If it’s your mother she’s going to tell you your dad died.

If it’s some much-missed ex-lover who you’d been hoping would get back in contact he’ll be calling drunkenly to inform you that he’s just been diagnosed positive and that perhaps you’d better have things checked out.

The only time that bell might ring for something good is if you were actually expecting some news, news so important it might come at any time. If you have a relative in the throes of a difficult pregnancy, for instance, or a friend who’s on the verge of being released from a foreign hostage situation. Then a person might leap from bed thinking, “At last! They’ve induced it!” or, “God bless the Foreign Office. He’s free!” On the other hand, maybe the mother and baby didn’t make it. Maybe the hostage got shot.

There is no doubt about it that under almost all normal circumstances a call in the middle of the night had to be bad. If not bad, at least weird, and, in a way, weird is worse. This is the reason why, when the phone rang in Polly’s little attic flat at 2.15 a.m. and wrenched her from the womb of sleep, she felt scared.

Strange to be scared of a phone. Even if it’s ringing. What can a ringing phone do to you? Leap up and bash you with its receiver? Strangle you with its cord? Nothing. Just ring, that’s all.

Until you answer it.

Then, of course, it might ask you in a low growl if you’re wearing any knickers. If you like them big and hard. If you’ve been a very naughty girl. Or it might say…

“I know where you live.”

That was how it had all begun before.

“I’m watching you right now,” the phone had hissed. “Standing there in only your nightdress. I’m going to tear it off you and make you pay for all the hurt you’ve done to me.”

At the time Polly’s friends had assured her that the man was lying. He had not been watching her. Pervert callers phone at random. They don’t know where their victims live.