The Invoice Read Free

magazines to reread. I managed to doze off on the sofa in the middle of a long article about projectors and wireless media players.
    —
    It was eight o’clock the following morning when I finally got through. A high-pitched, slightly hoarse female voice answered. I started by asking what the hell was wrong with their queuing system.
    “It’s completely insane,” I said. “First it’s an hour, then all of a sudden it’s twice that. Then it halves again, but before you know it the waiting time’s gone up to three hours.”
    She apologized and said that the system was still under development.
    “There are still a few teething problems,” she said. “The idea was to develop a more dynamic, customer-centered queuing service. At the moment it takes the length of the current call and adjusts the estimated waiting time from that. But sometimes it can be a little misleading…”
    “No kidding,” I said.
    “Well,” she said, “what can I do for you?”
    I said I’d received an invoice, and that there must be some mistake, and would she mind correcting it? She listened carefully, then explained that everything was in order. There was no mistake, and no, I wasn’t the first person to call. I said I hadn’t ordered anything, or requested any services, but she maintained that the invoice was still correct. When I wondered what this was all about, she sighed and asked if I never read the papers, watched television, or listened to the radio? I had to admit that I didn’t really keep up with the news.
    “Well,” she said, and I got the impression that she could have been smiling at the other end of the line. “It’s time to pay up now.”

Small strands of heat clouds were appearing in the sky through the window. It had to be the hottest day of the year so far. It looked like everything out there was quivering. Some children were running about on the pavement below, squirting each other with water pistols. I could hear their delighted cries when they were hit by the sprays of cool water. On the balcony opposite a woman was shaking a rug. The sound of a spluttering moped echoed off the walls of the buildings. It died away, then came back. It sounded like someone was going from one address to the other, looking for something.
    “Have you got Beta or Link?” the woman said on the phone.
    “What did you say?” I said.
    “Which payment system have you signed up with?”
    “No idea,” I said. “I don’t think I got one at all.”
    “No?” she said.
    “No.”
    “But you do have a plan?”
    “A plan?”
    “You’ve got a payment plan, linked to your E.H. account?”
    I waited a moment.
    “I don’t think so,” I said.
    “You haven’t registered?” she said.
    “No,” I said. “Should I have?”
    She didn’t say anything for a while, so I repeated the question.
    “Is that something I should have done?”
    She cleared her throat.
    “Well, let me put it like this: yes.”
    I felt a sudden urge to sit down.
    “But what…what am I supposed to be paying for?” I said.
    “What?” she said.
    “Yes?”
    “Everything,” she said.
    “What do you mean, everything?” I asked.
    I was sitting on the floor, with my back against the kitchen wall and my legs pulled up to my chest. The knees of my jeans were starting to look a bit threadbare. It wouldn’t be long before I had a hole there, whether I liked it or not. And even though I realized it probably wasn’t fashionable anymore, I still thought it would look a bit cool.
    She hesitated a moment before answering, but even though she was silent, I could hear the weariness in her breathing.
    “Where are you calling from?” she asked.
    “I’m at home,” I said.
    “At home. Okay. Look around you. What can you see?”
    I raised my eyes from the floor and looked around the room.
    “I see my kitchen,” I said.
    “So, what can you see there?”
    “Er…the sink. Some dirty dishes…a table.”
    “Look out of the window.”
    “Okay.”
    I stood up and