Immobile
by Michael Smith

 

 

‘Hi, it’s me. Yeah, just caught it.’

‘Really, that’s good news. … How much?!’

‘I’m not sure you should do that just yet. … Yes. … Talk to Simon; ask him to back up their current figures, and then get Michelle to do a projection.’

‘Well, if it leaves on time, I reckon I could be with you within the next ninety minutes. That’s, of course, assuming there aren’t any hold ups anywhere.’

‘So when can you pick it up. … That’s great. Er, is it insured?’

‘Oh, and after Michelle’s done that, get her to print of the Ahrberg file; copies to the usual team, marked urgent. … I want that account closed within the month.’

 

Peter sat in a non-smoking compartment of the 18:09 Charring Cross to Dover train, calling at stations too numerous to remember. His university Geology text book was open on his laptop; eyes repeatedly scanning the text, but unable to progress beyond the second paragraph. Sitting around him were three suit-clad businessmen using sleek, cutting edge mobile phones. But, as far as Peter was concerned, this was a distraction he could do without. In addition to the no-smoking variety, some trains included ‘no-phone’ carriages, but only as an experiment on main inter-city routes. Provincial lines, such as this one, had yet to reap the benefits of this project.

 

‘Yes, I managed to get it. … Cost a little more than we had anticipated, but I think it should be worth it. … Yes, especially if the weather improves.’

 

This was a journey Peter had made many times. He had grown up in Kent and, after successfully completing his English Baccalaureate, had obtained a place at University College London to read Geology. During the week he shared a small, crowded, and potentially unhealthy, flat in London, but on most Fridays, keen to revisit the tranquility of his childhood, he made this same journey home to stay with his close-knit family for the weekend.

 

‘The Yokohama-Perth deal looks like it’s going through after all. … No, I wasn’t surprised really; always better to hedge one’s bets, though.’

 

The overcrowded train had crept slowly out of Charring Cross, before crossing the glittering Thames, affording excellent views of the river traffic, Houses of Parliament, and the remains of the London Eye. It had then wound its serpent-like way the short distance to Waterloo East, and was now ambling through the dingy, decaying suburbs of South London.

Peter, normally a very patient young man, was already frustrated by his fellow travelers. He was grappling with a difficult geological concept, convinced its understanding would be the difference between a good or a mediocre degree. The resolution of this problem would necessitate the sort of clear thinking just not possible in the presence of several irritating semi-conversations.

 

‘Oh, the battery is running low. I’ll have to go now. See you soon. Bye. … Yes, you too. … Bye.’

 

Peter had detested mobile phones ever since a particular childhood incident involving his best friend, Russell, whose father spent a great deal of time conducting out-of-hours business on his mobile. Both boys had been seven years old at the time. In the playground, a distressed Russell had confided in Peter the events of a recent day trip to an adventure farm offering tractor rides for families with young children.

For days, Russell had been eagerly anticipating the visit and the opportunity of finally sharing some quality time with his usually busy father. His father, however, had made the mistake of taking his mobile with him to the farm, and keeping it switched on. Father and son had queued for about ten minutes for a tractor ride. The ginger-haired boy just in front, waiting with his own parents, had displayed such pleasure when climbing onto the tractor trailer and enthusiastically sitting down as a family unit. Knowing he and his father were next in line, Russell’s anticipation and excitement rose to almost Christmas Eve proportions. Then, as the ginger-haired boy and his parents returned and alighted to vacate the tractor, it had happened. Russell’s stomach tightened, his broad smile vanished, and his jaw fell as his father’s mobile phone sang out its pathetically banal tune.

‘Daddy has just got to take this call. Okay? …

‘Hi, yeah. … No, that’s okay. No problem at all. I’m just out with the kid. …

‘Go on, climb up, Russell; there’s a good boy. See you soon. Love you. …

‘Sorry about that, Simon. Just putting Russ on some tractor ride. Go ahead.’

As the tractor pulled away, Russell, utterly alone on the ride, watched with moistening eyes as his father turned his back and became sucked into yet another telephone deal. Soon, his sadness turned to bitterness. And, over the years, this festered into anger, finally to desperate loathing and depression.

Peter grew up observing the decay of his best friend’s family. The neglect Russell suffered at home brought an increasing strain on him. Peter felt helpless, and sometimes even guilty that his own family situation was so much different to Russell’s.

Finally, the strain became too much for Russell. At sixteen he committed suicide. As a final gesture, rather than a suicide note, Russell chose to leave a voicemail on his father’s mobile phone. It had the desired effect. Since then, Russell’s father had been a shell of his former self, living a life consisting solely of remorse; until he found a cure through alcohol. Another life ruined.

Peter had lost his best friend, and now he too shared Russell’s hatred of mobile phones, vowing never to own one. He understood the arguments in their favour; but the wreckage of Russell’s family had left a hatred too deep to penetrate by even the most expensive of advertising campaigns. He knew he was in a tiny minority of the population, but being in a minority does not necessarily mean you are wrong.

 

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