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

14 Trouble Ahead

Ade

“A de , A de ! I’ ve been worried sick!”

“Sorry, Mary. I stayed at a friend’s place last night.”

“And a good thing it is too. He was here first thing this morning, hammering on the door and swearing loudly enough to wake the dead.” Mary cupped her hand around her mouth and muttered conspiratorially, “Even old Benny heard him, and his hearing aids haven’t worked since that time he washed them in Fairy Liquid. Anyway, Benny ordered him to leave or else he’d get the police and then threatened him with that starting pistol he keeps next to the bed—don’t ask how I know that. It’s very private.”

If ever there was an invitation to ask, that was it, but Ade had no intention of encouraging her. The mental image of toothless Mary and whiskery old Benny getting it on was not one he wanted to explore.

“So,” Mary continued, “Fergus told him to eff off or he’d call the effing police himself.”

Ade laughed, despite how scared he was, but he had a new weapon of his own today: resolve. Whether it would be enough, he didn’t know, but for the first time in as long as he could recall, he was thinking about the future, and it was Fergus-free. That future may or may not include Kris in the longer term; for now, he featured very prominently, as did Shaunna. New friends, a new beginning. Hope. All he had to do was put the past behind him and move on.

If only it were ‘all’ .

“Mary, can you do me a favour?”

“Of course, lovey.”

Ade unlocked his front door, grabbed the notepad from the table in the hallway and copied a number from his phone. He ripped off the top page and gave it to his neighbour. “If anything happens to me, will you call this number?”

Mary pulled her glasses down from the top of her head and peered through them at what Ade had written. “Kris?”

“Yes. The friend…” Ade paused and rephrased. “He’s my date from last night—I’ll tell you all about it another time,” he said when Mary clutched her emergency call button in delight. “But if it…if it gets bad, no-one will know to tell him.”

“Oh, Ade. You’re not planning on doing something silly, are you?”

“No!” However low Fergus had driven him over the years, he’d never thought that was his only way out.

“Promise me.”

“I’m just going to tell him to leave me alone.”

“How many times have you told him before?”

“And then let him come crawling back, I know. Not this time.”

Mary nodded. “All right, I’ll call this Kris if…” She scurried away without saying it, but Ade heard Kris’s words from the night before. He could’ve killed you. Fergus was no murderer; he just got off on power and control. But when that red mist descended…

Ade fled inside his apartment, fumbling the key with shaking hands to lock the door behind him. He leaned back against it and took a minute to steady himself, as always on high alert, listening for signs of danger, but all was quiet.

Safe for now, he headed for the kitchen, thinking it would be the easiest place to start, and almost fell at the first hurdle. In his haste to meet Kris the previous day, he’d dumped the empty wine bottles on the side and ignored the pile of dishes in the sink. He could only assume Fergus had been juggling toast, as there were crumbs and smears of butter across every surface, and something plastic had melted onto the stove top—the rings from a four-pack of baked beans or beer, it didn’t matter which. It was just one more mess to clean up.

The action was automatic, reaching for his phone to make a list of jobs, and he had the app open before he talked himself out of it and instead grabbed the egg slice and set to work on removing the molten plastic mess. It was stuck fast. Swapping the useless egg slice for the butter knife, he jabbed at the least stuck edge. The knife slipped and took a strip of enamel off the stove.

That was when the tears started, but Ade wasn’t giving in yet. He’d leave the stove for later, deal with the things he could do.

Leave the wine bottles by the door to take out later. Check.

Wash the dishes. Check.

Wipe down the surfaces. Check.

He kept track in head—everyone did that, he was sure—and moved on to the living room, which wasn’t too bad, since he’d removed all the dirty dishes and cleaned up the glass yesterday. He sat on the sofa and picked up the two halves of the TV remote, flipping them and sliding them against each other, but the lugs had snapped and they wouldn’t stay together. He supposed it made no difference if Fergus was taking the TV anyway.

Leaning forward to put the remote on the table, he froze as a chill spread across his lower back. A literal chill.

“He’s pissed on the sofa.”

Ade leapt to his feet and stared at the dark circle on the seat cushion. It didn’t matter whether Fergus had done it on purpose or not, and he’d probably just been so drunk he wet himself; after a night of soaking in, the smell would never come out. Something else ruined. He yanked each cushion from its cover, his disgust at the sensation of the heavy, damp fabric dissolving into tears.

How foolish to imagine he could simply cast Fergus out and move forward as if they’d never met. It wasn’t just the physical reminders of piss stink and scratched cookers, scars and healed fractures. Even now, with so many people on the outskirts of his life prepared to go into battle for him, the years of anguish, of existing in constant fear of harm and humiliation formed an impossible barrier. He couldn’t accept their help, but he couldn’t do this on his own either. It was hopeless, futile. This was his lot.

Stuffing the cushion covers into the washing machine, he overfilled the detergent drawer and chose the hottest cycle, startling when water surged into the drum. He whipped his head around in panic even though he knew Fergus wasn’t there. Or not in body. He was always in Ade’s head, tearing to shreds everything he’d achieved, extinguishing every glimmer of hope, a noxious, bloated cloud suffocating everything that was good in his life.

Snot and tears itched his face as he whirled around the apartment like a dust devil, stirring up chaos. The patio chair was broken. There was a crack in the left pane of the French doors, a gouge in the frame. The more he tried to fix and clean and make it right, the weaker he became until he slumped, spineless and jelly-like, onto his bed.

How had he let Fergus do this to him? In high school, like Kris, Ade had been out and proud—a mouthy little shit, his sister used to call him, since the bullies he took on sought her out, expecting her to take him in hand. She’d stood up for him, of course, and a few years later, he’d been able to return the favour when the boyfriend she’d thought was The One had given her chlamydia and then had the audacity to ask Ade to talk her into giving him another chance. She almost did go back to him, even though their parents, Ade, her friends and colleagues all hated him. He was a pilot who worked for the same airline she had at the time, older, charismatic in a sleazy kind of way, and a terminal womaniser. Ade hadn’t held back in telling her he was making a fool of her.

He’d been so na?ve, arrogant really, thinking he’d never ever fall into the trap she had, but men like that pilot and Fergus were master manipulators, emotional con artists who hit you at your weakest, like a tick you didn’t notice until they’d got a good firm grip and sucked half your life away. It was easy for others to say just pluck it out . That was what Ade had said before he was there, on the inside, losing himself to the ruggedly handsome Scotsman who’d offered his broad shoulders for Ade to cry on when his dad died and his family was so wracked with grief that no-one saw it until it was too late.

“How long do I have to put up with your stupid fucking self-indulgent whining. So your dad died. People die all the time. It’s pathetic.”

At the time, he’d convinced himself that Fergus was being cruel to be kind. Now he knew he was just being cruel, although ironically, it had got him through those first few months of bereavement, because he’d been so caught up in trying to figure out how not to make Fergus angry that missing his dad became secondary. By the time Ade started to question whether he really was to blame for the arguments, and that was all they were back then, the acute grief had dissipated, but he was too drained to fight.

His every waking moment was filled with monitoring what he said and did, trying not to rock the boat, and nothing he ever did was right. He was too noisy, disturbing Fergus’s lie-in or early night or TV programme. He was creeping around because he was hiding something. He’d let himself go because he wasn’t showering enough. He was having an affair because he was showering morning and night. It didn’t matter what he did or didn’t do, it was a reason for Fergus to attack him, verbally and then physically. Then came the grovelling. Fergus didn’t mean it, he’d just lost his temper—he’d do anything for Ade, he loved him. Would he talk to a therapist about his anger? Yes, Fergus said, if you come with me. So Ade booked an appointment, briefly optimistic until Fergus lied through his teeth.

“I may have lashed out once or twice, but we talked it through, and we’re OK about it now, aren’t we, Adrian?”

Ade remembered nodding in agreement and silently vowing to go straight home and pack his stuff, stay at his mum’s until Fergus got the message. That was eight years ago .

“Not me. Not my fault. Not my fault.” Ade hit stop on the memory replay and unplugged his tablet. He couldn’t do this without a checklist.

To go:

1. TV

2. stereo

3. DVDs (top two shelves)

4. …

Tablet in hand, he opened the wardrobe, the drawers and bedside table.

4. Clothes in left wardrobe

5. Shoes

6. Aftershave

He set down his tablet and examined the aftershave bottle, still full. He’d bought it for their first Christmas together, and it hadn’t been cheap, but he’d thought it would suit Fergus. He couldn’t recall what it smelled like now, but Fergus had hated it, or so he said. Ade popped the stopper out and sniffed. A wave of panic and nausea hit him and sent him into a cold sweat. He quickly shoved the stopper back in lest the genie fully escape and left the aftershave next to the wine bottles in the kitchen.

Back to the bedroom, he continued his inventory of the bedside table.

6. Aftershave

7. Books

8. Condoms

He flipped the box over in his hand. Fruit-flavoured condoms. Since when ?

9. Get tested

A fury ripped through him, but somehow he stayed in control long enough to put his tablet down. So many of his things had been destroyed over the years that even when all hell was in uproar around him, he had the sense to stash his most valued possessions out of harm’s way. Everything except himself because he was worth nothing. Less than nothing.

“No, no, no, no, no, no…” Why did his brain default to this? Because it was easier to be the useless, ugly creature that Fergus had turned him into? Easier not to break the habit? He didn’t love Fergus anymore. He wanted him out of his head and his life. He wanted a life, goddammit.

He was a thirty-six-year-old man, apparently not unattractive, with a successful career, a beautiful sister, gorgeous nephew and niece, a lovely mum who never once judged, never once put him on a guilt trip. Kris’s reaction to the bruises the night before had given him a flashback to the first time his mum saw them and the fear she tried to hide. But he’d seen it, felt it…was feeling it all over again.

He breathed deeply, in and out, one breath after another. What she must have been going through, like a parent whose child is dying and there’s nothing that can be done to save them. Because he was dying, slowly being destroyed by a vicious, vindictive monster who didn’t deserve to be that important. His mum was worth more than a million Fergus Campbells.

“And so am I.”

Pulling the biggest suitcase off the top of the wardrobe, he took the clothes, shoes, books, the fucking cheating-and-not-even-bothering-to-hide-the-fact bastard’s condoms and piled it all into the suitcase. Then he climbed onto the bed and knelt on the case, zipping it shut and tugging the two leather straps tight.

High on adrenaline and the release of years of repressed rage, Ade dragged the case to the floor and hauled it out into the hallway. Next, he unplugged the TV and stereo, dumped those in the hallway too, followed by the DVDs, the coffee maker, which was Ade’s, but he didn’t give a shit, Fergus’s favourite mug, which, naturally, he’d bought himself, and any other stupid odds and ends left lying around and claiming ownership of Ade’s space. Tie clips, cufflinks, pens, balled, dirty socks, half-eaten chocolate bars—it all went into a bag and out to the hallway.

Lastly, because he was feeling supremely brave or dangerously stupid and regardless, the gesture was overwhelmingly everything, he took the hideous couple portrait photo from where he’d hidden it behind the sofa, removed it from its frame and ripped it in half, straight down the middle. He forced the two halves through the shredder, emptied the resultant heap of paper into an empty shoe box, along with the token apologies—the promise ring, his half of a silver mizpah, the two ceramic bears holding up their lying ‘I luv U’ heart—

Not once had Fergus apologised for real, actually said the words I’m sorry .

—and the finishing touch: Ade took off his watch and bashed it hard against the corner of the table, shattering the screen and sending the little chrome hands into a timeless, satisfying tailspin. He whacked it a couple more times, just to be sure, laid the pieces of the completely destroyed watch on top of the rest of the meaningless trinkets and shredded remnants of their well-and-truly-dead relationship, and stuck the lid of the shoe box firmly shut, wrapping the tape around and around until there was only cardboard left on the roll. Taking a Sharpie, he wrote THE END on the top of the box, put it with everything else and took a step back to admire his efforts. This time they would not be in vain.

Next: go and make things right with his boss and Pip.

He didn’t have to go very far. As Ade opened the door to leave the building, he almost ran straight into Pip, who immediately flung her arms around him.

“Thank God. I’ve been calling you for ages!”

“I was dealing with…something. ”

Pip stepped away and eyed him with concern. “Is he here?”

“No, but I’m going to call him and get him to come for his stuff.”

“Ade—”

“I’ve packed it for him and left it in the hall.”

“Ade, you know—”

“I’m done, Pip. I can’t keep going through this.”

Pip’s expression remained unchanged.

“It’s the last time, I swear. Are you free later?”

“Why?” she asked suspiciously. “Do you want me to chair yet another reconciliation?”

Ade delayed answering. For as much as this was his fight and he didn’t want to embroil her in it, he thought he might need a witness.

“I’m doing this for real, Pip. It’s over.”

She sighed and kept shifting her eyes between him and the building, her expression doubtful, and who could blame her?

“What do you need me to do? Supervise and make sure he doesn’t take anything he shouldn’t?”

“No. I need you to supervise me. Make sure I don’t fall for his bullshit again.”

Pip nodded solemnly, and Ade hugged her.

“Thank you. For everything,” he said sincerely.

“Don’t,” she croaked. “Or I’ll cry.” Too late.

Ade held her tightly, gulping back his own tears, but they were no longer tears of hopelessness or frustration. They were tears of relief and maybe a little bit of grief.

“You mustn’t let him come back, Ade, you mustn’t. I’m so scared one day he’s going to…”

“I know, I know. Shh.” He stroked her hair, snuffling his nose into it and inhaling a few strands. He snorted them out again, along with some snot. She poked him in the side, feebly indignant, and they both laughed and cried together for a little while longer before setting off, arm in arm, for the radio station .

“Where did you stay last night?” she asked, trying to pass off her nosiness as concern. Ade hummed secretively. Pip gasped. “Were you with him?”

“Who?” Ade asked innocently.

“That guy from Monday morning?”

“Maaaaybe.”

“No way. What’s his name? Is he an actor? What did you do? Did you get up to anything—”

“Kris, yes, went for a meal, and no.”

“Oh.” Pip looked dead ahead, her cherub cheeks colouring up. She peered sideways at Ade and grinned. He was pretty sure they had matching blushes. “Are you seeing him again?” she asked.

“Yes. I think so. I hope so.” He really did. Pip squeezed his arm with hers until he squeaked.

“He seemed nice,” she said.

“He is. And so’s his wife.”

Pip stopped walking and narrowed her eyes. “You’re such a wind-up…”

His mouth twitched as he fought the smile.

“You’re serious?” she said.

Ade nodded.

“He’s married. To a woman? Ade!”

He burst into laughter. “It’s not like that. Come on.”

They moved off again, and Ade explained properly about Kris and Shaunna being separated, and Casper, and Kris’s stepdaughter, and his shellfish allergy, and so on, chattering away the entire ten-minute walk to the studio. When they parted company at the fourth floor, Pip still didn’t look fully convinced, but he promised he’d keep her posted on any developments and confirm the arrangements for later as soon as he’d spoken to Fergus. He was dreading it, but for the first time ever, he was confident he could see it through. A few hours from now, Fergus would be out of his life, for good.