The phone was ringing in the house.
Jack was sitting out on the porch, feet dangling off the veranda, a baseball cap on that he’d found on a hook behind the kitchen door to keep off the heat as much as the light. He was sketching, trying to capture in a snap-shot picture the movement in the leaves and branches of a tree nearby on the slope. It was difficult without resorting to comic book streaks of the kind that might follow one of Superman’s punches.
The ringing hardly made it through the thick door. It was doubtful anybody but he heard it at all. Gaston was nowhere to be seen. They were going for their picnic soon but he had vanished. Even Christine was off somewhere out of sight. He would have settled for the farm manager, but he too, was off doing something important.
Jack got to his feet, knowing he should hurry to catch it in time but being unconsciously wary. Answering a phone in a foreign country was never a simple procedure. Jack’s French was about as good as his Russian: pretty much non-existent; but on the other hand, it would be rude not to get it at all, so he lumbered into the kitchen, his drawing pad still under his arm, and picked up.
“Hello? Er… Bonjour?”
“Jack? Is that you?”
“Molly?” It was great to hear her voice, as much because of the relief he wouldn’t have to stumble through the language barrier as anything else. “How you doing?”
“Fine. Are you okay?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
There was a hesitation that became a pause and then silence.
“Molly? You still there?”
“Yeah. I’m here.”
“What’s up? You sound like I should be worried about something.”
Another hesitation. “A man’s been here looking for you.”
Jack felt a constriction in his throat of self-hate and disappointment. He should have foreseen that. He shouldn’t have run away. “Really?”
“He said his name was Sam.” Jack nodded grimly. “He beat up David Eden.”
“What? Is he okay?”
“He’s going to be all right but he’s in a lot of pain.”
“Oh no.”
“He came after me too. He tried to trick me into telling him where you were. Then he followed me. He’s dangerous Jack. He chased me; I thought he was going to kill me. I barely escaped.”
Jack lowered the phone. He was a bastard; a stupid selfish bastard. He let Sam live and this was the result. “Where is he now?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since last night. Maybe he’s given up. That’s why I called. Maybe he’s found out where you are now. What if he’s on his way there?”
“God Molly. I’m so sorry. I should have been there to protect you from that. I should never have gone.”
A third hesitation, this one longer again. “Jack. Why is he after you? What does he want?”
I murdered his sister. He wants to kill me for it and I should probably let him. I deserve to be put down like a sick dog for what I did.
“I don’t know Molly. He’s some kind of psychopath. He’s fixated on me for some reason; I don’t know what. He wants to kill me.”
When she hesitated this time Jack knew she saw through him. She just didn’t know what the real truth was. “You should be careful Jack. Move on. Don’t stay there anymore. As long as we know where you are then it’s possible this man can track you down. You’ve got the money. Go somewhere else. Anywhere.”
This time the pause was his. “It’s really nice to hear your voice Molly.”
He heard her smile if that was possible: a tiny exhalation. “It’s nice to talk to you too.” In a conversation full of awkward silences, another one stretched out, constricting around the stem of the easy rapport they had built up in San Francisco. “Er, I’d better go.”
“Sure. Sure. Sorry. Long distance call and all that.”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you for calling me Molly. It means a lot.”
“No problem.”
“Okay, bye.”
One final hesitation. Jack didn’t know what question or comment Molly was holding back but she held it in, afraid to vocalise perhaps what had to be becoming increasingly clear... There was something not quite right about Jack Catholic.
Jack was sitting out on the porch, feet dangling off the veranda, a baseball cap on that he’d found on a hook behind the kitchen door to keep off the heat as much as the light. He was sketching, trying to capture in a snap-shot picture the movement in the leaves and branches of a tree nearby on the slope. It was difficult without resorting to comic book streaks of the kind that might follow one of Superman’s punches.
The ringing hardly made it through the thick door. It was doubtful anybody but he heard it at all. Gaston was nowhere to be seen. They were going for their picnic soon but he had vanished. Even Christine was off somewhere out of sight. He would have settled for the farm manager, but he too, was off doing something important.
Jack got to his feet, knowing he should hurry to catch it in time but being unconsciously wary. Answering a phone in a foreign country was never a simple procedure. Jack’s French was about as good as his Russian: pretty much non-existent; but on the other hand, it would be rude not to get it at all, so he lumbered into the kitchen, his drawing pad still under his arm, and picked up.
“Hello? Er… Bonjour?”
“Jack? Is that you?”
“Molly?” It was great to hear her voice, as much because of the relief he wouldn’t have to stumble through the language barrier as anything else. “How you doing?”
“Fine. Are you okay?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
There was a hesitation that became a pause and then silence.
“Molly? You still there?”
“Yeah. I’m here.”
“What’s up? You sound like I should be worried about something.”
Another hesitation. “A man’s been here looking for you.”
Jack felt a constriction in his throat of self-hate and disappointment. He should have foreseen that. He shouldn’t have run away. “Really?”
“He said his name was Sam.” Jack nodded grimly. “He beat up David Eden.”
“What? Is he okay?”
“He’s going to be all right but he’s in a lot of pain.”
“Oh no.”
“He came after me too. He tried to trick me into telling him where you were. Then he followed me. He’s dangerous Jack. He chased me; I thought he was going to kill me. I barely escaped.”
Jack lowered the phone. He was a bastard; a stupid selfish bastard. He let Sam live and this was the result. “Where is he now?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since last night. Maybe he’s given up. That’s why I called. Maybe he’s found out where you are now. What if he’s on his way there?”
“God Molly. I’m so sorry. I should have been there to protect you from that. I should never have gone.”
A third hesitation, this one longer again. “Jack. Why is he after you? What does he want?”
I murdered his sister. He wants to kill me for it and I should probably let him. I deserve to be put down like a sick dog for what I did.
“I don’t know Molly. He’s some kind of psychopath. He’s fixated on me for some reason; I don’t know what. He wants to kill me.”
When she hesitated this time Jack knew she saw through him. She just didn’t know what the real truth was. “You should be careful Jack. Move on. Don’t stay there anymore. As long as we know where you are then it’s possible this man can track you down. You’ve got the money. Go somewhere else. Anywhere.”
This time the pause was his. “It’s really nice to hear your voice Molly.”
He heard her smile if that was possible: a tiny exhalation. “It’s nice to talk to you too.” In a conversation full of awkward silences, another one stretched out, constricting around the stem of the easy rapport they had built up in San Francisco. “Er, I’d better go.”
“Sure. Sure. Sorry. Long distance call and all that.”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you for calling me Molly. It means a lot.”
“No problem.”
“Okay, bye.”
One final hesitation. Jack didn’t know what question or comment Molly was holding back but she held it in, afraid to vocalise perhaps what had to be becoming increasingly clear... There was something not quite right about Jack Catholic.
No comments:
Post a Comment