The Call

Day One – 8 pm
 

The sound of the Muezzin calling the faithful to prayer comes through the window.

It is familiar—anyone who has been to Cairo knows it—but this is different. The glass in the folding frame trembles faintly.

I turn.

Rose is still on the bed, curled on top of the covers in the thick, sticky heat.

“What the hell?” I say.

She doesn’t stir.

I cross the room and open the blinds. Below, the street churns—people moving fast through the dusk, dodging traffic, heading somewhere that matters. No one looks up. No one listens.

Our room sits at the top of the grand-sounding, long-decayed Swiss Hotel, a few hundred yards from Tahrir Square. Cheap, but large. An extra two Egyptian pounds bought us a bathroom. The water runs hot and only occasionally brown.

At the window, the noise hits me full force.

An old gunmetal loudspeaker—three feet across—sits directly above us on the roof. The voice crackles, worn thin, probably from a tape that should have been retired years ago. Still, it fills everything. Even the traffic bows to it.

I lean back against the stone and listen.

It settles into something else then—something almost calming. Repetition. Ritual. The words mean nothing to me, but the shape of them does. The sound takes hold. The day fades.

For a moment, I am alone.

Then it stops.

Silence rushes back in, thin at first, then thickening into the noise of the city.

I turn from the window.

“Come on,” I say. “Time to go.”

Rose doesn’t move.
 

Day Two – 1 am
 

The call drags me awake.

The sheets are damp, twisted between us. Rose lies on her back now, unchanged.

I listen.

The chant rolls over itself, endless, shifting but the same. I turn, trying to sleep through it. I can’t.

It grows louder.

I get up.

The window is ajar. I open it wider and lean out. Fewer people now. Fewer cars. Still no one listens.

Only the voice.

It feels closer. Directed.

The Arabic is ancient, but I know—somehow—that it is meant for me.

I sit half out of the window, my back against the frame.

I close my eyes—

—and see another room. Dark. Bare walls painted a dull eggshell blue. A low, curved ceiling pressing down. Rose is there, crouched on a sleeping bag.

I reach for her.

She pulls away.
 

Day Three – 5:58am
 

I wake to light.

My neck aches. My shoulder burns where it rested against the wooden frame. There will be a mark.

Rose is on the bed.

Still.

I tell myself again—she will not move. Not now.

I close the window. Morning quiet returns, as if nothing has happened.

Clothes lie scattered across the floor. I begin picking them up.

When I lift her jeans, something moves.

A cockroach darts under the bed.

Then another.

And another.

They come in a steady stream now—brown, relentless—spilling from beneath the chair toward the bed.

I watch.

Fascinated. Sickened.

I place my bare foot in their path. They crawl over it, indifferent. I pull back, crouch, try to see where they’re coming from.

Under the bed.

Rose.

I look at her.

She hasn’t seen them.

The stream stops abruptly.

The call begins again.

Louder. Harder.

I hesitate.

The window draws me. The sound promises something—calm, meaning, release.

But the bed—

I go to the bathroom, grab a brush. When I turn back, the glass in the window cracks.

Then shatters.

I move toward it, pulled by the sound.

A clicking noise behind me—

I spin.

Glass cuts my foot.

On the bed, the cockroaches are climbing now. Headboard. Sheets. Pillow.

I rush forward, sweeping them away. More come. I drag the sheet free, shake it—bodies scatter across the room.

I cover Rose.

Lift her.

They crawl over me. Arms. Neck. Face.

But she is covered.

She is safe.

The call stops.

Silence.

I turn back to the window. The curtain lifts gently in the breeze.

The cockroaches are gone.

I pull back the sheet.

Nothing.

​

Day Four – 3 pm

​

The heat presses down.

I walk the Khan el-Khalili bazaar, trying to look like a man with nothing to hide.

No one notices me.

Traders shout. Smoke hangs in the air. Gold, trinkets, cheap souvenirs. Everything for sale. No one cares.

I am alone in this.

Truly.

Rose lies exactly as I left her when I return.

Peaceful.

Dead.

I say hello.

Sit down to undress.

The call begins.

I stop.

It is for me now. I know that.

I don’t understand the words, but I understand the intent. I must listen. There is something in it—something I am meant to find.

The room thickens.

The sound fills it like rot. It seeps into the walls, the table, the bed. Into her.

The room becomes a tomb.

I fall from the chair and curl around its leg.

—and I am back in that room.

Dark. Sealed. The sleeping bag wedged under the door.

Rose crouches in the corner. Bruised. Blood at her temple.

I speak.

She shakes her head.

I move closer.

She recoils.

I say her name again... please... and she stops.

Her eyes close.

She smiles.

Reaches for my face...

The sound is gone.

Only traffic remains.

I turn away.

Without it, I cannot face her.

​

Day Five – 12:59am

​

I have not left the room in two days.

The call is the only thing that steadies me.

I went out once. Bread. Water. Meat.

Even then, I felt myself changing, skin tightening, eyes sinking.

Only here, in this room, with that voice, can I breathe.

The call begins.

I sit at the window, waiting.

This time, I understand.

I must accept it.

Only then can I be forgiven.

The room darkens.

The sound deepens.

My shadow moves against the wall, swaying with the rhythm.

The chair tips.

On the bed—

Rose sits up.

Light spills from her. A dull, yellow glow.

Her belly is swollen.

Pregnant.

Her eyes are wide, wild. She strokes her stomach, humming without sound.

I cannot move.

Her hand lifts.

A knife.

Down.

Again.

Again.

I lunge.

Too late.

There is no blood.

No wound.

I strike her hand. She screams, louder than the call.

I turn on the light.

Nothing.

She sits there.

Older now. Skin grey. Face lined like bark.

She looks at me with something worse than anger.

Pity.

I reach for her.

She pulls away.

Raises her hand.

Lies down.

The bruises return.

The blood reforms.

She is as she was.

I wait for the call.

​

Day Six – 8 pm

​

It offers nothing now.

The same words. Empty.

I smash the chair against the wall.

Break the remaining glass.

Blood runs from my hands.

I climb onto the balcony, look up at the speaker.

The sound is unbearable.

It drives into me.

I retch.

There is a banging.

Inside.

In my head.

I turn... 

Rose is on the floor.

Still.

Blood dark at her temple.

Her hands... 

The banging grows louder.

I move past her. Open the door.

Step into the light.

Two men. Beige uniforms. Guns at their sides.

A third. European.

“Mr Allan,” he says. “Cairo police. This is Mr Nimmo from the British Consulate. We need to ask you about Miss Rose Day. She has been reported missing.”

I turn to show them.

To tell them.

But the room is empty.

The bed is bare.

There is no Rose.

The call has stopped.

​

Some calls are not meant to be answered.