Dead Air

Text 1: Six Seconds, by Rowan Adebayo

An original short story extract.

The theme music was ending. Six bars, five, four. On the other side of the glass, Callum lifted both hands and mouthed something Mina could not hear. She had page one, page three and no page two.

The red light came on.

‘Good morning,’ Mina said, and her voice sounded polished, borrowed. The clock above the desk clicked forward in bright green numbers. In her headphones, the producer whispered, ‘Stretch.’ Mina asked a question she had not planned. The guest blinked. A second opened between them, then widened: a trapdoor, a well, an entire empty room. Mina could hear her own breath occupying it.

Four seconds of silence. She knew because each one flashed on the studio clock. One. Callum pushed at the glass door, but it stuck. Two. The producer’s hand chopped the air. Three. Mina reached for the only sentence left on page one. Four. ‘And after the break—’ Music surged in, cheerful and enormous. Around her, everyone moved again. Mina did not. Beneath the desk, the missing page lay crumpled under her shoe.