Suicide Vacation

by Rich Allen

  “Hey mister! You need to be more positive, you hear?”

  Jack smiled. “Yeah, I hear you. I wish I could be with you right now. I miss you.”

  “I know you do,” she said.

  Jack paused for a moment, then said: “Err, I think the correct response is: ‘And I miss you too.’”

  “I’m just playing with you, Jack. Of course I miss you. Listen. I don’t want you to worry about a thing. Everything is going to work out just fine, I promise.”

  “I really hope so. When do you think I’ll be able to see you?” he asked.

  “That’s the sixty four million dollar question. I mean I’d love to pop over to the UK before heading back to the States but I should help my folks get home. I still feel bad about leaving my mom when I came to look for you in Rome.”

  “Of course,” Jack said, “I totally understand that your mum has to come first. I’m just glad that she’s on the mend.”

  “Thanks. I know it’s frustrating. The distance I mean. Hey, I don’t suppose Quint has been in touch since you returned has he?”

  “No he hasn’t, in fact when I checked my email yesterday, all of his previous correspondence had been deleted, but not by me.”

  “What, you mean the emails had all gone?”

  “Yep. Every one. Weird, huh?”

  Zoe laughed. “No weirder than all the other stuff that’s been happening to you. Do you think you’ll hear from him again?”

  “I doubt it, but you never know. So anyway, how’s Milan? I loved it when I went.”

  “You never mentioned that you’d been. It’s really beautiful isn’t it? Not that I’ve had much chance to see the sights. Maybe when Mom gets out of hospital. The apartment is close to Il Duomo. It looks like an amazing Cathedral.”

  “Yeah Il Duomo is amazing though I recall it was covered in scaffolding when I visited. I wish I could be there with you. I doubt your folks would want me around, though.”

  “Oh, they’re both pretty cool really. You don’t need to worry about them. Pop’s a real pussycat. Anyway, tell me about the exciting news - you getting back on the radio. Is this at Spirit FM?”

  “Yeah.” Jack then told her all about Chris Fisher’s phone call and his appointment to meet him.

  “It’ll seem a bit weird though won’t it? I mean going back there?” Zoe asked.

  “Yeah I guess so,” Jack said. “I’ve always thought it best to move forward in life. So I’m sort of swimming against the tide of my own beliefs, but it’s all about necessity at the moment. I need cash and they’re willing to pay me.”

  “Things still bad on the cash front?”

  “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you,” Jack said. “I opened a letter earlier and found a cheque from the Inland Revenue for nearly a thousand pounds. I couldn’t believe it. I still need to sort things out with the bank about my mortgage, but I can definitely see some light at the end of the tunnel.”

  “Oh that’s fantastic news. What was it? Some kind of rebate?”

  “Yeah, apparently I’d overpaid some tax. Funny thing though, because I thought I owed them money. Anyway, I’m not complaining. I need to get that cheque in the bank before they realize that they’ve made a mistake.”

  “Well listen mister, I’m really pleased that you’ve had a good day and I’m sure tomorrow will be even better.”

  “Thanks and good luck for tomorrow with your mum. You tell her to take it easy.”

  “Don’t worry. We’re watching her like a hawk. Good night, babe.”

  “Goodnight,” Jack whispered into the handset, followed by “I love you…”

  “Love you too, honey. Sweet dreams.”

  Jack heard the drone as the line went dead. Zoe and he might be hundreds of miles apart but in that moment he felt a closeness that pulled them together like a magnet. Things would work out between them. He just knew it.

  Jack spent the remainder of the evening drinking Merlot whilst sat on the floor listening to Paddy McDonald on Radio Wearside. It was on old fashioned type of show with quizzes and plenty of chat which appealed to a large demographic. Paddy was playing some good tunes tonight. It had been years since Jack heard ‘I Don’t Mind at All’ by Bourgeois Tagg and he found himself singing along.

  Paddy finished his show at twelve with the full length version of The Rolling Stone’s ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want.’ Jack took this as his cue to turn in. He turned off the light and nestled himself into the nylon womb of the sleeping bag. He felt a little nervous about going to Spirit FM in the morning. The last time he’d been in that building, he had to hand in his security fob as well as the gate buzzer for the car park. In his mind he knew that going back wasn’t the right thing to do. Forwards in life, not backwards – that should be the way. People would ask him what he’d been doing with his life for the past twelve months. The answer was simple enough: bugger all. Still, lots of different faces would now be working there. There would no doubt have been the usual high turnover of staff in both Sales and News. Steve had been moved to the Breakfast Show, so he’d probably still be around when Jack came in at eleven to see Chris Fisher. Always good to see a friendly face.

  He remembered to set the alarm on his phone. Eight thirty would be ok, though the light coming through the net curtains would probably wake him well before then. An early start would be best. He had stuff to do, like phoning the bank about his mortgage and putting the cheque from the revenue into his account. It would be best to do that before he met with Chris Fisher.

  As he closed his eyes a picture of Zoe entered Jack’s head. She smiled at him from the frame of an artist’s canvas. Her blonde hair blew about in the breeze as she stood there in the foreground. The intentionally clumsy brushstrokes of an impressionist lily pond filled the background of the picture. She held out her hands, beckoning him towards her and he followed her into the pastel haze.

  Chapter Twenty Eight:

  Jack woke well before his phone alarm could do its worst. He’d showered and eaten breakfast by the time it started its succession of louder and louder beeps. He changed into the plaid shirt which he’d purchased in the sale then turned on the radio and listened to Steve on Spirit FM. The music seemed about the same. Mainly oldies from the sixties through to the late eighties. Jack had learned a lot about music by working at Spirit. For instance, he never knew that Otis Redding wrote ‘Respect’ which became Aretha Franklin’s signature song, or that Bob Dylan had written ‘The Mighty Quinn’ which Manfred Mann went on to have a hit record with, or that Burt Bacharach and Hal David had penned ‘I say a Little Prayer.’ It had been an education.

  The down side with working an oldies format was that you were literally stuck in the past. Whilst your colleagues down the corridor at Galaxy FM played the latest songs by Cradle of Skunk or Sex Offender, you played the same old hits over and over again. Jack loved The Beatles and The Stones but hearing Penny Lane and Brown Sugar every day soon ate away at your soul. Still, he’d been one of the rebels who’d free spun. Free-spinning meant deviating from the playlist. Very Naughty! Deleting one of the tired and predictable songs and replacing it with something underplayed. Spirit FM had played no more than two hundred and fifty songs when Jack worked there. The same as having an iPod with two hundred and fifty oldies and nothing else. The same song would come around on a predictably regular basis. Listeners would often ring up and complain about the lack of variety. Some even offered to post CDs because they assumed that Spirit only had a dozen at most.

  Oldies radio played good songs, but sometimes it felt like being back at the factory, so Jack spiced things up with some of his own selections. Nothing too out of the mainstream, but enough to keep the listeners and himself interested. He’d never once been pulled up by Fat Dave for free-spinning. Probably because Fat Dave never listened to the output. He was far too busy trying to feather his own nest by kissing senior management’s backside or trying to seduce the work experience girls. All that management really cared about were the listening fi
gures and Jack’s had been very good. He’d doubled the audience for Evenings in the first two years and then nearly doubled it again before Fat Dave swung his axe through the door of Jack’s career like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. ‘Here’s Fatty!’

  Steve finished up some light banter with Chopper Dave, and then played ‘Proud Mary’ by Creedence Clearwater Revival. What a tune, Jack thought. Covered more times than a table cloth in a curry house. Ike and Tina Turner had done it and so had Solomon Burke. Even Elvis sang it at his live shows, though the most notable recording would have to be that of Leonard Nimoy. Yes, him of the pointy ears from Star Trek.

  Jack felt ready to tackle Thursday. First he needed to call the bank. He checked the time on his phone. Just gone nine. Should be open for business. He dialled the number on one of the many letters they’d sent him. The phone rang for several seconds before a polite sounding lady answered with a ‘Hello, how can I help you?’

  “I’d like to discuss my mortgage arrears please…”

  The conversation with Sylvia from the Mortgage Arrears Department went surprisingly well, Jack thought. She’d been critical about his sticking his head in the sand regarding the debt but had mellowed somewhat when Jack explained that he could pay off two months arrears when his cheque had cleared. Sylvia explained that it was not the bank’s intention to turf him out of his home, but that they also wouldn’t tolerate any more missed payments. She left Jack waiting on hold while she discussed his situation with someone higher up the food chain, forcing him to listen to muzak for about ten minutes. He hated that cack noise that companies always piped into your lugs when you were on hold.

  When Sylvia returned to the phone she apologised for the wait and explained that the bank had an arrears repayment plan suggestion to offer him. ‘Had you not called today, Mr Holden, then I’m afraid we would have issued an eviction notice tomorrow. As it is, I can offer you a lifeline,’ she said saviour-like. The offer was that Jack had to pay off two months arrears by Tuesday next week and continue to pay his mortgage the following month as normal. The other two months of unpaid mortgage would be added on to the term of his agreement so he wouldn’t have to worry about them in the short term.

  Jack had agreed to what seemed a generous offer and Sylvia concluded their conversation by telling him that she’d send confirmation of their verbal agreement in the post; a copy of which Jack would be required to sign and return. As a caveat she told him that any failure to follow the agreement would result in his home being repossessed. Scare tactics – and she’d seemed so nice!

  Jack felt the huge weight lifted from his shoulders. He’d done it; he’d kept the wolves from the door… for a while at least. No need to worry about bailiffs and repossession men just yet. Next, he phoned the utility company that supplied his gas and electric. They agreed not to cut him off if he paid them a nominal amount by the following week. The water company weren’t quite so sympathetic, but they offered to fit him a water meter. So, all in all – a successful morning’s work. He now needed to get into town and bank that cheque from the Revenue.

  Outside, the cold blustery wind greeted Jack with its usual hostile charm. The sunnier climes of Barcelona and Rome seemed but a distant memory now. He walked down the street towards the grey concrete edifice that housed the Metro. He didn’t have much change on him so decided to busk it. It wasn’t Jack’s fault that the antiquated ticket machines didn’t allow for you to pay with notes. Always a gamble though, getting on without a ticket. Inspectors might arbitrarily hop on at any stop.

  Over the years, he’d seen many people caught out and forced to stump up the twenty quid spot fine. Failure to comply meant a court date and also that your name would appear on a wall of shame inside the stations. A bit like playing Russian roulette, Jack thought. His movie mind kicked into gear as he boarded the city bound train that had just pulled up to the platform. Russian roulette: The Deer Hunter. An Oscar for De Niro as Michael and one for Christopher Walken in his supporting role as Nick, the mentally tortured soldier turned Russian roulette addict.

  ‘I gotta get more bullets in the gun,’ Michael had said to Nick when they’d been forced to play the deadly game against each other.

  ‘What? Are you crazy?’

  ‘Nicky, it's the only way. I'll pick the moment. The game goes until I move. When I start shootin', go for the nearest guard, get his gun and zap the fucker!’

  As a study into the horrific effects of war on ordinary people, the film stood, in Jack’s opinion as a cinematic tour de force.

  Jack got off at Central Station and headed into the bank, where he queued for several minutes before reaching a cashier and depositing his cheque. Another job done. With only half an hour to go before his meeting with Chris at Spirit FM, he began to feel nauseous. The symptoms of good old fashioned nerves. Absolutely nothing he could do about it except face his fears. Maybe he was afraid of going back on the radio. After all, it had been a year since he’d presented a show. He’d certainly be rusty. Would he still be able to cut it though? He’d be as nervous as a kitten next Monday when he put the mic fader up to speak his opening link. What would he say? “Hello this is Spirit FM. Remember me?” These thoughts cascaded through his mind as a light drizzle fought to break through the biting wind on the walk up Collingwood Street. His hair came under attack so he sheltered under the subway just below the Spirit FM building.

  Jack glanced up at the new neon lit logos for Spirit and its younger sister station, Galaxy. Always rebranding but never actually changing. He checked his phone for the time; quarter to eleven. Oh well, no harm in being a bit early. He kept his head down to avoid getting wet as he ran the fifty metres or so from the subway to the radio station. He only just avoided a collision with a blind umbrella user. Weren’t they all? Too busy looking at the ground to see where the hell they were going. The amount of times he’d nearly had his eye poked out by some inconsiderate fool walking along with an open brolly over their head.

  He peeked through the glass in the double doors. Nope, nobody there. It seemed his hunch about Lynne the receptionist had been correct. She’d been at Spirit since the year dot and Jack had hoped that she’d be there to greet him on his return. No, they’d obviously made the poor cow redundant.

  After ringing the buzzer Jack waited patiently in the covered area outside. After two more buzzes he heard a voice through the intercom:

  “Spirit FM, can I help you?” Jack didn’t recognize the female voice. Probably somebody in Sales.

  “Hi, it’s Jack Holden. I’m here to see Chris Fisher.”

  “Oh, ok. Do you have an appointment?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I’ll buzz you through. Just wait in reception for a minute until someone comes down to collect you.”

  “No worries.” Collect me? What am I? A lost pet?

  The door made an elongated buzzing noise and Jack pushed open what he hoped would be a new chapter in his life. They’d certainly tarted up the reception area; logos everywhere, fancy sofas and a coffee table adorned with the latest lifestyle magazines. They’d even installed a drinks machine. Through the speakers over the empty reception desk, Jack heard Spirit FM’s Morning Show pipe out an advert for the Spirit FM Dating Service. His stomach started doing somersaults as he sat down on the low sitting leather. He really didn’t wish to appear nervous when he met Chris. He’d always suffered with nerves, but they normally only affected him before he interviewed some big star or had to meet the new managing director. It was different with Chris though, after all, they knew each other.

  He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and focused on all the wonderful things that had happened to him in the past week; meeting Zoe, the interest in his book, the money from the cash card, the cheque from the Inland Revenue and then the new opportunities at the radio station. He cusped his hands over his face and pondered on Jeremiah twenty nine, verse eleven.

  “Hi, is it Jack?”

  He hadn’t noticed anyone open the security door. He
took his head out of his hands and saw a slim dark haired girl. “Yeah, that’s me,” he said. She couldn’t have been more than nineteen. She’d probably thought that he looked a bit odd, sat there with his head in his hands.

  “Hi, I’m Helen. I’ll take you up to see Chris.”

  “Thanks.”

  In the lift, Jack learned that Helen was on work experience. She’d been there eight months and had another four to go. All unpaid, of course. She said she liked it and hoped that they’d keep her on after her year. Fat chance, Jack thought. She’d be replaced by another eager intern, willing to work for nothing.

  The lift arrived on the second floor and Helen used her fob to swipe them through a set of double doors and into the hub of the radio station. They walked past News where several people typed away at keyboards, their eyes never leaving the screen. Jack didn’t recognize any of them. On to the programming area and a face Jack did recognise. Steve shot him a wave. He was sat chatting to Chris Fisher who turned around and clocked Jack. “Hi Mate,” he said.