The Ringing Phone

I wiped the sweat off my forehead and opened the door. Uh-oh. It was Mr. Yadav – my 50 year old neighbour with puffs of white hair on his head. I forced a smile. ‘Hey, Mr. Yadav! How are you?’

‘Very well. I was wondering – how’s it going with you?’ He gave a fake smile, too.

‘Thank you, I’m alright. I heard you caught cold,’ I said, holding the door, keeping it half open. I didn’t want him to enter.

‘Yeah, I have a sore throat. Could you give me a cup of tea?’

Oh, no! He’s inviting himself, that old bastard!

I had no choice . . . my smile faded. ‘Uh, sure. Come in.’

He entered and sat on the sofa, smiling. ‘Nice decorations. It’s tidy for a bachelor. I remember when I was a bachelor . . .’

He kept rambling . . . and I began making tea. Occasionally, I kept saying words like, ‘Really?’, ‘Oh, wow’, ‘tell me about it’, ‘yeah’ and stuff.

After a while, I brought his tea.

He took it. Didn’t even thank me. Bastard!

‘Hey, did my wife visit you in the afternoon? You know, because you’re at home most days.’

What the hell did that mean? Was he making a remark about my job status? Oh, that little midget! I so wanted to beat him up. Why did he even visit me?

I replied, ‘No.’

‘Strange. She said she visits you almost everyday.’

Oh, hell. He was onto me. He could found out. So I lied, ‘No, she didn’t come.’

‘But she came yesterday, right?’

Too much lying could be caught. ‘Yes, she did. How’s the tea?’

‘It’s good. Well, she’s lost her phone and I think she’s on her evening walk. Maybe she left it here . . . accidentally.’

Why the hell did he pause before saying “accidentally”? Did he know? He knew the phone was here, didn’t he?

He took a sip . . . I looked out the window – it was getting dark.

‘Would you give me a tour? Your house is very well decorated,’ Mr. Yadav said.

Urgh! Man! Can’t he leave me alone? ‘Sure.’

‘Great.’ He got up and started trudging – he was stopping at every shelf, every drawer and every place I could keep the phone. I wanted to just kill him at that moment! Who invades someone’s privacy like that?

He came up on the wall near the mirror. I had a paper stuck beside it on which it was written with red – “NO ANGER”.

‘That’s nice,’ Mr. Yadav said, examining it.

‘I like to stay calm, so.’

‘Really? You’re short-tempered?’

‘Not short-tempered, but I do need to stay calmer.’

I couldn’t be calmer at that moment.

As he started coming up on the bathroom, I started sweating. My heart was pumping madly. What if he went in there? Oh my god! I couldn’t let that happen! But how could I stop him? If I did, he’d get suspicious! Damn! Lord, please don’t let him go to the bathroom. My legs began shivering. No, not there. Don’t go there. Just don’t.

Mr. Yadav’s hands were clucked behind his back and his back was bowing forward. His eyebrows seemed to search for the phone. How could he know that I had it?

Oh, phew! I wiped my forehead. He went past the bathroom.

But . . . he turned around and paused.

Shit!

He walked towards the bathroom and lifted the latch.

‘Oh, you shouldn’t go in there! It’s dirty. I haven’t cleaned it . . .’ I said, wrinkling my nose.

He paused again. ‘It’s okay. I’ll take the chance.’ He gave a fake smile.

He opened it! There! Shit!

He gasped! He stepped backwards! ‘My wife! My wife! My wife!’

‘Now you have to die too, Mr. Yadav.