The Number You Have Dialled - Short Story

Because he always did so. Percy never liked to do things willy-nilly. He would enter the new number into his contact list, but then he’d enter it again when sending the text. If the phone recognized the number, everything was OK. No one would mistype a phone number twice. Or, at least, no one with a BSc in applied mathematics.

One of his friends had just changed her number. For no particular reason at all, it must be said, but she did so twice a year, and she’d had the same number for almost seven months. ‘Damn,’ he thought, ‘it must be real slow.’ The phone showed the number he’d entered instead of his friend’s name. These days, nothing seemed to work out. He was, for example, single again (for the fifth time since the beginning of the month), a thing he was getting used to. And now the phone was too slow. It took him a minute to realize that he had made a mistake. He, with a BSc in you-know-what.

‘Damn,’ he went again. The text contained some, well, sensitive information about — — that he liked to brag about, or, in a special sense, to confess when he was drunk enough at those house parties. (Thank God the message was not delivered.) Then he usually became the centre of attention; people would surround him and ask a lot of questions about — — that they wouldn’t dream of asking unless they were at least as drunk as him.

He sent the text again, now selecting the number from the phone book. It was delivered in an instant. A smirk appeared on his face as he imagined his friend reading about — —. It was now a new chapter in their relationship. They got along quite well, talked a lot about each other’s intimate moments, but this was something he’d never told her before. Perhaps it was a mistake—but he loved to brag and to see the astonished expression on –

Beep beep.

The other text got delivered, too. Oh my God. Did he include his name? No, he didn’t think he did. Was his number public anywhere? No, it wasn’t, as far as he knew. Should he write another text explaining the situation? No, that would make the whole thing even more embarrassing. But what if it was a convicted stalker reading his text right now? Or that unbearable old hag next door calling the police every time his date ended up in his flat?

No, he was not going to write another text. He’d call that number, and then he’d be able to hear what kind of person it was, and say anything that’d seem necessary. That’s it. With fingers white and damp, he searched for the first text in the sent items, and selected the number.

‘Hello?’ It was the voice of a boy of about seventeen.

‘Hi. (Pause.) It was me who just sent a text, it was by accident, the text to you.’

‘What text?’

Ohmigod. It would’ve been better not to call.

‘The text I just sent you. My phone says you’ve got it.’

‘Oh, those things! I’m sorry, I can’t read them. Was it important?’

‘No, no, in fact, I called to ask you to forget about it.’

‘Oh.’ Was it a great deal of disappointment in the voice on the phone?

‘Are you OK?’

‘Yeah, sure. (Pause.) You see, I can’t read texts, and you’re the first one who actually called to tell me he sent one, and I just wanted to know what they were like.’

‘Why can’t you read texts?’

‘Oh, it’s a long story.’

Something occurred to Percy. ‘You must’ve lost your sight.’

‘Oh, I… I’m not blind, if that’s what you mean.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘That’s OK. (Pause.) Well, I guess you won’t tell me what you sent, so…’

‘Well…’ (He did like to brag.) ‘It’s something rather personal. It might… be a bit shocking. Embarrassing.’

‘I don’t think so. Your voice sounds sweet.’

Percy flushed. Then he told him about — —.

The voice on the phone chuckled. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Nice.’

‘You think so?’

‘Yeah, sure.’

‘Would… would you like to meet up sometime?’

‘Oh yes, definitely, but I don’t think I’d be able to.’

‘Why? Where are you?’

‘I’m talking to you.’

‘I know you’re talking to me. But where are you at the moment?’

‘I’m talking to you. That’s where I am.’

Some awkward sentences followed, and then the boy hung up. Percy didn’t even ask for his name.

A few days passed. The new chapter with Percy’s girl friend didn’t work out too well. He was all too willing to talk about — —, but not about the wrong number and the boy on the phone. And that just made everything a bit distant. And made him feel a bit guilty.

It was on the next Friday, at around six, when he called that number again.

‘Hi!’ The voice was sweeter than he remembered.

‘Hi. It’s me. You remember me?’

‘The boy with — —? Yeah, I do remember you.’

‘I just wanted to ask your name.’

‘I’m Reg. What’s yours?’

‘Percy.’

And so it began. They talked for an hour. Reg didn’t seem to have anything else to do than talk. He sounded a little out of touch with the latest celebrity news, but what the heck, and he did tell Percy up front that he didn’t get out much, so he might be a bore to talk to. But he wasn’t. Percy asked what Reg looked like—a short, red-haired boy with a hint of freckles. How much Percy wanted to meet him, he would’ve gone anywhere in the country. But he was quick to learn, and didn’t raise the issue.

In fact, he began suspecting that Reg was either a raving madman locked up in a cell in the middle of a dark forest, or was confined to his room by his parents because they had found out that he was, you know. He liked to fantasize about rescuing Reg and eloping with him to a romantic bedsit on the tenth floor of a high-rise where they would spend the rest of their lives together.

But then he realized he didn’t really know anything about Reg. And with every question and every answer, the boy resembled less and less anybody he had known before.

‘Do you have many friends?’

‘Now? No. Just you.’

Percy would’ve glowed to hear this if it hadn’t been after a week of futile attempts to get to know anything about the people around Reg. There didn’t seem to be any. And it was just, well, weird.

It was on the day that Percy’s friend celebrated the one-week anniversary of her new phone number. Percy just couldn’t bear it any longer, and, when he called Reg in the evening (Reg never ever called him), he asked him out for the second time.

‘You know perfectly well I can’t go.’

‘Why? Are you locked up or something?’

‘No.’

‘Then where are you? Why don’t you tell me?’

‘Because people just leave me when I do.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Everybody said that.’

‘OK. I will leave you if you don’t tell me.’

‘Now that’s better.’ Percy heard Reg smiling. Which was, considering the gravity of the situation, odd and relieving at the same time.

‘Well?’

‘I’m nowhere in particular. Now I’m here talking with you. When you select my number from your contact list and call me, I’m there. And that’s all.’

‘You mean…’ It was hard to understand, and Percy wasn’t at all sure that he did. It was somewhere deep inside only that he made some sense of what Reg had just said.

‘Well. Same time tomorrow, then, as usual, I guess.’

‘Listen, Percy.’

‘Yeah?’

‘I really got fond of you. So… please don’t feel bad if you don’t call me again, OK?’

‘I’ll call you.’

‘Sure, sure. So long.’

‘Bye.’

He did call him. The next day, and the day after that. And again, and again, and again. He told him about the latest news and gossips. Reg was kind, and witty. He was fun to listen to. They had great laughs together. Reg even improvised a little poem for him once, when Percy felt low after seeing one of his former lovers in a club taking some white pill that, in less than twenty seconds, overclocked his brain, and the ambulance had to be called.

When the long-expected time had come for Percy’s friend to change her number again, Percy felt that Reg was the greatest thing that had happened to him in his life. The only problem was that Reg didn’t exist outside their telephone calls. Sometimes Percy called him because he thought Reg would die if he didn’t. But Reg was there. In the middle of the night, at six in the morning, on the 25th of December, even on bank holidays. They talked about music, movies, books, scandals; about Anthony Burgess, and what had become of Cher’s ribs (Reg was sure God had made man out of them). About everything. There was nothing, Percy felt, that couldn’t be said to the boy on the phone.

It was as small an event as the boy he kind of fancied for a long time finally agreeing to dance with him at the club the night before. Percy just wanted to tell Reg about it. He was so excited he woke up after only three hours of sleep, selected the number from the contact list, and pressed the green button. But instead of Reg’s voice, there came three short buzzes. He looked at the phone in amazement. It said: “Number busy.” He looked at it again. The message disappeared. Somehow it had never occurred to him that he might not be the only one who knew Reg’s number. But it must’ve been a mistake. He tried again. Again the buzzes, and then the message.

There couldn’t be anyone else talking to Reg. After all he had told him, and all they had talked about. Somewhere in the world somebody else called a wrong number, and conjured Reg up into existence. Was it a man? A woman? Young? Or old? Did Reg tell them he was a short, red-haired boy like he told him? Did Reg tell them he was Reg at all?

Upset, he swore not to call that number again. (But no, he wouldn’t delete the contact entry. Just in case.) He told him about — —. And now Reg was talking to someone else. Was it because he danced with that boy? Did that make Reg jealous? But how could he know?

He did talk to Reg once more a few weeks later. Reg admitted that somebody else was calling him, but he said it wasn’t serious. After a few awkward sentences, he said he was sorry, and hung up, and disappeared.

Percy had a date that night that originally he didn’t want to go to.