The Fandom of the Operator

15

It was engaged! Can you believe that?

Engaged?

I slammed down the phone and I fumed not a little.

Stupid, I said to myself. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I’ve been had. They think I’m a new bob. They’re winding me up. They’ll be out there laughing. I peered out through the glass windows of the phone box.

But no one was out there laughing.

No one.

They were all out there going about their business, carrying bulbs or clipboards, moving up and down stairways and along gantries. They weren’t looking in my direction.

I took the telephone handset and I dialled again. And this time a distant bell began to ring.

Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Like old-fashioned phones used to do.

And then there was a click and a voice said, “Hello. Who’s that?”

And it was the voice of my daddy.

My dead daddy.

It was really his voice.

My throat was suddenly very dry indeed and my heart began to pound like crazy in my chest.

“Hello,” said my daddy’s voice again. “Who’s there? Is there anybody there?”

I gagged and swallowed and I said, “Daddy, is that you?”

“Who’s that?” said the voice of my father. “Gary, is that you?”

“It’s me,” I said. “Is that really you?”

“Of course it’s me. Who did you think it was?”

“But you’re, well … you’re …”

“I’m dead,” said my father. “We do use the ‘D’ word here. What are you doing up at this time of night? You should have been in bed by eight.”

“I’m all grown up,” I said. “I’m not a little boy any more.”

“Yes, well, I knew that. I’m not stupid. How old are you now? thirteen, fourteen?”

“I’m twenty-seven.”

“As old as that. Time’s different here. Because there isn’t any, I suppose.”

“Is that really, really you?”

“Have you been drinking?” asked my daddy.

“No,” I said. “No. But I can’t believe that I’m really talking to you. You being, you know, dead and everything.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure you’re thrilled. So what do you want?”

“I don’t want anything.”

“So why are you bloody bothering me? Can’t you let me rest in peace?”

“I’m speaking to you,” I said. “I’m alive and you’re dead and I’m actually speaking to you.”

“Well, that’s no big deal. Spiritualists do it all the time. Although mostly we just ignore them. Lot of fat ugly women or nancy-boy men, most of them. Who’d want to speak to that bunch of losers, eh?”

“Quite so,” I said. “But, Daddy, this really is you and I’m speaking to you. This is incredible. Incredible. This is wonderful. This is amazing.”

“I’m not impressed,” said my daddy.

“I am,” I said.

“Then you’re easily impressed, son. But I’ll tell you something. If you want to be really impressed, I know something absolutely fantastic. Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes, I would,” I said. “I would.”

“All right,” said the Daddy. “Then listen up good, because—”

Then he got cut off.

And then the line went dead.