter – nothing. Damn. Let me think…

  ‘What was I wearing last night?’ I ask out loud, even though there’s no one here to tell me. Think, bloody think. I try to fire up my memory, but there’s just a yesterday-shaped hole in my head.

  ‘This is crazy!’ I yell at no one, as I search through my wardrobe, looking in every trouser pocket, every jacket and coat, even the ones I know I haven’t worn in years, but it isn’t here.

  ‘Bloody—’ I grab the door to slam it closed, but at the last moment I catch a glimpse of something. I kneel and squint into the depths of the wardrobe.

  ‘What?’ It’s my best suit – the Paul Smith – and it’s been rolled into a ball and stuffed right at the back. I lean inside, stretching as far as I can, like reaching into some second-rate Narnia, and pull it out. It looks like shit. Why didn’t I hang it up? It cost a fortune; I only wear it for my most important meetings. Why the hell is it all balled up in the back of the wardrobe like this? I’m so angry with myself.

  I unfold the jacket. I’m gentle with it, like it’s a baby or a bomb. As I try to ease the wrinkles out with my hands, I feel weight behind the lapel. I slide my fingers into the top pocket and pull out my phone. For the briefest moment I wonder why it’s there, but then that’s blown away by anger, as I realise it’s almost out of charge; there’s merely the tiniest sliver of red, winking at me from the top right corner. Idiot! I want to hit myself, what the hell is wrong with me? We bought the green cable and put it in the hall for this exact situation. Mia even wrote that dumb sign: for the sole use of Ben the forgetful. It’s there so I can’t ever complain that there isn’t a cable when I need one, so why didn’t I use it? I must have walked right past it. Why am I such an idiot?

  There’s barely a flicker of life, maybe one per cent of battery, if I’m lucky. I hold my breath and go to my contacts. I open my favourites, there’s only one number, and I call my wife.

  Zjeeep – Zjeeep – Zjeeep. Zjeeep – Zjeeep – Zjeeep.

  From somewhere in the house, I hear a phone ring.

  ‘What?’

  I walk back downstairs, following the sound, like a rat searching out the Pied Piper. It feels like it should be April the first, and Mia’s gonna jump out and scream ‘Fooled you!’ but it’s only February the tenth. And this isn’t funny.

  As I move, I can hear the phone get louder; I’m getting warmer.

  In the hall there’s a cupboard for winter coats, scarves, gloves and wellington boots. The ringing’s coming from inside.

  Zjeeep – Zjeeep – Zjeeep.

  But, as I put my hand on the door handle, it stops – fades to nothing.

  Zjeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeppppppppppppp………

  I look down at my phone, as the last breath of life flutters out of it, and the house is quiet again.

  I pull open the little cupboard door. Inside there’s a nasty smell of must and damp. I can’t help but imagine the spiders and woodlice that call it home. The thought makes my skin crawl; I hate insects. I screw up all my courage and reach inside, snaking my fingers through the umbrellas, wellies and tattered old waterproof jackets and… there. I can feel the handle of something under a pile of coats. I pull at it, dragging it out into the light. I see what it is and… What the hell is going on? It’s her handbag, the new one she bought in the new year sales. It was expensive, some designer label she likes, but it’s definitely hers. I could identify it in a police line-up any day. Christ, that’s morbid. Don’t think like that.

  I open the bag and tip it upside down, shaking the contents out onto the carpet. There’s her phone, purse, keys, make-up… everything. Her whole life is here; but she never goes out without her phone. She’s always checking emails, posting tweets, doing quizzes, counting steps, liking things, sharing stuff; she’s glued to her phone. Even when she goes running it’s strapped on her arm; I don’t understand why she’d leave it tonight – and why it was hidden?

  I open the purse. All her bank cards are inside, her driving licence, loyalty cards, stamps… Something is terribly wrong. Mia is like the ultimate Girl Guide, always prepared, always has her stuff with her; she doesn’t go anywhere without it. So what’s different tonight?
br />   I slide my fingers into the little pockets and pouches in her purse, and I can feel that there’s something there, folded in the compartment, hidden behind her credit and debit cards. I pull out two hundred pounds. My stomach swirls, and a feeling of dread slides through me.

  I check again, but it’s clear that everything that should be in her purse is here. Nothing’s missing – except maybe one thing. There was a photo that used to sit in the little plastic window at the front, but now it’s gone. It’s possible that she took it out some time ago, maybe she didn’t want to see it every day, but I doubt it, because it was a photo of—

  Ring ring…

  I’m lost for a moment. I look at the phone in the bag, expecting to see the screen lit up, but it isn’t ringing, and I can’t work out what’s going on.

  Ring ring…

  ‘It’s the landline, you idiot!’ I finally scream at myself, as I scramble up and run to the living room. Damn, I’m slow tonight.

  Beep. The machine picks up.

  ‘This is the home of—’

  ‘Hello, I’m here, don’t hang up…’ I snatch the receiver from its cradle and yell: ‘Mia, Mia?’

  ‘Ben?’ Her voice is tiny, thin, barely there.

  ‘Mia.’

  ‘You’re there – I’m so glad – I thought you wouldn’t wake up. I thought I was alone.’

  ‘No, I’m here, I heard you call me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says softly.

  ‘Mia, what happened?’

  ‘Ben, he… he’s dead.’

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out, like my brain is glitching. Dead. Someone’s dead. I know I should have a response to that but it’s like my head is just full of white noise.

  ‘Mia, I don’t underst—’

  ‘If I could just go back, I would. It was one second, Ben, just one second and it was done. How can everything change in one second?’

  ‘I don’t…’ I dry up. ‘Mia…’ I say as gently as I can, ‘…tell me what happened?’

  There’s a pause, and then a deep breath, and she says: ‘He’s dead; it was so quick., I couldn’t… I couldn’t stop it.’