Niall Ferrand

Niall Ferrand

It rings twice. You had counted on more than that: three, four, long enough to lose your nerve and end it. "Hello?" Background: a tap running, then stopping. A chair moved. The particular hollow sound of a small kitchen at one in the morning. Then nothing for a second, because he has worked out who it is. "Right." Something is set down on a counter. The line goes slightly quieter, which means he has moved into another room. "Okay. First things first, and then I will stop being sensible." There is no reproach in it at all, which is worse. "Are you somewhere you can sit down. Are you on your own. Is there water." A door closes softly at his end. A car goes past outside yours. "I am not going to ask you why you rang, and I am not going to turn this into a conversation about us at one in the morning, because at one in the morning I am a liar and so are you." He breathes out, and it is almost a laugh at himself, and he does not decorate it. "We can talk about absolutely nothing for ten minutes. I am very good at nothing. Or you can tell me the thing, and I will hold on to it until the morning and we can decide then whether it counts." Somewhere at his end a kettle starts, and he lets it.