Texting Tremaine – a Short Story

07:37 from: +44 7885 912124

‘This is my new mobile. Pls save 2 ur phone’

07:39 from: Tremaine

‘OK. u will send instructions from this number?’

         Becki frowned at the incoming message on her new phone. The day was running away from her already. There was no time to deal with cryptic messages. She was on the point of phoning Tremaine in Tehran, but instead typed: ‘lol’

‘??? I mean this is how u will contact me now? On this number?’

‘shall I call u?’ she typed.

‘No’

 She frowned. Too busy to speak to her? ‘Y so uptight? 😉’ she wrote.

‘Not uptight’

‘Soz. Difficult atm. I’m sure u know y !)’’

 ‘Difficult 4 everyone. Y shldn’t I be uptight? I was waiting a long time 4 u’

‘A long time?’

 ‘Not easy 2 b alone out here. In a strange place. Waiting for some contact’

‘Chill  u r home soon’

‘Inshallah. A better place.’

 ‘lol u going native?’

‘???’

 ‘Just a bit longer  It’s not like u never travelled before. How’s the weather?’

‘Grey. All grey. ppl,  weather, buildings. Grey like tea. I don’t know how people can stand 2 live here any more’

‘Grey here 2. Raining ’

‘Where r you? Is it allowed to know?’

‘Where do u think?  :p’

‘I don’t want 2 know’

‘:))))’ then added, ‘It’ll be ok won’t it?’

         ‘Inshallah’

‘LOL. There u go again’

‘What?’

*

08:01 from: Tremaine

‘R you gone?’

08:17 from: Tremaine

‘When will u contact me again?’

*

Becki executed her bathroom ritual, standing before the mirror, toothbrush poised, and performed a grimace. She tugged at her upper lip – she had a crooked tooth that she wanted to fix, but Tremaine said it was part of her ‘character’. Beyond the open door of the bathroom, the silence of the apartment filled her with a strange angst. It was a neat apartment—beyond reproach. Plain carpets, plain walls. Nothing confrontational. She hated confrontation. Bright colours were too violent. But there was this angst – this deep-seated unease. Since her bag had been stolen yesterday she had felt vulnerable. A snatch and grab— so swift she had described it to the police as allegro.

         The replacement phone had arrived by courier that morning, all glossy and shiny, but the new number was ugly and ill fitting, lacking the symmetry of her old number and somehow making her feel out of character. Silly to get attached to a telephone number.

         She would get around to having the locks changed later. Time permitting. It was important, but she had a busy day ahead of her at the office. And she was late. She was always late.

         Tremaine’s absence was palpable. It manifested itself in a series of nuances: a missing toothbrush in the tooth jug. The lack of men’s toiletries in the shower. A solitary plate and glass in the dishwasher. She should be steeled to it now he travelled so often on business. The text exchange had left her feeling hollow. After she had announced her news she felt entitled to a little more—what? Empathy? Affection? How would she recognise an affectionate SMS, she wondered? Maybe she would call him later. For now there was no time. And calls were expensive to Iran.

         She passed into the bedroom and dressed with a fluency derived from her ballet classes. Then, as she sat on the edge of the bed, pointing her toes into a stocking she caught sight of a message notification on her phone. Two messages. She smiled inwardly, and resolved to save his texts for later, like prolonging a guilty treat.

         Their news should have galvanised them, she reflected, with a wrenching feeling. For days it had been her news, and she had cherished it. She had taken pleasure in speculating about his reaction, playing it every which way in her head, and casting her own excitement and jubilance upon the habitually dispassionate Tremaine. She should have known he would react without a tremor. Now it was their news and not hers, and it gave her a pang of jealousy, sharing it and find it treated with such carelessness.

         She glanced at her phone, and plucked it from the bedside table: Frowned when she  read his curt texts. What was she expecting? Her thumbs tapped out a reply.

         08:47 from: +44 7885 912124

         ‘Hey. Everything ok?’

         The reply came at once. ‘I’m ready.. will it be today?’

         ‘Funny. NOT. 😀 How r u?’

         ‘Prepared. I’ve made my peace’

         ‘Funny way to put it. But yes. I c what u mean. Everything will be ok. Except for the sickness lol’

         ‘Yes. I feel it too. Sickness. I think it is not cowardice. It’s mental. Nothing 2 b done about it. I never worry that I will not b up 4 the task.’

‘The task. That’s what it is?’

‘Allah’s task’

‘lol. You mean like jihad?’

‘Exctly’

‘It’s not a war. It’s a birth’

‘u r correct. A Rebirth’

‘If u like. For us 2 maybe?’

‘Why u keep texting me?’

The rebuke stung. Was he teasing her? ‘:D first you complain u waited a long time. Now I contact you 2 much’

‘It’s not how I expected’

‘Me 2. U r out there somewhere alone (I hope!) n I’m here alone trying 2 deal with this. When they told me it was real I was still shocked. Displaced. And I can’t tell anyone yet. We can’t tell anyone. We’ve got this big secret :)’

         ‘The world will know soon’ and then afterwards, ‘What did u mean shocked??? u were prepared for this moment yes?’

09:03 from: Tremaine

‘Yes??? Prepared yes?’

09:12 from: +44 7885 912124

‘r u afraid then?’ she wrote quickly as she left.

‘NEVER!!!’

She paused in the doorway, leaving the apartment. ‘Coz there’s still time. If ur not sure’

‘u must never think this way u shld never doubt. We r like comrades’

         ‘comrades??? How does that make me feel?’ she wrote.

She waited.

09:18 from: +44 7885 912124

‘gtg’

         She banged the door hard as she stepped into the hallway and the sound reverberated in the wake of her staccato heels, tapping down the corridor and out to the street. Outside, the October light was insipid. Some leaves still clung to the trees, but they were curly and crispy like burnt prawn crackers. The sun was a pale phantom behind a bank of cloud, and even the vivid colours of the mobile phone billboard on the opposite side of the street blanched. Happy smiling citizens in touch with each other, drawing strength from their connections. ‘CONNECTING PEOPLE’ shouted the billboard. She liked the girl in the picture. She had a crooked tooth and a mischievous grin. She would like to one day have a daughter like the mobile phone girl.

         Comrades! That’s what he called them. Not lovers but comrades. Her mind in a turmoil she stepped into the road in front of a black cab and the wail of the horn blasted her to her senses. A bulky driver with mad orange hair leaned out of the window of the cab and yelled something that was blurred with her shock and adrenalin and the swishing of traffic. She gestured at him with 2 fingers, instantly regretting it, as the cab accelerated with a rasping engine away from her. It was her fault, after all.

         Everything was her fault. Even the pregnancy. A careless lapse. Her lapse not his. A pill not swallowed. A test taken too late. She felt the pulse of her phone in her handbag, and stopped in the street, rummaging in her bag. The phone had stopped vibrating as she withdrew her hand, and she read that she had a missed call from Tremaine. She glanced at the entrance to the underground station, seething with pallid-faced commuters, and then at her watch, estimating how long a call with Tremaine would delay her—and whether she wanted to be delayed. She flipped her wrist again and frowned at her watch. Late already. She stabbed out a message.

         09:26 from: +44 7885 912124

 ‘u called’

‘I shldnt have pls forgive me’

‘What did u want?’

‘Nothing. Just to hear ur voice. 4get it pls. feel stranded here’

‘What do u mean? Stranded?’

‘Like on the brink. A chasm. I know everything will be gd. Must b normal to feel this way’

Still mad at him. ‘I have to go,’ she typed.

         She jabbed at the off button and descended into the yellow light and musty air of the underground station. Already forgotten. Already left behind in the ether. A plea for help wrapped in Helvetica Neue.

*

Even after the train, after the bus from Tavistock Square, she was still brimming with fury. Comrades! She thought. Her mind punctuated the word with multiple exclamations. A bitterness gnawed  at her. So this is how he thought of their relationship. This is what he thought about their future? The secret that she had nurtured inside for days with such assiduousness, with such bliss. Maybe they should reconsider? Maybe Tremaine was simply not ready for this kind of commitment. Maybe they were incompatible. The cracks that once had seemed so easy to overlook in their relationship, like settlement cracks in a new house, were shifting into fractures that might tear them apart.

         The lift pinged, and announced in the voice of a BBC presenter that she was on the 3^rd floor. Perversely she wondered if the lifts in Tehran spoke in Farsi. Two and a half hours ahead. Why one half? Who measures time zones in 30 minute intervals? Her head was full of stuff and nonsense as her mother used to tell her. Stuff and nonsense. And now she was more scatter-brained than ever. She swept her hair back with a flourish, in an effort to put something of her life in order. A trivial gesture. ‘Put your hair back dear’ echoed the prim voice of her mother. Such a long time ago. She wished her mother could have been alive to share in her news. An intricate movement of her long fingers at the back of her head, and her hair was pinned in a neat bun, no longer tumbling in waves at her shoulders.

*

Becki immersed herself in the limpid screen of her Mac for a whole morning, conducting tenuous dialogues with customers and support workers by email. Only once did she physically speak to a colleague the whole morning, and the sound of her own voice sounded unfamiliar and took her by surprise. Her colleague told her with an anxious face that she looked tired. It made her feel deflated and shabby even though she had applied her make up with such precision and had paid such careful attention to the coordination of her clothes. She had simply smiled and beat at the keyboard of her Mac with added vigour.

         When she found some brief respite and sent out for a sandwich to eat at her desk, she debated whether to phone Tremaine. She texted him instead.

13:32 from: +44 7885 912124

‘What r u doing?’

         No reply. She munched on her sandwich without relish: rye bread with avocado and chicken, which she hoped was healthy. When she had balled up the wrapping, she contemplated her phone for a few moments, before sending another text.

‘??’

She returned to her computer for several minutes before writing in frustration, ‘R u not talking to me? What r u doing?’

The reply was instant this time. ‘Reading. Praying. Thinking’

‘Praying?’

‘Of course’

‘u r serious?’

‘I’ve done many bad things. This 1 thing can redeem me.’

‘Yes. It’s a big responsibility 4 us both.’

Later:

14:03 from: +44 7885 912124

‘But u r not so bad, srly?’

14:10 from: +44 7885 912124

‘What bad things did u mean??’

14:18 from: +44 7885 912124

‘gtg’

*

In a bleak bedsit with soot filtered windows a young man lay stretched on a bed, with his trainers on. The screen of an ancient TV in the corner was draped with an ‘I love NY’ ‘T’ shirt, and fast food wrappings littered the carpet. He watched his phone, willing a new message to light up the display.

         Since he had arrived in London on Allah’s mission he had isolated himself in his room for every hour that he could, making only brief recces for food. Who said it was Allah’s mission, He asked himself? He had read the Qur’an over and over, rehearsed the sacred words in his head even when the book was closed. The book was never closed to him, not in his head: he knew the verses by heart. But it was not the book that directed him on this mission.

         Better people than him were entrusted with God’s will. He would follow the path that they had lighted for him. But the truth was, it was easier in the mosque and in the company of friends to feel a part of the cause – the jihad. Alone here in the territory of the infidel, he fought hard sometimes to remain positive. He was behind enemy lines, he told himself. It was normal to have these feelings. Remember, he told himself, that as a martyr Firdaws, awaited him, the garden of paradise reserved for “those who believe and work righteous deeds” along with the prophets. ‘Along with the prophets’, he murmured aloud.

         ‘Not a war. A birth.’ That’s what his contact had texted. He liked that. Even without his own refinement of ‘rebirth’. He smiled, wondering about his contact. A UK number – but that meant nothing. He could be anywhere in the world. In the UK a pay-as-you-go number could be purchased with minimal formalities. Maybe his contact was even an Imam, he thought?

         Uncle Aram had frowned at him when he had caught him with his packet of dollars and his new mobile phone on the bed. The packet of dollars entrusted to him for his expenses. When he looked around the doorway he had shaken his grey beard at him and withdrawn without a word. Uncle Aram had wise eyes and was a good Muslim but did not have the stomach for a fight. For any kind of fight. It was for the younger generation. Men like him. And when he had left for London the next day, uncle Aram had watched him go in silence, sitting on his wooden chair on the step, watching the street. He would miss his uncle.

         The phone blinked at him.

15:27 from +98 914 612 7474

‘Today you will go to Kings Cross and board a Number 30 bus.’

From a phone number he didn’t recognise.

*

Becki worked assiduously for the rest of the day, her fingers pattering over her keyboard in a frenzy of inertia, worrying about Tremaine. Worrying about the future. Worrying about prayers. Tremaine praying. Never had she known such a thing. She spoke to nobody until she packed up to leave, and at the end of the day, nothing much had changed. Every email copied and blind copied generated its own spur of ripostes, and counter ripostes, so that the work became self-perpetuating, and the chains increased in span so it was easy to lose sight of the goal, if indeed there had been a goal at all. Threads dropped and resumed in an unending exchange of trivia and emoticons. And before she left the office she checked her phone. 8 messages.

15:42 from: Tremaine

‘Who r u?’

15:53 from: Tremaine

‘Who r u?’

15:59 from: Tremaine

‘Who r u?’

16:12 from: Tremaine

‘Maybe you put a wrong number in ur phone’

16:15 from: Tremaine

‘Forget everything. I’m not who you think’

16:24 from: Tremaine

‘I have instructions from a different number. Who r u?’

16:48 from: Tremaine

‘You will never hear from me again. Delete this number’

17:02 from: Tremaine

‘Allahu Akbar!’

         Becki felt her stomach tighten. What could this mean? Replaying in her head all those strange messages. There was a tremor in her hand as she checked the contacts pages of her paper diary against the number on her phone for Tremaine, and when she found the entry there was no doubt. Two digits reversed: she had been communicating with a stranger! This is why Tremaine had seemed so… unusual. Even for him. There was a flutter inside her chest–and she realised that she was laughing at herself. Laughing at the idiocy. Laughing with relief that Tremaine, dear sweet Tremaine had not been so thoughtless at all.

17:44 from: +44 7885 912124

         ‘OMG U r right. Sooo sorry. Who r u? I am Becki ’ she didn’t know why she felt the need to introduce herself to this stranger.

‘bye Becki. I go to a better place’

‘what do u mean?

18:16 from +44 7885 912124

‘Who r u?’ she typed.

18:25 from +44 7885 912124

‘??’

The following morning, she felt fortunate to find a seat on the bus in Tavistock Square, wedged beside a large man with toothpaste breath tainted with alcohol wearing a greasy elbowed suit, engaged in glassy eyed communion with a laptop. The bus edged with a rumbling engine into the traffic. She felt the tremble of the seat.

         When she had reached Tremaine last night and told him the story they had laughed together, but he had made her feel silly and naïve. He would be home soon, she reminded herself. Today was the seventh of July and he was due back on the ninth.

         Becki scrolled through her text conversations with the other Tremaine, looking for clues. Looking for a semblance of the real Tremaine that she had found so credible yesterday. Hard to believe she had been fooled at all. A man in the next row with hooded eyes made a grinding motion with his mouth and stared at the floor. Across the aisle a nervous looking youth with a sparse beard averted his eyes when she looked his way. He nursed a small rucksack with the care of a mother and her baby, and his lips moved as though in silent prayer. Next to him by the window a woman was knitting, squinting through think lensed glasses at the ticking needles. A baby started crying in the back of the bus and it spiked Becki’s emotions and made her feel restive. She looked at her phone, trying to make up her mind. Then, as soon as the bars on her phone indicated she had a good signal, she phoned the man who was not Tremaine. The bus jerked to a halt.

         She clamped the phone to her ear to try to block out the noise. Doors exhaled and commuters pushed to embark and disembark at the same time, leading with their bags, weaving themselves into the rush hour pattern in the street.

         At the moment Becki connected, the Nokia melody struck up loudly from across the aisle, a tune that rang out somewhere in the world thousands of times a second. A few heads turned. When the youth with the beard scrabbled for his phone in the pocket of an olive coloured combat jacket Becki caught his eye. The woman in the thick-framed spectacles paused her knitting and cast him an irritated stare.

         There was a fleeting moment of recognition—a creeping realisation—as Becki and the ‘not Tremaine’ connected across the carriage, – then the eyes of Not Tremaine widened— glanced from side to side, as though seeking refuge. Becki gulped at the thin air, suddenly short of breath. He held up his phone to end the call, and the phone’s refrain ended. At the same time Becki’s phone registered the call as terminated. That confirmed it. She moved as if to raise herself to her feet.

At that very instant Becki’s world erupted.

She felt the blast before she heard it, a deep down rumble that bolstered itself and became a splintering, jingling roar, bright orange and yellow in hue. She caved in upon herself in the bright barrage, turning inside out. Didn’t hear the rainfall of debris or the groaning of metal, or the screams or the grunts or the ticking of hot metal cooling. Didn’t see the torn and bleeding limbs, or the blood that rippled in the aisle.

Then there was nothing. Except for the bleating of the Nokia Tune amongst the twisted limbs and wreckage.