Crying in the Rain (Hiding Behind The Couch Character and Festive Episodes)

1 Always on Sunday

Ade

A de was awake , had been for hours, waiting for a reasonable time to get out of bed. He’d settled on 5:15, a full forty-five minutes to shower and dress and be ready to leave when his alarm went off at six. He could say he needed to be in work early to prepare the studio, even though they’d likely spend most of the morning rehearsing and wouldn’t record until after lunch.

Why should I need to say anything at all? But the tiny spark of resistance found nothing to ignite because the excuse itself didn’t matter, only that it worked.

5:14

His heart pounded double time to the flashing colon between the numbers, and he tried to slow it, concentrate on the day ahead instead of whatever might happen next.

Whatever might happen next.

It had to end somewhere.

Easing onto his back, he bit hard on his lip to stop the hiss escaping as he lifted his arm and pushed away the duvet, slid his leg off the side of the bed.

Paused.

No response to that, he shuffled to the edge of the mattress and eased the other leg out, remaining as close to horizontal as he could. A half-snore in the dark; he froze, waited.

Nothing.

He resumed breathing, quietly through his nose, every sound amplified in the early morning silence, every movement a chore. He felt a hundred years old, doddering and woozy from last night’s wine and the throb in his face, sharp as an ice pick to the teeth, jaw, cheekbone…he couldn’t pinpoint its exact origin. It was probably all over.

God, I wish it was.

In the sanctuary of the bathroom, he set the shower running, taking a minute to prepare himself for the ordeal of brushing his teeth—in the dark. He’d been here before, in front of that mirror. The pain was bad enough without his reflection deriding and sneering. You coward. You didn’t have to go through this.

The toothpaste stung like acid where it frothed onto his lips, the brush whacking into his teeth over and over as he circled in the tiny space of his barely open mouth. Any more and he’d have been yelling. As it was, he couldn’t spit, could only let the foam dribble down his chin and into the sink. He was almost tempted to switch on the light, see if the foam was tinged pink, but he honestly didn’t care.

The shower was cold, at first like shards of ice slicing at his back, but after a while, he became indifferent to it. The sponge rasped, chafing his skin, but his pain receptors were already overloaded, so it tingled rather than stung. Like repeatedly pinching a bruise. Barely aware of his teeth chattering or the numbness of his extremities, he turned off the shower, clinging to the wall as he climbed out and then stood, quaking and dripping and listening for anything other than his short, shaky breaths.

Still nothing, but for how long?

He towel-dried vigorously everywhere but his face, which he dabbed gingerly, flinching with every touch. Naked and dithering, he crept into the bedroom, snatched up the first clothes he touched in the curtained darkness and fled to the living room to dress. The boxer shorts and socks were old and grey, the shirt was crinkled with frayed cuffs, but that was fine. Fitting, actually. Old and grey was how he felt. The trousers were OK—there were bleach splashes up one of the legs, but who would notice? Of course, he’d forgotten his shoes, and his hairbrush and gel were also in the bedroom. It would take too long, and in any case his scalp felt like it was burning. He’d just go in, grab his shoes and leave, buy coffee on the way. By the time he got home from work, his guest would be gone.

Ade made it into the bedroom and out again with his shoes, grabbed his jacket from the hook and his keys from the hall table, clutching them tightly to his palm to mute their tinkling. He was enjoying the cut of the sharp edges a little too much and squeezed harder, smiling grimly, imagining the heat and the smell of the blood as it oozed between his fingers and dripped from his clenched fist. It was sick, macabre, both triumph and failure and just for him, but he couldn’t allow himself to think like that. He needed people, company, right away, before the craving for self-destruction pushed any further through his flimsy defences. Hands shaking, he locked up and sped down the stairs, out of the apartment building—no, MY apartment building, MINE —and onwards to the commuter coffee bar in the train station, the only place open this early in the day.

“Morning, sir. What can I get you?”

“Vanilla latte, please—large, to go.”

The barista set to work, every clang and button push ringing scorn in Ade’s ears. Definitely too much wine last night, or that was part of the problem. The rest? The rest was just too much.

“Would you like anything to eat? Almond Danish, perhaps?”

“No, thanks.” He probably ought to eat something, but it hurt to speak, so there was no way he was getting a pastry past his lips. He noticed the barista kept looking at him; caught in the act, she smiled, and he smiled back. It wasn’t a wise move. His whole face felt stretched and undone, his tattered pride seeping through the cracks. Oh, don’t mind me, the poor little queer who deserves everything he gets. It was in his mind to say it, just to see her reaction, but they exchanged cash and coffee and all he said was thanks and then left, trying to go slowly because he was way too early and people would ask questions. With some effort, he dropped to a stroll and cautiously lifted the cup to his lips, choking back a laugh at the impossibility .

Even the coffee’s mocking me . Tilting his head to get any of the liquid out of the sippy hole and into his mouth was a non-starter—unless he was prepared to share his agony with all the early commuters marching by.

Discarding the lid in the next bin he passed, he took a moment to gather his thoughts and whatever else he could. He’d escaped, unnoticed, and for the next ten hours, theoretically, all he had to worry about was his work.

In an ideal world, it would have been a more taxing day with plenty to keep him preoccupied, perhaps a futuristic drama in need of custom effects or a documentary—experts were wafflers and always needed a ton of editing. But a contemporary play with a cast of four was what he had. On the plus side, the writing was decent, and he’d checked the roster of actors in advance. The two women he’d worked with before. The two guys he’d heard of but not met, although both were experienced radio actors, so there’d be no hand-holding. If they arrived on time and had given the script at least a cursory look over, Ade would be happy. Or not happy, but the recording should go well and keep him busy enough to partially shut the door on the other.

Except the other never took no for an answer and would kick the door down. There’d be no escape next time. No escape now, if he answered that incoming call. He pulled his phone from his pocket, dismissed the call and stepped off the kerb, a horn honk away from killing himself.

Idiot. Get a grip . He waved an apology at the cabbie and safely made it across the road, pausing to make the most of the adrenaline rush. He even managed to take a decent mouthful of coffee. The voicemail icon popped up. He switched off his phone, pocketed it and continued on his way, paying better attention to his surroundings, snatches of muffled music from passing cars, the streetlights’ glitter across the wet tarmac. It had rained heavily overnight, leaving the city fresh with only the slightest breeze—quite mild for October—and the sky was slowly brightening .

Mornings like this, Ade missed joining the other nicotine addicts for a quick puff outside the studio. It would’ve been an easy means to while away the hour and a half early he was. Maybe it would help him feel part of the world again?

At the door to the newsagent’s, he slowed and seriously contemplated purchasing a pack of Marlboro and a disposable lighter. He could see Gavin—the news producer—standing by the studio’s side entrance, lit cigarette poised between finger and thumb, hidden inside his hand, the other hand holding his phone. Ade gave in to the temptation, bought the cigarettes and went to join his fellow producer.

“Hi, Gav,” he called, attempting cheery but sounding like his jaw was wired shut.

The other man looked up from his phone screen and frowned, failing to hide his disgruntlement at being disturbed, but quickly replaced the frown first with a smile and then with another frown. “I thought you were off the ciggies.”

“Social smoking,” Ade said lightly, focusing his attention on peeling the cellophane from the packet and breathing, aware of Gavin’s appraising gaze passing over his face and of the bone-jarring throb that became more intense with every word uttered. Well, the adrenaline had been nice while it lasted.

Gavin returned his attention to his phone. “You’re in early. What you working on today?”

Ade flipped the lid, the scent of new cigarettes wafting wonderfully up into his nostrils. He teased one free and lit it, taking far too big an inhalation for his first smoke in six months. He suppressed the cough—barely. “A play,” he wheezed out, slowly letting the smoky breath wisp through his lips. “Kitchen sink makeover.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm.” The nicotine-induced dizziness was quite delightful. “It’s a contemporary interpretation of It Always Rains on Sunday —the script’s excellent.” He felt like a bad ventriloquist, squeezing the words through clenched teeth, and must’ve sounded that way too, as it took Gavin a moment to respond.

“Sounds like one of Sal’s,” he said dryly.

What started as a laugh was strangled by Ade’s inability to stretch his mouth into a smile and emerged as a breathy grunt. “It is,” he managed to push out.

Gavin nodded. “Should be good.”

“Yeah.” Ade was confident it would be. Sally O’Connor was one of those playwrights who could churn out a quality script once a week, every week, but they were all much the same, which wasn’t a bad thing. Listeners loved them; actors loved them, especially as Sal gave both actors and producer free licence to improvise, and if she liked what they’d created more than what she’d originally written, she’d incorporate the changes into her script. She got paid, whatever. She’d also known Ade a long time, and he was dreading her turning up today almost as much as he was dreading going home.

“I’m heading in,” Gavin said. “Catch you later.”

“See you.” Ade watched him leave, yet still jumped as the door banged shut. He’d thought he was past that. This time yesterday, he’d been certain of it, yet here he was, jacked up on nicotine and pain endorphins and not giving a shit about the state of his clothes or his hair or the damp seeping through his jacket from the brick wall he was leaning against. A poster boy for abject failure.

It had to be the cigarette making him feel sick. He stubbed it out half-smoked and shoved his hands in his pockets, his phone warm and silent against his chilled palm. He’d have to turn it on again soon, deal with that voicemail and however many more awaited him. Soon, but not yet.