A slightly less fluffy story from me this time round. I first wrote this story a good few years ago now in response to a challenge, and a tiny “5 x 5” version (25 words, in 5 sentences, each containing 5 words) appeared in 5 x 5 Fiction: Issue Two – Secrets, Scuffles and Surprises, a flash fiction e-zine edited by Angel Zapata, which sadly no longer seems to be available. The challenge of telling a whole story in so few words was incredibly tricky, but I quite enjoyed the torture! This version is of course longer, and more obviously m/m than I had space to suggest in the 25-word story. It’s one of my darker pieces but I hope you enjoy it anyway.
Note: this appeared in my newsletter recently so apologies if you’ve read it twice!
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Da doo da doo doo doo doo
Di da diddy dah…
I’m in the middle of cooking. Chicken cacciatore; an old favourite. Simple, tasty, and something to take my mind off the silence in the house. Wiping my hands on Stevie’s apron I grab my phone from the counter top. It’s not a number I recognise. Was I expecting a call? Not really; Stevie’s away on a working weekend and my parents don’t hold with mobile phones. I flick the green ‛reply’ button and hold the handset to my ear. ‟Hello?”
Silence washes back at me. No voice, no greeting, no nothing. ‟Hell-o-oh?”
More silence. It’s clearly a crank call, or someone who’s dialled the wrong number and won’t admit to it. The onions are in danger of incinerating; I need to get back to the pan. I’m about to flick ‟end call” when I hear a sound: the tinny sound of a voice. Not talking to me, just there in the background, overlaying the silence. It’s as though there’s a conversation going on somewhere that I’m not part of.
‟Hell-o-oh!”
Still nothing, apart from the faint squawk-squawk from that very distant voice. Or is it just one? Surely another, deeper voice has joined the first. Definitely a conversation, then. Curiosity starts to itch at the bottom of my nose. ‟Who is this?” I yell, thinking that if I shout loud enough whoever it is might hear me. It doesn’t work. The voices drone on. I can’t catch the words, but one of them sounds familiar, somehow. Too familiar. I feel like I know it as well as my own.
‟Stevie? Is that you?” He’s got a new mobile phone, I remember, and is still learning the controls. It’s possible he’s sat on it, or hit the speed dial by mistake. His contract’s great on texts and data but crap on minutes; if the call goes on without him realising, his bill will be astronomical. I shout again. ‟Steeeevie!”
Still no one speaks to me, but now a different sound intrudes. A steady, rhythmic creaking, that sounds just as though– ‟Stevie! If this is you then get your arse to the phone right now!”
If I expected him to obey my every command I’m already disappointed. It sounds like he has other things on his mind, anyway. The creaking continues, speeds up, slows down, and is overlain by moans and the sound of slapping flesh.
‟Whoever this is, if you’re doing what I think you’re doing…” But I can’t be sure if he’s doing, well, that, or who this is. It could be some stranger who’s dialled my number by mistake. More likely it’s that crank call. I’ve had them before, occasionally—heavy breathing, the sound of someone jerking off. Schoolboy giggling. A hastily disconnected call.
The spatula I’ve been using is dripping tomato juice on the floor. I need to stop speculating and get a grip. I’m not some fucking telephone voyeur, or whatever the audio version of that is. But even as my finger hovers over the screen, things heat up. So much so that if this were a video phone the screen would have steamed over by now. The creaking is continuous and the moans are turning to cries. I hear the other, deeper voice again. ‟Oh yeah. Just like that.” Okay, so now I’m sure they’re doing what I thought they were. But as to who, and why…
I need to find out. I need to attract their attention and warn them that their whole romantic interlude is being beamed out to a stranger’s telephone. Or possibly not a stranger, but I need to warn them anyway. I know I wouldn’t want this to happen, if Stevie and I were making love. I draw a breath in deep and shout, ‟Oi! Mate!” like it’s the last fucking trump. At the exact same moment as the unknown man yells ‟Yeah, Stevie,” down my ear.
I freeze, blood rushing to my cheeks, with the phone still held awkwardly by my face. So this was the working weekend. A little part of me thinks I should have known; should have spotted the hundred tiny signs of him pulling away from me. Another part knows there were no such signs. He left on Friday morning with a wave and a kiss, just as he always does. So, is this his way of telling me it’s all over, or just an accident? Either way, the call has cost him dear. And I don’t mean the pounds and pence of his monthly bill.
‟Oh, Stevie,” I say again, but quietly now. The house is silent. The chicken’s ruined. The onions have indeed incinerated. That’s why this time it’s my eyes I wipe on Stevie’s apron. Of course it is. I kill the call.
RoM/Mantic Reads 