The Caller at 3am

A funny tale about an unusual plumber who responds to a callout in the middle of the night.

The caller at 3am

The insistent ringing of the telephone on my bedside cabinet wakened me from a deep sleep. 

Fumbling in the dark, I looked at the alarm clock and groped for the receiver.

“Ullo,” I slurred.

“Hi, you called for a plumber,” a cheery voice answered.

“At 3 o’clock in the morning?”

“I happen to be in your area with some free time. A broken kitchen tap isn’t it? I could probably fix it straight away.” 

“Now?” I climbed out of bed, suddenly more awake.

“Well, yes. I might not be in your area again for some time. We do offer a 24 hour service.”

“Ok.” I called his bluff, convinced it was some nutter making random nuisance calls and having a laugh.

“Good. I’ve got your address. I’ll be there within minutes.”

I tensed as the cut-off tone hummed in my ear. I hadn’t left my address when I’d made the enquiry by telephone, hours earlier. Although I didn’t believe anyone would show up, I got dressed, located my cricket bat and placed it by the front door. 

“This is crazy,” I muttered. “If I ever find out who called, I’ll …” Moving lights appeared outside. I hadn’t heard a vehicle approach.

The doorbell rang loudly in the night silence. I opened it cautiously with my left hand, and gripped the raised cricket bat with my right, my heart pounding.

“Good evening, sir. I picked up your call on my intergalactic interceptor. You don’t need that.” A squid like tentacle snaked towards me and pulled my weapon from my hands. Before I could react the alarming creature was in my house.

“Ah, I can hear it going drip, drip, splat.” He moved crab-fashion on his tentacles into the kitchen, dropped his holdall and inspected my tap.

“Look, I …” my voice trailed off, I was way out of my depth.

“Positively antique, I’ve never seen a tap so rusted. I’ll soon have you fixed up with a shiny new one.” He opened his holdall, took out what looked to be the stem of a plant and put it in his mouth.  “A Martian smoke,” he said, purloining my cigarette lighter. “It helps me think. Turn off the water, will you.”

I watched, fascinated, as he deftly cut the pipe with a strange, bladed tool. Rummaging in his holdall he brought out an expensive looking tap and several connectors. Having assembled everything, he breathed fire through his slitted nostrils, sealing the welds. “Right handy that, when plumbing is your trade,” he lowered a lid over a red bog eye in a slow wink.

“Yeah.” Intelligent speech was beyond me.

“All done.” He stood higher on his tentacles and clapped me on the back with a wet squishy sound, making me shudder. “That’ll be ninety quid, sir.”

He stuffed the money haphazardly into his holdall as if it was of no consequence and curled a long rubbery appendage around a couple of 6 packs from my beer stock. “For when I get off duty,” he said, crabbing to the door.

Standing in the kitchen doorway, I goggled as he mounted his craft and started it. Pulsating lights illuminated my garden and a quiet humming noise increased in intensity, hurting my ears. The incredibly powerful take-off blast propelled me backwards through the air. I landed in the kitchen sink, breaking my brand new shiny tap.