Wrong number

The first call came on a Tuesday evening. An old woman, warm and a little breathless.

"Danny? Danny, love, it's Mum. Your tea's on the table. Are you coming home?"

I told her she had the wrong number. She apologised, embarrassed, and hung up.

She called again the next night. Same time, same words. And the next. I tried to be patient. She sounded lonely, and I've got a gran who gets confused, so I know what it's like. On the fifth night I didn't have the heart to correct her again.

"Yeah, Mum," I said. "I'll be home soon."

She went quiet. Then she started to cry, the happy kind. "Oh, Danny. Oh, I knew you would. I've kept your room just the way you left it."

After that it became a thing. Every evening she'd ring, and I'd say I was on my way, and she'd tell me what she'd cooked. Shepherd's pie. Fish on Fridays. Once she told me the address, in case I'd forgotten it. 14 Mill Lane. Twenty minutes from my flat.

I don't know why I went. Curiosity, maybe. Guilt. I thought I'd knock and explain and at least she'd meet the man who'd been pretending to be her son.

Number 14 was boarded up. Ivy over the windows, a council notice on the door so faded you could barely read the date: 1994. The neighbour over the fence watched me for a while and then said, "Nobody's lived there since the Kellys. Terrible business, the boy going missing. She waited for him for years. Died in there waiting."

I went home and checked my call history. The calls were there, every evening, from a number with too few digits.

I called the phone company. That number belonged to a landline at 14 Mill Lane. It was disconnected in 1994.

I didn't answer the next night. Or the next. On the third night I let it go to voicemail, and then I listened to it, because I am weak.

"Danny? You came. I saw you at the gate, love. Why didn't you come in?"

A pause. The sound of a door opening somewhere, hinges stiff with years.

"Never mind. I'll come to you."