Kenzo suddenly nudged my arm, drawing me out of my thoughts. “You think that man would be kind enough to lend us some coins?”
I followed his gaze to the bench by the roadside where an old man sat with a weathered slouch.
He wasn’t there before, though. Where did he come out from? Maybe he was a ghost. The thought made me shiver.
I turned back to Kenzo. “I think he will be motivated if we trade some cash?”
Before Kenzo could agree or disagree, I was already heading toward the man.
“Well, do be careful,” Kenzo called after me anyway, his voice drowned by the rustling wind.
I stood a foot or two away from the man, shifting on my heels nervously. He could actually be a ghost.
“Hi.” It was barely audible, but the man looked up, grey eyes sharp with irritation. Ghosts were always angry.
“Teenagers,” he grumbled. His accent was thick, rough, but nothing like Callan’s at all. Not as enticing. Not that mesmerising. It didn’t make me think of melted chocolate or silk over steel.
“I know, right?” I glanced behind me briefly at Kenzo. He had now moved away from the car, leaning against the payphone as though he was already sure of my success.
“Can I, um, trade this cash for some coins?” I turned to the man, extending the money in my hand. If I was being honest, 50 pounds was a generous offer for 2 pence.
“I don’t have coins.” The response was curt and sharp, slicing through the air like the edge of a blade. If I wasn’t desperate, I would have ran for my life, especially seeing how my hand was trembling and sweat was forming under my collar.
“Please,” I persisted, my voice layered with forced sweetness. “I really, really need to make this call else, my friend and I would be stranded here and we have no money for a hotel.”
Lies. We had enough.
I must have touched his heart with the possibility of helplessness as finally, his hard eyes softened, too discrete to catch, though. Then he reached into the pocket of his brown, worn out coat.
“You’re so persistent,” he mumbled as he fished out 2 pence, handing it to me.
I didn’t bother acknowledging his obvious dislike for, well, teenagers. I was only relieved he wasn’t a ghost. If he was, his hand would have been cold when it brushed against mine.
“Thanks,” I said sweetly, flipped around and dashed for the payphone.
“Took you long enough,” Kenzo commented, pushing off the booth as I stepped into the confined space, slightly grimacing due to the smell of cigarette lingering in the air.
“He hates teenagers,” I told him, slotting the coin into the machine. I glanced at the bench and found that he hadn’t suddenly vanished into thin air.
He was really not a ghost.
“I share his sentiment though.” Kenzo shrugged. “Teenagers are difficult to deal with. Pompous, rude, annoying and entitled.” Then he physically shivered.
But was he not a teenager too?
Waving his ridiculousness off, I returned my attention to the phone, punching in Callan’s number. It began to ring almost immediately, and my heart started to pound.
It rang for some minutes, but no response. Kenzo said something under his breath, but I couldn’t hear it due to the increasing blare of the lorry coming from a distance.
“Please, please, please,” I chanted, dropping the second coin, dialing the number again.
It began to ring, and it rang for nearly thirty seconds. But just when I was losing hope, I heard a click.
“Kto ty?”
His voice was slightly different speaking Russian–deeper…harsher. And the way he growled the words made a shiver run down my spine. It was unusual, the way he sounded; cold, unwelcoming.
“Look, I don’t have all day, so fucking speak!” The harshness made me jump. I had never heard Callan raise his voice. He didn’t look like he had ever raised his voice before. It sounded so strange, like I was talking to a completely different person.
