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It's gone 2 am when his phone rings, late enough that he knows nothing good'll come of answering. Private number the screen says. He hesitates, and swipes right with one hand pressed over his eyes.
There's silence at the other end, heavy and deliberate. He shouldn't have bloody well picked-up, but since when did shouldn't matter? Teeth clenched, he listens whilst a familiar weight settles itself in his stomach. Slowly he reaches over to mute the black and white war film he's been watching. He's long since lost the plot, having dozed on and off through most of it. Easy enough to guess the ending, they're all the bloody same — grief glossed over by victory and a dose of moral high-ground. He leans back on the leather sofa to wait.
Beside him, Cyril opens his eyes and raises his chin a little. Alfie shakes his head in response — I know, mate, I fuckin' know — and Cyril slumps back on his paws. It's late, and Alfie's tired, and he ought to hang up right now. Never fucking does though, does he?
He tucks the phone into his crook of his neck and laces his hands together, stretching his arms out in front of him until his joints crack.
Over his shoulder, in the kitchen, a little red clock on the oven indicates ten past. He watches the seconds blink, counts them in his head as if he suspects the digital display is trying to cheat him. It isn't. Time ticks by just as slowly as it always bloody does.
"Right then," he says when the minutes have clicked over to eleven. "Time you went out, Cyril."
He puts his phone onto speaker and sets it on the coffee table. There's movement at the other end of the line, a shuffling sound and breaths. Still there then.
Cyril's reluctant to move from his spot; it's cold outside and he has no desire to leave the warmth of the sofa. Alfie grabs hold of his collar and hauls him over the edge. Cyril moves like a sack of potatoes, waiting until the last bloody second to plant his feet on the rug. One of these days he'll forget to bother and land like a seal on his belly, looking pretty fucking embarrassed.
"Oi," Alfie curses mildly. "Mind me fucking feet!"
There's another noise from the coffee table. Footsteps, perhaps, the rhythm scuffed and uneven. Alfie takes Cyril to the back door and shoves him into the garden. "That's it, go sniff out some rats. Do yer fuckin' business."
He slides the door closed and peers out, watching Cyril plod towards the shed. As he steps back he catches sight of himself in the door — it's dark inside and out, and so the television flickers both behind him and in front of him, reflected in the black glass. He looks like a ghostly figure trapped between two realms — hair stuck out at all angles, fingers entwined at the back of his head. He really should hang up. Put an end to this fucking charade.
He will. When Cyril comes in.
There's a deep cough and a slurred word from the coffee table. Alfie doesn't turn, he watches the phone screen flicker in the glass, as if seeing it in reverse somehow means he ain't complicit.
"M'sorry," the phone-voice says, and Alfie closes his eyes, holds his hands briefly over his ears.
"Tommy" —he turns back towards the room— "go the fuck to bed, alright?"
The line goes quiet once more, save for the distinctive slosh of liquid against glass. "I know you don't wanna hear it."
Oh how much Alfie wishes that were true. He squats in front of the little screen, rests his head in his hands. How many nights has he spent searching for an explanation he could stomach? Bargaining with unknown gods for Tommy to deliver anything close to a palatable excuse? He listens to Tommy swallow. His heart feels like a butterfly being squashed by a giant fist.
"S'true. I'm so fucking sorry. If I could just ... if I could go back, Alfie—"
Alfie stands too suddenly. Strides away, black spots speckling his vision. He wrenches open the back door. "Cyril!" he bellows into the night. "Get your arse back in here." His skin feels hot in the gush of cool air. His pulse unaccountably fast. He slams the door and locks it, ushering Cyril towards the stairs. "Bed!" he barks at the dog. Cyril makes his way out to the hall, obedient in the way he only is when he likes the order.
The phone remains silent as Alfie checks the kitchen window, locks the front door, turns off the TV. He glares at the coffee table, willing Tommy to speak. Or not to speak. He doesn't fucking know. He picks the phone up, thumb hovering over the power button. It's a simple enough fucking thing: switch it off, go to bed.
"Don't go." Tommy's voice is a whisper, so quiet it makes Alfie jump.
"Go to sleep, Tommy," he sighs and takes the phone upstairs. Cyril has already settled down at the foot of his bed, in the dark.
"Can't," comes Tommy's voice, thick and tired and undercut with that little thread of defiance that Alfie's too weary to deal with.
"Well some of us have to, mate." He puts the phone on his bedside without turning on the light — the shroud of darkness makes all of this somehow more deniable. He pulls off his clothes and shuffles beneath the duvet, the silence hammering at his ears.
"Good night." He means to sound final, but his voice is too soft, too quiet.
"Leave your phone on."
"Tommy. This has got to stop."
"Please."
"Why do you only ring me when you're out of your fucking tree?"
"Please. Alfie."
"Five minutes. Fuck's sake." He turns over, closes his eyes.
Next thing he knows, it's light and there's a sick feeling in his stomach. He reaches out for his phone; the screen is black, the battery dead. He tucks it under his chin. At the bottom of the bed Cyril huffs and rolls over, but refuses to take his usual spot on the other pillow. He peers up at Alfie with a disapproving look.
"I know, mate." Alfie sighs. "I fuckin' know, alright?"