The light blinked faster and Margeir cursed inwardly for not having had caller ID transferred over so that he could see who was on the line. When the producer was on duty he was told in advance whether the caller was a ‘friend of the station’, one of the ones who called every show to talk for the umpteenth time about their interests – or rather, their obsessions – with an enthusiasm that bordered on mania. Their complaints were never original, and none of them was interested in having their views refuted; they considered the station their private soapbox. It was precisely these people that had drained away all the pleasure from his job; every recycled word eroded the happiness and expectation that had characterized his first month at the station. Originally, the focus of his show wasn’t meant be politics; the idea was to broach lighter subjects, and by doing so reach a younger audience. It hadn’t worked. The people who called in had no interest in movies or new music, and even less in the lives of actors and pop stars. The same group that listened during the day listened during the evening, and all they wanted to do was hold forth on political topics. The light was still blinking; apparently the listener hadn’t given up. Margeir didn’t even need caller ID, he could see that this was one of the obsessives; any ordinary person would have hung up after holding for so long.
The song ended, abruptly; now he had a dilemma. Either talk about something random, or fight to get a word in edgeways amid the ramblings of God-knows-who. Margeir could think of nothing clever to say, so he took the call. ‘Good evening, you’re through to Margeir, what’s on your mind?’
‘I’ve been listening to the show and I wanted to say that I think my friend Gunnbjörn, who called in earlier, is getting stupider every day. What’s he got against the European Union? Is he scared, or something?’
Out of old habit Margeir defended the person being attacked. The stream of nonsense continued, and whenever he tried to interrupt, the caller raised his voice. Soon he was practically screaming, which had the desired effect because Margeir stopped interjecting. In the end, however, he’d had enough, and by raising his voice to a volume he didn’t know he was capable of, he managed to overwhelm the ranter. ‘Well, it’s time for a commercial break, so unfortunately we’ll have to say goodbye for now. Thanks for calling.’ He hung up, not caring if it caused offence, and quickly ran an ad. He knew he’d started resorting to this as a means of escape too often, and as the station manager had once pointed out when giving him a dressing-down, while the sponsors might initially be delighted that their advertisements were heard more often, it wouldn’t take long before they realized the number of listeners was decreasing for that very reason. Unfortunately, people didn’t actually tune in to hear commercials.
There were only five minutes left of the show when the final advert on the tape finished. Instead of giving in to his desire to put on another song, he decided to talk about a newspaper article on cycle paths. He actually had no opinion whatsoever on this area of transport policy, and it amazed him how good he was at discussing a topic without meaning a word of what he said. This had started to affect his private life; the women he met weren’t impressed when he automatically switched to bland DJ patter every time there was an awkward silence. Lately even his parents had started rolling their eyes when he joined in conversations at family gatherings.
The light had started blinking again. This time the call was a godsend; the show was about to end, so it didn’t matter what dickhead was on the line – he wouldn’t have long. ‘Good evening, you’re through to Margeir, what’s on your mind?’ He winced as a screech of feedback pierced his eardrums. ‘Could you please turn down the volume on your radio, caller?’ This wasn’t one of the regulars, that was certain. They had learned long ago to turn off their radios when they got through. The noise stopped and Margeir repeated his greeting, which had become so hackneyed that he could say it backwards without any problem. ‘Good evening, you’re through to Margeir, what’s on your mind?’
‘Good evening, Margeir.’ He didn’t recognize the voice, and the emphasis on his name sounded sarcastic.
‘To whom am I speaking?’ Margeir had been so busy grumbling to himself about the regular callers, he had forgotten how difficult first-timers could be.
‘To me.’
Margeir looked at the clock in the hope that just once, time had sped up at the right moment, but he was disappointed. Four minutes left. ‘Well, my friend.’ The man must be drunk; sometimes heavy drinkers called the evening show just to have someone to talk to. Yet another reason to want an earlier slot. ‘Our time is running out, so you’d better hurry up if you want to share something with the listeners.’
‘I called to talk to you. Just you.’ The voice was not slurring at all; on the contrary, every word was clear and seemed loaded with hidden meaning.
‘Well, that’s too bad, my friend. You’re on air. Don’t you want to share something with the listeners?’ The damn clock must be broken. Time simply refused to pass.
‘Do you want the listeners to hear what I have to say?’ The caller paused. ‘I’m not sure you do.’
Margeir wasn’t used to letting listeners throw him off balance. He couldn’t deny he often found them tiresome, but he always kept his composure. This call, however, was nothing like the ones he was used to; the voice was calm and level but somehow unpleasant, as if the man was about to burst into mocking laughter. ‘Hey, I think our time’s up. Karl will be on in a minute, so if you’re lucky you can call back and have a chat with him.’ Margeir should have just said ‘goodbye’ and hung up, but he paused long enough for the eerily composed man to speak again.
‘Be careful.’ The voice sounded odd, and Margeir suddenly wondered if it was a woman, or even a child, pretending to be a man. ‘Soon there will be a reckoning and it won’t be pretty. Did you think this was over?’
‘This? What do you mean, “this”?’ Again Margeir knew he was being unprofessional; he should be cutting the caller off, not encouraging him.
‘You should know.’ There was a quiet chuckle, which stopped as suddenly as it had started. ‘What do you do when you get too drunk, these days? Things aren’t going that well, are they, one way and another?’ The man’s breathing got heavy and ragged, then he said: ‘I’m so hot. I’m burning up.’
Margeir had had enough. ‘OK, thanks, pal.’ He disconnected the line. ‘That’s it from me. I’m leaving you now, listeners, but I hope we can meet here tomorrow evening at the same time. Good night.’ He tore off his headphones and played the programme’s theme music, then stood up, his knees weak. He ran back through the brief conversation in his mind but couldn’t put his finger on exactly what had caught him off balance unless it was the voice itself, which had been impossible to read. It was unusually calm, completely at odds with the voices of the other listeners who called in. That must be it. He was tired and bored and fed up with everything at the moment. He moved down to the other end of the table, where the producer usually sat, and lifted the little handset that displayed the callers’ numbers. He checked the most recent one, but the little screen showed only the letters: P.No for Private Number. Margeir gnawed the inside of his cheek and stared at the screen. The flesh was bumpy there, scarred by the nervous habit even though he hadn’t done it for many years. Now his teeth caught on the scars.