Desolation. Derek Landy

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      VIRGIL FOUND THE NUMBER scrawled in an address book that had slipped down the back of a file cabinet. He tried to ignore the other names – seeing them brought pangs of recognition and regret – but despite himself he glanced through them. Here was Erik Estrada’s number. Good kid, that Erik. Burt Reynolds. Lynda Carter. Ah, Lynda Carter. Robert Culp. Farrah Fawcett’s number was here. He’d never managed to get with Farrah because of his (strained) friendship with Lee Majors – but he’d wanted to. Oh my, how he’d wanted to.

      Then he found the number he was looking for, and he took out his ridiculous phone and eventually figured out how to make a call.

      It was answered by a woman who told him the person he was looking for no longer lived there. She went off for a few minutes, eventually coming back with another number. He called that, and it was answered by a man who gave him the number of a retirement home. Virgil rang the home, gave them the name, and waited.

      “Yeah?”

      The voice on the other end sounded old, frail and ill-tempered.

      “Javier?” said Virgil.

      “Yeah?”

      “It’s Virgil. Virgil Abernathy.”

      There was a silence, and then,

      “Why?”

      “Why what?”

      “Why? Why’re you calling? Why the hell’re you calling me? It’s been forty years and now you’re calling me and I want to know why, goddammit. If you’re calling to apologise, you’re about forty years too damn late.”

      Virgil frowned. “Why would I be apologising?”

      “You’re the one calling me!” Javier shouted. “You’re the one calling and now you have the, the, the nerve to ask why you’re calling? I’m the one asking why! I ask, you answer!”

      “Javier, I really think we’re getting our wires crossed here …”

      “Dementia, is it?” Javier said. “You know that you owe me an apology, but you can’t remember why, is that it? Y’know something? I’m glad. I’m glad your mind is leaving you. Couldn’t happen to a nicer fella.”

      “My mind is fine, Javier, but to be honest you’re starting to irritate me here.”

      Javier hooted down the phone. “Oh, is that right? Oh, is that right?”

      “I just called to check on you,” said Virgil. “I’ve been thinking about the old days a lot and I saw someone last night who could have been your double from back then, someone who I would have sworn was you if I hadn’t known what age you were. I’m calling to ask if you have a son or a grandson and if they’re anywhere close to Desolation Hill.”

      “I don’t know where that is,” said Javier, “but it sounds like just the place you deserve to be.”

      “Do you have anyone in your family that looks just like you did forty years ago, or not?”

      “No!” Javier yelled. “I don’t have any children, you dirty, lying, treacherous sonofabitch! I never had children and I never got married! The only woman in the world I ever loved looked at me like I was a joke and it was all your fault!”

      “What are you talking about?”

      “I’m talking about Darleen!”

      Virgil frowned. “Who?”

      “Darleen! Darleen Hickman!”

      “I don’t know who that is.”

      “The wardrobe lady on set,” Javier said, anger biting at his words. “I fell in love with her and you knew it. There was a future there. A possibility. But you couldn’t let that happen, could you? You couldn’t stand the thought of any pretty girl being with anyone but you, the star of the show.”

      “What is it you think I did, Javier?”

      “You know damn well what you did. You gave me that nickname.”

      “What nickname?”

      “Don’t make me say it.”

      “I don’t know what it is we’re talking about.”

      There was another silence, and then, “The Goat-molester.”

      Virgil’s laugh was as loud as it was unexpected, and he immediately felt bad. “Oh right, yeah. That. Uh … and that damaged your relationship with the wardrobe lady?”

      “Darleen,” said Javier. “And of course it did. Everyone was laughing at me behind my back. Nobody took me seriously from that moment on. She had feelings for me – real, actual feelings – but how could she look at me in the same way once she’d lost all respect for me?”

      “I’m … I’m really sorry, Javier. I’d forgotten all about that.”

      “I hadn’t,” said Javier bitterly. “That ruined my life, Abernathy. Ruined it. And it’s all your fault.”

      “I’m sorry,” said Virgil. “I am genuinely sorry, Javier, I really am. I had no idea it would cause you such hardship. The only thing I can say is that it wasn’t done with any degree of maliciousness. It wasn’t personal.”

      “It felt personal.”

      “And I regret that. I do. Please accept my apology.”

      “You know what?” Javier said. “I don’t. I’ve been waiting forty years for you to say sorry, and now that you have, it means nothing to me. You were a sonofabitch then and you’re a sonofabitch now. I hope you do get dementia. I hope you get dementia and you die a slow, horrible death.”

      “Right,” said Virgil. “Well, in my defence—”

      “Your defence can go to hell.”

      “In my defence,” Virgil persisted, “and taking all things into account, with the benefit of hindsight and whatnot, I don’t know … maybe you shouldn’t have molested that goat.”

      Javier hung up.