The Wonderground

1 - The Voice

Colin Adamson was late.

The takeaway sweet and sour chicken was getting colder with every sodden step. Colin was no athlete. But tonight, he thought, he would be giving those speed walking Olympians a run for their money, if London ever hosted the Games again.

His pace quickened as he rounded the corner of Arundel Street and spotted the brake lights of the 461 double decker bus up ahead at the stop outside Kings College. He was going to make it.

Had Westminster City Council diverted the Thames along the Strand? Rainwater was streaming down the footpaths and the gutters were sloshing and bubbling under the strain. The rain was positively bouncing down and Colin's designer shoes were taking on water. The price of fashion! He wiped his expensive, limp, quiff from his forehead and felt the sting of styling wax running into his eyes. His glasses were steaming up and he heard a low, ominous rumble. Was that thunder? A passing lorry?

And then the inevitable happened. Through his foggy lenses, Colin watched in horror as the brake lights blinked off. He was less than fifty metres away. He broke into an awkward, waddling run and was momentarily distracted with the thought that he would probably face disqualification from the Olympic committee. Or were they an umpiring panel? It was not important right now!

With his tailored three-piece suit doing little to support his middle-aged spread, and his breath pluming in small, wheezy clouds in front of his face, forty-something middle manager Colin Angus Adamson realised something very quickly. He could not outrun a bus.

He slowed to a defeated trudge as the double decker disappeared towards Fleet Street. The wind was really starting to pick up and, as a final insult, his dripping wet designer tie slapped him in the face as he reached the deserted bus shelter.

'Shelter' was a bit of a stretch. Two of the three sides were missing their glass. At least Colin had his pick of the two, orange fold-down seats that had not been vandalised or vomited on. He flicked a still-glowing cigarette butt from the groove of the nearest seat and sat down, glad to be off his feet. Small victories. That was what his boss always said.

Colin reached into his carrier bag and rummaged round for a prawn cracker as he considered whether to order a taxi. The Tube was a no-go due to another strike and the nearest station had been shut down years ago anyway. He vaguely remembered reading that it was a museum now.

Unbelievably, Colin's smart phone had remained dry in his suit jacket pocket. He gave a chuckle of surprise as it unlocked, having recognised his bedraggled features. Small victories! He tapped on a black square on the home screen which opened a map of his location. His victory was short lived as he discovered that every other person within a mile radius that had been caught in this deluge had already had the idea to book an Uber.

He noticed a poor homeless guy crouched beneath a slab of cardboard under the entrance to St. Mary Le Strand church. He contemplated offering him a spring roll, but the man was snoring as the rain dripped from a broken piece of guttering onto the leather hood of his ancient-looking coat.

Colin pocketed his phone, stood and moved to the side of the shelter that was still in one piece. His shoes crunched loudly as he walked through the shattered glass on the floor. The intact side, as well as providing some respite from the howling wind and horizontal rain, also displayed a peeling, faded, indecipherable timetable. It was colour-coded, presumably to represent different days of the week but, try as he might, he was no nearer to figuring out when the next No. 461 bus was due.

It was then that Colin heard it.

Was that...? Yes. It sounded like an 'old-school' telephone. No doubt somebody's mobile with a retro ringtone. Probably very trendy right now. Colin resolved to download one for his iPhone if he ever got back to his apartment tonight.

The phone continued to ring. But Colin was alone on the street. He spotted a solitary, gold and green Harrods brolly bobbing away in the distance, but the ringing was loud. Somewhere close by.

The sky rumbled threateningly and then exploded above him. The street was lit momentarily in a bright, blue-white light as lightning sheeted overhead. Illuminated for just a second, beyond the edge of the timetable, Colin saw a red public telephone box. Its light was flickering on and off intermittently inside.

The thunder subsided and Colin heard the ringing again, originating from the red box. Colin found himself drawn towards the sound. He forgot about the Force Ten gale and lashing rain and trod towards the ringing. His fingers wrapped round the cold brass door handle. As he pulled the door open the ringing became louder. He looked up and down the street, as if seeking permission, before stepping inside.

It reeked of urine and cheap perfume inside the cramped cubicle. It reminded him of Sally from the office. The perfume, not the urine. Stuck to the rear wall were countless flyers advertising everything from tree surgery to cosmetic surgery.

The phone continued to ring.

Who rings a phone box? Probably a telemarketer who 'understands' that you have had an accident in the past twelve months. Curiosity got the best of Colin and he picked up the dated black receiver, half expecting to be connected to a call centre in Delhi.

"Hello?"

No answer. He decided to do his best 'Sally from the office' impression.

"Hello?" he repeated, in a high-pitched, East End accent. "You've reached the pee-stained payphone on the Strand. How may I direct your call?"

Colin thought he was funny. His wife said she did not marry him for his wit, but even she would have cracked a smile at that.

"I said hello? This is the point where you try to sell me double glazing."

Another good one, Colin.

Finally. A voice in his ear.

"Is there somebody there?"

"Yes, hello. For the fourth time!"

"Please help us. He's coming."

What? Colin thought it sounded like a child. A little girl.

"Please send help. He's coming."

"I'm sorry, what? Who's coming? Is this a joke?"

Colin nudged opened the door of the phone box with his knee and searched around for signs of a secreted film crew or sniggering teens with their phone cameras pointed at him.

"Is there anybody there?"

"Yes, I'm here. Can't you hear me?"

"He'll destroy it all. Please. He's coming."

"Alright. You've had your fun. Ha-ha," he said sarcastically. "Look, I've missed my bus, I'm soaking wet, and my noodles are probably floating towards Covent Garden by now!"

Colin was not laughing any more. Why had he even picked up the phone in the first place? It clearly was not going to be for him!

"I'm going now. Hanging up."

As Colin replaced the receiver, he did not notice that the curly metal cable that should connect the handset to the main unit was dangling freely underneath the coin return flap, its internal wires exposed and chewed.

Colin Adamson was halfway home on the last bus of the day when the girl's despairing voice called out from the red telephone box one final time.

"He's here..."