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| Cold Call by Paul Kane (Issue 12) |
When the call came, Martin’s blood ran cold.
He’d been expecting it, laying there in the darkness. Martin had gone to bed a few hours ago, but hadn’t been able to sleep. In fact he hadn’t slept that well for a good week; since all this began in fact. He’d been thinking about the events of the past few days, and how things had got to this stage. If he could go back right now and tell himself not to take that job, he would. But he’d needed the money, and as a struggling drama post-graduate who was finding it difficult to get any auditions, he’d take whatever he could get.
“Here at CompliCalls we cover a wide variety of areas for a wide variety of clients. We also pride ourselves on our selling techniques,” his supervisor had told him on that first day. The man had altogether too many teeth and insisted on showing them every few minutes in a smile that held no warmth, let alone any sincerity.
Martin saw selling on the phone as a necessary evil and one he hoped he wouldn’t need once that major film, TV or theatre role came up. Then he’d be gone faster than you could say ‘Sorry for bothering you, but have you ever considered the benefits of guaranteed protection life insurance cover...’ or ‘Madam, I’m calling today to offer you a month’s subscription to our book club, absolutely free and, as a welcome, you can select any one of our titles on a trial basis...’ The standard blurb he’d been given on a clipboard in front of him to read out.
Martin learnt, as he was putting the headset on, that a certain amount of numbers were called and when one answered he was “a go!”. The others would be dropped. “They’re people who’ve ended up on lists from filling out questionnaires and the like, so it isn’t as if they haven’t asked for this,” his supervisor said, then grinned again. His mouth looked like a piano begging to be played.
That’s what happened when people got those annoying calls at home that simply rang off. Cold calling, Martin was informed. Standard procedure. He didn’t like the idea, but then he hadn’t come up with this system; he was just forced to work within it if he wanted to make the rent and, y’know, eat. He didn’t have to worry, though, he was told: his number never showed up, even if people did choose to ring 1471 and find out who the caller was.
Martin’s first day was a complete washout. He was beginning to think that nobody out there wanted what he was peddling. Then he struck on the idea of treating this as just another role, another part to play. Martin began to use the acting skills he had to nail the patter necessary to sell this crap. And guess what, it worked like a charm. By the second afternoon, he’d already sold several insurance policies, magazine subscriptions and cheap holidays. He’d just hung up on another ‘satisfied’ customer – who’d bought something they didn’t really need in the first place – when, to his surprise, he heard a distinct ringing sound on his headset. His own phone line was going off. Martin looked around at the other sellers, sitting in their regimented cubicles like extras from 1984; was this kind of thing supposed to happen? He stood up, looking to see if his supervisor was anywhere in sight. Nope. Nobody had told him what to do if the phone rang at his end, but Martin felt like he should answer it. Might be something important, he said to himself.
Oh, it was important all right. Crucial. Life or death... Martin wished he could go back and tell himself not to pick up, just to let it ring off. Things might be so different now if he had.
But he’d clicked the button to receive the incoming call and said, “Hel.. Hello?” in a tentative voice.
“You rang me,” said the voice at the other end. It was a normal sounding voice, if slightly monotonous.
“What?” replied Martin.
“You called me,” the voice informed him. “Then you hung up without saying anything. Why?”
“Er...” Martin rose once more, looking for his supervisor. “I...”
“That wasn’t a very nice thing to do,” said the voice.
“I’m sorry,” said Martin, hardly believing he was getting into this. “It wasn’t me, the computer-”
“I thought it might have been something important,” the voice said, echoing what he’d just thought.
“No, no... it was just… I sell stuff but-”
“What’s your name?”
“Look, I think I’d better hang up now. I’m really sorry for-”
“I asked what your fucking name was!” The voice rose, switching instantly from monotonous to angry.
Martin hung up, his hand shaking as he pressed the disconnect button. A few seconds later the ringing began again. Martin let it, assuming the guy would just get fed up and ring off. He didn’t; the ringing just kept coming – and Martin couldn’t place another call until the line was free.
He got up and walked away from his desk, determined to find the supervisor this time. When he returned with his boss, who told him it shouldn’t even be possible to even receive calls through his booth, the ringing had stopped. The man, who was definitely not grinning now because he’d been dragged away from important work, said he could find no trace of any number having rung Martin’s station. “But, if it makes you feel any happier...” The supervisor got one of the other centre workers to swap with Martin. He was pleased with how this new young recruit was working out, but told him to make sure this was the last ‘interruption’.
Martin thanked both his boss and his colleague, then got on with his job for the rest of the day – gradually becoming less unnerved as he went on.
At 10:30am the following morning, Martin’s headset began to ring again. It couldn’t be the same guy, he knew that, and he was about to report the incoming call when he remembered what his boss had said about bothering him. He let it ring... and ring... Then, frustrated at not being able to get anything done – he was losing commissions here – Martin finally answered it. The caller hung up.
Technical glitch, Martin told himself. The computer cocking something up. He waited as more numbers were dialled and someone answered.
“Good morning, I’m Martin of-”
“So it’s Martin,” came the voice from the previous day.
His mouth fell open. “It can’t be...”
“That’s twice you’ve hung up on me, Martin. It’s really very rude, you know.” The voice had a calm quality about it, just like the other time, but Martin knew it wouldn’t take much to set this man off.
“What do you want?” he asked. “An apology? I already said it isn’t my fault about the first call. But look, I’m sorry and-”
“You can fucking stick your apology,” snapped the voice.
“Hey, I’ve said I’m sorry,” Martin told the voice, starting to lose patience. He wasn’t normally one for standing up for himself, but this guy was pushing him too far. “Now, could you please get off the line – you’re going to lose me my job.”
“Oh, we wouldn’t want that now, would we?” said the voice, in a tone that made Martin feel extremely uncomfortable.
He hung up again. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Martin stared at the computer screen. Which one of those numbers the computer had randomly dialled belonged to him: the Voice? He could phone them all in turn, but...
His headset started to ring, and Martin knew it was the man again, just like he knew it was him that had hung up the call before last. He flung down the headset, got up, and backed away from the desk. Martin told his supervisor on his way out that he wasn’t feeling very well and needed to get home. It wasn’t that much of a lie.
The grin was now conspicuous by its absence as his superior told him. “That’s fair enough. You don’t work, though, you don’t get any money.” Martin nodded, then left – with his supervisor’s words trailing after him. “And you’d better be here bright and early in the morning, or I’m giving your position to someone else.”
Martin did as he said he was going to do; went home to his small bed-sit. He tried to watch TV, but it all washed over him. Tried to watch his favourite movie, but couldn’t concentrate. He barely slept that night, tossing and turning, hearing the Voice just as he was finally drifting off.
Exhausted, Martin went back to work the next day, asking one of the workers near the back if he could swap again. They reluctantly agreed, but only after clearing it with the supervisor. The man simply sighed and nodded. Martin knew he was on very thin ice. But there was no way the Voice would find him after another switch.
Yet he did, checking in at about 2:45 in the afternoon. “You don’t get rid of me that easily,” it said.
Martin clicked off the line again, then continued to do so every time the phone rang after that, hoping if he did it fast enough the caller would get fed up. But he was also on the lines that Martin tried to dial out. How is he doing this? Martin thought. Is he some kind of technical whiz or something? A bored geek with a grudge? Whatever the case, he was definitely a nutter... Martin reported this new spate of harassment to his supervisor, who fired him on the spot. “You’re obsessed, boy,” he told Martin. “Imagining things...”
Martin was sad to lose the work, but looked on the bright side. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with that loony on the phone again. To cheer himself up, he went for a walk in the park, taking a McDonalds with him to eat by the lake. He was feeding bits of the bun to the birds when his mobile went off; the nice jingly ringtone that always made him feel happy.
Martin pulled it out, opened it, at the same time checking the number and expecting to see either work, one of his acting pals, his folks or maybe Tina – his semi-serious off-on girlfriend (actually she hadn’t called in a while now).
It read simply ‘unknown’. He answered anyway.
“Time on your hands?” said the Voice.
Martin almost dropped his mobile. “What...? You...?”
“Yes, me, Martin. You were expecting someone else?” He was about to bring the phone down from his ear when the Voice said: “If you fucking well hang up on me this time, you’ll regret it.” Martin swallowed dryly. “I’m... I-”
“I’m...I...” mimicked the voice. “Moron. Nice spot you’ve picked, though. I like it. Very peaceful. Or it would be if I wasn’t so wound up.”
Martin snapped his phone shut, cutting the Voice off. He stood and whirled around. There were a few other people nearby: a jogger, a woman with a small dog, a couple of kids. He saw no-one else. But then he wouldn’t, would he.
His mobile rang again.
Martin ran, sprinting up the path and out through the gates of the park.
He took his phone to the nearest police station to report the calls, but the officer on duty didn’t seem very convinced. “Probably just a crank,” he said to Martin.
“No, no... it’s more than that. This guy was threatening me. He wants to... to hurt me.” “He actually said that? That he was going to hurt you?”
Martin thought about it, about the specific words the Voice had used. “Well, not exactly but... Can’t you just trace the calls or something? Find out who’s doing this?”
The policeman examined the phone. “Not really... there doesn’t appear to be any record of them even being made.” He showed Martin the screen
Taking the phone back, Martin frowned, then said, “I don’t understand...”
“Look, son, if it continues to happen, come back and we’ll see what we can do.” Before Martin could say any more, the policeman held up his hand, and pointed to the door.
Martin left, heading home, but he was constantly looking over his shoulder as he walked down the street. He was already on the bus when the phone rang again. Martin ignored it initially, until he began to draw stern looks from some of the other passengers who were not so enamoured with his ringtone. Martin opened the phone, saw it was ‘unknown’, and closed it. The phone rang again... He got off at the next stop, the tinny tune following him, so he took out the phone and dropped it to the floor, grinding it into the pavement under his heel.
“What are you looking at?” he shouted at the passers-by who were eyeing him strangely. After another sleepless night, Martin went out and bought a replacement phone. A cheap ‘pay as you go’, with a new number he’d let people have in due course. No sooner had he taken it out of its packaging, than it began to ring. Martin didn’t even know it was charged up!
Assuming it must be some kind of welcome message asking him to load his credit, he pressed the green phone symbol and put the receiver to his ear.
“How about I stamp on you?” came the now-familiar voice. “See how you like it, you little shit.” Hands trembling, Martin flung the phone into the nearest public bin. Now that was a threat... a definite threat. But Martin didn’t see the point of reporting it.
He retreated back home, locking himself away and surviving on what little was in his sparse flat. He didn’t dare go out anymore in case the Voice was watching, waiting. In case it tried to contact him somehow, in spite of the fact he had no mobile. A couple of times the doorbell went, but he didn’t answer it. Couldn’t bring himself to in case it wasn’t his friends, or Tina.
It was around teatime that the landline in his flat went off for the first time. Martin instinctively reached for the receiver then stopped; he couldn’t believe he’d almost answered it. The phone rang off, though, after an appropriate time, leading him to conclude that it might not be the Voice at all. Martin picked it up, once he knew it was safe to do so, and dialled 1471. It was a number he didn’t recognise, but it was a number nonetheless. Not the Voice. Couldn’t be; it wasn’t that stupid. Didn’t leave traces...
Martin pressed 3 to return the call.
“Miss me?” said the Voice.
“Now I’ve got you,” said Martin, slamming the receiver down. He had the guy’s number. Could take it to the police. Except when he tried 1471 again, the computerised lady informed him that the number had been withheld. “What? No... It was there a minute ago...” Shit, he should have written it down...
Martin slumped to the floor, breathing quickly in and out. He was going insane, had to be. It was the only explanation. The Voice belonged to him, he was hearing it when it didn’t really exist... The phone rang again, making him jump. Martin considered pulling it out of the wall, but what good would that do? The Voice would find a way in.
The phone rang off again anyway.
Martin hung his head in despair.
The phone didn’t ring at all the rest of the evening, not even when Martin took to his bed again – trying to get some much needed sleep. That’s probably what’s happening to me, he thought, probably what’s doing this. I’m knackered... He lay awake, though, staring at the ceiling; too wired to let sleep claim him. When the phone rang a final in the middle of the night, it didn’t come as any surprise. But it did chill his blood, and the longer it went on the more he shivered. It was not going to stop this time, Martin realised, so he got up and padded through the bedroom, into the living room – intending to throw it out of the window. But when he reached the phone he actually found himself picking it up. Enough was enough, and he was about to speak when the Voice got in first. “Hello again, Martin. Don’t hang up.” It sounded more reasonable than it had in a long time, but then it always did do to start with. “You need to hear this.” The Voice was so much clearer, so much louder than it ever had been before... Martin gripped the receiver tightly with both hands, almost like he was trying to strangle the thing. “You need to hear this and you need to turn around.” Martin could sense someone in the room with him, even before he turned. Could see the shadow now cast on the wall from the streetlamp outside. That was why the Voice was so clear... it was so, so close. “That’s right,” said the Voice, its tone hardening again. “I’m here, Martin. You can’t cut me off this time.” It was only now that Martin glanced down, spotting the phone lead. Seeing that it had been severed. Martin closed his eyes briefly and swallowed. He knew the Voice was telling the truth. Knew as well what he would see when he did as it asked. The Voice was right, he couldn’t hang up this time. But the Voice could cut him off... and that was its intention. To cut him off permanently, leaving behind a dead line. “Goodbye, Martin,” whispered the Voice. And, dropping the receiver, Martin slowly turned around...
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