Never Trust a Callboy Read Free

idea to call the police because:
    I had no idea that there was a stranger in our house as officers stood before my door and I told them, quite emphatically, that I was alone in the house.
    I have no idea how this man got into our house.
    And I don't know who is responsible for the death of my uninvited visitor.
    Okay, maybe it's still too early to go to the police with this problem.

4
    I walk through the wet grass towards the back corner of our property. It’s taken me a while to calm down, but I’ve just about pulled myself together instead of sitting on the floor, cowering against the wall throwing my guts up.
    I any case, I used the time to come to a decision. It is not a decision I have much enthusiasm for. In fact the words “I must be crazy,” spring to mind. On the other hand I can’t think of a better solution to my problem. Which is why I am now walking across our huge estate through the stuffy evening air which has replaced the summer drizzle of the day.
    I arrive in the part of the garden, which is dominated by old, gnarled trees sooner than I would like. The branches of a weeping willow hang low on the ground, creating a melancholy atmosphere; reminiscent of a graveyard.
    Now all I have to do is bring out the dead body. I feel sick just at the thought of it. But I have no other choice. Although I have racked my brains for another way out, one thing is for certain: if I tell the police, I'm their prime suspect.
    I would have preferred to have a few days to grapple with the problem, I need as much time as possible before making a decision this big. But in this case I have to act quickly. What if my mother suddenly misses me and decides to show up for a visit? Or one of my friends?
    No. It needs to be done immediately, even though I don't quite know how I’m going to do it just yet.
    Maybe I should go to the police after all...? A series of haunting images appear in my mind’s eye. Me being led off in handcuffs, sitting in a cell at the police station, and having to explain why my fingerprints are all over the gun.
    Ron, looking desperately worried for me, saying: “Tamara would never be able to kill a man. Never!"
    My father doing a television interview, saying how sorry he is to have failed in the education of his daughter. Just like the last time...
    The memory brings with it a familiar feeling: determination. I will not be held responsible for a crime I didn’t commit, not again.
    As so often before, this decision is immediately followed by doubt. I must be crazy. Completely crazy.
    After I reassure myself that I do in fact have the ability to follow through with this absurd idea (unless of course a better solution arises that at present evades me) I return to the house. It cannot hurt to take the first steps in planning how I would bury the stranger in the garden. Besides, the planning helps me to curb my anxiety. I’m not shaking as badly as I was before. I’ve found at least a measure of calm; not much, but at least enough to carry on without needing sit in a corner and cry.
    Feeling a little more relaxed, I decide I need to change the locks, but just as I’m reaching for the telephone to call a locksmith, a shrill ringing rips through the silence. My heart starts beating wildly in my chest.
    "It was just the phone.” I say out loud, to soothe the frenzied heart-pounding in my chest. “The stupid bloody phone." Damn it! I can’t waste my time with trivial calls. Nevertheless, I take the call when I see the number on the display. It’s my mother.
    "Tamara. Why haven’t you called me back? I wanted to tell you that I’ve found some wonderful curtains. I’ll bring a couple of samples over later," she says immediately, before I even have time to say "Hello."
    Later? When later?
    I hastily try to nip this idea in the bud: "You can't come over now!"
    "But why not? I'm already on my way."
    "You're already on your way?" I have to pull myself together in order not to yell into the phone. "That’s