Page 90 of Pyg

“Second saved message received Friday the second of April at twenty-fourteen.”

“George, it’s me, Juan.”

Juan — the man with the accent. The words that followed were rushed and panicked, punctuated with rhythmic beeps and whooshing. Muffled voices spoke in the background, but it was impossible to make them out.

“It’s his heart, Bernard’s heart… it’s not good. We’re in the ambulance and he is, how you say, is cardiac arrested? I think it’s my fault, I just wanted him to have a — George, you can speak with him, please? George, I will pass the phone?—”

A different voice cut into the recording. “Sorry, sir, but I’m going to need you to move back.” The sound of shuffling brushed over the receiver, followed by a series of erratic beeps. Then one continuous, high-pitched tone pierced down the line, but not enough to mask the sound of Juan breaking into a sob. “No, no, Bernie, no?—”

Click, beep.

Alice stared down at the machine; for such an unassuming little black box, a whole lot of drama had unspooled from its recordings. George had heard this message the night she found him. Clearly it had triggered his catatonic state. But why had he ventured out into the night? Where was he trying to get to?

“Poor George.” Alice stroked the machine as if it might somehow comfort him.

“Poor Bernard, by the sounds of it.”

“Yeah, well, that too. And now we have to break the news to George again because I’m not sure he knows that he knows. I mean, he knows that something isn’t right, but this is—” Alice blew out a long breath.

“What about this Juan fellow? Do you think there’s anything sinister?”

“How so?”

“He said,I think it’s my fault.”

“I guess I need to speak to George about that. I can’t just call Ash and leave her to do it.”

“Really, tonight?” Maggie looked at her watch. “It’s late. Doesn’t he need to rest?”

“Yeah, perhaps you’re right. I’ll go tomorrow. Let’s round up some bits for him. It might help him piece things together. Oh, and I need to find his phone charger too.”

Alice spun around and almost screamed at the sight in the window. A face framed by a shock of frizzy ginger hair pressed against it, peering through the glass.

“Who the fuck is that?” Maggie whispered, with round eyes like a frightened bunny.

“How should I know? Come on, let’s find out.” Alice led the way, with Maggie trailing behind. She steeled herself with a breath before unlatching the door — Barbie arm at the ready behind her back, should it be required.

“Who are you? Where’s George?” The short squat woman, owner of the face and frizzy hair, barged past the sisters and turned, putting herself in a position to shoo them out.

“Whoa! I should ask you the same thing.”

“I’m Trisha Summers, friend and neighbour of George. And who might you be?”

Alice released a breath. “Trisha, did you say? Sorry, yes, I’m Alice, and this is my sister, Maggie.”

Trisha glanced between them, her fierce little face still scrunched with suspicion.

Alice spoke slowly in the hope it might help the scary little woman to relax. “George is in hospital, he had a bit of an accident and we, well, me — I’ve been visiting him. He asked me to pop by and check on things here.”

The woman’s face fell. “What? But he knows I keep a check on things for him here. He knows he can always call me.” Then, as if struck by an afterthought, she said, “Why’s he in hospital then? He didn’t say nothing about going to hospital.”

“It’s a bit of a long story, but he’s doing much better now. We came by to pick up a few things for him, including his phone charger, and then he’ll be able to give you a call… if he wants to.” Alice could already think of several reasons why he might not. She glanced at Maggie, who looked like she was thinking the same.

“Well, I suppose you don’t look too much like burglars, so that should be okay. Shall I help you find what you’re looking for?”

“Yes, please. That’d be a big help.”

Alice caught Maggie’s eye as Trisha beckoned them through to the kitchen like she was their host.

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