He waited, expecting raindrops. The storm would come, it would short out his phone. There was absolutely no shelter on the empty road, now that he had locked himself out of the car. He considered digging for a rock, something big enough to smash the window, so he could pull the lock and let himself in. But his mistake was already proving costly enough; he couldn’t bring himself to compound the problem. Anyway, it wasn’t raining yet. And she would be here any minute now.
It was about time to check in with her, he thought. She had to be in her car by now. Did he need a better excuse for calling her?
Well, here was one: The headlights were failing.
Just like that, as if they were on a dimmer switch. Both at once, darkening, taken down in less than a minute to a dull stubborn glow. It was a minute of total helpless panic; he was saved from complete horror only by the faint trace of light that remained. Why didn’t they go out all the way? By the time he’d asked himself this, he realized that his wife had now lost her beacon. That was news. It was important to call her now.
He punched the redial number. That much was easy. The phone rang four times and the machine answered, and then he had to restrain himself from smashing the phone on the roof of the car. She wouldn’t be at home, would she? She’d be on the road by now, looking for him, cruising past dark lanes and driveways, the entrance to some wooded lot, hoping to see his stalled headlights — and there would be none.
What made all this worse was that he couldn’t remember the number of her cell phone. He refused to call her on it, arguing that she might be driving if he called her, and he didn’t want to cause an accident.
Should he… head away from the car? Blunder back along the dark road without a flashlight until he came in sight of the street? Wouldn’t she be likely to spot him coming down the road, a pale figure stumbling through the trees, so out of place?
But he couldn’t bring himself to move away. The car was the only familiar thing in his world right now.
There was no point breaking the window. The horn wouldn’t sound if the battery had died. No point in doing much of anything now. Except wait for her to find him.
Please call, he thought. Please please please call. I have something to tell-The phone chirped in his hand. He stabbed the on button.
“Yes?”
“I’m coming,” she said.
“The headlights just died,” he said. “You’re going to have to look closely. For a… a dark road, a park entrance, maybe…”
“I know,” she said, her voice tense. He pictured her leaning forward, driving slowly, squinting out the windshield at the street-sides. “The rain’s making it hard to see a damn thing.”
“Rain,” he said. “It’s raining where you are?”
“Pouring.”
“Then… where are you? It’s dry as a bone here.” Except for the sound of water, the stale exhalation of the damp earth around him.
“I’m about three blocks from the light.”
“Where I was turning?”
“Where you got turned around. It’s all houses here. I thought there was park. There is some park, just ahead… that’s what I was thinking off. But…”
He listened, waiting. And now he could hear her wipers going, sluicing the windshield; he could hear the sizzle of rain under her car’s tires. A storm. He stared at the sky even harder than before. Nothing up there. Nothing coming down.
“But what?” he said finally.
“There’s a gate across the road. You couldn’t have gone through there.”
“Check it,” he said. “Maybe it closed behind me.”
“I’m going on,” she said. “I’ll go to the light and start back, see if I missed anything.”
“Check the gate.”
“It’s just a park, it’s nothing. You’re in woods, you said?”
“Woods, marsh, parkland, something. I’m on a dirt road. There are… bushes all around, and I can hear water.”
“Ah…”
What was that in her voice?
“I can… wait a minute… I thought I could see you, but…”
“What?” He peered into the darkness. She might be looking at him even now, somehow seeing him while he couldn’t see her.
“It isn’t you,” she said. “It’s a car, like yours, but… it’s not yours. That… that’s not you, that’s not your…”
“What’s going on?” The headlights died all the way down.
“Please, can you keep on talking to me?” she said. “Can you please just keep talking to me and don’t stop for a minute?”
“What’s the matter? Tell me what’s going on?”
“I need to hear you keep talking, please, please,” and whatever it was in her voice that was wrenching her, it wrenched at him too, it was tearing at both of them in identical ways, and he knew he just had to keep talking. He had to keep her on the phone.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Whatever it is. I won’t make you stop and tell me now, if you don’t want to talk, if you just want to listen,” he said. “I love you,” he said, because surely she needed to hear that. “Everything’s going to be fine. I’m just, I wish you could talk to me but-”
“No, you talk,” she said. “I have to know you’re all right, because this isn’t, that’s not, it can’t be…”
“Sh. Shhh. I’m talking now.”
“Tell me where you are again.”
“I’m standing by my car,” he said. “I’m in a dark wooded place, there’s some water nearby, a pond or marsh judging from the sound, and it’s not raining, it’s kind of warm and damp but it’s not raining. It’s quiet. It’s dark. I’m not… I’m not afraid,” and that seemed an important thing to tell her, too. “I’m just waiting, I’m fine, I’m just waiting here for you to get to me, and I know you will. Everything will be… fine.”
“It’s raining where I am,” she said. “And I’m…” She swallowed. “And I’m looking at your car.”
Static, then, a cold blanket of it washing out her voice. The noise swelled, peaked, subsided, and the phone went quiet. He pushed the redial button, then remembered that she had called him and not the other way round. It didn’t matter, though. The phone was dead. He wouldn’t be calling anyone, and no one would be calling him.
I’ll walk back to that road now, he thought. While there’s still a chance she can find me.
He hefted the cell phone, on the verge of tossing it overhand out into the unseen marshes. But there was always a chance that some faint spark remained inside it; that he’d get a small blurt of a ring, a wisp of her voice, something. He put it in a pocket so he wouldn’t lose it in the night.
He tipped his face to the sky and put out his hand before he started walking.
Not a drop.
It’s raining where I am, and I’m looking at your car.
Pauline E. Dungate
In the Tunnels
Pauline E. Dungate lives in Birmingham, England, and is a teacher at the local Nature Centre. Her stories have appeared in such anthologies as Skin of the Soul, Narrow Houses, Swords Against the Millennium, Birmingham Noir, Birmingham Nouveau, Merlin, Victorious Villains and Warrior Fantastic.
She has won awards for her poetry and has also written numerous critical articles and reviews under the name “Pauline Morgan”. One of the leaders of the Cannon Hill Writers’ Group, her other interests include gardening, cooking, truck driving and bat watching.
As the author explains, “‘In the Tunnels’ is a drawing-together of a number of things seen around Birmingham or garnered over the years. Often, I start with an image and let the other things fall into place around it. In this case it was a pupil I used to teach. When he left school, at sixteen, he was still only about five feet tall. He had a round, gnome-like face and his front teeth were pointed. And he often wore Wellingtons to school.”