3 The Call

The sun had already dipped behind the apartment blocks by the time Jake reached his street. He stood a moment at the gate, taking in the familiar bland façade—white concrete stained with time, cracked sills, hedges gone feral over a low wall. It all looked the same, like nobody had really lived here in years. Maybe nobody had.

The name on the plaque still made him wince: Fellatio Heights. A bored developer’s joke from another era. It used to be good for a laugh—until Kimberly moved in and ribbed him about it every time friends visited. Now it just felt stupid. Empty. Another echo of something warm that had gone cold.

He climbed the narrow stairwell. The handrail was cold metal under his palm. Bleach and cheap citrus cleaner stung his nose. The light above his door flickered in that same epileptic stutter. He paused, then keyed the lock.

The apartment exhaled stale air.

Same scuffed timber. Same dented leather couch. The TV remote exactly where it had fallen after a half-hearted argument about what to watch. A mug on the side table, dust-rimmed and bone-dry. No banners. No note. Just the click of the door behind him.

He dropped a duffel by the entrance.

The kitchen smelled like rot. He opened the fridge on reflex and paid for it—sour wave to the face; a half head of lettuce gone to soup, hummus with a white pelt, a milk carton bulged like it had given up. He slammed it shut.

“Chef’s out,” he muttered. His voice sounded too loud in the quiet.

He thumbed the stereo. A whirr, a lick of static, and then—like a muscle memory—the soft, mournful drift of “Ruby Tuesday.”

She’d have hated that choice.

Jacket off. Shirt off. Belt undone. Boots thudded to the floor and stayed there.

The bathroom hadn’t changed. Mildew creeping the grout. The mirror still held the faint outline of the heart Kimberly had traced in steam months ago. He’d never wiped it away.

He turned the taps. The water bit hot—perfect. Steam climbed the glass as heat woke nerves dulled by travel and time zones. Hands on tile, head bowed, he let it batter the desert dust still lodged somewhere memory couldn’t scrub.

He didn’t cry. He wanted to.

Six years in service.

Six months single.

Same ache.

In the lounge the playlist rolled to “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” Of course it did.

He killed the water, towelled off, caught his reflection: same eyes, same jaw, leaner everywhere else, softness carved away by war and whatever came after.

Back in the lounge he scrubbed his hair dry. The stereo kept playing. The fridge hummed. The flat stared back, hollow-eyed.

His phone rang.

He froze. Not many people called now.

He glanced at the screen.

Kimberly.

His chest tightened. Years since they’d spoken.

He let it ring once.

Twice.

He answered. “Hello?”

Her voice came fast, breathless. “Jake—it’s Kim. I’m at St Vincent’s Emergency. It’s your dad. He was brought in after a crash. We resuscitated him in the ambulance, got him back, but it’s bad. Left lung puncture, multiple ribs, a shattered femur. He’s in theatre with Dr Yuen now.”

The towel slid off his shoulder. “My—what? My dad?”

“He’s alive,” she said, voice catching. “But critical. I didn’t know it was him until he was already in prep. I thought you should hear it from me.”

The walls pressed in. The music didn’t stop. Neither did the fridge.

“I’ll be there,” he said.

The line went dead.

For a beat he didn’t move.

Then he was moving—clothes on, boots thudding, keys off the hook. Phone in pocket, duffel abandoned. He killed the stereo on the way out. The apartment swallowed the click and went still again.

The past wasn’t a memory anymore.

It was calling from St Vincent’s.