Loved Her Wrong

The Call That Rang Out

The first time Elias wondered whether Jonah was in trouble, he dismissed the thought before it could settle.

It happened on a Monday morning in October.

He was standing in the queue at a coffee shop near the office when he heard two people discussing the flood.

"Awful business," one of them said. "Two people missing, apparently."

"Where?"

"Near the old mill. Somewhere out by the river."

Elias looked up from his telephone.

The man speaking was reading an article on his screen. He showed it to his companion, who made a quiet sound of sympathy.

Elias could not see the headline clearly.

He ordered his coffee, paid, and stepped outside.

The old mill was several miles from Calder's centre. The river there ran through a narrow stretch of land where the banks were steep and the current could become dangerous after heavy rain. Elias had driven past it once, years earlier, when a work assignment took him through the neighbouring villages.

He remembered a stone bridge and a footpath beside the water.

He also remembered Jonah mentioning a client who lived near the mill.

The thought was enough to make him stop walking.

He took out his telephone and opened Jonah's contact.

The last message remained on the screen.

Sorry I've been difficult to reach. Can we speak later this week?

It had been sent weeks earlier.

Elias pressed the call button.

The telephone rang.

He listened to the first ring, then the second.

He imagined Jonah looking at the screen and deciding not to answer. It was possible. They had not spoken properly since the argument. Jonah might still be angry. He might be avoiding Elias deliberately.

That explanation was uncomfortable, but it was familiar.

The call went to voicemail.

Elias ended it.

He stood outside the coffee shop for another minute, then returned to the office.

He did not search the news report.

He did not call the police.

He did not contact Jonah's mother, whose number he had saved after she had once telephoned to ask whether Jonah had left a tool bag at his flat.

He told himself that a brief news report was not evidence of anything.

He was right.

The people reported missing might have been strangers. The location might have been wrong. Jonah might be at home, asleep, working, or deliberately ignoring his telephone.

There was no reason to panic.

Elias spent the morning reviewing claims.

At lunch, he searched the news.

The article was brief. Two people had been reported missing after flooding near an old mill weir. Search teams had been called out, but poor conditions had made the initial operation difficult. The identities of the missing had not been released.

Elias read the article twice.

He looked for names.

There were none.

He searched for updates, found a photograph of the swollen river, and studied it for a moment. The water was high and fast. Debris had collected along the banks. A temporary barrier had been placed near the footpath.

He closed the page.

He could call Jonah again.

Instead, he opened his work calendar.

Three reports were due that week. A meeting had been moved to Wednesday. Colm had asked him to check the figures in a large commercial claim before it went to the review team.

Elias told himself that he would telephone Jonah after work.

At six, he called.

The line rang until voicemail answered.

He left no message.

The following morning, the news report was updated.

Two bodies had been recovered from the river. The article did not identify them, and the authorities had not yet confirmed the circumstances of the deaths.

Elias read the update at his desk.

He felt a sudden, unpleasant pressure in his chest.

He had not spoken to Jonah in weeks. He had not visited the workshop. He had not checked whether Jonah's business was still operating. He had not even asked one of their mutual acquaintances whether they had seen him.

He had simply waited.

He took out his telephone and called again.

The call rang.

He listened to it until the sound became unbearable.

Then voicemail answered.

"Jonah," Elias said.

His voice sounded strange in the quiet office.

"It's me. I've been trying to reach you. Call me when you get this."

He paused.

There were a dozen things he could have added. He could have apologised for taking two days to return the first call. He could have admitted that he had been thinking about the unfinished conversation. He could have said that he was worried.

Instead, he ended the message.

He sat still for several seconds.

Then he returned to work.

On Thursday, he called again.

No answer.

On Friday, he went to the workshop.

The shutters were down.

There was a notice taped to the door stating that the business would be closed until further notice. No explanation was given. Elias stood on the pavement, looking through the narrow gap between the shutters and the frame.

He could see the edge of a workbench, a stack of music books, and a small lamp.

Everything looked ordinary.

That was what unsettled him.

There was no sign of a hurried departure. No broken window, no overturned furniture, no evidence that anything had happened at all.

The workshop simply looked as though its owner had stepped out and intended to return.

Elias tried the door.

It was locked.

He called Jonah again.

The telephone rang until voicemail answered.

This time, Elias did not leave a message.

He returned to the office and searched for the names of the people who had died in the flood. The authorities had released them that morning.

The first name meant nothing to him.

The second was Marin Ashby.

He read it without understanding.

Then he read it again.

Marin Ashby.

He had never met her. He had never heard Jonah mention her by name. He did not know what she looked like, where she lived, or what she did.

But he remembered the way Jonah had looked when he came to Elias's flat in the yellow raincoat. He remembered the unfinished sentence, the question about listening, and the promise that he would explain another day.

He remembered the voicemail.

A proper thing, not one of my usual reports about atmospheric conditions.

Elias searched the article for Jonah's name.

It was not there.

He searched for updates on the investigation. He found a brief statement saying that the deaths were being treated as accidental drownings pending further enquiries.

No other details were available.

He called Jonah again.

The line rang.

Voicemail answered.

Elias put the telephone down.

For the first time, he allowed himself to consider that Jonah might not call back.

He did not yet know what had happened at the mill weir. He did not know whether Jonah had been there, whether he had witnessed anything, or whether his disappearance had any connection to the deaths.

He knew only that a man he had trusted had vanished, that a woman he had never met had died, and that the last conversation he had tried to have with Jonah remained unfinished.

At home that evening, Elias sat beside the piano.

He pressed the C-sharp.

The note sounded cleanly.

He pressed it again.

Then he opened his notebook and found the page where he had written the reminder to call Jonah.

The words were still there, underlined in black ink.

He stared at them for a long time.

Finally, he drew a line through the reminder.

It was a small action. It changed nothing.

But he could not bear to look at it any longer.