The red light on the answering machine blinked relentlessly. “100 missed calls” announced the cold LCD display.
In the other corner of the darkened room, another red glow grows in intensity then fades again.
He exhales smoke and grinds the cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray, dislodging four others from the pile in the ashtray and they join their fallen brothers on the carpet, now thick with ash.
He reaches instantly for the pack on the arm of the chair and lights another.
The doorbell rings.
“John we fucking know you’re in there” shouts an angry voice.