A Place Called Here. Cecelia Ahern

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       14

      Only a week before the no-show from Sandy, Jack had quietly closed the bedroom door adjoining the living room so as not to disturb a sleeping Gloria. The Golden Pages lying open on the couch stared back at him as he paced the far side of the room, one eye on the phone book, the other eye on the bedroom door. He stopped and traced his finger down the page until he came across the advert for Porch Light, the organisation that helped counsel friends and relatives of the missing. Jack and his sister Judith had tried to convince their mother to talk to Porch Light after Donal’s disappearance, but her old Irish ways of refusing to speak her private thoughts to a stranger held her back. Below the advert was the number for Sandy Shortt’s missing persons agency. He picked up his mobile and switched on the television so as to cover the sound of his voice in case Gloria awoke. He dialled the number he had memorised when he first came across the advertisement. It rang twice before a female answered.

      ‘Hello?’

      Jack suddenly couldn’t remember what to say.

      ‘Hello?’ The voice was softer this time. ‘Gregory, is that you?’

      ‘No.’ Jack finally found his voice. ‘My name is Jack, Jack Ruttle. I got your number from the Golden Pages.’

      ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ the woman apologised and returned to her original businesslike tone. ‘I was expecting someone else. I’m Sandy Shortt,’ she said.

      ‘Hello, Sandy.’ Jack paced the small cluttered living room, tripping over the unevenly rolled, mismatching rugs that adorned the old wooden floors. ‘I’m sorry to call so late.’ Get to the point he hurried himself, pacing faster while he watched the bedroom door.

      ‘Don’t worry. A call at this hour of the night is an insomniac’s dream, pardon the pun. How can I help you?’

      He stopped pacing and held his head in his hand. What was he doing?

      Sandy’s voice was gentle again. ‘Is somebody you know missing?’

      ‘Yes,’ was all Jack could reply.

      ‘How long ago?’ He could hear her rooting for paper.

      ‘A year.’ He settled on the arm of the couch.

      ‘What is this person’s name?’

      ‘Donal Ruttle.’ He swallowed the lump in his throat.

      She paused, then: ‘Yes, Donal,’ a tone of recognition in her voice. ‘You’re a relative?’

      ‘Brother …’ Jack’s voice cracked and he knew he couldn’t go on. He needed to stop now; he needed to move on like the rest of his family. He was stupid to think that an insomniac from the phone book with too much time on her hands could succeed where an entire garda search hadn’t. ‘I’m sorry, I’m very, very sorry. This phone call was a mistake,’ he forced out. ‘I’m sorry for wasting your time.’ He quickly hung up the phone and fell back into the couch, embarrassed and exhausted, knocking against his files and sending pictures of a smiling Donal floating to the ground.

      Moments later his mobile rang. He dived for it, not wanting the ring tone to waken Gloria.

      ‘Donal?’ he breathed, jumping to his feet.

      ‘Jack, it’s Sandy Shortt.’

      Silence.

      ‘Is that how you usually answer the phone?’ she asked gently.

      He was lost for words.

      ‘Because if it is and you’re still expecting your brother to call, I don’t think your phone call to me was a mistake, do you?’

      His heart was hammering in his chest. ‘How did you get my number?’

      ‘Caller ID.’

      ‘My number is blocked.’

      ‘I find people, Jack. That’s what I do. And there’s a chance that I can find Donal for you.’

      He glanced at all the photographs scattered around him, the cheeky smile of his younger brother staring up at him, silently daring him to seek him out as he had when he was a child.

      ‘Are you back in?’ she asked.

      ‘I’m in,’ he replied, and he headed to the kitchen for a cup of coffee in preparation for the long night ahead.

      The following night at two a. m., as Gloria lay asleep in bed, Jack lay on the couch, on the phone to Sandy, his hundreds of pages of garda reports scattered around him.

      ‘You’ve spoken to Donal’s friends, I see,’ Sandy said, and he could hear her leafing through the pages he’d faxed to her earlier in the day.

      ‘Over and over again,’ he said wearily. ‘In fact, I’m going to call in to one of his friends again on Saturday while I’m in Tralee. I’ve got a dental appointment,’ he added casually and then wondered why.

      ‘The dentist, yuck, I’d rather have my eyes gouged out,’ she murmured.

      Jack laughed.

      ‘Don’t they have dentists in Foynes?’

      ‘I’ve to see a specialist.’

      He could hear the smile in her voice. ‘Don’t they have specialists in Limerick?’

      ‘OK, OK,’ he laughed. ‘So I wanted to ask Donal’s friend a few more questions.’

      ‘Tralee, Tralee,’ she repeated, rustling through paper. ‘A-ha,’ the paper rustling stopped. ‘Andrew in Tralee, friend from college, works as a web designer.’

      ‘That’s him.’

      ‘I don’t think Andrew knows anything more, Jack.’

      ‘How do you know?’

      ‘Judging by his answers during questioning.’

      ‘I didn’t give you that file.’ Jack sat upright.

      ‘I used to be a garda. Conveniently for me, it’s about the only place I managed to make friends.’

      ‘I need to see those files.’ Jack’s heart raced. There was something new, something more for him to stay awake at night analysing.

      ‘We can meet up soon,’ she dismissed him politely. ‘I suppose talking to Andrew again wouldn’t hurt.’ There was the sound of her leafing through more pages and she was silent for a long time.

      ‘What are you looking at?’

      ‘Donal’s photograph.’

      Jack picked it up from his pile and stared at it too. It was becoming too familiar СКАЧАТЬ