Christ. I always answer unknown numbers. Ever since my dad died eight years ago. Look, I don’t want to delve into it. But seeing that word flashing before me reminds me. I hadn’t answered the first time, had I? Or the second. And it was only on the third attempt I bothered picking up. It’d been the hospital, calling to ask for a Jim Glover, and I said, ‘That’s me.’ The voice, light and female I recall, asked me to come and identify a man, thought to be Roy Glover, brought in dead on arrival. A heart attack on the Dock road.
But guess what?
There’s a gleaming problem with answering my phone right now. You see, it’s a sackable offence. I’m allowed to read. We all are. Books, papers, even a good old crossword. But phones? Nope. The use of mobile phones whilst working within the cage of a toll booth is a sackable offence. No ‘three strikes and you’re out’. It’s an automatic lock-in.
‘Unknown’.
I hunch over the desk, press the green circle, grumble, ‘Hello?’
‘WELL, SOMEONE’S STILL HALF ASLEEP,’ the male voice belts into my ear. It’s a harsh, nasal twang. I can’t place it but it’s an altogether familiar sound.
‘Who’s this?’
A flurry of laughter ensues, overpowered by a husky female voice.
‘HEAVY NIGHT, WAS IT?’ she asks, finding herself hilarious.
Shit. Noticing a lady waiting in her car beside my booth, I whip my phone beneath the small desk and dish out some change. Then, peeping over my shoulder to check there isn’t another car behind, I bring the phone back to my ear.
‘WE’VE LOST HIM,’ the male voice says.
‘I’m here,’ I say. ‘Who is this?’
‘SHALL YOU TELL HIM, CONNIE? OR SHALL I?’
‘OH, GO ’EAD, CARL, THE PLEASURE’S ALL YOURS.’
‘Hurry up, I can’t really talk.’
‘JIM GLOVER?’ Carl sings.
‘How do you know me name?’
‘YOU’RE LIVE ON AIR, MERSEY WAVE 103.4.’
‘Y’what?’
Connie’s husky laugh takes over. ‘You’re live on the breakfast show with Connie and Carl, Jim. Now’s your chance to become a winner.’
‘A winner?’
Stretching ahead of me, and behind me, is grey tarmac. That single word, winner, is not part of my daily vocabulary. The two simple syllables sound full and foreign in my mouth, my breath still fresh from instant coffee.
‘You’re head to head with Sophie,’ Carl says. ‘Say hi to Jim, Sophie.’
‘Hiya Jim,’ a crackled voice says, the slight echo confirming that Sophie’s using a hands-free kit from her car. And yet, who is this Sophie? And why is she – with me – live on the radio?
‘Whoever answers this question first will become the proud owner of a brand-new BMW,’ Carl goes on. ‘Or, as Connie would call it, “a posh white car”.’
‘That’s a bit sexist,’ Sophie’s voice says.
Her comment is completely ignored. The game that me and her are somehow a part of continues. Cars filter into the tunnel ahead of my glance, weaving their way from other booths. Any second now, a car’ll pull up beside me and this game, this quiz, this radio prank, will come to a sudden end.
Why haven’t I already hung up?
For every second I remain on the line, I’m begging to be fired. The joy it’ll give Derek Higgins to demand that I see him in his office, to click his dry, swollen fingers as he orders me to remove my high-vis jacket. If reading is the perk of my role, then dishing out a P45 is Derek’s.
‘Jim? Sophie? Are you ready?’
We both mumble a yeah.
A mashup of the theme tunes to Countdown and Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? comes whistling through the speaker. Instead of waiting eagerly for the question, I can only focus on willing the banging in my chest to piss off. I’m breaking my boss’s rule to adhere to my own, and it could result in me losing my job. Sure, rules are rules, but what about priorities? I should hang up.
‘Okay; First one to say the correct answer wins.’ Connie clears her throat. ‘Name the author of On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, Dr No and Thunderball.’
A gasp from Sophie tickles my ear. ‘JAMES BOND!’
Bloody hell. My heart lightens. My knees are numb squashed beneath this little desk, my fingertips clammy.
‘Ian Fleming,’ I say.
A white van pulls up beside my booth, and with the efficiency of a robot, I hand change to the driver.
‘Good fucking morning to you, too,’ the driver spits. ‘Rude fucking bastard.’
I sigh and take a breath, knowing it’s now or never.
There’s a good chance that Connie and Carl and the