by Rich Allen
“I suppose I should’ve gone home and changed into some trousers.”
“Don’t worry about it mate. Hey, it’s not like you’ll stand out in this place anyway. I got you an Estrella in.”
Jack grabbed the sweating pint from the bar and raised it to Steve’s half empty beer glass. “Cheers big ears,” he said.
They clinked their glasses together then Jack necked about a third of his drink in one short burst.”
“Thirsty?” Steve asked.
“Yeah, it’s all that travelling. Three and a half hours on a plane to Leeds and then another three on that coach. Boy that tastes good.”
“You said on your text that you’d been to Rome? I thought you were skint, mate?”
Jack had reached liquid parity with Steve’s glass. “Yeah I am skint,” he said, “but sometimes you just need to get away. Know what I mean?”
“I guess. So what was Rome like? I’ve never been. Did you go on your own?”
“It was really cool. You should go. Yeah, I travelled alone but…”
“But?” Steve had an expectant glint in his eye.
“I met someone out there.”
Steve grinned and gave a slow nod of the head, the way blokes do when they think their friends have deseeded a fresh flower. “Oh, really. So you got your end away on holiday. I thought that only happened to the eighteen to thirty crowd.”
“There was nothing seedy about it Steve. Zoe’s a lovely girl.”
Steve shrugged his shoulders. “Hey, I’m sure she is. Zoe eh! I’m just happy that you had a good time, mate. I was getting worried about you. I thought you might even do something stupid like try and top yourself.”
“Don’t be daft.” If only you knew.
“So was it just a holiday romance or is it serious between you and this Zoe bird?”
Jack finished off his pint before responding. “I think it’s serious mate. Only problem is: she lives in California.”
“California?” Steve downed the rest of his pint then asked the barmaid for two more.
“Yeah, she’s American.”
“I thought she might be somehow, Jack. It’s a bit of a commute from here though isn’t it?”
“Look. I don’t know how… but we’ll make it work. I’ve got a really good feeling about this one.”
Steve passed Jack a fresh beer. “What is she? Let me guess: blonde?”
Jack smiled and nodded.
“Good for you buddy. Well here’s to beautiful blondes,” Steve then raised his glass to Jack’s. “Has she got a nice rack?”
“Enough now, Steve.”
“Sorry fella.”
Jack knew that Steve’s bravado was all a front. “So what’s happening in your life?” he asked.
“Bugger all mate. Yvonne now gets half my wage packet and I still have to pay the mortgage on a house she shares with Bob the Bastard. And to think we used to be mates. First he takes my wife and then it’s my house. I’m thinking about giving him my car and the shirt off my back as well.”
Jack playfully punched him. He knew that Steve had been through his own personal hell. “Apart from all that…everything ok?”
Steve smiled. “Yeah I’m ok. Oh,” he said, “there’s been stuff going on at work that might interest you.”
“Really?”
“Guess who’s been fired?”
Jack hoped that it was Fat Dave, the programme director. “Go on…”
“Fat Dave! He got his cards yesterday: escorted off the premises. He’d only been shagging a schoolgirl.”
Jack couldn’t quite believe it. “A schoolgirl? How old was she?”
“Well, she was legal, but only just. Apparently he’d met her at a roadshow then invited her into the building one night to audition for a weekend show on Galaxy FM.”
“Oh, how gross. Fat Dave’s Casting Couch. It doesn’t bear thinking about,” Jack said.
“Yeah, well anyway,” Steve continued, “the lass’s mum found out and played merry hell. He tried to shut her up with a grand but she went to the local rag. They were going to print the story until our group MD managed to placate them. Anyway, the upshot is that Fat Dave is no more. I doubt he’ll ever work in radio again. Good riddance. That’s what I say.”
Jack was still in shock. He’d resented Fat Dave for getting rid of him, but it all sounded so seedy - even by commercial radio’s low standards. “So what’s happening now?” Jack asked. “Are they looking for a replacement for Fat Dave?”
“Yeah, but in the meantime Fish face is in charge.”
“Chris Fisher?”
“The very same. He was asking after you last week actually”.
“He’s a nice guy. I bet he’s glad to see the back of Dave as well,” Jack said.
“Oh yeah. He hated working under him,” said Steve.
Jack’s beer was beginning to taste even better. “So what’s happening to Simple Simon?” he asked.
“Oh, it seems that your replacement is also on his way out. Fish face told me that now Fat Dave’s gone, they won’t be renewing Simon’s contract when it finishes in the summer. His figures were half what you got on that show.”
Jack savoured another sweet sip. “Have they told him yet?”
“Hardly. Fat Dave’s only just got his flabby arse out of the door. I imagine they’ll tell Simon next week. I almost feel sorry for the guy.”
Jack had resented Simon Weston for jumping into his grave at Spirit FM, but he now pitied him.
“If I were you,” Steve said as he eyed up a blonde and her equally slim brunette friend, “I’d give Fish face a call. I reckon he’d jump at the chance to get you back on air at Spirit.”
Jack followed Steve’s eye line until the girls met up with their muscular boyfriends on the other side of the pub. “Do you reckon?” he said. He hadn’t expected any of this. Fat Dave and his mate Simple Simon had seemed like the sort of people who tiptoed between the raindrops without ever getting wet. But the radio landscape had changed dramatically in the six days Jack had been away. “Have you got his number?” Jack asked as he took out his phone. “I got my old phone nicked and yours was the only number I could remember.”
“Oh,” said Steve. “So that’s why I was honoured to receive a text from you was it? Mine was the only bloody number you could remember!”
Jack laughed. “Oh come on Steve, don’t be like that.”
“You little...!” Steve shook his head but let slip a grin as he did. “I’ll text you his number.”
“Thanks mate. Listen; let me get you a whisky chaser.”
“Make it a double, and then you can tell me more about this blonde piece you’ve been shagging.”
“No Steve, I’ll tell you about an email I got from a literary agent about my children’s novel.”
“Oh, bugger me. You’re not going to be the next J.K. Rowling are you?”
“Let me get you that whisky.”
Chapter Twenty Five:
Feeling a little worse for drink, Jack had only just managed to catch the last Metro home. He’d overheard two chavs taking the piss out of him for wearing shorts. They’d sat on the seats opposite, whispering to each other. Jack’s best death stare had shut them up, though.
He didn’t feel the cold. The vasodilation from the alcohol had no doubt negated the north east chill. How many pints had they sunk? Probably no less than six he reckoned. He’d made his usual schoolboy error of drinking on an empty stomach. Still, he’d enjoyed his evening out with Steve. Small talk and gossip mainly, but it felt easy and natural. It had been good to talk about normal stuff instead of strange emails and unusual occurrences. Jack imagined how the conversation might have panned out if he’d told Steve about all the crazy stuff that had happened to him over the past week. Steve would have thought that Jack was just pulling his leg. Either that or he’d have told him to book himself into the nearest funny farm. It now felt to Jack as though he’d somehow dreamt everything up. He rifled through his pockets and found the physical evidence of the
scallop shell and the bank card, just to remind himself that he wasn’t crazy.
He got off at his stop and staggered along the mean streets and into a kebab shop where he ordered the drunkard’s snack of choice. With kebab in hand he fumbled for his door key and let himself in. Damn! He’d forgotten about that bike in the hallway. Should have left the handlebars facing the other way. His knee started to throb as he regained his balance. Luckily, he held onto his faux meat treat, though he could feel the chilli sauce oozing through the soft paper wrapping. Flicking on the light switch, he surveyed the scene: a bike, a couple of slugs crawling along the carpet like slimy silversmiths and half a dozen letters. He picked up the mail and threw it onto the first step of the stairs. He couldn’t be bothered looking at it now.
Once inside the kitchen, he found some blackcurrant cordial and fixed himself a drink. The kebab looked less than appetizing as he unwrapped it. He took a few mouthfuls then remembered why he never ate them sober. Did anybody? He forced himself to eat some salad and a few more mouthfuls of meat, just to fill his stomach.
He sat on the step in the kitchen, blackcurrant cordial in one hand and his phone in the other. Zoe hadn’t rung. She hadn’t even replied to his earlier text. Maybe her flight to Milan had been delayed.
A few moments later, Jack came out of the bathroom to the opening bars of U2’s Mysterious Ways. The noise seemed to be coming from his mobile phone, which confused him. Wasn’t his ringtone the score from Jaws? Could this be Quint calling? He nervously glanced at the screen. Phew! Zoe’s name flashed up.
He answered it before Bono’s vocal kicked in. “Hi gorgeous, how are you doing?” he hoped that he sounded sober.
“Hey, you sound like you’re in a good mood. You get tanked up at the bar with your pal?” Maybe it was a poor signal on Jack’s phone, but Zoe’s voice seemed a million miles away.
“Not tanked up exactly,” Jack told her, “but we had a few drinks and a good catch up.”
“Did you tell your pal about the emails and stuff?”
Jack laughed. “No, I didn’t tell Steve about the emails and the bank card or any of that stuff. I think it should be our little secret, don’t you?”
Zoe paused for a moment and then said: “If Steve’s your friend and you can’t tell him about it, how come you managed to spill the beans to a relative stranger like me?”
Good question, Jack thought. “Well, for a start, I don’t fancy Steve,” he said. He left a deliberate pause for Zoe to interject but she remained silent, so he continued, “And anyway, it’s always easier to offload to a stranger. It doesn’t feel like you’re being judged as much.”
“I see,” said Zoe. “I get the last bit about offloading to a stranger, but you were taking one hell of a risk if you thought your wacky tale would impress me. That was a high risk strategy.”
“Ah, but it did impress you, didn’t it?” Jack said.
“No, Jack – your story intrigued me, it didn’t impress me. It’s fair to say that ninety nine chicks out of a hundred would have headed for the hills after you’d told them about the emails from Quint and the Michael Stipe episode.”
“So how come you didn’t head for the hills?” Jack asked. There was a pause and then he heard Zoe’s laughter down the line.
“Probably because I’m as kooky as you are, Jack.”
Jack smiled. Time to change the subject. “So, how are things your end? You get to Milan, ok?”
“Yeah, no problems with the flight. I’ve just left the hospital. Mom’s getting there, I’m pleased to say. She managed a conversation, which is encouraging. Pa and I have been sorting out all the medical insurance. We’ve got more paperwork to sort out tomorrow. Your trip back, ok?” she asked.
“Yeah, fine. I got a coach from the airport which took me up to Newcastle. I’m glad you’re mum’s getting better,” he said.
“Thanks. Is that where your flat is? Newcastle?” Zoe asked.
Jack found the poor quality of the line annoying. He visualized speaking to her in the flesh, there in his kitchen. “No, I’m in Gateshead,” he said, “but it’s only a hop, skip and a jump over the river to Newcastle. Missing you by the way.”
There was a pause. Zoe responded after maybe five seconds, but to Jack it felt like five minutes. “I miss you too,” he heard her say. Jack smiled as several more seconds of dead air followed. Back in his radio days, dead air had been a crime punishable by death and he’d always had an issue with it during phone conversations, though this time he resisted the urge to fill it.
“So,” Zoe finally said, “tell me about your friend. Did you work together on the radio?”
“Yeah, I worked with Steve at Spirit FM until Fat Dave screwed me over. Anyway, it seems that while I was away, Fat Dave has been given his marching orders. It also looks like his mate who he got in to replace me is going to be out on his ear as well.”
“Oh. Seems like it’s all been going on since you’ve been away then.” Zoe said.
“Yeah, you bet. Chris Fisher is the temporary guy in charge and I’ve always gotten along really well with him, so Steve reckons I should give him a call.”
“Would you want to go back there?” Zoe asked after leaving a pause. “I mean after they screwed you over?”
“I don’t know. I could certainly do with the money. I can’t really afford to let pride get in the way.”
“Well,” said Zoe, “I think that’s very wise. No harm in giving the guy a call is there?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Look, Jack, I’d better go now because I need to sort a few things out here before the morning. I’ll get some more credit on my phone tomorrow and give you a call.”
“Ok, no worries. I can ring you tomorrow if you like. I’ve got plenty of credit on this phone. Tell you what; I’ll text you first to see if it’s convenient. I don’t want to ring whilst you’re at the hospital.”
“That’s a good idea,” Zoe said. “I hope you manage to get your manuscript sent off to the agent.”
“Cheers. Take care.”
“Goodnight, Jack.”
“Goodnight.”
Jack heard the line go faint and then heard several pips. It felt like they’d somehow lost a level of intimacy. Nothing could replace physical closeness.
He took his drink and wandered into the lounge where he sat in the lotus position on top of his sleeping bag. He checked his phone to see what was going on with the ringtones. According to the inventory, there was only a Nokia fanfare installed. The score from Jaws and U2’s Mysterious Ways weren’t even on the darn thing! Still, weird was becoming normal these days. The rain started to batter against the window, which suited Jack’s melancholic mood. He’d forgotten to check for the USB memory fob in the bedroom! He got up, spilling blackcurrant cordial all over the floor. Bugger!
He ambled into the bed-less bedroom, switched on the lamp and pulled open the top drawer of the bedside table. Condoms, council tax reminders, credit card receipts, there it was – the memory fob. He held it in his hand and examined it like it was some kind of precious jewel. Placing the fob back in the drawer, he then retired to the lounge. After turning off the light, he used the moonlight creeping through the net curtains to guide him to his sleeping bag. A pillow would’ve been nice. He disrobed and slid himself into the static inducing nylon sack. He folded up his t- shirt and rested his head on it. At least Karen downstairs wasn’t blaring out her X Box tonight.
The air was poetically silent except for the sound of raindrops smashing against the windows. It added to the ambience. A montage of images danced through Jack’s head. He imagined himself as a successful author, signing copies of his book in Waterstones, and then he was sat behind the mixing desk at Spirit FM, playing Stairway to Heaven with the monitors at ten. Maybe eleven would be better. That scene from Spinal Tap entered his head; the one where Nigel shows Marty his special amp that goes up to eleven instead of the standard ten. ‘Is it any louder?’ Marty asks. ‘It’s one louder, it’s not t
en,” Nigel replies. “Most blokes play at ten. You’re on ten, but where can you go from there – nowhere. What we do is if we need that extra push over the cliff we put it up to eleven, we go one louder.’ ‘Why don’t you just make ten louder and make ten be the top number?’ Marty asks, to which Nigel pauses before responding: ‘This goes to eleven.’
Jack smiled. This Is Spinal Tap had been in his DVD collection, which he’d reluctantly parted with to fund his Suicide Vacation. Seventy quid was all the guy in the second hand store had paid him for the lot. Amazing how the value of material belongings dissipated when you planned on topping yourself.
With ‘Stonehenge’ by ‘The World’s Loudest Band’ ringing through his ears, Jack drifted off into dreamland where he pictured a solid black album cover.
