She checked her pocket for change. Jeez, this felt so antiquated. She couldn’t remember when she’d last needed to use a phone box to make a call. Finding enough loose coins had been an ordeal in itself. She did all her shopping online or used her bank card, rarely ever used cash. In the end she’d helped herself to a handful of silver and a couple of pound coins from the change pot Mum and Scott kept on the kitchen windowsill. Scott had been so busy knocking seven shades of shit out of the wall he hadn’t even heard her take it.
The phone box smelled bad. It was an ugly metal and glass box, not one of the old traditional red ones. The glass was covered in graffiti, names and tags and Christ knows what else scratched onto every panel. She couldn’t make out any of it. She didn’t know why she was bothering to look.
Do I put in the money first or pick up the receiver? It took her a while to remember the order of things. She dialled Dad’s home number from memory (she thought it made sense to try his landline first – less expensive), then hung up and dialled again when she realised she hadn’t dialled the area code. She was so used to them all living within the same few miles radius…
A pause which dragged endlessly, then the click of connection and the phone finally started ringing out. She’d often phoned Dad around this time on a Sunday afternoon before. Although he was out of the country most weeks, he didn’t usually leave until late Sunday or early Monday. He’d had an agreement with his employers to spend weekends at home so he could be available for her and Phoebe. When he and Mum had first split up and the atmosphere between them had been at its most volatile, reassuring weekly phone calls on a Sunday afternoon had been the norm.
Connected.
‘Hello…’
‘Dad, it’s me, Tammy. I just wanted to—’
‘… you’re through to Jeremy. I’m sorry I can’t get to the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number after the tone, I’ll do my best to get back to you…’
The realisation she was talking to an answering machine, not her dad, hit Tammy like a punch to the gut: the sudden elation she felt at hearing his voice disappearing in a heartbeat. For a moment she felt embarrassed, then frustrated, then angry. She waited for the message to finish, listening to her father’s voice for as long as she could, before unloading after the high-pitched tone as instructed. All her emotion, all the pent-up frustrations… everything came pouring out. ‘Dad, it’s Tammy. I need to talk to you. Please pick up if you’re there. I’ll try your mobile in a minute but I still can’t get a decent signal in this crap-hole so I’m calling from a phone box. I need to talk to you, Dad. I need you to come and get me. I can’t stand it here. I feel… I’m really…’ She stopped talking; a brief pause to try and regain her composure. Don’t get upset. ‘Dad, I’m really not happy here. I know it’s only been a week and I know you said I needed to see how things were after a month, but… but I really want to come home.’ She stopped again, the word home making her feel desperately sad and empty. She was trying hard not to cry again, but once she’d started it was impossible to stop. The tears came so hard and so fast it was difficult to keep talking. She didn’t know if he’d even be able to understand her. ‘I can’t stand it here, Dad. It’s so backwards… so weird. The people are strange. It’s like being stuck in the past. I don’t like the school, can’t do all the courses I wanted to, and there’s all kinds of stuff going on around here. I bet you’ve seen it on the news… It’s not safe here, Dad. We’re not safe.’
She didn’t know how long she had before the recording ran out, but she kept talking anyway. ‘Scott’s acting like a jerk as usual. He’s been fighting with Mum again. I don’t trust him. I don’t like being around him, Dad. I never know what he’s going to be like. One minute he’s fine, the next he’s—’
Something slammed up against the door of the phone box behind her. Her heart racing, still holding onto the phone, desperate to stay connected, she slowly turned around.
She screamed out loud when she saw him.
It was that oddball Graham from the Co-op, all wild hair and staring eyes, and he was leaning up against the glass, masturbating. His lips and tongue left greasy drooled smears, as if he was trying to French kiss her through the glass. Tammy screamed again and dropped the phone, cowering back in the corner, but Graham wasn’t going anywhere. She locked her arms and held the door shut, stopping him getting inside. He remained completely unfazed, leaning against the phone box with one hand, stroking his cock with the other. She tried to look anywhere but at his dribbling erection and ginger pubes.
Their eyes met again. He was just staring at her… lusting after her. The initial shock began to fade slightly and she was left feeling… Christ, she didn’t know what she was feeling now. She wanted to get out and run, wanted to slam his cock in the door… But he was all right, wasn’t he? It wasn’t his fault. He was just a bit simple…
Stop. What the hell are you thinking?
He wasn’t so bad. He was still wanking in front of her in broad daylight, of course, but so what? Graham wasn’t the brightest spark, but then again, she didn’t really know him… didn’t know anything about him. He probably didn’t mean her any harm, he just wanted to hold her, to be held himself. Poor guy. It had probably been a long time since anyone had shown him any affection, if ever. She looked into his hazel eyes again, magnified by the lenses of his glasses, and she wondered if she’d misjudged him. He had a lovely face actually… kind and gentle, innocent… She wondered if he’d ever kissed a girl like her and—
—and then he was gone.
In a flurry of barely-controlled movement, someone rugby tackled Graham, sending him flying across the pavement. The two men came to rest in a tangled heap against the wall of a pharmacy. Immediately brought crashing back to reality again, her head all over the place, wondering what the fuck she’d just been thinking and why she hadn’t panicked and run, Tammy continued to hold the phone box door shut. Could this horrifically fucked-up place possibly get any worse? The scratched glass, almost opaque with graffiti in places, now covered with Graham’s semen and drool, was difficult to see through. Who was out there? Was it Heather’s boyfriend, Chez? Was it Jamie? That creepy guy Dez again? She felt relieved and disappointed in equal measure when she spotted Scott’s car parked across the street, the door open and the engine still running. Without hesitation she ran over and climbed in, pulling the door shut behind her.
On the pavement outside the shop, Scott grappled with the pervert who’d been flashing at his step-daughter. He already had a distinct height, weight and strength advantage over Graham, but he wasn’t holding back. He wanted to teach this sick little bastard a lesson. On top of him now, pinning his arms down with his knees, one hand wrapped around his throat, he threw punch after undefended punch at Graham’s face. Scott’s hand stung but he kept pounding, splitting Graham’s lip and breaking his nose, blood all over the place. When the pain in his hand became too much to stand, Scott stood up and staggered away, panting hard. Graham lifted himself up onto one elbow, struggling for breath, blowing bloody bubbles from one nostril and from the corner of his mouth. Scott ran back at him again and kicked the sick fucker in the gut, feeling real satisfaction when the tip of his boot struck bone. ‘You stay away from my family, you dumb cunt, understand?’