Suicide Vacation

by Rich Allen

  “Hi, Chris.”

  “Right, I’ll leave you to it then,” said Helen.

  “Thanks, Helen. Nice to meet you.”

  “And you.” She walked down the open plan office towards what used to be Sales.

  Chris Fisher now stood across from Jack with his hand extended. His acne had cleared up and he seemed to be wearing better clothes. Perhaps his mother had stopped dressing him in the mornings.

  “Good to see you, Jack. Thanks for coming in.”

  Jack noticed the firm handshake. No doubt he’d learnt that on a management course. “Good to see you too. It’s been a while.”

  Chris ushered Jack into the glass panelled meeting room. It had a long toughened glass table in the centre and Chris sat down at the far end with the view of the Tyne Bridge behind him. Had Chris cut a slightly more menacing figure, he might have been Darth Vader in The Empire Strikes Back. The scene where Lando hands Lea, Han and Chewie over to Vader now played on the widescreen inside Jack’s mind. ‘We would be honoured if you would join us.’ He always thought of that scene whenever he saw a long table. Childhood memories – hard to remove.

  “Please, take a seat,” Chris said.

  “Thanks.” Jack sat himself in the seat closest to Chris, although he’d been tempted to sit at the opposite end of the table, just to freak him out.

  “Well,” said Chris, “what’s been happening with you? I mean since leaving here?”

  Jack smiled. He’d expected the question, but didn’t really want to answer it. “Oh, you know,” not too much really.” Chris, he suspected, already knew that.

  Chris nodded. “Yeah it’s tough out there at the moment. Not a great deal of radio work I’m afraid. A lot of places are just employing cheap people that they can work to the bone.”

  “Tell me about it!” Jack said. It had been one of the reasons why he’d struggled to pick up work. There was always somebody willing to work for peanuts, or in some cases – nothing. Out of principal, he’d set himself a minimum show fee which had unfortunately deterred some stations. Maybe he’d been too precious, but he’d always held to the belief that if you paid peanuts then you got monkeys.

  “But anyway,” Chris continued, “that’s not our policy here; you’ll be pleased to know. I’ve always rated you as a broadcaster, and that’s why I’d like to get you back doing some shows on Spirit.”

  Jack nodded. He wasn’t used to anyone blowing smoke up his ass, and he felt a little embarrassed. But in a good way.

  “So you’re good to cover Mornings next week?”

  “Yep. Sounds good.”

  “Lindsay booked a last minute holiday and begged me to let her have the time off. That’s why it was all a bit of a rush I’m afraid,” Chris said.

  “I see.” Jack remembered Lindsay Meadows. She was a forty something former rock chick who’d once sang in a band called ‘Chilli Vanilla’. She’d been on the graveyard shift when Jack had been doing evenings. Fat Dave had obviously promoted her. He dreaded to think what she might have had to do to earn it.

  “So anyway,” Chris said, “I’ll take you into the studio and you can have a play with the desk. We’ve got a new play-out system since you were last here. It’s called Music Maestro. Have you heard of it?”

  “No, can’t say as I have. I hope it’s easy to use.”

  “It’s a doddle. Even I can use it.” Chris then laughed in his trademark demented fashion; as though he was struggling for air. It made Jack think that he might be having some sort of fit. He recovered, and Jack smiled politely, as though he was in on the joke. Radio people - all barking.

  Chris composed himself then handed Jack a small stapled together bundle of paper. Jack read the front sheet: ‘Spirit FM Presenter Style Guide’.

  “It’s just a few house rules, which I’m sure you’ll be familiar with. I’ve got to hand these out to all new freelancers, so please don’t think I’m trying to patronise you,” Chris said.

  “No worries.”

  “Basically Jack, the format is the same as when you worked here before. There are a few features in the Morning Show that you might not be familiar with like the Pop Quiz and the All Request Lunch, but it’s all very straightforward. I’ve emailed you those details. That reminds me, your login details are here somewhere. I got I.T. to set it up for you.” He rummaged through his pocket until he found a scrap of paper which he handed to Jack, who took a moment to examine it.

  Username: J Holden

  Password: Spirit

  “You can change the password once you’re logged in,” Chris explained.

  “Cool.”

  “Right, then. Do you have any questions?”

  Jack pondered for a moment. “Well, just one thing that I can think of,” he said.

  Chris’s frame bolted out of its slouch and he suddenly looked as alert as a meerkat.

  “How much are you going to pay me?” Jack asked.

  Chris smiled. “Oh yeah, good point. How does say…one sixty a shift sound?”

  “Ok. Good for me.”

  They shook hands and Chris led Jack into Studio Three which was used as a production studio. Most jocks used it to pre-record their weekend shows and one day a week it was home to the overnight guy who came in and recorded a whole week’s worth of shows in one go. Through the glass, Jack clocked Lindsay Meadows doing a live link from Studio Four. She waved at him and he waved back. She looked as hot as he remembered.

  Chris proceeded to show Jack how the play-out system worked. It was touch screen which he didn’t care for, but it seemed easy enough to operate: ads on the left channel and two channels on the right for the music and beds. A separate channel was used to pre-fade audio so that you could listen to it prior to it going out on air.

  Like all modern play-out systems, Music Maestro had an automatic pilot feature. Basically, the operator could pre mix several songs and presenter links and it would play it all out in a clever ‘look no hands’ fashion. Quite handy if you needed to take a bathroom break, or, as Jack had found, if you wanted to nip into town and collect a pizza. All the weekend shows were pre-recorded jock links that had been mixed into the music and ads. Most listeners had no idea that the presenter wasn’t actually in the studio and to be honest, they probably didn’t care.

  Chris left Jack to log on to the computer and play with the gear for a few minutes before returning with a security fob on a lanyard.

  “Try not to lose this,” Chris said, “but if you do accidently mislay it for some reason; the door code is eleven fifty two.”

  Jack took the lanyard and dangled it from the tip of his finger, studying the small fob which resembled a black grape. “Thanks mate. I’ll try not to lose it.”

  “Cool. Listen Jack, I’ve got to head into a sales meeting, so feel free to head home whenever you’re ready. Have a look at the email brief for the Morning Show and if you have any questions just give me a buzz. Is that ok?”

  “Yeah no worries,” Jack said.

  “Great. Well, I’ll see you next week then, mate.”

  Jack nodded. “Sure will. Thanks for your help.”

  Chris raised his hand then disappeared towards the meeting room. When Jack heard the soundproofed door shut tight, he adorned his headphones like a crown and slid the mic fader up.

  “Hi, this is Jack Holden,” he said into the microphone. “You may remember me as the guy that got shafted. But guess what folks…I’m back.” He glanced across through the glass of the adjacent studio. Lindsay Meadows sat there with a grin on her face. No doubt she’d just been listening in through the desk. It was all too easy to earwig. Anything spoken with the microphone fader up could be eavesdropped in another studio within the same building.

  “Hi, Jack. Good to see you.” It was Lindsay speaking through the studio talkback.

  Jack hit the talkback button. “Hi Lindsay. How’s tricks?”

  “Can’t complain. I understand that you’re me next week.”

  “Yeah that’s right. I’ll try
not to lose your audience.”

  Lindsay laughed. “You’ll be great I’m sure. Not too great though, I hope.” Her voice sounded playful, but Jack sensed the paranoia floating under the surface. Typical of radio jocks: morbidly fearful that someone was going to come along and take away their golden meal ticket. Understandable really; it was a great way to earn a living. Not like having to do proper work. How many people actually got the chance to do something they loved for a living? And, given the right employer, it could be a very good living.

  “I’m looking forward to it,” he said through the intercom.

  “Good,” said Lindsay. “I mentioned you on the air earlier and several people have already called in to say that they remember you.”

  “That’s good. I hope they’ll be gentle with me. I haven’t done this for a year, you know.”

  Lindsay laughed. “Just like riding a bike.”

  “Well yeah, but I might need stabilisers.”

  “I doubt that somehow. Anyway I’ve got to take a few calls here. If there’s anything you want to ask me, just give me a buzz later.”

  “Cheers, Lindsay.”

  As Jack released his finger from the talkback button he noticed a shadow in the doorway.

  “You chatting up the totty already you dirt bag?” It was Steve.

  “Yeah, I just can’t help myself, mate. How was the big show this morning?”

  Steve closed the door and sat down opposite Jack. “Oh you know, same shit, different day. So how was your chat with Fish face? Did he offer you the keys to the kingdom?”

  “Hardly. He did give me my own lanyard and fob though.” Jack dangled the prize from his forefinger.

  “Nice one. You know what’s what with Music Maestro and the show?”

  “Yeah, I’m not mad on touch screen but it looks simple enough. He says it’s all straightforward.”

  “Well it must be if that dozy bint through there can do it,” Steve said.

  Jack smiled and shook his head. Nothing Steve said surprised him anymore.

  Steve picked up Jack’s Presentation Style Guide. “What’s this pile of dog shit?” He opened it and began reading in a mock nerd voice: “Spirit FM is a radio station aimed at adults aged between thirty five to fifty nine with a key target demographic of fifty year old women…Milfs mate, you’re broadcasting to Milfs. Not that you’ll be hiding the sausage with any of em. Not now you’re all loved up with Zoe.”

  Jack shot his friend an ‘I give up’ look. “Hey, just because you’re not getting any,” he said.

  “Damned right I’m not mate. Horny as a hen party that’s me. Maybe you and I should head out on the town one night after you’ve finished here. Grab ourselves a couple of tasty fillies?”

  “You mean like the bad old days?” Jack said.

  Steve shook his head. “And to think - you used to be such a ladykiller, Jack.”

  “Maybe I’ve just grown up mate.”

  “Pussy!”

  “Whatever.”

  “Listen, I’ve got to go and pick the kids up from the airport, so I’ll be seeing you next week. Break a leg and all that.”

  “Take it easy,” Jack said.

  Steve shot Jack a furtive smile. “Say hello to Zoe for me. Tell her I’m available if she ever wants to spend time with a real man.”

  “Get out of here you fat waster.” Jack heard Steve’s laughter from the other side of the door. Like in the Isley Brothers song, Jack knew that Steve’s smile was painted on. It was just a shame that he’d never opened up about the heartbreak of his wife leaving him.

  “Beep…beep.”

  A text message: “Hi honey. Hope your day is going ok. How did your meeting at the radio station go? All fine here in Milan. Mom’s been for a short walk today. I told her all about you by the way. She seems intrigued. I think she wants to meet you x”

  Oh my. She’d told her mum about him. Not the warts and all story, he hoped. He typed a reply: “Hi. Meeting went well thanks. Still at radio station having a play with the equipment. Good news about your mum. Hope you haven’t scared her with wacky tales about me though.”

  He sent the text message then printed off Chris’s email about the Morning Show. While he had access to the internet, he also checked his private email to see if Quint or Sandra Chandler had been in touch. No great surprise to see that they hadn’t. He’d half hoped that Sandra might have just emailed back to acknowledge receipt of his manuscript. As for Quint – he began to wonder if he’d ever get to the bottom of that one.

  “Beep…beep.” Zoe again: “Don’t worry, Jack. Everything is cool. Missing you x”

  He smiled. “Missing you too gorgeous x” he replied. Suddenly Milan didn’t seem so far away. He thought about hopping on a plane and spending the weekend with her. He could introduce himself to her parents. They’d all get on like a house on fire. It certainly sounded a lot better than spending the weekend alone in his bare flat, with only the radio for company. Tempting, but his harsh fiscal reality brought his lofty ideas crashing back down to earth. To have any chance of survival, he had to subsist on a very tight budget. He needed to be disciplined, no matter what the cost.

  He logged off the computer then said goodbye to a few people in the office who didn’t even bother to introduce themselves. Typical radio people.

  Chapter Twenty Nine:

  On the way back home, Jack popped into a charity shop and purchased a pulp fiction paperback for fifty pence. The story promised love, danger and intrigue in Egypt, a place he’d once visited with Fiona. Despite writing his own book, he’d never been that much of a reader. It was different with a TV show or a film. You only had to watch a few minutes to know whether you liked it or not. A book meant more investment on his part. He thought about buying a cheap TV but dismissed the idea due to cost. Anyway, perhaps it would do him good to live without one for a while. Amazing, how they could dominate your life. To cheer himself up, he bought fish and chips with mushy peas.

  Jack sat down on the kitchen step, a mug of tea by his side as he tucked into his fish supper. If he ever had to live in a foreign country, there wouldn’t be much that he’d miss about Britain, but he’d pine for good old fish and chips after a while. He thought about Sandra Chandler, the literary agent. Had she had the chance to read his manuscript yet? She was no doubt a busy lady. It might be weeks before she got back to him. Then again, it was only sixty thousand words. If she wanted to, she might read it in a few hours.

  The meal and the accompanying cup of tea really hit the spot. Jack washed up his pots and watched the rain dance around the plastic lip of the kitchen window. Three days to fill before his first shift back at Spirit. That bloody book had better be interesting. Day turned to night and the rain settled in, leaving him feeling slightly better about being confined to his sparse back street prison. He texted ‘I love you’ to Zoe and she replied with ‘Missing you babe’ but deep down Jack was afraid of another rejection. He was also scared at how quickly he’d allowed himself to fall for here. Did he never learn? Then again, it took two to tango.

  The book seemed a bit better after a glass of wine. Hey, at least this guy had managed to get the thing published. If only he might be so lucky. As he climbed into his sleeping bag, he whispered: “Please God, make everything work out alright.” It had been a subconscious reflex because he’d not prayed since childhood. He felt like reprimanding himself for giving in to such a childlike whim.

  His body had by now become accustomed to sleeping on the hard floor, and, with Karen taking a night off from her noisy gaming, he slid into a dream. Zoe and he were playing the parts of Sissy Spacek and Martin Sheen in Badlands. They were living in a tree house in the wilderness, evading the law.

  Jack started to panic. The police had found their hideout. They’d turned up in force, ready to take him away from Zoe. What was happening? The light hit his eyes. Just a dream. Just a dream. He sat bolt upright in his sleeping bag. Why couldn’t he dream about sheep grazing in a field or an apple pie b
aking in an oven? Mundane dreams sounded good. He shielded his eyes from the bright sunshine dripping through the net curtains and checked the time on his phone: eight forty. What day was it? Oh yeah, Friday. He’d head down the library later and check his email. Maybe Sandra Chandler had sent him a message.

  Post breakfast and ablutions, Jack got himself dressed and groomed. He wondered what Zoe might be up to this very minute. They were an hour ahead in Milan. Maybe she was taking her mum on a gentle stroll through the piazza, or sorting out the flights for their return to the States. She’d be even further away from him there. At least Milan seemed vaguely accessible. California might as well have been a million miles away. In a few days she would be returning to her regular life. Her life without him.