I heard the voice of my mother, calling to me as if from a long way off.
Last night, as I was dropping off to sleep, I heard her call.
That was it.
The screen of my telephone was lit up on my bedside table and then nothing. The phone went dark again.
I lay in the darkness listening to the Belieber in the apartment above me move things around, boxes containing the weight of her world.
This is the first time I have been able to understand the voices from my phone.
I dropped my cellular telephone in the lavatory a few nights ago.
After fishing it out (wearing rubber gloves, naturally, as I was not about to flush) I dried it in the sun for a couple of days.
I was told it would never work again, but it does.
To a point.
Odd thing is though, when I switch it on, the screen goes grey and the telephone emits a sound much like voices carried on the wind. I am unable to make out what is being said and it is as if the voices have travelled down the ages, through time itself, perhaps. Like the speakers have long since gone, but their words remain, out in the ether.
I place the phone next to my bed at night and listen to the voices in the dark.
It helps me sleep.
I am not sure why.
I have an abiding fear:
What if I was lost and no one noticed?
The dead lesbian has been bothering me. Not in spirit, but in mind.
Thusly I marched down to the local cop shop, so as to inquire as to the progress of the investigation and to drop the possible hint that her “friend” may be the culprit and/or suspect.
The little shits kept me locked up for 48 hours.
Just to ask a few questions, they said, because apparently, I did live below them.
During my incarceration and subsequent “torture” I never ever mentioned, let me tell you this, the war of the words that we had, as that would have definitely put the spotlight of blame directly on me.
Motive, they call it.
But I did not break!
It would appear, however, that a phone call from a Dr So-and-So secured my release and as far as I can recall (prison does things to a man’s mind, I must say), it would appear that their investigation into me is “unstable” at best.
I have thought long and hard about it and I have come to the conclusion that this is all interwoven, intertwined; the death of Jeanie, the key, the time machine in the basement and this Dr So-and-So.
I am unable to sleep.
I am aghast.
How could this happen?
Ms O’Connor went from this:
Ah, yes. The beauty of youth
Ohhh, donuts were the downfall of me…ooooh
Holy mother of Mary and Joseph! (With my most sincere apologies to all Catholics the world over).
Apart from Guinness, this was Ireland’s only great export. Now all that remains is beer (Which is not a bad thing).
Let me tell you, if hotel rooms kill celebrities, then cussing at the Pope and his faith causes accelerated decrepitude.
Despite having the key to the basement door, the basement and the time machine remain unreachable.
The key is in my possession, yet I can’t go down there.
I am not sure why.
It is as if some sort of invisible barrier stops me in the lobby and prevents me from going towards the basement door, key in hand.
So many times have I turned back just before the door, almost unconsciously, and I find myself climbing the stairs, like an automaton, back to my apartment.
Last night, as I reached my floor, I heard the soft click of a door closing, on the landing below. I peered over the balustrade and quietly called hello.
I have reached the decision to keep the key on my person at all times now.
I dislike Ellen DeGeneres.
She really irritates me.