The Dusty Archive

Tessa tried to obey Walt. At ten o’clock she sat in the studio and looked at the phone, but it did not ring. At twenty to midnight, exactly as the man had promised, it rang. Tessa answered before the second ring. “Second page,” said the voice.

He read slowly. “On the second night, a girl in a yellow coat climbed the pier with a box of matches. She was carrying a letter that she could not read, because the rain had washed away the ink.” “Who are you?” Tessa asked. “Why do you call my programme?” For a moment she heard only breathing. “Tomorrow, the third page,” the man said. Then he hung up.

On Sunday morning, Tessa went to the archive with Callum Drake, the young technician. It was a damp room under the stairs, full of metal shelves and cardboard boxes. “Harbour Radio has kept every programme since 1984,” Callum said. “If the story was ever on air, it must be here.”

They searched for two hours, and Callum sneezed at least twenty times. At last Tessa found a small box with a faded label: “Sunday Story, 1987. The Lamp on the Pier. Read by W. Pearce.” “W. Pearce?” said Callum. “That can’t be Walt. He never reads anything on air. He only talks about the budget.”

They put the tape on the old machine. A young man’s voice filled the room, warm and steady. “The lamp on the pier went out on the last night of September.” Tessa felt cold. “It’s the same story,” she said. “The caller is reading Walt’s story. But why?” “Perhaps someone found the tape,” Callum said. “Or perhaps somebody who loved the story is sending Walt a message.”

Neither of them had heard the door. Walt was standing behind them, very pale. “Turn that off,” he said quietly. Tessa had expected him to be angry, but his eyes looked tired and sad. “Where did you find that tape?” he asked. “Nobody has heard that voice for thirty years.”