Of Mice and Mobiles
By Shaun Allan
Copyright 2011 Shaun Allan
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Dedication
For everyone who might enjoy this
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Also by Shaun Allan
Sin
Zits’n’Bits
Tooth, the Whole Tooth and Nothing But the Tooth
Final Entry
The House on the Moor
Welcome the Night
The Feast
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Of Mice and Mobiles
Whenever Jake heard a mobile phone, he automatically reached for his own. He couldn’t really mistake his “Pinky and the Brain” ringtone but just couldn't help himself. It was a habit he was trying to break, which was why he didn’t immediately answer the call. To be honest, he hadn’t heard it straight away – the tune tugged at the edge of his hearing, not quite taking hold. When he finally did take his phone out of his jacket pocket, he wondered why the call hadn’t diverted to his voice mail. Oh well.
The screen was lit up a luminous white. Brain was still a genius, and Pinky was, naturally, still insane. They were both laboratory mice whose genes had been spliced. Where there should have been the caller's number, or name if it was in his address book, was simply ‘CALL’. He flicked the answer key.
“Hello?”
A faint hiss of static buzzed in his ear, distant flies thrumming on a hot summer's day. At first Jake thought he'd lost the signal, but a quick glance assured him that no, he was at full strength. He returned the phone to his ear.
“Hello?”
Static.
Somebody's idea of a bad joke, no doubt. Jake had no time for stupid pranks and was about to cancel the call when a barely audible voice cracked “Hello,” in return.
“Who is this?”
“Is that Jake?” The voice was old. It reminded him of how his grandfather’s voice sounded each time Jake visited the residential centre (can’t have it called a ‘home’). Every other weekend was more than enough, yet he still managed to feel guilty. It was a tiring exercise, not least because it was almost futile. Grandad wasn't going to be around for much longer. It sounded callous, even in Jake's own head, but the truth was the truth, whether he liked it or not.
“Grandad?” It was out of his mouth before he realised, but he knew the person on the other end of the line wasn’t the frail old man he’d seen last Saturday. The voice was similar, but it had a weird texture, like dusty, crumpled paper. Jake frowned. It was a strange image to apply to a voice, but it fitted.
“Jake Matthews?” The voice was impatient.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“I'm sorry to bother you Jake, but I’m afraid the world is going to end.”
Jake’s breath caught in his throat for a moment, then he laughed. “Dave? Is that you? Daft bugger! You nearly had me there!”
“Sorry, Jake. This isn’t Dave. Dave is at the gym right now wondering how he will tell his wife he’s going to be made redundant. It doesn’t matter really. The world will end before then.”
Jake was a fairly impatient man at best. He didn’t have a lot of time for practical jokes. It had to be Dave, Jake’s brother, although his name should have appeared as the caller on the phone. Only Dave would think something like this was funny. He had a dry, almost warped sense of humour that irritated Jake immensely. Well, Jake, as usual, didn’t have time.
“Whatever, mate,” he said. He pressed the red ‘end call’ button and dropped the phone back into his pocket. He’d talk to his brother later. By teatime, he'd forgotten the call altogether.
At 8:30 that night, his mobile rang again.
“Hello?”
“Jake. Listen, please. The world is going to end!” the crumpled-paper voice crackled insistently.
“Dave, this isn’t funny. I'm tired. I’ll see you at the weekend. Go prat about with someone else, OK?”
“Jake. Dave is at home. He’s reading Harry Potter to Jenyfer. This isn’t Dave. I am telling you the WORLD IS GOING TO END!” Static filled the line, loud enough to cause Jake to pull the phone away from his ear. When the static had faded the voice whispered : “Do something!”
“Dave, I’m not interested in your silly games. Sod off.” Jake hung up.
He’d had an argument with his brother about a month before. It was stupid, as both of them knew, but pride prevented either from backing down. Their grandad’s condition was deteriorating and Jake wanted to move him to a hospital. Grandad was 92. He hardly knew they were there when they visited and needed constant care. True, the staff were very good – they really did care about their residents (not patients, never that) – but they could only do so much. Dave, however, insisted there was no point. Grandad wouldn’t be any more comfortable in a hospital bed. Various pensions and insurances were paying for the facilities, so it certainly wasn’t a financial burden for them. They may as well leave the old fart where he was. While the argument went on, that was exactly what happened, and that niggled Jake. Any contact between the brothers since had been strained.
Twenty minutes after he had cancelled the call, the mobile rang again. Jake switched it off. The main phone rang. Jake grabbed it.
“Yes!”
“Jake listen.”
“Dave, it isn’t funny. What’s up with you?” He hung up, slamming the phone back into its cradle. His mobile rang again. It was switched off…
Jake slumped into a chair and stared at the small telephone. The screen was lit up. Pinky and the Brain insisted he answer. He didn’t. He walked numbly over to the television and turned it on. He wasn’t even slightly bothered what might be on; he just needed noise – distraction. Jerry Springer was smiling smugly as the sound editors repeatedly pressed the bleep button to hide innumerable expletives. He watched it without seeing, listened without hearing.
His mobile continued its incessant ringing. Jake continued to ignore it, or at least to pretend he was ignoring it.
Forty five minutes later Pinky and the Brain were still singing and Jake was grinding his teeth angrily. He snatched his phone and went to throw it against the wall. Anything to stop it!
It stopped.
Jake held it for a moment then slowly put it back down on his coffee table. He watched it, almost fearful that it might spring into life again. It didn't.
That night’s sleep was restless. He wondered if Stephen King knew you could read his books, at that time of the year, at 4:30 in the morning without switching a light on. He awoke the next morning with a headache and feeling as if he’d only just lain down. His mobile phone was on his bedside cabinet, between the lamp and the radio alarm. He knew he’d left it on the coffee table the night before. It rang. He ignored the noise for as long as he could, managing to take a shower and drink a very strong coffee (black, one sugar) before he found himself sitting on his bed staring at the phone. He picked it up and answered it.
"Why don't you just…"
"Jake, it's Dave. I think we should get to the home quickly. They just called. I think grandad is… fading."
"Dave. Erm…" Jake was surprised. He hadn't expected to hear his brother's voice. The unspoken rule they'd had not to call the residential centre a home was broken and forgotten. "The home. What did they say?"
"Just that he won't last much longer. He had a rough night."
He wasn't the only one. "I'll meet you there, ok?"
"OK, bro."
From the tone of his brother's voice, it seemed that the recent animosity was forgotten. Fine with me, Jake thought. It was pretty much redundant anyway now. He dressed quickly, practically dragging his clothes on, and rushed to the centre, earning
himself numerous finger salutes from other drivers along the way. He'd completely forgotten to take his mobile phone with him.
Jake and Dave pulled into the car park at the same time. They swung into adjacent parking spaces and slowly got out of their cars. The hostility was still apparent, the brothers eyeing each other as if either might pounce. Jake shook his head.
"Come on. Let's go."
Dave nodded, even moving to put his hand on his brother's shoulder as they walked.
Neither saw the ambulance careen around their parked cars, heading for the emergency entrance. Neither heard it's wailing sirens. The paramedic driving didn't see them until it was too late. The ambulance hit practical joker, redundant sheet metal worker and family man Dave first. An eternity before the driver slammed on the brakes, Dave's body was slammed into tense loner Jake. The ambulance skidded to a halt. Their bodies continued, their momentum carrying the brothers a good twenty feet where they landed in a mangled heap at the foot of a tired oak.
The nursing home, for that's what it essentially was, was quiet. A hush fell as soon as you passed through the double swing doors, as if the outside world had suddenly held its breath. The reception was airy and bright, a complete contrast to the basic and essentially boring rooms the residents slept in. The carers cared, there was no doubt about that, but any thoughts of decorating and cheering up the rooms was forgotten in favour of the reception area - make a good impression to visitors, that was the trick. The damp and fusty smell that crept along the halls beyond had no place here. The feeling of age and arthritis that clung to the walls and shuffled along the corridors was swept away in the hum of the floor polisher and the colourful sprays of fake flowers, air fresheners hidden deep within their leaves.
A ramp led through another pair of double doors to the residents' rooms, which occupied a sweeping circle facing onto an ornate fountain amid a lush garden. In the fourth room to the right, the television was on. Road Runner was making Coyote work, vainly, for his dinner. The faded brown curtains were partially open, a stream of sunlight spotlighting the innumerable dust motes that waltzed lazily in the air. On the bed, Grandad was sleeping. He rarely did much else these days.
He was dreaming. He dreamt that someone close to him, he couldn't quite remember who, had died. Somewhere nearby, in his dream, a telephone was ringing, except it wasn't a normal 'bring-bring' sound. He frowned in his sleep. He couldn't understand why he was dreaming of mice.
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About the Author:
A writer of many prize winning short stories and poems, Shaun Allan has written for more years than he would perhaps care to remember. Having once run an online poetry and prose magazine, he has appeared on Sky television to debate, against a major literary agent, the pros and cons of internet publishing as opposed to the more traditional method. Many of his personal experiences and memories are woven into Sin (the main character in his book of the same name) point of view and sense of humour although he can’t, at this point, teleport.
Read other works by Shaun online at:
https://www.shaunallan.co.uk
https://www.lulu.com/spotlight/shaunallan
Sin has a blog, detailing his experiences and thoughts whilst in the mental asylum and the people and patients he meets there, at https://singularityspoint.blogspot.com