Chapter 56
1171 Words
American 1497 heavy. This is Denver Approach. Climb immediately to fourteen thousand feet. You have traffic at your nine o’clock. Fifteen miles. A United heavy 777.
The figure in the chair speaks in a deep, gravelly voice. “Perk up your ears now, duchess. You’ll want to know this. I’ve got two people here held hostage, right? One of ’em is bleeding all over my carpet like a stuck f*****g pig. Now, I know you can trace my addres
s, and that’s fine with me. But if a single cop comes round and sets a foot in my flat, I swear to god and all his cronies, darling, I’ll f*****g kill these people. I will shoot them and kill them. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. May I have your name, sir?”
“Yes, you may. My name is Fred Hale. And this is my house. This bloke reckoned he could get off with my wife in my own place without me knowing. In my own bed, no less. And the fact is that he was wrong on that account, wasn’t he? And he knows it now, don’t he? He was dead wrong on that account.”
“Fred, how many people are there with you?”
“Just the three of us, duchess. A right happy family. Me and my cheating wife and her f*****g hemorrhaging ex-boyfriend. They’re duct taped together in the family room.”
“What’s happened to the man? How badly is he injured?”
“Well, I slashed him in the face with a Stanley knife, didn’t I? It’s not complicated. Wouldn’t you protect your family? I had to do it, didn’t I? And now that I’ve started, I’m not sure that I shouldn’t just keep stabbing until I can’t go on. I don’t care anymore. You understand, darling? I’ve lost my f*****g grip here. I’ve completely lost my f*****g grip on this situation. You hear me?”
“I hear you, Fred. Can you tell me how badly the man is injured?”
“He’s on the ground. I don’t know. He’s all—Ah, f**k me. f**k me.”
“Fred?”
“Listen, duchess. You need to dispatch some help here right now because I’m going off my nut. I mean it, I’ve gone psycho. I need help over here right f*****g now or these people are going to die.”
“That’s fine, Fred. We’re sending help now. What kind of weapon do you have?”
“Right. I’m armed, okay? I’m armed and I don’t want to share more than that. And I’m not going to prison, either, you hear? If that’s it, then I’ll kill myself and them and we’ll be done with it. I’ll not be going anywhere tonight, understand? And, ah, I’m not talking anymore.”
“Fred? Can you stay on the line with me?”
“I’ve said my piece, right? I’m hanging up now.”
“Can you stay on the line with me?”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Fred? Mr. Hale?”
“Catch you in the funny pages, duchess.”
Click.
An office chair creaks as the figure stands up. With a sharp snap, the blinds flip open. Light floods into the room, instantly saturating the webcam. Over the next few seconds, the contrast adjusts automatically. A grainy but discernible image emerges.
The room is filthy: littered with empty soda cans, used phone cards, and dirty clothes. The chair squeaks again as the dark figure drops back into it.
The tough-talking man is actually an overweight teenager wearing a stained T-shirt and sweatpants. His head is shaved. He sprawls back in the beat-up office chair, feet resting on a computer desk. With his left hand, he holds a cell phone to his ear. His right hand is tucked casually under his left elbow.
From the phone, a faint ringing.
A pleasant-sounding man answers. “Hello?”
The teenager speaks in his own shrill, adolescent voice, quivering with nervous excitement.
“Fred Hale?” asks the kid.
“Yes?”
“Is this Fred Hale?”
“That’s right. Who’s this?”
“Take a guess, you ponce.”
“Excuse me? Look here, I don’t know—”
“It’s Vold. From the phone phreaks chat room.”
“Vold? What do you want?”
“You thought you could speak to me any way you wanted? That I’m no class? You’re going to be sorry for that. What I want is to teach you a little lesson, Fred.”
“How’s that?”
“I want to hear your wife cry. I want to see your house go up in flames. I want to punish you to the extent of my abilities and then just a bit more. I want to break you today, mate, and read about it in the papers tomorrow.”
“Break me? Oh my god, what a b****y joke. Sod off, you poor little Billy no-mates. Lonely, are you? Be honest. Is that why you’re ringing me? Mum out with the girls and left you all alone?”
“Oh, Fred. You’ve no idea who you’re speaking to. What I’m capable of. I’m as nasty as the day is long and I know every trick in the book. If I want you, mate, I’ll get you.”
“You’re not scaring me, you silly little dimwit. You found my home number? Och, congratulations. Listen to your voice. What are you, maybe fourteen years old?”
“I’m seventeen years old, Fred. And we’ve been speaking for nearly two minutes. Do you know what that means?”
“What are you sodding off about?”
“Do you know what that means?”
“Hold on—someone is at my door.”
“Do you know what that means, Fred? Do you?”
“Shut your mouth, you little bugger. Let me get this.”
The man’s voice is fainter now. His hand must be muffling the phone. He curses. There is a bang and the sound of splintering wood. Fred shouts, surprised. There is a thunk as his phone drops to the ground. Fred’s cries are quickly drowned out by stomping boots and staccato orders shouted by a team of authorized firearms officers: “Get down.” “On your face.” “Shut up.”
In the background, faintly, a woman cries out in fright. Soon, her sobs can’t be heard over the shouts, the glass breaking, and the vicious barking of a dog.
Safe at home, the teenager who calls himself Vold listens. Eyes closed and head c****d, he absorbs every bit of satisfaction from the phone call.
“That’s what it means,” Vold says, to no one in particular.
Then, alone in his filthy room, the teenager silently raises his fists over his head like a champion boxer who has just gone ten rounds and come out on top.
With one thumb, he hangs up the phone.
- Writer
