At first she didn’t know what had happened, and once she’d stopped panicking, she realized one of her tyres had blown. Carrie Butterworth dropped the gears into neutral and guided the car to the side of the road. The front left wheel was making whoop whoop sounds.
Carrie snapped up the handbrake and lowered her face into cupped hands. "I swear, I just swear." She looked up and took a deep breath. Darkness had settled outside. The road either way was empty. Carrie looked around, not really wanting to get out of the car, and spotted a flickering light in the distance.
Carrie fondled in her handbag for her mobile phone, already knowing in advance that the battery was dead. She pressed the power button and the screen glowed up for a second and then died. She looked up at the flickering light in the dark of the road ahead and realized what it was she saw. It was a light in a phonebox.
"Christ..." She chucked the phone on the seat beside her. "This is all I need." Safety over convenience, she heard her mother saying in her head. Carrie started the engine. "Come on then," she said and moved the car back on to the road. To block out the whoop whoop sounds, she turned the radio up.
She got the car as near to the phonebox door as she could. "Place to break down." Carrie pressed on her hazard lights and got out. The wind was wire-sharp. She hurried into the phonebox and pulled the door shut. The light above flickered and died. Darkness engulfed her and she almost screamed. Noises outside cradled her.
Within the darkness her heart boomed in her chest and she held her breath. The light came back on. Carrie gasped and dropped her forehead onto the perspex window, which was cold and made her wonder she was taking so long.
"Garry," she cried in relief and picked up the handset. Garry was her brother-in-law and was the only person she could think of that would help her out. Carrie slotted a twenty pence coin into the machine and put the handset against her ear. The light flickered once more and just before she could dial, Carrie thought she heard someone on the line. Someone who sounded as if they drank raw eggs and whiskey.
"Dirty bitch..."
She dropped the handset.
Carrie – flat against the side of the phonebox – stared nervously at the handset. The loud thumping in her chest scared her. She glanced back at the car and then picked up the handset. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach and sweat prickled on the back of her neck like tiny specks of glass.
She put the handset to her ear and listened cautiously. Carrie, short of breath, waited in silence and trepidation.
"AAAAAHHHHGGGGGGGHHHHHGGGHHHH!!!" the voice on the line screamed. Carrie bounced away from the machine, dropping the handset. Whoever it was on the line was still screaming.
"Jesus, fuck..." Her hands were shaking. She grabbed the handset again and slowly put it to her ear. Silence.
Carrie sighed and with two fingers reached for the cut-off switch.
"Listen, quick, just listen." The voice was short of breath and was female.
"Who is this?" Carrie cried, gripping the handset.
"Shut up and listen. Please, just tell my mom. They’re gonna do it again, he still might–" The woman on the phone paused.
"Ohh... God." Carrie – gaping mouth, piercing eyes – stood in paralysis, waiting for the woman to start talking again. Her eyes jerked up to the flickering light on the phonebox ceiling. Her skin crawled. "Hello?" The stillness seemed to last forever. They’re gonna do it again, Carrie thought. Tell my mom–
"This is where they do it. Jay got away. Please, help me, you’ve gotta tell my mom, my name is–" She paused again. Someone shrieked on the line. This was someone different. This was the voice she’d heard earlier, the raw eggs and whiskey voice.
"Hello," Carrie said softly, closing her eyes and wanting solace more than anything.
"I don’t have much time – he’s coming for me again."
Carrie’s eyes bolted open. "Who is this?"
"Listen to me, God, he’s coming. Find my mom, please, I know she’s still looking, you’ve gotta tell her, please." Carrie tried to say something but what came out was just a ramble of sounds. "They’ve done it once before and they’re gonna do it again at this phonebox, help her." The woman on the line still sounded out of breath, as if she’d been running.
"B-buh-but, who are you?" Carrie finally found her tongue.
"Emma Jones, that’s my name. Oh shite... Jay wears an eye patch, he’s my–"
"Dirty bitch!!!" Carrie heard a heavy thump, moans and cries. She screamed and threw the handset. She stumbled out of the phonebox into the wind and fell to the grassy edge of the road.
"Em-Emma Jones... okay." She climbed into her car, shivering.
Sitting in the cabin, she noticed something flapping on the side window of the phonebox. It was a sign, and as she kept watching, the wind eventually blew it correct. Out of Order. She started the car and rushed away, not even caring about the flat tyre.
* * * * *
Carrie slammed through the front door of her house and climbed hastily up the stairs. Sandy, her cat, was rolling around on the hallway rug. Carrie went straight to the computer room, what she called it, anyway.
She switched on the computer and sat down on the leather swivel chair. Sandy was climbing the stairs now to see her owner. The computer loaded up.
"Right, see what we can find," she muttered, chewing the side of her lip as she thought about that woman and what she was going through. Carrie got on to the Internet and typed "Emma Jones" into the Google search-box. "Come on, come on." A few seconds later many topics on the name Emma Jones popped up on the screen. She browsed down.
At the very bottom of the page: Emma Jones murdered and raped... North Warwickshire. Carrie froze. Her eyes huge like brown buttons. A hand staggered to her mouth and she was certain she’d throw up. The colour in her face had changed to the shade of cigarette ash. Christ, she’s dead, the girl’s fucking dead...
After the shock and dismay settled, Carrie leaned back into the swivel chair and tried to think. She clicked on the topic, unconsciously chewing her nails.
A large facial portrait of a young eighteen year old girl loaded on to the screen and Carrie felt even worse. She was blonde and pretty with a couple of freckles on her nose. A detailed story was below the picture. Carrie read the lot and at some points felt sick in her stomach. At the bottom of the page were two numbers you could call regarding information. Carrie searched the computer desk for a pen and notepad.
Twenty minutes later, Carrie was sitting downstairs in front of the telephone, shaking like a wind chime in a storm. She felt easier in the light, in the warm. She dialled the mobile number. She didn’t want an information line. Carrie waited, sitting on the edge of the armchair, looking at her shadow sprawled across the wall. Dirty Bitch–
"Hello." The voice was female. Ice climbed up Carrie’s spine. "Hello," the woman said again and broke Carrie’s pause.
"Yes, err, this... I’m calling regarding Emma Jones?"
"How’d you know my daughter?"
Christ, it’s her mother.
"Jesus... I think I can help you." How wrong did that sound? Carrie spoke again before Emma’s mother could. "Your daughter, Emma, I can help you." There was a short silence and Miss Jones sighed.
"My daughter’s been dead for nearly a year, I don’t need any help. Thank you anyway," Miss Jones explained.
"No... no, you don’t understand, I’ve spoken to her, trust me, I’ve spoken to her," Carrie said, her voice rose.
"My daughter’s dead. Now, I don’t know if you’re trying to play some kind of sick joke, but–"
Carrie jumped in again. "Listen to me, please. I know you’re still looking for the other one, I know there were two of them that did it, and I may be able to help you, if you just let me." Carrie waited for the response.
"How do you know all this?" Her tone was wary. Putting a contact number on the web had led to over two hundred and thirty prank calls. Miss Jones knew people could be cruel.
"I’ve spoken to her. It sounds crazy to me as well, but I have. It happened in a phonebox on Garrison Lane, didn’t it?"
"How’d you know this?"
Carrie prepared herself to drop the bombshell, the very source that would crack her credibility in half.
"Your daughter, I think, well I know now anyway, is trapped in the telephone line of that phonebox on the country road." One eye closed, Carrie waited to see what she would say.
"Just like the others, leave me alone; don’t waste my time, please–"
"No, no, I’m not messing around, please, oh please, you’ve gotta listen to me. Just hear me out. Do you know a man who wears an eye-patch? Does Jay mean anything?" A weak gasp. Carrie’s eyes widened and she sat up straight. This was the bombshell, not the haunting of the phone, not the discovery of her daughter’s soul haunting a BT telephone line. Oh no.
"You know Johnny?"
"Johnny?" Carrie asked, dry throat, sinking heart. She prayed eye-patch Johnny wasn’t the man in Miss Jones’s life or a loved one, even a long distant relative.
"Johnny’s my step-son." A hand covered Carrie’s eyes. A dirty feeling in her stomach stirred. She didn’t know she was sweating.
"He wears an eye-patch?" Carrie asked.
"Yes, but... this is crazy."
"Is there any way we can meet, it might be best if we were to meet." Her chest raised and dropped.
"Yes, okay, yes."
"Tomorrow?" Carrie asked. "Do you live near Coleshill?"
"Yes, about five minutes' drive... so close. You know the coffee shop at the bottom of the High Street, by the bridge?"
"Martin’s, is it?"
"That’s the one; I’ll meet you around midday?" She was still cautious, after two hundred and something misleads, you were likely to be that bit doubtful.
"Perfect, okay, goodbye," Carrie said and hung up. She fell back into the chair. She felt like sobbing but was too tired.
* * * * *
Carrie went into Martin’s coffee shop with her hands in her coat pockets and her eyes on the floor tiles. She went straight to the counter. She gazed around. It was a pleasant place to be; the coffee in the air was potent and reminiscent of a Paris bakery. Along the window were oval shaped seats that looked like huge eggshells cut in half. In the corner left of the door, a humble, pale-faced woman in a beige overcoat was seated. A leather handbag was on the table and she was stirring a cup of coffee. She hadn’t touched her cookie.
Carrie ordered a cup of coffee, paid the girl behind the counter, and turned towards the lady in the corner with the pale face. Here goes, Carrie thought.
"Hello, are you–" Carrie said and Miss Jones smiled approvingly.
"Yes, I take it you are the lady I spoke on the phone with?"
Carrie nodded and pulled a chair out from under the table and sat. Miss Jones sipped her coffee and then wiped her lips with a napkin.
"I’m Carrie, and I swear to God what I told you is the truth."
Miss Jones’s eyes fell to the bottom of her cup. "Okay, so when did all this happen?"
"Last night, Miss Jones." It sounded strange calling someone 'Miss'.
"Sandra, call me Sandra. Miss makes me sound old." Carrie smiled, not at the gesture but at her own thoughts.
"Right, okay... I got a flat tyre on the country lane and saw the phonebox," Sandra Jones stiffened and her eyes looked up for just a second. "Well, basically, it all happened when I picked up the phone." Sandra had another sip of coffee and just as she wiped her lips again, the waitress brought Carrie’s cappuccino. She set it down and then left. Carrie drank instantly in a bid to cure her dry throat.
"Do you know what happened?" Sandra asked and stirred the bit of coffee left in the bottom of the cup. It was obvious she didn’t have any intention of drinking any more. Carrie shook her head and wasn’t too sure if she wanted to know. Sandra carried on anyway. "One raped her, while the other watched, I guess." She said all this into her cup. The tears were dwelling in the corners of her eyes, and Carrie started to wonder why Sandra was doing this to herself.
"Sandra, please."
"No, you should know. She fought back, the police said – or so they believe – he pulled a knife out and apparently my baby kicks him in the lowers, or so on. But he still got her. He ruptured inside and I hope he suffered." Sandra wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. "At least she took one of them with her, and the police have never found the other. And now you say it was Johnny."
"It wasn’t me that said it." Carrie drank her coffee. "She said they’re gonna do it again. Sandra, do you think – if it is your step-son – he’ll do it again?"
Sandra’s head snapped up, her red eyes wide and contemplative.
"Johnny, I really don’t know. He’s such a quiet kid." Sandra went quiet herself. "I think I want to go to the phonebox." Just the words made the hairs stand on Carrie’s neck. She sucked in her gut.
"All right."
Sandra knew that Carrie wasn’t so eager, but she had got involved, and sometimes you had to face things you feared. She knew this from experience.
* * * * *
The phonebox loomed on the horizon, stirring feelings of dread in her stomach. Carrie felt like Christ approaching the peak of Mount Calvary. Carrie had walked to the coffee shop so Sandra drove in her Ford Focus to Garrison Lane. She saw the phonebox too and it made her tighten up.
The Ford rolled to the side of the road and they sat in silence. The car rocked slightly from the wind outside.
"You ready?" Sandra asked finally, gripping the leather strap of her handbag. Carrie rubbed her lips with unsteady fingers and nodded. Sandra got out first and Carrie followed.
Carrie and Sandra walked side by side. The wind was fresh and sharp and carried the smell of manure from the farms. The makeshift out of order sign was flapping. They approached the phone and Sandra grabbed Carrie’s hand and held it gently. "I feel sick," Carrie said.
From somewhere Sandra seemed to gain more confidence and grabbed the handle. She yanked the door open and exhaled loudly.
"Now what?" Sandra asked, and the telephone started ringing. They both looked over sharply. Afraid. Shocked.
"Do you wanna get it?" Carrie asked, not liking the unsteadiness in her legs. Sandra didn’t answer and picked up the handset. Putting the phone to her ear, an overload of different emotions flooded Sandra and she started sobbing.
"Em," Sandra said, her voice wavering. Carrie watched, glancing around at the nearby bushes and tangled foliage swaying in the wind. A flock of birds took to the sky from a tree in the field. "Em?" Sandra’s grip tightened around the handset.
"Mom... Mom?"
Sandra’s lips rolled inwards and she wiped away the tears with the opposite hand. "Baby, my baby, oh God... I miss you so much," Sandra cried.
"He ain’t around, Mom, but he will be. It was Jay, Mom; it was Johnny and his friend. He’s gonna do it again. He wasn’t at home, Mom, like you told the police – he crept out. He’s gonna do it again, soon, they planned it." The hand that had wiped away the tears was now arched over her forehead.
Sandra went to speak but cut off momentarily to listen to the roaring voice behind Emma’s. "Em, who is that?" Sandra asked, really crying now. Her eyes were surrounded in rings of redness.
"That’s Adrian Porter. Please, Mom, you’ve gotta stop him, don’t let him do it again, please–" Then Emma was ripped away. Sandra listened to her daughter’s suffering, hearing Adrian Porter beat her and swear at her in the darkness of wherever they were trapped. Sandra dropped the handset in a flush of anger, sorrow and terror. She turned and screamed. Carrie lunged forwards and grabbed her. They hugged, and in their embrace Sandra wailed.
* * * * *
They sat in the car, quietly, until Sandra turned to Carrie and said, "Will you help me?" Carrie looked up – lips puckered, eyes wet and glassy – and nodded solemnly.
"Of course." Sandra started the car and they left Garrison Lane.
The drive home: Carrie thought about Sandra’s situation and how she’d have to go home and see him. Cook him dinner. Ask if he was okay, watch television with him, but more importantly, do everything the same. If Sandra was to start acting funny, start being suspicious with him, she could ruin it all.
At the crossroads, Sandra looked into the rear-view and saw an empty road. She pulled the handbrake up. "Thank you for this."
"That’s ok, but don’t you wanna go the police, get some help? Tell them what we’ve seen, what we know?" Sandra shook her head and put a hand on Carrie’s leg.
"No, not yet – eventually, but not yet. I will though," she said, gave her thigh a gentle squeeze and then put her hand back on her leg. "But you’ll help me, won’t you?"
"Yes, I’ve said yes, course I will." Carried smiled – it felt stretched and uncomfortable. And she knew why: it wasn’t that she had to help her, it was not knowing what might happen, what they both might confront that made her uncomfortable.
Sandra drove away.
* * * * *
Carrie had just sat down on the couch to eat a bowl of pasta and was looking forwards to a nice bath when her house phone rang. Carrie put the bowl on the carpet and moved across the room.
"Hello."
"Carrie, it’s Sandra Jones." At first the name meant nothing. "I hope you don’t mind me ringing you, but it’s happening tonight, will you help me?" Carrie paused and touched her dry lips. It had been a month since she had last spoken to Sandra. Two months since that night on Garrison Lane. Dirty Bitch...
"Errm, mm... yeah, of course." Carrie pushed down on the soles of her feet. Her calf muscles felt like warm sponge.
"He doesn’t know I know. It’s a young girl – she’s still in school." You could hear the loathing in Sandra’s voice.
"What you gonna do?" Carrie asked, gripping the armrest.
"I’ve been watching him a lot over the last week. I’ve set up cameras in secret places, had specialists install bugs, microphones, in different places of the house. I’ve got so much evidence on the little bastard he can’t get out of it." Was that an answer to Carrie’s question? She thought not, and suddenly started to panic. Carrie went to speak and Sandra cut her off. "He’s doing it with a friend of his from Bristol, met him on the Internet, and he’s apparently staying in a hotel in the city. They’re meeting up tonight at an Indian restaurant first."
"Who’s the girl?" Carrie asked, biting her nails.
"I don’t know her name, apparently she works on the High Street and gets picked up by her dad – they’re gonna snatch her." Sandra swallowed heavily. "The dirty little bastard, how can he do such a thing?"
"Sandra, I really think you should get the police involved."
Sandra’s voice became taut. "No!" she barked.
"So what you gonna do?" Carrie asked, trembling.
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