Late Night Call
Marcus stepped out of the office. A heavy grey sky loomed over the city, pressing down like a weight. Only the crosses on the golden domes of St. Nicholas’s Church stretched unbothered through the gloom.
A light drizzle pricked at his face as he walked to his car. Inside the Toyota, the faint scent of air freshener lingered. Marcus rested his hands on the wheel, taking a moment to appreciate that he’d picked it up from the garage at lunch—no waiting for a bus in the rain or squeezing into a crowded ride home.
He turned the key, and the cabin filled with the tinny sound of a pop song. Marcus turned it down. “Home,” he muttered to himself, pulling onto the main road. His fingers tapped along to the tune.
Friday. And on Fridays, he and his mates hit the pub, blowing off steam after the workweek. What else were young, free blokes supposed to do, unburdened by wives, kids, or responsibilities?
The flat greeted him with silence. From the doorway, he spotted the wardrobe flung open. A bad feeling twisted in his gut. He kicked off his shoes and padded inside, already knowing what he’d find. Among his shirts and jackets, empty hangers swung where Sophie’s dresses and jumpers used to hang.
Gone. Lately, they’d argued more, but they always made up quickly. She’d called him at work, saying she wasn’t up for drinks tonight. He’d gotten distracted, then went to fetch the car… “Was she mad I never called her back? Is that really a reason to leave?” That was his first thought. No. She’d planned this. Left the wardrobe open so he’d step straight into loneliness and guilt. “There should be a note,” he mused, scanning the room. “Full of accusations and goodbyes.”
They’d lived together six months. Sophie suited him perfectly—pretty, fun, just the right amount of cheek. So, he must’ve fallen short for her. Lately, she kept bringing up weddings, honeymoons… He’d laughed it off. Of course. She’d run out of patience, decided to force his hand. Probably expected him to call, begging her to come back…
Marcus realised that’s exactly what he wanted to do right now. He dialled her number, but her phone was off. He tossed his onto the sofa.
He pictured Sophie, leaning against the sink, balancing on one leg like a flamingo while peeling potatoes… He wanted her back, now. He shuffled to the kitchen. Unwashed plates and mugs from breakfast sat in the sink. An empty wine bottle stood beside them—leftover from some party. “Finished it off, then. Means she was torn up too.” That pleased him. He washed the dishes, shoving the bottle neck-first into the overflowing bin.
Sophie hated dirty dishes. She’d left them on purpose—to teach him a lesson. To make him feel the weight of being alone: washing up, taking out the rubbish… What an actress. That’s why he loved her. Though he hadn’t said it in ages.
A note stuck to the fridge caught his eye, held by a magnet. *”I’m leaving. Not sure we should keep doing this.”* No explanations, no blame, no signature.
And he’d already picked out a ring. Just waiting for payday to buy it, for the right moment to drop to one knee in front of all their friends.
*”If a girl walks away, it’s for the best,”* he sang, twisting the lyrics of some old hit.
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 out.
When he returned, his phone was trilling from the sofa. He lunged for it, still in his shoes. An unknown number flashed on screen. Ignore it? What if it was Sophie?
“Yeah?” he answered.
“Mark, hi.” For a second, Marcus’s heart leapt—Sophie? “It’s me, Jessica. I… I didn’t know if I should call. You never promised me anything, but… I don’t know what to do,” a girl’s voice wavered.
“Who? Jessica?” Marcus frowned, not even registering she’d called him Mark.
“You don’t remember me? Then there’s nothing to say.” The line went dead.
“What the hell?” Marcus muttered.
He noticed muddy footprints on the carpet and cursed again. Then the phone rang once more.
“Mark, I just wanted to say—”
“I’m not Mark. It’s Marcus. Wrong number, love,” he explained.
“You lied? Why? You gave me this number yourself.” She recited it back.
“Didn’t lie. Been Marcus for twenty-six years. Never gave you my number,” he snapped.
“I shouldn’t have called—”
“Oh no, don’t hang up. If you rang, say what you want.” But she’d already gone.
“Not answering again.” He silenced the ringer but left the phone on, just in case Sophie called to explain, to set terms, to— He didn’t finish the thought before the phone buzzed, grating on his nerves.
“Jessica, was it? Why keep calling if you won’t talk?”
“Sorry…” A sigh, or maybe a sob, cut her off. “I don’t know what to do. I thought… between us… I wanted to say it’s my fault. You didn’t do anything wrong—”
“Wrong how?” Marcus shouted into the empty line.
He frowned. Her voice had sounded faint, sluggish earlier. That splashing in the background—was she crying? “My fault… you’re not to blame…” People said that before they— “God, what’s happening?”
Marcus dialled his mate, Rob—a proper ladies’ man, always picking up girls at pubs.
“Changed your mind, then? Get down here, it’s properly kicking off!” Rob yelled over the music.
“Rob, why’d you give some girl named Jessica my number?”
“Don’t know any Jessica. Can’t remember,” Rob said, the music fading as if he’d stepped outside. “Ah, met some bird. Pretty thing. Couple nights together—”
“Where? Her place? Give me the address,” Marcus demanded.
“What, cheating on Sophie? About time—” Rob laughed.
“Something’s wrong. Where does she live?”
“Dunno. Wait—Church Lane, maybe. New high-rise there. Her place is that old flat right next to it.”
“Which flat?”
“Second floor, opposite the stairs, I think. Why’s it matter?”
“Get a cab. Meet me there. Now!” Marcus hung up.
Wet tarmac glittered under his headlights. Friday night, streets quiet. He made good time. The high-rise towered over the old flats like a prizewinning mushroom among toadstools. “Need the one right in front.”
Marcus parked and checked the building. A few lights were on. Second floor—just one flat lit. He approached the entrance. “Damn. Keycode. Gotta wait for Rob. What if he’s wrong?” He tugged the handle. Unlocked.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he rang the bell. Silence. The door was slightly ajar. A foul premonition settled in his gut. “Do I really want to do this?” But he was already pushing inside.
“Jessica? You here?” He called toward the bright living room. A strip of light under the bathroom door caught his eye. He knocked.
“Coming in,” he said, opening it.
A girl lay naked in the tub, eyes closed. One arm hung over the edge, keeping her from slipping under the pink-tinged water. No doubt it was blood. Unconscious—or worse. He dialled 999, studying her unmarked wrist as he waited.
“What’s this?” Rob’s voice came from behind.
“Should be asking you. She thought I was you on the phone.”
“Women say all sorts. If I married every girl I’d slept with, I’d be done for bigamy. She alive? We should call an ambulance. Or just go—”
“Already did. You can leave. I’ll stay.”
Paramedics arrived. Marcus and Rob carried her down to the ambulance.
“What happened?” Marcus asked the older medic.
“Looks like she tried to end a pregnancy. Took something, then got in hot water. Could’ve died. Don’t care which of you drove her to it,” the man shot them a glare. “Next time, pay for the clinic. Pete, call ahead—get the OR ready.” The ambulance sped off.
“Give me a lift. Sent my cab away,” Rob said, oddly sober.
They reached the Toyota. Marcus unlocked it—then hit the child lock on the passenger side. Rob yanked the handle.
“What’s your problem? Open up!”
“Find your own way,” Marcus growled, pulling away. In the rearview, Rob waved and shouted after him.
“What if Sophie’s pregnant?” He pulled over, dialling her number.
“The numberHe never did find out about Sophie, but weeks later, over coffee with Jessica—now smiling, now alive—he realised sometimes the wrong call leads you exactly where you need to be.
