Midnight Confessions - For the Writer's Post prompt #36

Mark rubbed at the ache between his eyes, closing them against the studio lights. He flicked a switch, turned the overheads off, leaving only the vaguely eerie electronic gleams from the equipment, red, green. The storm loomed beyond the windows, their panoramic views making him feel nauseous. Working up the King Tower on nights like tonight always made him uneasy. Sixty storeys up was no place to be in the middle of a wind-driven thunderstorm.

The track finished and he opened the mic.

“Wicked night out there, my friends. Best stay in with KLM57, and your host, Mark Davis. Here's one to rock you into dreamland.”

He set off a trio of slow, smooth classics and rose, wandering the box of a studio, trying to ease out the tension in his limbs. He flinched away from the glass as lightning flashed, watched it arc and strike somewhere deep in the maze of glittering lights that was the city at night. He needed to get himself together.

His late show was popular, enough that he was beginning to get calls from some of the major networks, feelers about transfers, bigger salaries, his name in lights, but he wasn't sure that was what he wanted. If he left KLM he'd be giving up a lot of the control he had right now. He chose his playlist every night, chose not to run commercials unless they were for local charity events, and he had the phone-in, direct contact with people he might actually stand a chance of knowing. It wasn't the biggest of cities, and he occasionally ran into someone he had talked to. It gave him a good feeling, something he wasn't sure he'd ever feel at a big station.

He hurried back to his seat, readying the jingle for the phone-in hour, wondering what would crop up tonight. He let the jingle run, his voice over soft, sexy music.

'Midnight confessions, where the night hides all.'

He threw the mic open again and felt some of his tension ease away, slipping into the familiar.

“It's that time, folks. Got something you want to get off your chest? Give me a call. You talk, the city listens and no-one knows who you are. You know the number.”

He set off a couple of tracks and didn't have to wait long. Three calls lit up immediately. He answered the first, got a standard 'woman who got revenge on her ex', asked her to hold. The second was typical of storm nights. Something crazy got into people and they made prank calls about aliens. He was polite, but firm in denying them air time. The third was a young woman, attractive voice, sexy, but brisk.

“I have a confession.”

“Care to give me an idea? I have to be careful what gets said, even this late.”

“Sex, murder and my favourite song.” came the reply.

Something tugged at him, made him think this wasn't a prankster, and he put her on hold.

Ten minutes later, having allowed the scorned woman her moment of anonymous ranting, he flicked the button and that sexy voice filled the airwaves, slow and measured.

“Go ahead caller, the city is listening.”

“It's you I want to talk to, Mark” came the response and he felt a sexual thrill as he spoke his name. Jeez, he needed a date.

“I'm listening right along with them, Ma'am.”

“I think you'll like my story, Mark.”

“The night is yours.”

“The night is always mine. Don't you love how it covers all those little indiscretions? None of the sordid stains show up til morning, when we're long gone. Back to our respectable jobs, our families, our clean faces firmly in place. Do you have any idea what goes down on the streets of this city when darkness gives us license to be who we really are?”

Mark wasn't sure she wanted an answer, the fact that she gave only the briefest of pauses before continuing convincing him. He was getting the first stirring of unease from her. He wasn't sure if she was about to explode on some rant about a philandering husband or wanted to rail against a faceless, uncaring city, but his finger hovered over the cut-off switch.

“I'm what was once known as a 'Lady of the Night'. There are harsher words, but I like those. They have the romance due one of the oldest professions, don't you think? Don't get me wrong, I don't peddle my wares on street corners like the addicts and runaways. I have a client list, carefully selected, and they pay me well for their perversions. It never ceases to amaze me how many men, less so with women, have the need to be humiliated, beaten...”

Mark's finger began it's move, but she seemed to sense it, smoothly halting him.

“Don't do that, Mark, please. I'll do better, keep it acceptable.”

“You're on notice.” he warned her.

“My point is that this city, like every other, is a paradise of wealth, prosperity and shiny, happy people, but it is only surface. They all lie, every one of them, even you, Mark.”

That gave him pause. There was venom when she spoke his name. Was this some distant girlfriend returning to take vengeance now he had a degree of fame?

“Oh yes, I know about you, Mark Davis. Your work is your world. You spend each night doing as you please, playing what you want, choosing which confessions you want to hear, playing the city to your tune. Do you ever consider the people you decide aren't worthy of your time, the city's attention?”

This wasn't going well. Clearly she felt he'd scorned her in her time of need and this was her answer. If he cut her off now, he'd seem like an ass, but if he let her run on he had no idea what she was planning.

“Not sure what to say or do, Mark? Feeling a bit lost? They know how that feels. All those people you decided weren't interesting enough to put on your precious little show. They all knew what it was like to be ignored, to feel worthless, uncertain what to do next. Should they take tablets, throw themselves under a train, maybe a quick slash to each wrist? Always vertical, remember. At least get that bit right, huh Mark? Do you know how many people who listen to your show have committed suicide in the last two years? No idea have you...?”

She took his silence for answer, continuing as he sat in a hole filled with dark uncertainty.

“Cut me off, Mark, I dare you. No? Then let me finish. At least two people a month, self-confessed listeners to your dirty little confessions show, choose to take their lives. Every one of them has been refused air time by you. You were their final port of call, the last place they turned to find someone, anyone, even a faceless, heedless city, who would hear their voice, their story. You failed them... every single time.”

“You can't know that” he spluttered and felt ice run down his spine at her burst of staccato laughter.

“Silly boy, of course I can. No names here, right? But no harm in my telling you that I have been running your fun club for two years. I know every move you make, listen to every programme, and I share all this with the deluded souls who adore you. We have a website, did you know that? Sure you do, what am I thinking? She snorted derisively, “You'd know everything written about you, right? Bet you haven't visited the forum though...”

His hands were now clenched fists in his lap, the fact that very word was being sent bouncing off satellites, dancing around the city to avid listeners eager for blood no longer figured in his mind.

“What do you want?”

“I want you to give me what you never gave them. A chance. A chance to tell my story. The forum is a fascinating place, Mark. That's where they really let rip. They adore you, of course, but they also tell the stories you won't let them air. The tales of rape, beatings, drugs, drink, depression, cutting, unending loneliness. Those things are too heavy for your little confessions slot, right? Let's stick to women sewing smelly cheese into the curtains before they leave the ex marital home. Lost and found cats, fun stuff, nothing with any real meaning.

If I hadn't caught your attention, forced you to leave me on air, you'd never have let me speak. The minute I mentioned my job I'd have been gone. So long and don't come back. Like all those suicides.”

Something in the inflection on 'suicides' made him sit up and take notice. He reached for his mobile, silently calling the police, wondering if there was any hope of finding this woman. He hoped it was true that the police had to respond to every emergency call, even if nothing was said. He also hoped she couldn't hear the faint voice of the dispatcher.

“Called the cops yet, Mark? I think you have. Pretty sure you can't let me talk much longer. Think about what this is doing to your reputation. Sorry sweetie, they won't catch me. I'm not even in the city tonight. But don't you worry, I'll be back, when it's time for another suicide. They are so easy, Mark. They trust me, a harmless woman, working a job no-one admits to , shunned in polite circles. They talk to me, don't even notice when I slip something in their drink. They sleep, I give them that, when I cut them. I give them something you refuse to do. I give them release.

Forty-eight so far, Mark. Two for every month you've been running your little show. You know what the best of it is? My work is flexible. I can do it anywhere. Thinking of taking those job offers from the big stations? I'll be there too. I want to follow your success, like a good fan girl. I can create new sites, new fan clubs, new suicides... anywhere.

I guess I better go. You'll have questions to deal with in a moment or two. I wouldn't want to interrupt. Just remember... I'm out here, and every time you deny someone a voice, I'll give them one. You'll be notorious as the cause of all these deaths, more than me. I'll just be a shadow, faceless, voiceless, like them.”

Empty air buzzed and crackled. Lightning flashed and Mark actually shrieked, curling into his seat, hugging his knees... voiceless and alone.

Author's note - I always knew I had a story about this in me, but it has taken me many years to find it. I adored 'Midnight Caller', watched it religiously, and I've been a fan of Gary Cole ever since (American Gothic... swoon!) I'd like to think he would have enjoyed this little take on his show (even if that is a bit immodest!)