As he approached the door, he realised he couldn’t hear the shower. Something was wrong. She couldn’t possibly have finished so soon.
Strange thoughts fizzed up in his head like bubbles in a glass of cola. She wouldn’t have finished so soon. She likes her showers. Anything with hot water. After a shower she’ll fill the tub and splash around like a little girl, singing. It drives you crazy when you have a plane to catch …
Ryan opened the door with the key-card and smelled nothing. He stepped inside, moving slowly and carefully, reminding himself of a detective. The absence of smell pervaded the entire room. No flower-scent of perfume, no sweet-stale smell of her laundry. No shoes or magazines on the floor, or loaded shopping bags. He went into the bathroom and there was no spilled mouthwash soaked into the bathroom carpet. No dog-eared romance novel, no wallet. The room was empty, without any sign of Irene Carson.
Exactly as he had left it the previous night, when he’d turned in, still single, still alone.
Ryan thought perhaps he had entered the wrong room. The solution was wonderfully appealing in its simplicity. He ran eagerly out into the hall, but the numbered plaque beside the door read 414. His room – theirs?
Either way, it was empty now, and Irene was gone.
* * *
Ryan ended up missing his plane, and he didn’t think that was entirely an accident on his part. He got to La Guardia in enough time to make the gate, but he couldn’t seem to make himself move with any purpose.
He kept thinking about Irene. During the cab ride to the airport he had managed to convince himself that the whole episode had been some kind of elaborate hallucination. You’re overworked, Carson. Seeing things. Need a vacation. By the time the cab had arrived at La Guardia he had convinced himself otherwise. He just wished he had thought to pocket her driver’s licence. Even a pair of her panties.
Because women didn’t just disappear, not without leaving some token of themselves behind.
At the airport Ryan finally found himself sitting outside a fast-food restaurant, staring at a couple making a display of feeding each other bites of breakfast sandwiches, snickering about it as though the whole routine was adorable. By the time they finished and left, it was too late to get to his gate. So he kept sitting. Eventually he told himself he needed to get up and at least see about getting on another flight. He could brood about Irene on the way home. He still had a job, after all. Responsibilities.
He took out his phone to call Wilson and tell him he’d be later than expected, and noticed someone had left him a voicemail. A red Number One glowing at him on the corner of phone’s screen.
He accessed Voicemail with no great enthusiasm; he was sure the message would be from Wilson.
‘Hello, darling. This is your clumsy princess. I’m leaving this while you’re being naughty in the bathroom – at least, I assume that’s what you’re doing, because, without the love of a good woman … uhm … well. Who’s to say what a good man will get up to?’
His heart was pounding. Yes, this was something she’d do. Leave little playful voicemails or texts for him when he stepped out, even if it was only to the next room. The Information Superhighway’s equivalent of spontaneous love-notes.
But something was wrong with the sound. There was a strange electronic swishing noise in the background, some kind of distortion that did funny things to her voice.
‘So-o-oo … saying I love you. Love you and miss you …’
The connection broke with a sudden, high-pitched whine. Ryan had a feeling the distortion had something to do with it, that Irene had actually gone on talking, unaware that she was cut off.
His heart was beating, hard and fast. Ryan wasn’t a complete idiot with cell phones. He didn’t know much about apps and calling plans, but he did know one thing.
He knew if someone had called and left you a voicemail, you could usually get their number from the RECENTS screen and call them right back.
Yes, and there was her number – or what must have been her number. DC area code, what a surprise. He thumbed the numerals and a small box opened up on the phone’s screen, asking him if he’d like to CALL the number.
Oh, that’s very good of you. How considerate. Yes, actually, I would.
Heart still dancing, he hit the CALL button.
It rang for ever. Every ring was a lifetime. There was more static between the rings. The electronic hissing became gradually louder, so that when she finally picked up he barely realised it.
‘… Ryan …?’
‘Yes!’ He was shouting into the phone, turning it in his hand so that he could speak into it from different angles and get through to her.
‘… you? You’re … here … scared …?’
That ‘scared’ hit him hard. He wanted so badly for her to be there, so he could put his arms around her. He bit his lip.
What’s the matter with you? She’s not married to you. You don’t even know her.
‘Ry … I want …’
The line went dead.
Ryan’s shout startled a couple walking past. He punched his thigh with frustration and the woman moved closer to the man, who gave Ryan a quick, cautious glance as he led her away.
All Ryan could think to do was get outside and try again. The signal would be stronger outside. Outside the damned thing would actually work. Reaching fresh air took a while, and as he was shouldering his way past a flock of indignant tourists, the phone rang again.
Her number.
‘Hello?’ He was desperate to hear her voice. And it came through, so clear and loud he actually shrank from the phone. As though whatever force had separated them was now taunting him with that crystal clarity.
‘Ryan? Dear God, where are you?’ Not panicked now, or even frightened, particularly. She sounded royally pissed off.
‘I had … I just had to go out.’ Lame. Lame, Carson. But he had never felt so happy in his life.
‘You went out … with your suitcase?’ She was half laughing, half ready to kill him. Ryan was laughing himself, a little hysterically.
Wait till she hears I’m calling from La Guardia.
‘I promise … it was this crazy thing. I’ll tell you all about it. But listen, you have to …’
Static hissed again in his ear, as though malicious forces were determined to cut them off again as quickly as possible. Ryan held the phone away, staring at it in disbelief.
You’re kidding me.
‘Ryan?’ Just his name, delivered with frustration and anger and a strange plaintiveness. Then gone.
It was a fucking horror movie, he thought. She was the heroine, fading away into a strange wraith-world, an alternative dimension where they’d be so close, but never able to touch, or see each other.
The anger that rose up in him at that thought made him wanted to dash the phone onto the concrete, watch it shatter into plastic splinters. But he couldn’t do that. He might need it. She might call while he was on his way back to her.
Because that’s where he was going. Back to her.
Pocketing the phone, he made for the cabs.
Wilson was going to be pissed.
* * *
The cab back to Midtown ran into traffic. Ryan sat biting his knuckles all