A Voice In The Dark
On the fourth night, the phone rang.
It rang at one minute past eleven. Esme had been half-asleep, lying on her back, listening to Bo's small even breathing. She heard the ring before she was fully awake. Her body knew before her brain did. She was unzipping the tent before she had said anything.
"Bo," she hissed. "It's ringing."
Bo woke instantly.
They ran across the field in their bare feet. The grass was wet. The phone box — Esme could see, as they came closer — was lit, not by the broken bulb inside the box but by the moon and by the small streetlight twenty feet away. The phone was on its hook. The phone was ringing.
She picked up the receiver.
She said, very carefully: "Hello?"
There was a pause.
There was, on the other end of the line, the sound of an old person breathing. The breathing was a little laboured. Then a man's voice, quiet, with a Welsh accent — older than her grandmother's, possibly much older.
"Megan? Is that you, love?"
Esme had not been expecting a name.
She thought, very fast.
She said, gently: "I am not Megan. I am Esme. I am answering the phone box. May I ask who is calling?"
There was a long silence.
The voice said: "I — I am sorry. I have got the wrong number. I keep getting the wrong number. I had thought — never mind."
"Please don't hang up. Please. I would — I would like to talk to you, if that's alright."
The voice paused.
"You