Thursday November 16th 2028 - 11:08
I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to start with tracking down the others. My first thought was to see if they had phonebooks around here, I don’t think I had used one in years, but there was a disgusting dump of a payphone in the middle of town, the old kind you saw in movies from the 60s, a bright, vibrant red. These days it served more so as a porta potty for the local bar’s patrons rather than any kind of phone, the floor was dusty and gross and cobwebs were hanging from peeling paint, revealing a layer of rust and grime below half-a-century old paint. The phone was smashed to bits, probably some hooligan offence, but the book was still there, ripped, wet and with no cover, but still hooked around a chain, linked to the old payphone inside a small compartment.
I barely even knew half of my old friend’s surnames, but one came to mind: Jamie Stevenson, I flipped through the book and found nothing, but there were four other Stevensons with registered numbers in Essex:
Stevenson, Alexandra
Stevenson, Derrick
Stevenson, Keiran
Stevenson, William
And so started the hell of calling up random people.
As far as the back told me, the latest print of this phone book was from 2017. Clearly no one cared enough to replace them all too regularly. And I couldn’t blame them. The phone didn’t even work. I had to pull out my own, a dusty 2019 Motorola, cracked up the sides and with a broken camera, but frankly that didn’t occur to me as much of a problem. After all, it was a functional phone that could phone… and text. That was enough from my perspective, I’ve always been more of a computer guy anyway.
Somehow I doubted any of the lines would get me anywhere, the Alexandra and Keiran numbers didn’t even exist anymore. Upon calling Derrick, my phone flagged a spam number. I didn’t even know it was possible to call those. “William” ended up being my last hope, and to my luck, such a number did exist, but no one picked up.
I ended up putting it behind me, perhaps this whole mystery wasn’t worth fighting for anyway. What leads even were there, other than a “ghost” I had now convinced myself was a fever dream, and a mysterious death. I hadn’t seen him for years. Was it really so hard to believe one could become depressed to the point of death within that time? Angela was correct. I wasn’t a Sherlock, but that didn’t necessarily mean I couldn’t use one.
...
Thursday November 16th 2028 - 14:58
The next few hours went by without problem, and I was beginning to plan how I was going to get back home, hopefully not too soon.
Or so I was hoping, before the number called me back.
I picked up faster than I think I ever have before.
“Ah hello?”
“I believe you tried the number earlier today, what would one want?”
First of all I was happy to hear they hadn’t written me off as a company calling. I would have. But this also was certainly not Jamie. I hoped not at least. His voice was incredibly low, the kind you would get when editing your own voice to be pitched down as a joke. Not to mention there was a kind of crackle within, not that of phone static, but as if his lungs were breaking with every syllable, the kind I remembered from my smoking grandparents.
“Sorry sir but is this William Stevenson?”
“The one and only you’ll find in the county” (I find that hard to believe William) “How could I aid thee sir?”
My god he spoke strangely, a strange mix of Brummie accent, shakespearean connectives and pub slang.
“Would you be related to Jaimie Stevenson?”
“Ha! Wish I weren’t. I’m his father, mister, he lives up in York these days. Now how would you know him then, son?”
“I was friends with him as a teen, I’ve come back down to Essex for a while and was wondering if I could contact him somehow…”
The conversation went on for a few more minutes as William exposited unrequested information about his child, some kind of great businessman living in the heights of York luxury, not that I thought such a thing existed. Eventually I was able to extract a phone number and say goodbye.
“Alright son, now you watch out for bears a’ight?”
“What?”
The call ended before I could figure out what it meant. Some kind of expression clearly. Maybe going back to London was a preferable choice. You make the choice to pay ridiculous rent for the payout of human beings whose words make sense.
...
I was going back up in a few days if I had no leads, but it would appear I had just found myself one.
Perhaps I should explain my work, essentially a photographer and editor for any media or newspaper that was willing to hire me in the city without a degree… usually the Daily Mail. It was my job to take photos for events going on around the place, and watch as my coworkers took in my photos and created a story about how they show the transgenders and romanies killing our society.
Photography was certainly a favorite activity of mine, being paid to travel around a city and set up shots of the local activity but something you quickly find is that doing so takes up around 20% of the job, and sitting at a computer editing photos, developing photos and printing contact sheets made up around the remaining time.
I had always been a part-timer, being paid on a freelance work standard. You edit one article and you get paid one article editing pay, roughly two pennies and a dirty leaf give or take.
You take one photo of a protest, you get paid perhaps three pennies.
Then on your weekends you contact other news-stations and see if you can play a double life for that extra profit.
A genuine excuse to stay at my parents and pursue an actually interesting story for once rather than the celebrity ragebait of modern print media would be quite the change in pace, and so I decided to call up a few of my employers and let them know ahead of time that I wouldn’t be available for shoots in the next week, perhaps more. I suppose it was time for them to exploit a different College dropout.
...
I decided it would be in my best interest to go home, and try and get some work done myself.
I ended up texting Jaimie, the way our generation talks without the social hell of actually talking, and got a reply in less than a minute.
I more or less just introduced myself and let him remember, and asked about any info on Billy.
The message was read and I saw him type something, stop, type again and then leave. I waited for about two minutes, staring at my phone screen before moving on.
Thursday November 16th 2028 - 19:08
I was sitting in bed, editing some photos on my laptop, praying against software crashes, when Ma came in.
“So…”
She sat down on my bed, and placed her hand on my knee.
“So?”
“How was the procession?”
“The pro… the funeral, you mean?”
“Yeah, speak to his parents much?”
“Not really…”
I ended up closing the lid of the laptop and getting up, it wasn’t that late. I could come downstairs. We didn’t say any more words as we came down. My parents were kind people but I had left them to leave the county without so much as a weeks warning, being randomly offered a permanent position in the city at the same time a cheap flat rent had gone down due to a local murder, resulting in not just the killing of a teenager but also that of interest in the local real estate. I didn’t hesitate but as it turns out, said permanent position wasn’t meant to be. I didn’t ever tell them I skipped onto freelance until letting it slip by accident over a phone call a few months ago.
Coming downstairs, I sat in the nearest chair in the lounge. I could hear my father snoring in the kitchen, being brushed and poked at by Ma trying to wake him up, and failing. I sunk into the leather, squeaking and crinkling around me, I pulled a piece of gum from my pocket and a random memory came into my mind, a stupid one, at that.
I remember being 15 and laying on the floor in an old, abandoned tool shack near the park with Billy, drinking cheap soda and trying to see who could blow the biggest bubblegum whilst watching Netflix. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, the floor was shredded and covered in splinters and dirt, every corner filled with cobwebs and spiders crawling out of each crack, but over time we cleaned it up, even stored food and drink in a little tin and brought blankets, made it somewhat of a clubhouse and would invite our closest friends in. I kept it out of my mind. The last time I ever saw Billy was in the clubhouse. He ended up winning the competition, but the bubble exploded, pouring gum all over his face as I cackled in laughter, watching him scrape around for a tissue, eventually settling on using a leaf to peel it off.
Now, I held the packet in my hand, it was years later and a slightly different taste but still the same brand, the same bright pink circles covering the packaging. I wish I could share some of it with him. But I couldn’t.
He’s gone.
It feels profoundly stupid to say but that was the moment it truly settled in. The gum dissolved under my tongue, souring itself into a chalky paste. I began to fall asleep, a couple tears streaking down my cheek.
He’s gone.