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The Phonebox of Cosmic Speculation

by  scriever

Posted: Sunday, May 7, 2017
Word Count: 996
Summary: For the flash challenge. Starts in a phone box, ends in a lovely garden




Content Warning
This piece and/or subsequent comments may contain strong language.



It was raining and the phone in the phone box was ringing. All around me people rushed to the tube, to buses, to work. If it hadn’t been raining I would probably have kept going. But I stepped into the smelly dryness and lifted the receiver.

‘Well hello, I’m glad it’s you,’ said an oily, unctuous voice.

‘How do you know it’s me? I mean how do you know who I am?’ Not the best rejoinder, I admit.

‘Oh, I just know we’re going to get on.’ I thought I detected an undercurrent of amusement under the oleaginousness. ‘And how are we today? Wet, isn’t it?’

‘I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re on about. It is wet though. How did you know that? Where are you phoning from?’

A tinny peal of amusement. ‘Now that, my dear chap, is the question! Yes indeed. THE question. And I’m so glad you asked it. It means, you see, that I’ve found the right someone. Someone simpatico. Where do you imagine I’m calling from?’

‘Well, has to be close. North London? The weather stuff. Wait – simpatico? What do you mean?’

‘You’re a questioner. The world needs questioners. The cosmos needs questioners. Bravo!’

‘This is quite the strangest conversation I’ve had for many a year. Since my student days, in fact. But then there were illicit substances involved.’

‘I don’t think you need illicit substances. You’re a true questioner. A speculator.’

‘And what about you? Are you a speculator?’ Another laugh. At least someone’s having fun, I thought, uncharitably.

‘I’ve been speculating for a long time. A very long time. It's a lovely thing to do. You'll like it. You'll thank me. Now that I’ve found you.’

It was my turn to laugh. ‘Found me? I just stepped in out of the rain and answered a ringing phone. You haven’t found me. I can leave when I want, and I’ll never have to listen to this tripe again.’

‘Go on then, leave.’

‘I will. I think the rain’s letting off.’ I peered out of the cloudy glass. The rain didn't seem as heavy. I pushed the door. It wouldn’t budge. Not as if it was stuck, or stiff, as if it wasn’t a door at all. The speaker was squawking. I raised it to my ear.

‘Still there? Rain still too heavy to leave? Never mind, I’m still here too. We can continue our chat.’

I didn’t respond, because something funny was going on outside. The rain seemed to have stopped. And to have been replaced by a heavy grey mist. It was so thick I couldn’t see the pavement, any passers-by, buses, anything. I started to notice other things too. It was silent. There was no rumble, none of the constant vibration from trucks or the underground.

'Would you mind telling me just what the fuck is going on?'
 
A chuckle. 'Don't be alarmed. You're quite safe. Just wait.' The line was dead. With exaggerated care, I replaced the receiver and waited. As if I had any choice.

Gradually, almost imperceptibly at first, the mist seemed to thin. I started to make out shapes. A house? No, too tall and thin. A tree. Another tree. Open ground, Covered in grass. Clumps of colourful flowers. Eventually, the phone box was standing on a green, perfectly manicured lawn in a beautiful garden. The phone rang. 'Yes?'

'Push the door. It'll open now.'

He was right. The air was fresh and scented with something nice. Jasmine? A small, stout man was walking towards me, hand outstretched. 'Peter. So glad you could make it.' His handshake was firm and somehow comforting. 'No doubt you'll be a little confused right now. That's normal. All I can say is welcome to the Garden.' That's how he said it. As if garden had a capital G.

'I'm dead, aren't I? And how do you know my name?'

'We know everything about you, Peter. You're on your own, no family, parents dead. Nobody dependent on you down there.' Down there, I thought. Uh-oh. I'm dead. 'You're not dead. Please,' he went on, 'have a seat and I'll explain.' The telephone box had been replaced by two large padded chairs. The kind you see in hospitals and nowhere else. I sat, and he sat facing me. His eyes were sparkling. He looked ridiculously happy. He had white hair and his face was chubby and unlined. He looked like a younger version of the old chap in the Werthers ads.

He took a deep breath, sat forward. 'We are Speculators. This is where we live. The Garden of Cosmic Speculation. We spend our days speculating, or playing tennis or golf. Do you like tennis or golf?' I shook my head. 'Never mind, you'll be able to find something else you enjoy. Sex perhaps. Some of our younger speculators are quite keen on that, I understand.' He paused, and clearly expected me to say something.

'Sex? Speculate?'

'Yes, speculate.' He ignored the sex question. 'We speculate about whatever we fancy, and when we've speculated, and formed a Prime Speculation, we share it with everyone else, and if there's a two thirds majority in favour, it's issued.'

'Issued?' The question came out in a bit of a squeak.

'Issued. Disseminated, in other words. Down there.' He pointed, confusingly, upwards. I followed his pointing finger. There, in the blue sky, looking huge, and blue, was the Earth. That was when I fainted.

When I came to, I was in a bed, in a white room with an open window through which the sun and a light breeze wafted. My new friend was sitting beside me. 'And this is your room. You have a nice lie down, and when you'r ready, come down and join us. It's curry night. I always enjoy curry night.' And with a beautific smile and a light pat of my shoulder he walked over to a large, comforting door, opened it, and went out.