COLD GHOST

Two Paul Scaife woke to the sound of the insistently jangling phone. His sheets argued against the idea, tangling his arms and legs as he tried to roll out of bed. He was inclined to agree with the sheets actually, but the phone had gone on for far longer than the ten rings Paul normally allowed before answering, so he came to the reluctant decision that it was a reasonably important call. He struggled out of the sheets and emerged naked into the bright morning glare of his studio flat, pausing only to scrape the sole of his foot painfully on one of the protruding slats of the accursed futon and to mentally swear at Ana, before limping over to the corner table on which the telephone squatted. The chrome and glass monstrosity stood hideously out of place in the airy, pine and ash-wooded theme of his flat. 'Yeah?' Always just "yeah". He never answered with his name or number. If someone called him, he liked to presume that they knew who they were calling and why. 'Paul?' 'Kath. Hi.' Her singular enquiry and the tiny wobble in her tone gave up a wealth of information that immediately disturbed him. She was worried about something. More than that. Something serious. Well, Paul could do serious when really pressed. 'Paul, it's...' Another pause. 'I'm listening Kath. Tell Uncle Paul what the problem is.' He mentally kicked himself. Serious. Yeah, right. 'Well, I... I don't really...' She trailed off again. 'Do you want me to come over? Talk face to face if it's easier?' 'No, it's... hold on a sec.' Paul could picture her. In his mind's eye he could see her covering the mouthpiece with her palms and slowly drawing in two or three deep breaths. He knew her routine. She would compose herself, counting slowly with her eyes shut, and then allowing the strong part of Kathy to take the helm. 'Look Paul, can you get away for a few days?' 'Well, er...' 'I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. You know that.' 'Sure. I know that. I can. Of course I can. I don't have another assignment pinned down yet.' 'Assignment? That a new code word for your bimbos?' 'They're not... Jesus, forget it. When are we leaving and where are we going?' 'I'll be at your place in about an hour. Could you be ready by then?' 'Okay. But where...' 'Wales.' 'Wales? Wow, how glamorous. I'll not bother with my trunks then. How long are we going to be away?' 'Truthfully, I'm not a hundred per cent sure, but it shouldn't be any longer than a few days. A week at most.' 'Why, Kath? What's going on?' 'I'll tell you when I get there. It's kind of hard to explain, especially over the phone.' 'Sounds a little paranoid to me, girl. MI5 on your case again?' 'Funny boy. Just pack. I'll see you in an hour.' 'This table has got to go.' 'What?' 'Nothing. I'm packing. See ya.' He dropped the receiver back into its cradle, and then lifted the whole set off the table and placed it on the floor next to the lately-becoming-irritating table, which he picked up and then placed in the centre of the studio Ð a lonely right-angled triangle of chrome and glass Ð an island of low taste. Paul stood back and surveyed the offending article, his hands on his hips and his head slightly cocked. 'Right.' He spat the word out, but the resolve he'd hoped would appear along with the decision was nowhere in evidence. He'd simply have to act without it. Despite himself, he'd let Kathy climb beneath his skin with as much ease as though he were a comfortable old sweater she'd thrown aside only the day before. He had no resolve to steel. So resolution would have to wait. Hell, it had been waiting thirty years, so he could hardly expect it to show up at a single snap of his fingers. He trudged off to the bathroom, and the vigorous refreshment of his prized power-shower, with the thought in mind that where he was going he'd be lucky to get a tin bath and lukewarm, murky water for the best part of the coming week. Still, he'd known worse.

Return Next Chapter