The Call

Two

The harsh tone of Leonid’s home phone pierced the silence that was draped over his house since his son died. Leonid awoke where he’d fallen asleep, at his desk. But the room wasn’t right, it wasn’t supposed to be an office or a study, it was Max’s room. Where was Max? He wondered, and then the gauze of sleep lifted and the reality of his situation flowed over him like a river of fire.

Leonid noticed his desk drawer was open, and the bottle was empty. Kasha would leave him for sure if she knew about this, but luckily that wouldn’t be a problem with her away at the moment. Which brought him to the question as to who was calling his house phone?

He took the bottle from the desk and his mug, and stood up, nearly stumbling as he did so, thanks to the rush of blood to his head coupled with the alcohol he’d partaken of, creating a kaleidoscopic haze that was both beautiful and confusing at the same time. Taking a moment to steady himself, he left the room, and as he did, he saw in the corner of his eye, his son Max playing with his toys. A single tear fell down Leonid’s face as he exited the room that once contained the one thing in the world Leonid had ever really loved.

The house was dark, and no amount of light could shed the emptiness Leonid felt whilst walking through it. The joy had been sucked from the house and replaced with an oppressive presence that you could almost taste it in the air. This once happy family home was a constant reminder of death and disappointment.

The phone still warbled through the house, at an almost supernatural level of volume. Leonid put the bottle and mug onto a small tale in the hall, and then he reached over to the incessant phone and silenced the noise by placing the receiver next to his ear.

“Hello?” He murmured to the caller

“Mr. Pall, it’s Sebastian Faulkner here from Foley Lodge.”

Leonid tried to focus on what the man had said, and searched his foggy memory as to why he should know this man. He was drawing a blank and the caller sensed this.

“I’ve not actually spoken to you personally Mr. Pall, but I have spoken to your wife about your condition”

“My condition?” Leonid spat the words down the phone, angered that his wife had raised their problems to people outside of their marriage.

“Yes, I hope I’ve not caught you at a bad time, I was just confirming that you received the plane tickets”

Leonid wondered if he was still dreaming, looked around and saw a large envelope on the mat by his front door.

“I’m sorry” Leonid continued “but, I have no idea of who you are or what you want or why I’d be flying anywhere”

There was a pause for a moment, and then the caller spoke up

“Mr. Pall, Foley Lodge is a place where artists who have lost their spark, come to recuperate. A creative mind is a dangerous mind if not cared for. Couple this with a drinking problem and you’re really in trouble. The tickets were paid for by your wife, who was so concerned for your well being that she paid out several thousand pounds for your stay with us, which would only be for a fortnight by the way.”

Meddling bitch, Leonid thought.

“I’m doing fine as I am thank you.” Leonid lied.

“Really?” there was a different tone in the caller’s voice, something unsettling about it. “Mr. Pall, you see your dead son don’t you?”

Leonid, never told his wife about the phantom figure that he often saw in the corner of his eye, the real reason that he moved his office into his sons old room. There was no way the caller could know, no way.

“Who are you?” Leonid asked again

“Sebastian Faulkner. I do understand this must be difficult for you, I would have thought your wife would have mentioned all of this. Mr. Pall, we can help you. Just read the literature we sent along with the plane ticket and if you’re not convinced then don’t come. But if I were you, Mr. Pall, if I was in your condition, I’d get out of that house now.”

Leonid put the receiver down, and moved in a daze to the envelope on the floor. Why hadn’t Kasha said anything to him about all this? Things had been worse than tough on their marriage since the accident, and Leonid had fallen out of love with her, this was true, but they always talked about things.

He picked up the envelope and went back to the study; there on the blank page that sat in his typewriter were the words

Don’t go Daddy

Leonid couldn’t breathe for a moment. Then decidedly he turned around; left his son’s old bedroom, proceeded out of his front door, and left his house for the last time.

The Writer

One

A crisp clean white page stared at Leonid Pall from the metal framework of his Remington Typewriter. If Leonid didn’t know any better, he could swear the page was mocking him in his father’s voice. “Your last play was awful, what gives you the right to waste more paper on your worthless musings?”

Leonid opened the drawer of the sturdy desk he used in his office, reached in, pulled out a bottle of Scotland’s finest, unscrewed the cap and poured the amber liquid into the mug that was a permanent resident of his desk. Placing the bottle back in the drawer, for fear of draining it dry, he looked back at the page and sighed.

It didn’t used to be this hard, when he was younger, the ideas flowed like water, and everyone said he was destined for great things. Everyone was right, and great things did happen to Leonid Pall; he had written twelve plays so far, with the first seven being of exceptional quality and performed on a regular basis to high commercial success. However, one particular bad thing had happened to Leonid Pall, the worst thing that could have happened, and the most pain a person can endure; outliving their own child.

Leonid blamed himself everyday for his son’s death, after all, if Leonid had of been sober that night, his brother wouldn’t have had to drive the car. After the accident, and to this day Leonid told his wife that he didn’t remember much from the crash except that their son died instantly and didn’t suffer. That however, was a lie.

Leonid remembered everything as if it had happened moments ago, his brother swerving to miss something on the road, then the deafening silence and weightlessness that he experienced when the car veered off the cliff. Then even the alcohol couldn’t subdue the pain that shot through Leonid’s body, as the car crumpled in on them all.

Leonid had been in the back of the car, and once the car had stopped, wedged in a rock at the bottom of a ravine, he was able to force open the door and managed to crawl away from the wreck to catch his breath, and get his bearings. For the briefest of moments, Leonid focused on the pain in his left arm and had forgotten about his family in the car. Suddenly, he thought of them, and as he sat there on the cool ground, cradling his arm, he could just make out his son’s voice calling to him, before fire engulfed the car, burning Leonid’s brother and son alive. To this day, Leonid could hear their screams when he was alone.

After the accident, Leonid’s creative side suffered. The drama’s he was known for were a confused mess and each play Leonid submitted was worse than the last. His last play, the twelfth one, had just been put on at the Loki Theatre, and was a terrible production. Pall had lost all faith he had in his writing ability, and now he spent his days staring at the page that was in his typewriter.

Leonid stared at the page and picked up his mug. He wouldn’t get any work done today, not with the dark thoughts that swam around his head. He looked at the liquid as he swilled it around in the mug, and wondered what his wife would say if she saw him drinking again. He had promised after all to stop, but he’d promised a lot of things the past few years and with that thought in his mind he raised the mug to his lips and embraced the cloudy nothingness that would follow.