Suicide Vacation

by Rich Allen

  Chapter Twenty Six:

  Brightness greeted Jack as he opened his eyes. He glanced at the wall and saw the shadow of a man in a sleeping bag. He’d slept well considering the lack of a proper pillow. He unzipped himself and got up, taking a moment to note the purple stain on the carpet. His mouth felt like it needed a good freshen up so he wandered into the bathroom where he found a rolled up tube of toothpaste which he managed to squeeze the life out of. Jack guided the tricolour paste onto his finger and then onto his teeth. A quick rinse out with cold water completed his dental hygiene. He looked at himself in the mirror. Not too bad considering he’d downed several pints last night.

  Rummaging through the kitchen cupboard unearthed a sachet of lemon and ginger tea along with a packet of instant noodles. Maybe he’d give breakfast a miss. The smell of the kebab suddenly hit his nostrils. He’d left it out on the work surface. He must’ve been pissed. Picking up the congealing article with his hand inside a carrier bag, he placed it in the bin like a conscientious dog owner after their pet had taken a number two in the park.

  After a quick shower, Jack dried himself off and headed to the walk-in wardrobe in the bedroom in the hope of finding something fresh to wear. Had he completely emptied it before embarking on his Suicide Vacation? He couldn’t remember. He pulled back the sliding door and spotted a belt on the floor. Anything else that hadn’t been sold or given away to the charity shop? There! Some underwear lay on a shelf and an old pair of jeans on the one below it. A fresh t-shirt would’ve been nice, but at least he could now wear jeans instead of shorts, and he had some clean underwear to climb into.

  A light flashed on Jack’s phone, catching his eye as he made for the bathroom. ‘Good to catch up last night fella,’ the text message read, ‘feel a bit rough this morning though.’ Steve had included Chris Fisher’s number and concluded his message with the words: ‘Give him a call so that he knows you’re interested in coming back.’

  Was Jack really interested in going back to Spirit? He’d feel a bit cheap calling Chris Fisher and asking if there was any work going. “Oh, hi Chris, I heard they binned Fat Dave. Any chance of getting my old job back?” No self-respecting person would do that. Had he no shame? The ugly truth; Jack had missed the buzz when the studio mic went live. If it meant getting back on the radio, his ego would overlook the shame of going cap in hand to the same company that had binned him a year earlier. He’d just have to choose his words carefully when he spoke to Chris, maybe suggest meeting for a coffee?

  Jack tried to fix his hair as best he could without any gel, instead applying a smidgen of Vaseline lip balm, which helped to style his locks but left them a tad greasy. He walked into the bedroom, grabbed the memory fob from the drawer then headed downstairs and past the envelopes which he’d left on the bottom step. Outside, a strong breeze greeted him. Jack loved the north east but the weather could be vicious, especially the near hurricane winds which regularly swept through. ‘Blowin a hoolie’ is what the locals called it.

  Food was in order. Jack walked against the wind towards the main road. He followed his nose which vacuumed in the aroma of bacon emanating from Kate’s Kitchen. After ordering a Full English, he placed himself on a small table, where a young girl in a candy striped apron presented him with a piping hot mug of tea. Jack observed as several men in overalls and florescent orange bibs came in and ordered bacon sarnies ‘to go’ in their accusatory Geordie tones. When his plate of fried food finally arrived, he devoured it with the gusto of a hunger striker whose demands had finally been met.

  Post breakfast, Jack made his way down the main street and into the small ugly building he knew to be the library. Not that he’d been in there before. Libraries weren’t exactly cool, but he had a membership card for the new hi-tech one in Newcastle. Hopefully this backwater book depository would have the odd computer for customers to use. The décor was exactly as Jack remembered his local library as a child; big wooden bookcases, frosted windows, institutional grey flooring and a grandiose reception area.

  “Can I help you?” asked a curvy blonde lady in her thirties.

  Jack smiled. What was the world coming to? Attractive non spectacle wearing librarians! “Hi. I was wondering if I might be able to use the internet for twenty minutes,” he said.

  “Are you a member?”

  “Not here, but I am at the library in Newcastle.”

  “I see,” she seemed nice enough. “Would you mind filling out a temporary membership form, then we can get you on one of our machines. You get the first thirty minutes online free, then it’s two pounds for another half hour. There should be a computer available soon.”

  “No problem.” Jack filled out a few forms then waited around for an elderly couple to finish up their silver surfing before diving onto one of their curiously warm seats. He extracted his memory fob and typed in the password on a slip of paper which the librarian had handed him.

  A timer appeared at the bottom of the screen, counting down from thirty minutes. He inserted the USB Fob into the front of the machine and double clicked on his Word Document. He’d better take a quick look to check for any errors. He’d already edited and proof read the novel to the best of his ability, but another check wouldn’t do any harm would it? He scanned through, chapter by chapter as the counter churned away twenty minutes of free web time. No obvious errors in the manuscript; it looked good to send.

  Jack double checked the timer at the bottom of the screen. Plenty of time to check his emails before sending off the document. A frisson of excitement shot through him as he logged in to his email account. Perhaps Quint had sent him a message. He hoped so. Ah, two messages… both spam by the look of them. Strange, though; there didn’t appear to be any sign of the previous emails from Quint. Weird, because Jack hadn’t deleted them. The timer showed seven minutes remaining, so he scrolled down and found the email from Sandra Chandler. He copied and pasted her address into a new message then wrote:

  Hi Sandra,

  I hope you’re well. As requested, please find attached the whole manuscript of my novel ‘The Stone of Destiny.’ I really hope that you like it. Any comments would be greatly appreciated.

  Regards

  Jack Holden.

  He added his phone number then uploaded the document from his memory fob and hit Send. ‘Message Sent’ flashed up. Job done. Out of his hands. He’d done his bit and now fate would decide his future. He had three minutes left so he double checked his inbox. No, all of the emails from Quint had definitely vanished. They weren’t even in the trash folder. The voice of Val Kilmer playing Jim Morrison in The Doors echoed around Jack’s mind: ‘This is the strangest life I’ve ever known.’

  Jack got up just before the timer ran out. He said goodbye to the foxy librarian and headed across the street to the no frills German supermarket where he loaded up with enough consumables to last the week along with some essential toiletries.

  Back home, he wondered what he might do to entertain himself of an evening. With no television or books, it would have to be listening to the radio. Despite being a former presenter, Jack had never actually been an avid radio listener. A lot of radio jocks were what was known as ‘anoraks’: people consumed with the minutiae of the industry. The type who, since childhood, had always dreamed of being on the radio. These creatures collected jingles and wrote about themselves in the third person on internet radio forums.

  Conversely, as a child, Jack had never aspired to work in radio. He’d never even listened to much of it. Advertising had been his aspiration. He’d wanted to write TV commercials, so, after leaving school he enrolled on a business course which included advertising as one of its optional units. Unfortunately, the college dropped advertising, leaving Jack to learn about banking and business finance. He left after only six months and took a job in a factory. Dreams dashed! But then, as one door closes…A slightly geeky school friend whom he’d stayed in touch with happened to do a show on the local hospital radio. Jack went along with him to the s
tudio one night where his mate persuaded him to have a go behind the microphone. It was just a bit of fun, but to Jack’s surprise, he enjoyed it.

  With no passion for his factory job, he thought it might be a good idea to see if he could actually cut it as a broadcaster. It turned out he could, though it would take three years until he became good enough to turn pro. The day he left the factory for an on air position at Yorkshire FM was one of the happiest of his life. He may have been earning peanuts doing the overnight shift, but it freed him from the cake factory. He’d made it out of the gateaux.

  What the hell’s that? Jack recognized the tune. The intro to ‘I want You Back’ by The Jacksons. The noise seemed to be coming from inside his jacket; his phone! He extracted the Nokia and clocked the number on the display which started with 0191; the code for Newcastle. Nobody apart from Steve and Zoe knew this number, did they? Then again, this was the phone which he’d found in Café Santiago in Rome. And what the hell was going on with all these random ringtones anyway? Maybe he should let the call go through to voicemail. Oh, what the hell!

  “Hello,” Jack recognised the nervous edge in his voice as he spoke into the mouthpiece.

  “Hi. Is that Jack?”

  The voice sounded familiar. “Yeah, who’s this?”

  “It’s Chris Fisher. How are you doing, mate?”

  Jack felt a huge sense of relief wash over him. This would save him a job; after all, he’d intended to call Chris later. “I’m doing ok, thanks mate. Long-time no speak. How are things with you?”

  “Yeah, really good thanks,” said Chris. “I got your number off Steve Horne. I don’t know if he told you about the changes that have taken place here.”

  “Yeah, he mentioned something about Dave leaving.” Poor old Dave!

  “That’s right, so I’m in temporary charge.”

  “Congratulations.” Jack said.

  “Cheers. Well look, I don’t know if you’d be interested or not, considering what happened before, but I’ve got some shifts on Spirit that I need covering and I thought you’d sound great doing them.”

  “Oh right.” Music to Jack’s ears. “Which shifts?”

  “I’ve got Mornings next week to cover then probably lots more coming up after that. I can give you a bit of time to think it over if you want, but I need to get it boxed off by tomorrow.”

  That was sweet of him, Jack thought, offering some thinking time - but not necessary. “That all sounds fine to me, Chris.”

  “You’ll do it? Oh that’s great. Can you come in tomorrow and I’ll take you through the show.”

  “Yeah that’s fine. What time?”

  “How about eleven?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Jack said.

  “Great. Look forward to seeing you then. You’ll have to ring the buzzer from outside then someone will come down and take you upstairs.”

  “Ok.” They’d no doubt made the receptionist redundant, Jack thought.

  “See you tomorrow, Jack.”

  “Yeah, see you Chris. Thanks.”

  Jack waited for the line to go dead before he started dancing around the bedroom. He couldn’t believe his luck. All that fretting about calling Chris Fisher and then the man himself picks up the phone and calls him. Not only that, but he offers him a week on Mornings with the promise of lots more work. What a difference a week could make. He composed himself, went into the kitchen and made a cup of tea, then texted Steve the news.

  The phone beeped before Jack had managed his first sip. A text from Steve: ‘Ace news. See you at work.’

  Jack composed a text message for Zoe. He so wanted her to be with him to share in his moment. It wasn’t like he’d won the lottery or anything, but he felt vindicated somehow. Somebody wanted his services, and, for the first time in a very long time, he felt valued. ‘I’m back on the radio baby!’ is what he sent.

  High on optimism, Jack headed into town where he changed his remaining euros into sterling and bought some new clothes. He made sure not to spend too much, just a few items which had caught his eye in the sale. He’d need to look the part when he turned up at Spirit FM tomorrow. It had long been a scenario which Jack had played out in his dreams. Well, not quite the same: Fat Dave had been on his knees, begging Jack to come back, telling him that he’d made a terrible mistake in getting rid of him and offering him a massive pay rise to return. The real life scenario was even better though, because Fat Dave himself had now been axed. This felt more like justice!

  The phone beeped to alert Jack to a text message. He’d only just got through the front door. He picked up the envelopes from the bottom step then made his way into the sparse lounge. The text was from Zoe:

  ‘Great news Jack. I’m really pleased for u. Wish I could be there to help u celebrate. Just left the hospital. Hopefully Mom will be out tomorrow. Speak later and you can tell me all about being back on the radio. Zoe x.’

  Jack sat down on the solitary chair and stared out of the window as the diminishing amber hues of daylight turned slowly into night. He felt like he needed to catch his breath. Not in a physical sense, more an emotional one. One week ago he’d travelled to Barcelona to end his life. With no job prospects, no significant other and the bank about to foreclose on the flat, it seemed his only release. Seven days later and Jack had the promise of radio work, a wonderful lady in his life and the vague hope that his book might be published. It all seemed like a wonderful dream that he was bound to wake up from at any moment.

  The envelopes sat there on the carpet seemingly staring up at Jack. Avoidance was no use – he might as well bite the bullet and open the damn things. Six letters in total; three brown and three white. Brown first! He ripped into the envelope and saw the reminder for unpaid National Insurance. Eighty seven quid they wanted. The next letter was also from the National Insurance folk, informing him that his direct debits had bounced back. Yeah - his overdraft was maxed out. He tore open the remaining brown envelope and read the letter:

  Dear Mr Holden

  According to our records you are due an income tax rebate for overpayment for the year ended 4th April 2009. Details of the overpayment are included on the reverse of this sheet.

  I have attached a cheque for £976.56

  Yours faithfully…etc…etc.

  An income tax rebate! He must be dreaming. He examined the cheque, just to make sure that it was kosher. Sure looked it! He re-read the letter several times, and when finally convinced of its provenance, kissed the cheque and held it aloft like an Olympic gold medal.

  On a high, Jack ripped into the first white envelope. It was from the bank. Surprise, surprise – his mortgage payment had bounced again. He now owed four months of payments totalling nearly seventeen hundred quid. The next envelope contained another reminder from the bank; threatening Jack with a repossession order should he fail to contact them within the next seven days. So, he had just under a grand in one hand and in the other a debt for nearly twice as much. Still, it was a far better scenario than he’d imagined. He couldn’t believe his luck with the tax rebate. Last time he’d checked; he owed the taxman a few grand, not the other way around. Still, never look a gift horse in the mouth! He’d call the bank in the morning and explain that he could pay off two months arrears if they gave him a couple of days grace for the cheque to clear. He’d need to pop into town in the morning and deposit the cheque in his personal account.

  The final white envelope was from the utility company; enquiring why their direct debit had bounced. ‘We suggest you call us as a matter of urgency.’ Yeah, whatever!

  Feeling full of hope, Jack cracked open a cheap bottle of Merlot and set about making himself a chicken madras. Cooking could be therapeutic. Not that he needed therapy anymore. He took the portable radio into the kitchen and tuned into Spirit FM where he heard Simple Simon’s tones:

  “That was David Bowie and Starman. This is Simon, here on Spirit FM. I’ve got the Oldies Jukebox coming up later, so get your request in now…’ He sounded a bit d
own, Jack thought. Maybe he’d got wind of what lay in store for him. Jack felt tears streaming down his cheeks. Bloody onions!

  Chapter Twenty Seven:

  After tea, Jack texted Zoe to check if it was ok to call her. It was.

  “Hi, Jack,” her voice sounded upbeat as she answered the phone. “So, it sounds like things are going well for you over there. You excited about being back on the radio?”

  “A little, I suppose.” He’d wanted to sound understated but realized it had come out as nonchalant. “How’s your mum?” he asked her.

  “Oh, she’s getting there. Hopefully she’ll be able to leave hospital tomorrow. The doctor doesn’t recommend flying until at least next week, though. Did you manage to email your book manuscript off to the agent?”

  “Yeah, all sorted. Just got to wait and see what she thinks. It’ll probably be a ‘thanks but no thanks.’”