I listened, eager to hear how Alice would respond.
John was missing. Those were the words she spoke next, so that I was lost, momentarily unable to follow their narrative thread, puzzling over the fact that Alice knew, that somehow already she had known. She mentioned, then, a man at the door, someone looking for John. I cast a hurried glance toward the hallway, as if he might still be there. What man? I wondered silently. For while it was true that I had spent most of the morning in bed, I had always slept lightly, had always woken at the slightest of sounds, and there had been nothing, nothing at all that had alerted me, that had warned me of another’s presence in the flat. I thought of Alice when I had found her earlier that morning—eyes wide, hair matted and tangled—digging through John’s desk drawers, obviously looking for something, though I hadn’t dared ask what.
And then I heard her whisper the words: I know who did it. I heard her mention Sophie Turner, and I knew all at once what it was that she had realized, knew what it was that she was intending to do—for I knew her, Alice, better than she knew herself, could anticipate every action and reaction before they had ever occurred to her.
I sunk to the floor, my fingers grasping the Berber carpet beneath me, my nails turning white against the pressure as I clutched at its frayed edges. I remained there, unable to move, though I became aware, at some point, of the closing of the front door, of Alice’s absence from the flat, of the telephone operator, still in my ear.
“Miss? Are you still there on the line? Miss?”
I remained kneeling, feeling, savoring the burn of the carpet against my knees.
“Yes. Yes, I’m still here,” I replied, my mouth dry.
“This is Information again. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
I hesitated, but only for a fraction of a second.
“Yes, can you please reconnect me with the last number requested?”
“The same number, miss?”
“Yes, please.”
I waited, listening to the clicks, imagining the wires being plugged and unplugged as the operator worked to connect the telephone in Alice’s sitting room to one miles and miles away. I focused on this image, working hard to keep it in my mind, to not think of anything else, if only for one moment longer.
It rang once, twice, and then—“Alice?”
I knew already that it would be Maude who answered, had heard her voice only seconds before, and yet there was something different, a finality in the act that made me shiver, my body chilled despite the blazing heat of the afternoon.
I moved to replace the telephone onto the receiver but stopped, and bringing it back to my ear began, tentatively, “Miss Shipley?”
There was a pause. “Yes?”
“It’s Sophie Turner here.”
“Sophie?” I could hear the surprise register in her voice.
“Yes. I’m awfully sorry about reaching you this way, but I needed to speak with you, urgently.” I stopped, held my breath, counted in my head. “It’s about Alice.”
She did not hesitate to respond this time. “Is everything all right, Sophie?”
I willed my voice to shake, to sound unsteady as I whispered into the telephone: “No. No, I’m afraid, it isn’t.”
I HAD TO BE QUICK. There was still one more thing to be done, one more telephone call to be completed before Alice returned—and one that couldn’t be made from inside the flat, just in case they ever tried to trace it. I wasn’t sure how it all worked, but I knew that there were records, little cards that the telephone operators were responsible for and that logged who had placed what call and where and for how long. There could be no evidence of this next one, not if my plan was to work.
As I walked, my steps steady and sure, I hoped that it would.
That the plan I had conjured up out of despair and desperation only moments earlier would be enough. I had not anticipated this, after all, had not foreseen this turn—and it stung, this change in the narrative that I had not consented to. I had already worked it out so perfectly, and she had gone and erased it all.
The public telephone box sat at the end of the street, just as I remembered. Once inside, I waited to hear the click, waited for the greeting of the operator before I began to speak, my accent molded in some proximity after Alice’s own. “I’d like to be connected to the local police, please.” I paused. “Yes, yes, I’ll wait. My name? Alice Shipley.”
IT WAS DONE. There was no turning back.
I hung up the telephone, my thoughts distorted. Everything had shifted in the course of an hour. It seemed impossible, ridiculous even, that an entire life could be altered by a few brief words. My mind tried and failed to keep up with it, to understand the consequences of what I had just set in motion. But then, no, I reminded myself, it had not been me—it had been Alice. She had been the one.
I turned to exit the telephone booth, but a figure stood there, blocking me. Youssef.
“Oh, please, just leave me alone,” I murmured, suddenly aware of the sweltering temperature of the little glass booth. My blouse clung to my back. “We have nothing to say to each other.”
He smiled. “But I only wish to speak, to try and make things right between us once more.”
I looked at him, knowing that he did not mean what he said, knowing that there was something else, another reason for his visit today, for his visit the other night. Our encounters were not merely coincidences, I knew. There was something that he wanted from me—no, it was more than that. Something he thought he could get—perhaps deserved, was owed. I wondered what it could be, how it could ever matter, in light of what had happened already. The police would arrive soon. I had little time left, which meant I needed to return to the flat. But I paused, wanting a few more minutes, a few more hours, in which I could pretend that everything was just as it had been the day before. And so even though I knew that it was not the smartest decision, that I should shoo away the mosquito before me and continue with what I needed to get done, I leaned heavily against the frame of the booth and consented.
“I suppose,” I said, ignoring, even as I did so, the dangerous smile on his face.
Pushing aside the venomous words that he had spoken to me that night in the street, I followed him to Café Hafa and beyond, through one of the numerous unmarked doors that signaled the dwellings of the local community. I even agreed to the ridiculous proposition that he eventually put forth—a request for a portrait—wanting, needing to know in that instant just what it was that lurked behind his smile, both tired and angry that he was the second person in my life who had decided to try to put something over on me that day.