Matthew 1

I wait patiently while the phone rings, then;

“Can I speak to Matthew please?”

There’s a pause. I know what she’s going to say; she’s said it a dozen times already

“No – sorry, he isn’t here”

It’s the same person who always answers; she stretches out the last syllable of sorry and it makes me wince. She isn’t really sorry at all. I hate her, with her North London whiney accent and her fake apologies. I have no idea who she is but I hate her with all my heart. I want to rush over there. Put my finger on the bell and keep it there until someone has to open the door.

Something’s wrong. I know it is, and I want to barge my way in and rescue Matthew. I don’t though. Maybe the next day he’ll pick up the phone. Maybe I’m wrong. I’ll try tomorrow. I won’t give up. I say thank you, hoping it conveys my hatred of her, and I go back along the corridor, up to my room on the fourth floor.

I have done this so many times I think I must have made a groove in the carpet. Up and down up and down. It’s the only phone at the halls of residence and when I have to wait, I stand there scowling at the person already using it, willing them to hurry up.

Something’s happened. Something bad. Or at least it’s just about to. I don’t know what it is; I just know it’s something awful, and it’s what compels me to go to the phone every evening after college. I know I’m making a nuisance of myself. I can hear the dislike grow each time she realises it’s me again. As the days go by the fake friendliness get less and less friendly.

After a couple of weeks she changes her answer. Now she says he has a sore throat and the doctors have told him not to speak. I bite my lip and I want even more to go over there and rescue him. Once I try – I say; “is he allowed visitors?” And immediately she says, “no – the doctors say no visitors” – just as I knew she would.

Each time I don’t speak to him I feel worse. The nagging sense that I’m not doing enough – that I should go there, gets stronger. I feel guilty too, because I know I’ve not seen as much of him as I ought to have done. I think back to how kind he was to me after Joel died, how thoughtless and selfish I was – never thinking for a moment how upset he must be. Joe was his little brother after all. I was too miserable myself to think of that.

It’s been two years and five boyfriends since then. I’ve been away too – in France for a year – and gradually Matthew’s faded from my life – except I’ve started getting this feeling – I can’t explain it rationally – and I know something bad is going to happen and I have to talk to him.

I unlock my room, throw my bag on the bed and sit down, wishing I were brave enough to really go there, force my way in. but I’m not. I get up to make some coffee. I’ll go down again soon, try calling one more time.