Wrong Number

The wind whipped against the earth with such intensity that the ground on which he tried to walk shook under his feeble feet. He staggered off balance but somehow managed to maintain his stand; to hold his feet to the ground. A man determined. Dust swirled and threw grains of soil in his eyes. He grimaced and squinted in pain. The telephone booth was only a few steps away. But in the rampaging storm, it seemed a million miles away. Walking was a struggle. He clasped his hand against the wound but blood squeezed through his fingers. He felt vulnerable against the screaming wind. He reeled towards the phone booth, a blood stained coin in one hand, the other, though barely successful, was blocking the flow of blood from his body. The wind hauled ferociously – a choir of wolves bellowing a chorus.

After what seemed an eternity, he stepped into the shaking booth, lifted the earpiece to his ear and slotted the blood-smeared coin into the machine. Pain hammered nails into his skull. He punched in the numbers and listened. The wind slapped the sheet-metal booth, threatening to rip it off its bolts. Welcome to voicemail, please leave your message after the tone. Beep.

“John. It’s me... Mogomotsi... Listen, it’s not goanna work. I... I... We underestimated. Listen... Carriage 4. Centre Eagles Grounds... Twilight.”  The booth shook with the wind. He grabbed the structure for balance, his hand leaving the gaping wound in his chest. “Ouch! Glory... John. Glory knows. You should...”

Beeeeeeeeeep.

 

His last coin done. Finished. Less than a minute. The number he had just called was still flashing on the digital display. He stared at it, shocked. The last digit read ‘3’. It was supposed to be ‘6’. John’s phone number ended with a 6. Not 3. Fuck!  He collapsed to the floor into a pool of his own blood. Mogomotsi lost consciousness. The storm raged on, swinging and banging the dangling earpiece of the public phone against the sides of the booth.