Cold Call.

A tall sombrero cast shade over permeating sweat, the soaked baby blue shirt clinging to a bloated mass of clammy skin. One squat man jogged pitifully, piercing azure lights which beamed through wide rectangular windows and illuminated a crimson carpeted corridor. As he adjusted the half Windsor knot of his viridescent tie, the man pulled out a vibrating purple rectangle from his pocket, flashing the name:

Harry

“You better be near Mr O'Brien’s office Martin,” Harry’s curt voice accused. 

“Hey. Hey Harry,” Martin spluttered into his mobile. 

“What?” Harry asked. 

“I’ve got to stop running. I need to take a leak,” Martin said. 

Exasperated air crackled through the small speakers.

“The pitch is in thirty minutes,” Harry replied flatly before disconnecting.

Alert eyes jumping from side to side like a confused acrobat, Martin pulled on his sleek, silver-buckled belt before pushing a beige pinewood door. Martin followed a small loop of cracking plaster with his phone to his right ear, emerging on stained tiles in front of a long mirror sporting a zigzag crack. 

“Hello, this is Martin Donald. Yes. Yes, that’s right, I sent you the email. Well, I didn’t want to waste your time, so I rang instead. I came up with it on holiday. By myself, that’s right. Did you see the plans? Do you like it? Great, well I’ll send you my professional contact details shortly, and we can make this a reality. Great. Speak soon, Mr O'Brien,” Martin said.

As a heavy sigh released from Martin’s chest, a faint sobbing sound grew louder and louder. Martin pivoted on the spot to look down the length of the room, to see a woman in a scarlet dress rocking a small, silent baby. Blonde hair fell to her shoulders, with blue and purple makeup smeared under her bloodshot eyes. A screwdriver lay on the cream windowsill under strong winds.  

“This is the men’s room,” Martin blurted automatically. 

The woman’s wild ruby irises met Martin’s sunken globes, causing Martin to tremor from an undetermined revulsion. 

“YOU NEED TO GO NOW!” the woman screamed disjointedly. 

Martin’s eyes hovered on the tiny bundle suspended in soft yet temperamental arms. Holding his arms above his head, Martin took a deep breath and edged towards the distressed mother. 

“It’s ok, I don’t mean any harm. What’s your name?” Martin asked.

The woman’s eyes flicked between Martin and the baby, the wrinkles on her brow betraying the strain of her indecisiveness. 

“Laura. What’s yours?” Laura responded. 

“David,” Martin replied. 

Laura nodded slowly as the muscles in her face loosened. 

“My baby, my baby and I were going to Alaska. But that man, that animal, we can’t get away from him. We can’t get away unless we jump,” Laura muttered as she gave the open window a longing glance. 

“Are you going to take the train? It’s a long journey,” Martin asked cautiously.

Laura nodded and allowed a brief smile to elevate her cheeks.  

“Take a good look at those tickets. Go on, take them out, have a look,” Martin said softly. 

Laura moved the wrapped white cloths to her right arm and pulled out two white tickets from a back jean pocket. 

“That there, that’s freedom. Do you see? Run, run far away. Change your name. That baby deserves a mum, not an animal,” Martin cooed. 

“But we can’t make it by ourselves. They’ll find us. My husband will never let us leave. My son deserves better,” Laura moaned. 

“Do you have a phone?” Martin pressed.

“Yes, why?” Laura asked while placing the ticket back in her pocket. 

“Let’s swap phones. Those private detectives can track your phone, you know. They shouldn’t be able to legally, but that doesn’t stop them. Here, swap phones with me,” Martin offered. 

A hairy, outstretched arm tremored under the dim lights as the unassuming device was snatched out of Martin’s hand and replaced by a jet phone. 

“Thank you. Thank you,” Laura said before bursting into tears. 

Martin walked over and gave the woman a long hug. 

“Well, I better get going. Why don’t you take a few deep breaths and calm yourself down?” Martin said cheerfully.   

Martin turned and walked around the crumbling walls that led to the exit, waiting for the sound of the bathroom door to close behind him before moving into a sprint. Martin could see the start of the staircase stretching in front of him, the echoes of light steel soon ringing through dead space. Finally, Martin reached the iron ticket barriers guarded by a man in a blue suit with square gold buttons. 

“Where are you going, sir?” The ticket collector asked. 

“Alaska, I’ve got my ticket here,” Martin exclaimed between desperate gasps for air, the pale ticket fluttering in his right fist.

“The train is leaving in five minutes, you better get on now sir,” the ticket collector advised. 

Martin pushed through the icy metal polls until his boots pattered along the concrete platform. Martin jumped into the wood panelled carriages of the Alaska Express and walked down orderly isles till he found a soft velvet seat. Laura’s phone shook in Martin’s pocket, the name Daniel flashing in block letters. 

You won’t get away 

Martin turned off the phone, removed its back casing, and broke the SIM card in two before throwing it out of the window. The train lurched forwards, passing shaggy western hemlock trees which bent under a cherry sun. As the wheels screeched and revolved long shadows from the rectangular carriages sprawled to the seven-story train station, marking the grave for two light bundles falling through the summer air.