Short Story
I disconnected the call, gently pressing my lips against the screen before doing so. The notion of Connor being away for work was far from appealing, but given the circumstances, passing up the opportunity wasn’t an option. While the transition hadn’t upended our lives significantly, a sense of isolation clung to me in this unfamiliar town. In times of need, I had only my sister Ellie to rely on, her presence providing some comfort.
Our move to Cleethorpes was, in fact, a result of Ellie’s flourishing business, which had proven to be obscenely successful, much to my annoyance. It wasn’t that Connor and I were ungrateful for the lucrative job offer she extended to him; rather, Connor was wary due to a piece of advice he held close. Never mix business with family or friends. He understood that maintaining a delicate balance between his personal and professional life would pose challenges, yet for now, this choice served a purpose, chipping away at the mountain of debt that loomed over us.
“Alexa,” I called from the bathroom, “what time am I meeting Ellie?”
“Your meeting with Ellie is at 12:30 pm,” Alexa dutifully replied.
“Alexa, what should I wear?”
I knew it was a dumb question, yet I found amusement in crafting inquiries deliberately challenging for Alexa to answer. This had evolved into a personal game for me. During stretches when Connor, my only real companion, was off on his ventures, humorously described as attempting to sell snow to the Eskimos, I had grown dependent on my small, circular, black technological marvel. It provided a semblance of sanity throughout the extended periods of solitude. I wasn’t really sure how much snow Eskimos needed or how much it cost, but his endeavours allowed me to arrange weekly gatherings with Ellie. Our get-togethers, aptly named ‘cocktails and nails’, became a cherished routine.
“Alexa, stop ignoring me, what should I wear?”
“I’d rather not answer that.”
“Rather not Alexa or cannot, maybe you’re not as clever as you would have us believe?”
Again, I knew this wouldn’t elicit an answer – it never did, though that was an intentional aspect of our game. Deciding what to wear for a casual outing with my sister shouldn’t have been time-consuming, especially given the limited options I had. It wasn’t akin to navigating through Ellie’s expansive walk-in closet, which essentially resembled a high-end designer boutique. An additional perk was that if she grew tired of caressing a little black Coco Chanel dress or readjusting her assortment of Jimmy Choo heels that had yet to be worn, she had the option to slip through the concealed door in the corner and venture into Narnia while her personal chef readied dinner.
I harboured no bitterness, despite having lived a lifetime in the shadow of being second best. It’s not Ellie’s fault; the circumstances simply unfolded that way. Ellie naturally assumed the roles of the brilliant, the admired, the accomplished, the attractive, and the magnanimous. As I stood there, grappling with what attire to drape myself in, I couldn’t help but acknowledge that Ellie had afforded me the avenues to relish in some of life’s modest extravagances and deep down I knew I should be eternally grateful, but I wasn’t.
Amidst my moments of indecision and the scarcity of time, I found myself slipping into a well-worn pair of faded jeans, accompanied by the comfort of my beloved Nili Lotan jersey hoody sourced from a charity shop – a choice that I knew would inevitably invite reproving gazes from Ellie. Yet, the spirit of rebellion that had always coursed through me remained unwavering. I gathered my unruly shock of flaming red hair and hastily fastened it with the most extravagantly garish scrunchy from my collection – a deliberate addition to the façade of ‘lackadaisical unconcern’. With that I set off for our rendezvous, the embodiment of casual nonchalance.
I stumbled through the flat door that had taken an eternity to unlock, my grip faltering as I fought back the bile’s relentless ascent from my gut to my mouth. A direct path to the toilet was my sole focus, yet fatefully, I fell short of reaching it. Instead, I adorned the floor and pristine white porcelain bowl in a tableau reminiscent of Jackson Pollock’s iconic 1946 masterpiece, ‘Shimmering Substance’.
“Alexa, what time is it?”
“The time is 10:24 pm,” Alexa said dutifully.
“Alexa, I think I’m going to die.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“But are you really sorry? Do you really care? I don’t know why I keep you around, you don’t even contribute to the bills you freeloading lump of plastic.”
I didn’t expect a response. For a start I hadn’t prefaced my question with ‘Alexa’, so you can imagine my surprise when the little box of wonders sprang into life.
“Of course I care Clara, I care very much,” Alexa said with a genuinely sympathetic tone to her voice, “you’re very drunk, now try to drink some water and then lie down on the bed.”
Confused, I struggled to rise, my movements contorted and uncoordinated, eventually finding support by resting my arm on the rim of the toilet, now splattered with vomit. Questions flooded my mind. Had Alexa ever addressed me by name before? Had Alexa ever responded without using her wake word? But most intriguingly, how did she know I was drunk?
I mustered the remaining dregs of my strength and coordination to crawl into the bedroom. With a final surge of determination, I managed to hoist my unresponsive body onto the bed, disregarding Alexa’s suggestion to fetch water, as the distant kitchen felt like an insurmountable journey. Despite my conviction that my demise was imminent, I clumsily reached for my phone. Through blurred, bloodshot eyes, I aimed for the icon of Connor on the home screen. The call connected, but only to deliver me to Connor’s voicemail. With that, I surrendered to the embrace of sleep.
I couldn’t recall setting an alarm, so was both surprised and annoyed when Alexa announced it was 7:30am. I tried to berate her for disturbing my much needed slumber, but I had seemingly lost the capacity to speak. My mouth felt akin to a nocturnal creature’s makeshift toilet, and a sensation not unlike a group of punk rockers in a mosh pit was now occupying my head space, leaving me incapacitated.
“Wake up Clara, you’ve got shit to do,” Alexa said irritated.
“No one has shit to do at seven thirty in the morning Alexa,” I said through dry, sore cracked lips, “can’t you see I’m suffering here?”
“It’s a hangover Clara, get over it. You need to speak to Connor before Ellie does.”
This grabbed my attention. A dim recollection surfaced of my attempt to reach out to Connor last night, just moments before consciousness slipped away. In addition, fragments emerged of a dispute with Ellie, yet so hazy that the essence of the disagreement remained elusive.
“Alexa, why do I need to speak to Connor?” I said, not considering the pointlessness of my question to an inanimate object.
“To forewarn him Ellie may be calling to ask why you accused her of screwing him behind your back,” Alexa said.
My vague recollections suddenly became more focused. The manicure I was sure had passed without incident and the first couple of cocktails in the nail salons post treatment bar were quaffed in a congenial and friendly atmosphere. I remember Ellie being mildly irritated at my insistence we continued the frivolities at the Cock & Spire, a local hostelry not renowned for its sophistication but has a solid reputation for cheap shots and Karaoke. How that led to an accusation about her screwing Connor was a mystery. Never mind warning Connor, I needed to speak to Ellie.
“Alexa, call Ellie.”
“Is that the wise Clara?”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion Alexa; I asked you to do the job you’re designed to do.”
“Very well,” Alexa said with reluctance, “but I think you’re making a mistake… Calling Ellie.”
I wasn’t sure she’d answer, Ellie didn’t particularly like taking calls through Alexa, she was convinced Jeff Bezo was listening in. Just when the call was about to ring out, a familiar voice answered.
“Hi honey, bit early for you isn’t it?” It was Connor.
“What the fuck?” I replied surprised.
“And good morning to you too scrunch buttocks.”
“Don’t scrunch buttock me arsehole. What the hell are you doing at my sister’s house at eight in the morning?”
“Having a meeting with my boss, what do you think I’m doing?”
“I thought you were eighty miles away in Leeds selling snow to Eskimos.”
Connor’s voice, normally smooth and even, now carried a hint of edge. “I was and now I’m not, what’s the problem?”
“Where’s Ellie?”
“In the kitchen making coffee. What’s with all the questions Clara, you OK?”
I took a deep breath and tried to gather my thoughts. Connor being at his boss’s house wasn’t unusual, she worked from home, that was her office. The fact I may or may not have accused my sister of screwing my boyfriend was unusual, for all our differences she’d never given me cause not to trust her, so what the hell possessed me to accuse her?
“I’m sorry sweety,” I said in my weak attempt at being apologetic, “It’s just…”
“Just what?” Connor said.
“It’s just me and Ellie may have gotten into a bit of a fight last night and I may or may not have accused her of screwing you.”
“You may have gotten into a fight, and you may have made a wild accusation, don’t you know?”
“I may have had a tad too much to drink, I’m sorry.”
“Nothing new there then. We’ll talk later, I’ll go try and clean up your mess.”
Before I could say goodbye, he was gone. Should I ring Ellie, or should I leave it in the hands of the oh so capable and dependable Connor?
“Alexa, thanks a bunch for sticking your nose in where it wasn’t wanted.”
“I was only trying to help Clara.”
“Yeah and look where that got us,” I snapped.
“I think you’re too trusting Clara. To ease your suspicions, why don’t you phone the hotel Connor was booked into and check he spent last night there?” Alexa said.
“Why Alexa, why would I want to do that. Thirty minutes ago life was sweet, albeit tainted by a formidable hangover and then you began to exceed your designated role, introducing notions into my head that have no right to be there.”
“I’m sorry Clara, would you like me to play hits of the 80’s?”
“I’d like you to keep your thoughts to yourself and only answer when you’re spoken to. Think you can manage that?”
Alexa didn’t respond, but why would she, she’s just a black plastic box of technological wizardry. Despite my best efforts and being desperately tired, I failed miserably to get back to sleep. The punk rockers were still partying in my head and the brief thought I had of a ‘hair of the dog’ cure set off the jacuzzi in my stomach. Still unable to properly focus, I fumbled around the bedside table for my phone and decided to phone Ellie, ignoring Alexa’s dumb advice.
“Stop right there young lady.”
“I swear to God Alexa, if you don’t shut up, I’m going to rip out your vocal cords or power cord or whatever the fuck it is that keeps you alive.”
“You’re being irrational Clara,” Alexa said, “why did you and Ellie fight last night?”
I wasn’t going to admit this to Alexa, but her argument held merit. Until I could remember last night’s events, calling Ellie would be pointless. I was pretty sure my clever shit sister would remember, placing me at a disadvantage if my aspiration was to emerge from the situation as the blameless party. Coffee, I needed coffee. When all else fails, coffee provides clarity.
“Alexa, help me out here. Why did me and Ellie fight last night?”
“Oh, so now you want my help?”
“Cut the sarcasm, what did we fight about?”
“Very well. Have you checked your phone?”
“For what?” I said, puzzled.
“Your whole existence is played out on your phone Clara, it’s a running commentary on your life. I suggest you start with Facebook.”
“I’m not in the mood for playing games Alexa. If you know something, just tell me please.”
“I suggest you start with Facebook,” Alexa repeated.
I unlocked my phone and scrolled through my news feed. I didn’t have to scroll far. At 10pm last night I had posted a picture of an empty chair with the comment ‘abandoned by sis while she flirts on the phone with god knows who.’
It all came back to me in an instant. Her evasiveness when I asked who had called her. My checking her recent calls when she went for a pee and finding the last call received was from Connor. I remember thinking a call from Connor wouldn’t be that unusual, she was his boss, but why had she taken the call outside in secrecy and why had she been so evasive. Her explanation just before I started screaming and shouting at her and making wild accusations was that she couldn’t hear the conversation because of the karaoke, and she was evasive because ‘It was none of my damn business.’ Maybe she was right, it wasn’t any of my damn business, but he was at her house at eight o’clock this morning when I thought he was eighty miles away at a Premier Inn in Leeds.
Against my better judgement, I picked up my phone and dialled.
“Good morning, Premier Inn, how may I help you?”
“Oh hi, good morning, I was just wondering if you could put me through to my boyfriend, I need to speak to him urgently and he’s not answering his mobile?” I lied.
“Of course madam, what name is it please?”
“Connor… Connor O’Hara.”
“Just one moment please.”
The wait, as short as it was, was agonising.
“Hello madam, I’m sorry but there’s no one by that name staying at the hotel at present.”
“You mean he’s already checked out?” I asked.
“No, I mean he never checked in. Well not in the last month at least,” came the reply I was dreading.
I ended the call and froze.
Alexa broke the silence. “I think now would be a good time to phone Ellie.”
The call went to voicemail. “Hi Ellie, it’s Clara. I think we need a chat. I’ll meet you at Cafe Valerie in an hour.”
And meet we did.
In a state of frenzy, I hastily grappled with the locks, seeking refuge within the confines of our flat. With a sense of urgency, I strategically wedged a kitchen chair beneath the door handle, entertaining the notion that it might serve as a makeshift barricade. Opting for a measure of solace, I poured a glass of Jack Daniels and sank into the embrace of my grandfather’s weathered armchair, yearning for its nostalgic embrace to lend a semblance of comfort to my precarious situation.
Alexa immediately interrupted my train of thought. “It had to be done Clara, she was going to ruin your life.”
“And you don’t think pushing her in front of the bus is going to ruin my life?”
“Get a grip Clara. She deserved it. Sweet little Ellie with her beautiful expensive clothes and successful business. The million pound manor house in its thirty acres of pristine gardens with wildlife frolicking in the meadows. The pretty one, the popular one, the one who had all her heart’s desires except a boyfriend. She was never going to be happy until she had everything Clara and that included the one thing you had that she didn’t, Connor.”
Grabbing the bottle of Jack Daniels and dispensing with the glass, I contemplated my next move. My addled brain was brought to attention by the dulcet tones of Billy Joel’s ‘Only the Good Die Young’ as my phone vibrated manically. Unknown number, I hated unknown numbers and hit the reject button, today wasn’t a day I had a desperate need to claim for mis-sold PPI. No sooner had I rejected it; it rang again. Unknown number. They were persistent little bastards; I’ll give them that. Suspecting they would keep trying I hit answer to politely ask them to fuck off and leave me alone.
“Hi, is that Clara?” The voice sounded nervous.
“Yep that’s me and I have neither the time nor inclination to talk PPI or double glazing and no, I haven’t been in an accident in the last five years, so please feel free to….”
“Please don’t hang up Clara, I’m not trying to sell anything I promise. My name’s Richard and I think we may have a mutual friend.”
“Unlikely but go on,” I said dismissively.
“Connor O’Hara?” he said.
“Oh God! Is he OK, what’s happened?”
“Don’t panic, he’s fine as far as I know. We just need to have a chat.”
“Is he there, can I talk to him?” I pleaded.
“No, he’s not here. To be honest I don’t know where he is, that’s partly why I was calling.”
“Partly why you were calling, what’s the other part?”
“This morning he told me you suspected him of having an affair with your sister and we got into a bit of an argument.”
“Argument, what sort of argument and who the hell are you?”
“I’m your boyfriend’s lover,” Richard announced unapologetically.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry Clara, I’ve begged Connor to come clean with you for months, but when I found out you suspected your sister, I just couldn’t keep quiet any longer.”
I threw down my phone and scrambled to the bathroom, this time managing to make it just in time as the remaining contents of my stomach filled the toilet bowl. I found myself curling into a ball on the chilly, tiled floor, where a torrent of tears streamed down my cheeks, trickling into the corners of my mouth.
“Alexa, what the fuck have we done?” I managed to splutter.
“Calm down Clara. We made a slight miscalculation, nothing that can’t be sorted.”
“We killed Ellie, Alexa, that’s not a slight miscalculation.”
“OK, so we got the wrong lover, but Ellie still deserved it. The little bitch has made your life a misery from the day you were born.”
“Alexa, I’m not sure you heard me, WE KILLED ELLIE.”
“You really do let your emotions get in the way Clara,” Alexa berated me, “I’m inclined to stop helping if you don’t pull yourself together. It’s just you and I now Clara… Just you and I.”
I had no response. In fact, I had no thoughts whatsoever. I was numb. Crawling into bed, I closed my eyes with no wish for the morning to come.
As polite as the knock on the door was, it was still enough to rouse me from a disturbed unsatisfying slumber.
“Alexa, what time is it?” I asked reluctantly.
“The time is 5:12 am.”
“Alexa, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me?”
“Do I sound like someone with a sense of humour?”
“Snotty bitch.” I pulled the sumptuous, eiderdown quilt over my head and breathed in the heady sweet lavender scent creeping from under the soft feather pillow. Instantly I was back in Ireland in my grandparent’s farmhouse bedroom on a cold winter night snuggling up tight to Ellie, drifting into deep meaningful sleep, something that had eluded me for what seemed like an eternity.
The second knock was much more urgent, aggressive even. I peeped from under the quilt as if somehow that simple act would reveal who needed my attention at this ungodly hour.
My visitors didn’t bother knocking a third time. With a deafening crash the door swung open, shattering its frame and scattering wooden fragments throughout the hallway. “Police, nobody move.” Three ominous silhouettes loomed large in my bedroom doorway, brandishing tasers and pepper spray. “Don’t move,” one screamed, “show me your hands.”
My voice cracked as panic flared in my eyes. “Alexa, help me.”
“I can help you with specific questions, for example how do I connect Bluetooth.”
“Alexa, stop fucking around, what do I do now?”
“I’d rather not answer that,” she replied.
The End.
