But certain people, it appears, seem to know intuitively all about it – certain designers, like the man who designed the telephone box, Sir Giles Gilbert Scott. He also designed Battersea Power Station and Bankside Power Station, which is now the home of Tate Modern.

He was a bit of a genius really.

My hand hovered above the telephone.

Dial up my granny?

Now, why would I want to dial up my granny?

I’d never even met my granny – she’d died before I was born – and I didn’t know the date of her “departure”.

So, really, I couldn’t call up my dead granny, could I? So who could I call? Who did I know who was dead and I could call?

Stupid kind of question really. Ridiculous question. The whole thing was pretty ridiculous. Ludicrous, in fact. Although … Well, although the oik wasn’t taking it as a joke. This wasn’t a joke. This was FLATLINE and this was what FLATLINE was.

My hand continued to hover.

And then slowly, so slowly, I took up the telephone handset and put it to my ear.

And then slowly, so slowly, and somewhat falteringly, I dialled the letters of my father’s name and the date of his “departure”. Then I multiplied the figure that came up on the screen by the age of my father when he died and took away the year he was born.

And then, all a-tremble and right on the cusp of a freak-out, I listened.

It was engaged! Can you believe that?

Engaged?

I slammed down the phone and I fumed not a little.

Stupid, I said to myself. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I’ve been had. They think I’m a new bob. They’re winding me up. They’ll be out there laughing. I peered out through the glass windows of the phone box.

But no one was out there laughing.

No one.

They were all out there going about their business, carrying bulbs or clipboards, moving up and down stairways and along gantries. They weren’t looking in my direction.

I took the telephone handset and I dialled again. And this time a distant bell began to ring.

Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Like old-fashioned phones used to do.

And then there was a click and a voice said, “Hello. Who’s that?”

And it was the voice of my daddy.

My dead daddy.

It was really his voice.

My throat was suddenly very dry indeed and my heart began to pound like crazy in my chest.

“Hello,” said my daddy’s voice again. “Who’s there? Is there anybody there?”

I gagged and swallowed and I said, “Daddy, is that you?”

“Who’s that?” said the voice of my father. “Gary, is that you?”

“It’s me,” I said. “Is that really you?”

“Of course it’s me. Who did you think it was?”

“But you’re, well … you’re …”

“I’m dead,” said my father. “We do use the ‘D’ word here. What are you doing up at this time of night? You should have been in bed by eight.”

“I’m all grown up,” I said. “I’m not a little boy any more.”

“Yes, well, I knew that. I’m not stupid. How old are you now? thirteen, fourteen?”

“I’m twenty-seven.”

“As old as that. Time’s different here. Because there isn’t any, I suppose.”

“Is that really, really you?”

“Have you been drinking?” asked my daddy.

“No,” I said. “No. But I can’t believe that I’m really talking to you. You being, you know, dead and everything.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure you’re thrilled. So what do you want?”

“I don’t want anything.”

“So why are you bloody bothering me? Can’t you let me rest in peace?”

“I’m speaking to you,” I said. “I’m alive and you’re dead and I’m actually speaking to you.”

“Well, that’s no big deal. Spiritualists do it all the time. Although mostly we just ignore them. Lot of fat ugly women or nancy-boy men, most of them. Who’d want to speak to that bunch of losers, eh?”

“Quite so,” I said. “But, Daddy, this really is you and I’m speaking to you. This is incredible. Incredible. This is wonderful. This is amazing.”

“I’m not impressed,” said my daddy.

“I am,” I said.

“Then you’re easily impressed, son. But I’ll tell you something. If you want to be really impressed, I know something absolutely fantastic. Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes, I would,” I said. “I would.”

“All right,” said the Daddy. “Then listen up good, because—”

Then he got cut off.

And then the line went dead.

“You bollard!” I shouted. “You gimping no-nads!”

But I wasn’t shouting at my daddy. I was shouting at Barry.

I was back in the bulb booth now and I was shouting at Barry.

Loudly.

And I was waving my arms about and making fists with my fingers.

Violently.

“You switched me off! You fugging switched me off!”

I shouted loudly as I waved my arms and made my fists. “You brusting swabster!”

“I’ve never heard such language,” said Barry, “and I did nothing of the kind. What are you talking about?”

“The bulb flashed on and you switched it off.”

“And you’re complaining about that?”

“Of course I’m complaining. You stupid bulb-monkey. You switched me off.”

“I do wish you’d calm down, man,” said Barry. “All this shouting is giving me a headache.”

I took Barry by the throat and shook him all about.

“Gggmmmuurgh …” went Barry, eyes popping out and face turning red.

“Upstairs,” I shouted. “Upstairs on the seventeenth floor. There’s this huge computer room thing and it’s all to do with frequencies and stuff. And there’s a telephone box and …”

“Mmphgrmm …” went Barry, face rather purple now.

“And you can dial up the dead. That’s what FLATLINE is. A hot line to the dead. And I was talking to my daddy and you switched off the bulb, you stupid … Barry, are you listening to me?”

But Barry’s face had gone rather blue.

I let him sink to the floor and I nudged him a bit in the ribs with the toe of my boot.

Barry took to coughing and gagging and curling into the foetal position.

“Are you listening to me?” I asked him once again.

“Yes, yes.” And Barry waved a limp-looking hand. “Don’t kick me any more.”

“I wasn’t kicking, I was nudging.”

“Then don’t nudge, please.” And Barry was sick on the floor.

Of my bulb booth.

My … I prepared to put the boot in some more, but halted my boot in mid swing. My bulb booth. Where the bulb-monkey sat. Of course it wasn’t Barry’s fault. What did he and I know? We knew nothing. We just switched the bulb off. But at least I now knew why.

“I’m sorry,” I said and I dragged Barry up and deposited him in the chair. “I’m sorry. I got a bit stressed there. Are you OK?”

“No,” spluttered Barry, feeling at his crumpled windpipe.

“Well, I’m sorry. But how would you feel? Talking to your dead father on the phone and someone cuts you off.”

“And I did that?” Barry looked up at me with eyes all red and tearful.

“That’s what the bulb does. Operatives up there are given three minutes to speak to a dead person of their choice. Then the bulb flashes here and we switch them off.”

“Why?” Barry managed to say.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I actually talked to my dead father.”

“Why?” went Barry once more.

“I just said that I don’t know.”

Barry coughed a bit more and wiped away some flecks of vomit from his mouth. “The second why meant: why did you talk to your father?”

“That’s a pretty stupid question, isn’t it?”

“Are you kidding?” said Barry, which had me rather confused.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“What I’m talking about” – Barry coughed a bit more – “what I’m talking about is: you had the chance to speak to the dead person of your choice and you chose to speak to your father. Why?”