by Ian Edwards
‘I can still hear it. Can you hear it? I can still hear bouncing. The stairs aren’t that big.’ Fingers shone the torch between the stairs and Hander’s face.
‘Can you point that thing somewhere else?’ Hander said.
‘Do…do you still want you go down there?’ Fingers asked, afraid of the answer.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Hander replied, more calmly than he felt. ‘I’ll tell you what, it’s nearly lunchtime, let’s have something to eat and leave this until tomorrow. I’ll send the new boys down there first thing.’ With that he turned and marched back along the corridor.
Fingers flicked the torchlight off and hurried off after his boss, grateful to be anywhere but the staircase and the continued sound of the bouncing ball.
Chapter 7
‘They’re not all as salubrious as this,’ Alan said to Mario as entered the backstage dressing room of the pub. ‘Some of them are literally the toilet. But at least you can take a wee without leaving the room.’
‘Like prison then,’ Mario replied looking round the tiny enclosure.
‘Oh, have you been inside?’ Alan asked, slightly nervous.
‘No, but I watch the telly.’
Alan grinned. ‘Well, the TV lies to you. It’s not all massive theatre full of smiling faces. More often than not it’s half empty rooms above a dodgy pub where you’re lucky to get out in one piece. Welcome to the world of comedy.’
‘Don’t be like that, Alan. Mario, don’t listen to him. He loves it.’
Mario Forde looked between Sarah and Alan, not sure who or what to believe. Three days ago he was minding his own business driving a train, and now here he was backstage at a comedy club, wondering if he would have the nerve to go on stage and tell jokes. He liked making people laugh, but the thought of standing on stage terrified him. When Sarah approached him after his shift the other night, he naturally thought she was joking. Why would an agent ask if he had representation? He’d made a joke about the rail union being all the representation he’d ever need, but that only made her more determined to talk to him.
Of course, he thought she was joking. He’d occasionally had commuters tell him he’d made their journeys fun, but this was a whole different ball game. So when Sarah had rung him earlier that evening and he told her he was free, she asked, no, almost begged him to come to this comedy night to see what he thought. A free night out is never to be sniffed at, he told himself, but as for actually getting on stage…he didn’t think there was enough rum in the off-licence for that.
‘So Mario, what do you think?’ Alan said.
‘There’s not enough rum in the off-licence to get me on stage.’
‘There’s a challenge,’ Alan laughed. ‘Seriously mate, I heard you on the train, you’re a natural. Better than this clown,’ Alan thumbed over his shoulder towards the stage where a middle aged man was singing political songs about bringing down the Government. ‘Christ, he’s bad. Somewhere between Alexi Sayle and Jedward,’ Alan said.
Mario nodded. ‘But what if I get heckled?’
‘The best thing to do is have half a dozen put downs memorised,’ Harry Hodges told him, brushing lint off his jacket. ‘It’s basically having an argument. You just happen to have all the power. Use it.’
‘I don’t know…’
‘Well, you don’t have to make any decisions just yet,’ Sarah smiled up at him. ‘This is just a night out. There’s no pressure on you at all. I just thought if you saw some real comedians…’ she glanced at Alan, ‘…in the flesh, you’ll see they’re no different to you or me.’
‘Except for Giles Monroe. That guy’s a berk,’ Harry interjected, adding, ‘Sorry Sarah.’
‘It’s a fair point,’ Alan agreed.
Sarah smiled sweetly. ‘Don’t listen to them Mario, Giles is a very sweet man.’
‘Is that like the man who offers you sweets to get in the back of his van?’ Mario asked innocently.
Alan laughed. ‘I like him. Mario, I think you’ll be just fine. Now if you guys don’t mind I’ve got to concentrate on these new jokes.’
‘Mario,’ Sarah said. ‘What I really wanted you to see is how Alan here uses the stage. He makes the entire stage his own territory, and exudes a confidence that puts the crowd at ease.’
‘I thought he just blagged it,’ Harry smiled, picking up his ventriloquist dummy, Old Man Ernie, brushing imaginary dirt from it.
‘Yeah, that too,’ Sarah smiled at Alan, who was lost in thought. ‘Harry, do you think Alan’s OK? I’ve never seen him this quiet before a gig.’
‘He’s alright. We were talking the other night. He’s just nervous about changing his dynamic. It’s not the jokes themselves, it’s the fact they’re based on real events in a way they never were before. And Rosie isn’t best pleased.’
‘She never is,’ Sarah said.
The dressing room door opened, preventing further discussion. ‘Bloody modern lefties, they’re all the same, waiting to find something to be offended by,’ Martin Crowther, the guitarist shouted as he threw his guitar into the corner of the room.
‘Hey man, rock and roll,’ Mario grinned.
‘What? What did you say? Who the fuck are you?’ Martin growled.
Mario held out his hand. ‘Hello, I’m Mario, I’m a big fan.’
‘Really? Thank you. I appreciate it. You should have been out there instead of in here.’
‘I only wanted to get your autograph,’ Mario smiled, picking up a discarded poster.
‘Oh, oh, right. Here you go,’ Martin said, scribbling on the poster. ‘Thanks, that’s me off,’ he said, picking up his guitar from the corner and leaving the room.
Mario waited for the door to close before screwing up the poster and dropping it to the floor. ‘Idiot,’ he said.
‘You know Mario,’ Harry said. ‘I think you’re going to be just fine.’
*
‘…So, I’ve moved in with my girlfriend,’ Alan walked to the edge of the stage, mic in his left hand. ‘I know, I know. It’s difficult to believe I have a girlfriend. But I do. And a real one at that. At least that’s what it said on the box. I couldn’t make it all out as the instructions were in Chinese.’ He paused for a tiny ripple of laughter. Encouraging, but not brilliant.
‘Any guys here have a girlfriend, or wife?’ A few nervous hands raised in the air. Alan laughed. ‘Bit unsure of yourselves, guys? I know what you mean. Now, keep your hands up if you don’t live with your wife or girlfriend.’ The majority of the hands lowered. ‘You guys with your hands still in the air. You lucky, lucky, bastards. Oh look, this guy is getting daggers from his girlfriend…’ Alan pointed randomly so as not to let on this was part of the act.
‘Seriously, if looks could kill your mates would already be planning your wake. No, no, don’t laugh, it will only make it worse.’ Alan grinned. ‘You sir, are in a whole world of grief. But at least you can shut your own door at the end of the night. Treasure those moments, pal. They won’t last.’ Alan paused for a moment, pretending to collect his thoughts.
‘Don’t get me wrong, I love my girlfriend. I really do. I just didn’t realise there were so many rules to sharing a house…’
*
Sarah and Mario stood quietly at the side of the stage. Sarah turned to Mario and whispered; ‘What do you think?’
‘He’s quite good isn’t he?’ Mario replied.
‘Yes, he is, and he’s getting better all the time. If I didn’t know any better I’d say someone was helping him with his routines…’
*
‘Thanks, though there’s no need to clap. That’s how fascism started,’ Alan laughed into the mic. ‘But I guess the thing that’s annoying me the most has nothing to do with my girlfriend. I mean, I’ve lived with her for weeks now, yet I haven’t had a single bit of mail. Now, I’m not saying I’m the most popular bloke in the world, but I’d expect my subscription to Razzle magazine would have come through. I know its old school, but there’s something about the smel
l of newly opened magazines that, I don’t know…reminds me of my youth. I guess I could subscribe to something more traditional. Trouble is, the Radio Times just doesn’t have the same smell. At least not afterwards,’ Alan grinned at the amused disgusted reaction from the crowd.
‘I guess that’s why my new neighbours keep looking at me funny. They’re getting my smut delivered to their house…’ Alan paused for a moment, his mind clicking in to gear. OK, this was just a routine, not based on fact, but maybe there was some truth to it. Maybe his neighbours really were stealing his mail. The deafening silence of the crowd brought Alan back to the present. He adlibbed as best he could.
‘Sorry about that folks, it makes sense now…my neighbours have kidnapped my post and are holding it to ransom. Oh, this isn’t good at all. What if I get a ransom note? What if they post it and steal that too, I’ll never get it, and that’ll be the last I see of my Razzle collection. This is a disaster. What if they cut up my Razzle mag and use the articles to spell out the ransom? No, that won’t work, there’s hardly any words in it.’ A decent ripple of laughter greeted him. OK, he thought, that’s interesting, I’ve got away with messing up the set, and no one seemed to notice. Smiling to himself, he wrapped up his set.
*
Alan left the small stage, shaking hands with the compere as he made his way behind the black velvet curtain where Sarah and Mario were waiting. Together they walked to the dressing room. Once inside Sarah hugged him.
‘Alan, that was great,’ she said.
‘Er, thanks,’ he replied, removing himself from her embrace.
‘Man, I don’t know how you do it,’ Mario held out his fist, and Alan bumped it with his own.
‘Thanks. It’s practice really. You get used to it. I messed it up towards the end though. I completely forgot what I was meant to say.’
‘Well it didn’t sound like it,’ Sarah smiled up at him. Mario nodded his agreement.
Harry, who was still fiddling with Old Man Ernie, rose from his chair with a groan. ‘I didn’t see your set Alan, but I heard the reaction from in here, and it seemed to go well enough. Anyway, must dash, I’m up next, he said, patting Alan on the shoulder.
Harry pushed his way through the door, the dummy going before him.
‘Bloody hell, he’s not going up on stage with that act is he?’ Mario asked, incredulous. ‘He’ll get slaughtered.’
Alan laughed. ‘Mate, being bad is part of his act. It’s really funny, you should watch him. He’s like a throwback to the golden days of music hall.’
‘Alan writes some of his stuff for him,’ Sarah added. ‘Come on, Mario, let’s go and have a look. You coming Alan?’
‘No, I’d better get back. Rosie is expecting me’.
Alan watched the door close and sighed. He really wasn’t happy with his new routine. He knew it still needed a lot of fine tuning, and vowed to repeat the routine over and over in his mind on the way home to see how it could be improved based on tonight’s audience reaction. Satisfied with his game plan, Alan glanced briefly at the cracked mirror on the wall. He stopped and stared, running his hand over his head. There was something. Something that nagged at him. His improvised skit about not receiving any post. Were his neighbours really stealing his mail? No, they couldn’t be.
Could they?
Chapter 8
Alan stood in the bedroom leaning on the windowsill, a warm summer breeze gently blew in through the open window. He took a sip of coffee, leaned out of the bedroom window peering left. He looked down at his watch. 11.20 am. ‘Any time now,’ he said to himself.
He shivered as the light summer breeze dropped several degrees. ‘Hi Frankie,’ he said without turning around.
‘What’s up?’ Frankie said, joining Alan at the window.
Alan continued to lean out of the window. ‘I’m waiting for the postman.’
‘Oh, is it your birthday?’ Frankie asked. ‘Sorry I didn’t know. I haven’t got you anything.’
Alan pulled himself back in to the bedroom. ‘It’s not my birthday, why would you think it was?’
‘You’re waiting for the postman. It’s what kids do when it’s your birthday. You can’t wait for all the cards and parcels,’ Frankie smiled, recalling his own childhood. ‘So,’ he said at last, ‘why are you waiting for the postman?’
‘Well, you know that I haven’t been getting any post since I moved here? Well I was wondering if the postman is throwing it away rather than delivering it.’
Frankie shook his head, no longer surprised at Alan’s almost childlike thought process. ‘Why would he do that?’
Alan sighed, Frankie was clearly missing the obvious. ‘I’m new to his round. He’s suddenly got twice as much mail to deliver to this address and he’s not happy about carrying round all these extra letters.’
Frankie nodded. ‘I see,’ though he clearly didn’t. ‘So he’s throwing your mail away because it’s made his job harder?’
‘Exactly. It’s obvious,’ Alan said nodding at his own logic.
‘Sorry son, as much as I want to believe you, wouldn’t it be easier if he threw them away at the start of his round rather than wait until he actually gets to your house?’
Alan pursed his lips, considering this new information. ‘Maybe…’
‘Hang on son, there he is,’ Frankie said, grabbing Alan’s arm.
They leaned out of the window and watched the postman strolling up the garden path carrying a bundle of letters and whistling a vaguely familiar tune.
‘He’s walked past the dustbin,’ Frankie said.
They heard the letterbox slam shut. ‘You’ve got mail,’ Frankie said and stepped aside as Alan shot past him down the stairs.
‘Any post?’ Frankie called after him, sitting on the bed with a loud sigh.
Alan came back into the room dejectedly. ‘Nothing for me again,’ he complained.
‘But there was post, wasn’t there?’ Frankie asked. ‘We heard the letterbox.’
‘All for Rosie. Nothing for me…Again.’
‘You must have put the wrong address on the redirected mail form.’
Alan shook his head. ‘No chance. I definitely put the right address down. It’s not difficult. Any idiot can fill out one of those forms.’
‘Exactly,’ Frankie said. ‘Are you sure you filled those forms out properly.’
‘OK, if the postman isn’t dumping it, then it has to be those women next door. They’ve got to be stealing my post, there’s no other explanation.’
‘What possible reason would they have to steal your post?’
Alan shrugged. ‘Who knows what goes through the criminal mind. They probably recognise me and think I’m getting VIP tickets for celebrity events. And they’re having them for themselves.’
‘That’s possible, I suppose. Except that no one recognises you. You’re hardly a famous face. I mean, you haven’t been on TV or anything.’
‘I’m famous in Lapland.’
‘I’m not sure that counts, son. Look, I’m not saying you’re wrong. Maybe your neighbours are nicking your mail. But how are they doing it? You saw the postman for yourself. He delivered mail to this address. How could your next door neighbours steal it?’
‘Perhaps he’s in on it?’
‘The postman, who you’ve never met, is conspiring with neighbours you’ve barely met in order to steal your mail?’
‘Exactly. It makes sense.’
‘Perhaps it does. To a crazy person. Shouldn’t you check with the Post Office first? Make sure your mail is being redirected properly?’
‘There’s no point. I told you, I filled the form in properly. I was a Civil Servant remember? Filling in stupid forms is part of the psyche. Anyway, I want you to make yourself scarce tonight. Rosie and I are having a quiet night in, just the two of us, and I don’t want you popping up where you’re not wanted.’
‘Fair enough. You doing anything special?’
‘Not at all,’ Alan said defensively. ‘It’s ju
st a rare night when I’m not working, so I’m cooking something special and we’re having a quiet night in.’
‘Well, in that case, I’m sure that Rosie will have a night to remember. Especially when she wakes up at 3am with food poisoning.’ Frankie laughed once then disappeared.
*
‘You have to admit it’s a bit weird that I haven’t had any mail since I moved in.’
Rosie shook her head. Alan was starting to show the effects of the bottle of wine he’d drunk over the course of the meal.
‘It’s just weird isn’t it? Nothing. No junk mail, no special offers from home improvement companies, not even a Christmas card.’
‘It’s June,’ she told him. ‘You’re not going to get a Christmas card.’
‘Not at this rate I won’t, no.’
‘You probably just put the wrong address in the redirection form. Have you checked with the post office?’
‘You’d have to be an idiot to get those forms wrong.’
‘Yes,’ Rosie said patiently. ‘Have you checked with the post office?’
Alan dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Do you know what I think?’
Rosie drained her wine glass and snuck a look at her watch. ‘What do you think?’ She whispered.
‘It’s those women next door.’
‘What about them?’
Alan made a show of looking around and then leaned closer. ‘They’re stealing my mail.’
Rosie let out an involuntary giggle.
‘What’s the matter?’ He asked.
‘Dawn and Joy aren’t stealing your mail.’
Alan shook his head. ‘Au contraire, Rosie,’ Alan slurred. ‘They are stealing my mail. It’s the only logical explanation.’
Rosie sighed. ‘I’m off to bed now,’ she looked at her watch. ‘Thank you very much for dinner, Alan. It was a lovely meal.’ She paused for a moment. ‘You really do know how to microwave a ready meal. It’s almost a talent.’
‘It was a pleasure,’ he slurred. ‘And don’t worry about the washing up. You can do that in the morning,’ he grinned.
