Page 44 of The Bodies

THIRTY-NINE

Enoch Cullen wakes in his chair, to a ringing so cruelly insistent he wants to yell at it to stop.

It feels like someone drilled a borehole through his skull while he was sleeping and poured in sulphuric acid. He cracks open one eye, just a slit, and pulls himself upright. The sudden movement rocks his stomach and he’s nearly sick.

One thought – to stop the ringing and crawl upstairs to bed. On the coffee table, among the crushed beer cans and congealed Chinese food, stand an empty tequila bottle, an empty port bottle and a bottle that might once have contained ouzo.

Enoch stands, belches acid. His moan is long and heartfelt.

As it ends, the ringing ceases. He sways on his feet, wonders if the sound was in his head all along.

Then it starts up again – a clamorous electronic trilling.

On the arm of his chair lies Drew’s phone, still in its rhinestone case.

Its screen is dark. The ringing sounds like it’s coming from behind him.

Enoch pivots, his leg colliding with the coffee table. Beer cans, bottles and Chinese food go tumbling across the carpet. He’s frantic, now. He’s got to stop that ringing before it splits his head in two. Stumbling into his kitchen, he tries to identify its source.

The light streaming through the window is nuclear bright.

Panting, Enoch goes from cupboard to cupboard, yanking the doors wide.

When he checks the one above the toaster, the ringing intensifies.

He thrusts his hand inside. Tins of soup and corned beef crash on to the worktop like mountain boulders.

Finally, he hauls out a phone, the screen lit up with a mobile number he doesn’t recognize.

Accepting the call, Enoch presses the phone to his ear. ‘Drew?’ he rasps. He hears no reply – not even the hiss of an open line – and when he checks the screen he sees that the battery must have died.

He stares at the device, tries to think, wishes he’d memorized the number.

A wave of dizziness hits.

He staggers back into the living room, this time knocking over a stack of DVD cases. When he collapses into his chair, he loses his grip on the phone and hears it bounce across the carpet.

Enoch lays back his head, screws up his eyes. He feels like he’s on the deck of a yacht being tossed by an angry ocean. If he can ride out his nausea, navigate his way to calmer waters, he can find a lead for the phone, charge it up.

Enoch’s chin touches his chest. He only needs a minute. Just one. Within seconds, he’s asleep.