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    Crying in the Rain
    Crying in the Rain
    Crying in the Rain
    Ebook227 pages2 hours

    Crying in the Rain

    By Debbie McGowan

    ()

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    About this ebook

    For many years, Ade Simmons has been an outsider, trapped in an abusive relationship, seeking sanctuary in his job as a radio producer, and in the checklists he makes in an attempt to regain control of his sorry excuse of a life.

    Actor Kris Johansson is patient, gentle and passionate—everything that Ade's ex-boyfriend is not. When Kris takes a role in one of Ade's plays, the attraction is mutual and instant. It is the turning point for Ade. He can either stay on the same path, with Fergus—the bully who has repressed, used and isolated him from his friends and family—or he can look in the other direction, towards Kris—the handsome actor with family and friends who readily accept him.

    But Fergus will not give up his punchbag so easily - can Ade finally find the strength to fight back?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBeaten Track Publishing
    Release dateNov 11, 2014
    ISBN9781909192607
    Crying in the Rain
    Author

    Debbie McGowan

    Debbie McGowan is an award-winning author of contemporary fiction that celebrates life, love and relationships in all their diversity. Since the publication in 2004 of her debut novel, Champagne—based on a stage show co-written and co-produced with her husband—she has published many further works—novels, short stories and novellas—including two ongoing series: Hiding Behind The Couch (a literary ‘soap opera’ centring on the lives of nine long-term friends) and Checking Him Out (LGBTQ romance). Debbie has been a finalist in both the Rainbow Awards and the Bisexual Book Awards, and in 2016, she won the Lambda Literary Award (Lammy) for her novel, When Skies Have Fallen: a British historical romance spanning twenty-three years, from the end of WWII to the decriminalisation of homosexuality in 1967. Through her independent publishing company, Debbie gives voices to other authors whose work would be deemed unprofitable by mainstream publishing houses.

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      Book preview

      Crying in the Rain - Debbie McGowan

      CRYING IN THE RAIN

      by

      Debbie McGowan

      SMASHWORDS EDITION

      * * * * *

      Copyright 2014 Debbie McGowan at Smashwords.

      https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/debbiemcgowan

      This book is available in print at most online retailers.

      http://www.beatentrackpublishing.com

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Cover Design: Natasha Snow

      www.natashasnow.com

      * * * * *

      This novel is a work of fiction and the characters and events in it exist only in its pages and in the author’s imagination.

      * * * * *

      For many years, Ade Simmons has been an outsider, trapped in an abusive relationship, seeking sanctuary in his job as a radio producer, and in the checklists he makes in an attempt to regain control of his sorry excuse of a life.

      Actor Kris Johansson is patient, gentle and passionate—everything that Ade’s ex-boyfriend is not. When Kris takes a role in one of Ade’s plays, the attraction is mutual and instant. It is the turning point for Ade. He can either stay on the same path, with Fergus—the bully who has repressed, used and isolated him from his friends and family—or he can look in the other direction, towards Kris—the handsome actor with family and friends who readily accept him.

      But Fergus will not give up his punchbag so easily—can Ade finally find the strength to fight back?

      * * * * *

      With special thanks (although words will never, ever be enough),

      love and hugs to AS, for tremendous adjectification,

      and for so spectacularly doing the necessary.

      ***

      "I know too much and not enough."

      Allen Ginsberg

      ***

      It Always Rains on Sunday

      (1947 film adaptation of novel by Arthur La Bern; directed by Robert Hamer)

      Dead Poets Society (1989)

      Star Wars Episode 5: The Empire Strikes Back (1980)

      Bridget Jones’s Diary (2001)

      The Wizard of Oz (1939)

      Back to the Future (1985)

      ***

      This novel is a work of fiction and the characters

      and events in it exist only in its pages and

      in the author’s imagination.

      * * * * *

      Table of Contents

      1: Always on a Sunday

      2: Out of Excuses

      3: Bottle

      4: Home

      5: Checklist

      6: Ginger

      7: Pip, Pip…

      8: Whatever Happens

      9: Murder

      10: Mum Knows Best

      11: Brief

      12: Atrium Antics

      13: Uncle

      14: Boyfriend

      Epilogue: Demise

      DV Support Helplines (UK)

      By the Author

      * * * * *

      1: Always on a Sunday

      Ade was awake.

      His alarm had been set to go off at six, but he’d barely slept all night, waiting for a ‘reasonable’ time to get out of bed. Five-fifteen was what he’d settled on, because if asked, he could contend that he needed to be in early to prepare the studio, even though the actors would most likely spend the morning rehearsing, and therefore wouldn’t start recording until after lunch. The clock displayed 5:14, and he waited out the seconds, his heart pounding double time to the flashing colon of the clock’s LED, as he mentally prepared for whatever might happen next.

      Whatever might happen next. He didn’t want to think about it.

      He rolled carefully onto his back, biting his lip to stop the hiss escaping as he lifted his arm and pushed away the duvet, sliding his right leg off the side of the bed. No response to this, he shuffled on his bottom towards the edge, breath held as he eased his left leg out, remaining as close to horizontal as he could. He paused, trying to breathe slowly through his nose, every sound amplified by the early morning silence. Bracing himself, he turned and sat up at the same time, wobbling slightly with the wooziness of last night’s wine and the throbbing pain, unable to pinpoint its origin, but he thought it was probably all over.

      In the bathroom, Ade set the shower running and put paste on his toothbrush. He gasped at the raw effort of opening his mouth, forcing the brush through the tiniest slit between his almost-closed swollen lips and circling slowly and agonisingly over his teeth, gradually pushing it around to the sides. He couldn’t spit out the foam and instead had to let it dribble from his mouth into the sink. He glanced up cautiously at his reflection in the mist-free mirror, hating the stupid face that stared back at him. Hating it. He grabbed the hand towel and draped it over the mirror, trying to shake off the feeling as he stepped under the cold jets, shivering, uncaring.

      After a while, he became used to the indifferent coldness. The sponge scraped over his skin, his pain receptors already overloaded so that it tingled rather than stung, like pinching a bruise. He took it for as long as he could, barely aware of his teeth chattering, or the telling numbness of his lips, nose, fingertips and toes. He turned off the shower, slipping slightly as he unsteadily climbed out and stood, quaking and dripping, and completely devoid of pride, on the bath mat. There was blood on the towel, but at least it was his own.

      He scrubbed his goose-bumped skin dry, returned, dithering, to the bedroom, and snatched at the first clothes his fingers came into contact with in the curtained darkness, taking them out to the living room to dress. The boxer shorts were old and grey, the shirt crinkled with frayed cuffs. Old and grey was how he felt. The trousers were those he usually wore to do the cleaning. The socks were OK, but he’d forgotten his shoes, and his hairbrush was also in the bedroom. It would take too long, and in any case his scalp felt like it was burning. No, he’d just go in, grab his shoes and leave, get a 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 table. Clutching the keys tightly to his palm to mute their tinkling, he was enjoying the cutting sensation of the sharp edges a little too much. He squeezed harder, smiling grimly, wondering if he could tighten his grip enough to slice into his hand, imagining the heat and the smell of the blood as it oozed between his fingers, the thick drips dropping from his clenched fist. It would feel like both triumph and failure and would be just for him.

      He couldn’t allow himself to think like this, needed people, company, right away. The sweet yet terrible craving was trying to break through all of his flimsy defences, and he locked up with shaking hands and sped off down the stairs, out of his apartment building—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 female barista nodded an acknowledgement and set to work, every clang and button push ringing scornfully 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, sir? Almond Danish, perhaps?

      Err, 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 he was under the overly intense scrutiny of the woman on the other side of the counter and smiled nervously. It wasn’t a wise move. His whole face felt stretched and undone. He was sure the woman could see the damage to both his muscles and his pride. They exchanged cash and coffee too quickly, and Ade left, trying to go slowly, because he was way too early, and people would ask questions. He dropped to a stroll and gingerly lifted the cup to his lips.

      Of course, trying to tilt his head back so that his latte would make it through the sip-hole and into his mouth was proving to be both tricky and painful. Even the coffee’s mocking me. He discarded the lid in the next bin he passed, and 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 think about was his work and the greyness of life.

      In an ideal world, it would be a more taxing and enriching day, with plenty to keep him preoccupied, perhaps a futuristic drama in need of custom effects, or a documentary that required cutting and splicing back together. But a contemporary play with a cast of four was what he’d got, and it wasn’t exactly difficult to produce. On the plus side, the script was good, and he’d checked out the roster of actors—the two women he’d worked with before. The two guys he’d heard of, but not met, although both were well-known radio actors, so it should be a straightforward job, providing they arrived on time and had given the script a cursory look over at the very least. It would allow him to partially shut the door on the other.

      Ade stopped walking, his phone now vibrating against his chest. He pulled it free, dismissed the call, stepped off the kerb, a horn honk away from killing himself. He stepped back and waved an apology at the cabbie. Idiot. Get a grip. His phone displayed the red missed-call icon. He switched it off, stuffed it back in his pocket, and successfully crossed the road with no further near-death experiences.

      The morning was mild and dry—unusually so for October. Back when he was smoking, he’d have been happy to stand with the other addicts from the studio, puffing away, chatting about nothing of great significance, an easy means to while away the hour and a half early that he was this morning. Maybe it would help him feel part of the world again? At the door of the newsagent, he paused and seriously contemplated purchasing ten Marlboro gold 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, his thumb-waggling indicative of heavy texting. Ade gave in to the temptation, bought the packet of Marlboro, and went to join his fellow producer.

      Hi, Gavin, 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 replacing the frown first with a smile, and then with another frown.

      I thought you were off the ciggies, Ade.

      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 the fucking awful throb vibrating up through his teeth with every word uttered. 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—just. A play, he squeezed out, slowly letting the smoky breath wisp through his lips. Kitchen sink makeover.

      Yeah?

      Mm, Ade sounded, finding the nicotine-induced dizziness quite delightful. "It’s a contemporary interpretation of It Always Rains on Sunday—the script’s really excellent." He felt like a bad ventriloquist, squeezing the words through clenched teeth, and it took Gavin a moment to interpret, at which point he mouthed an ‘oh’.

      Sounds like one of Sal’s, he remarked dryly.

      Ade made a sound that started out as a laugh, but was muffled by his inability to stretch his mouth into a smile and emerged as a breathy grunt. It is, he managed to push out.

      Gavin nodded knowingly. 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, not that this was a bad thing. Listeners loved them; actors loved them, especially because Sal gave both actors and director 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 was also one of Ade’s closest friends, which was perhaps the part of today he was dreading the most, when Sal did her mandatory stop-in to see how it was going.

      The cigarette was making Ade feel sick, and he stubbed it out half-smoked, a little irritated with himself for having succumbed to the urge.

      I’m heading back, Gavin said. Catch you later.

      See you, Gav. Ade watched him disappear through the side door, and waited a couple of minutes before he followed.

      The radio station building was a strange place to be this early in the morning. Other than the breakfast show and news teams, it was effectively deserted. A security guard manned the reception desk, and Ade decided to head that way, stretching his journey up to studio three, where they rehearsed and recorded the plays.

      Good morning, he greeted the guard—same bad ventriloquist act. He tried to unlock his jaw and somehow kept the scream silent.

      Morning, Mr. Simmons, the guard replied. Did you wet the bed?

      Something like that, Ade said, the faked lightness of tone skirting the edge of a dark, ugly abyss. He continued past the desk, holding his half-empty coffee cup by the rim so that it dangled from his hand.

      Oh, Mr. Simmons? the guard called. Ade backstepped.

      Mm?

      I think one of your actors is here already. A Mr… He checked the signing-in book, Johansson.

      He’s here now? Guess I wasn’t the only one who wet the bed.

      The guard chuckled. I sent him up to the cafeteria.

      Thanks.

      Ade went to the lifts, pressed the call button and pondered over whether to go and find his early arrival, or just head straight for the studio. On the one hand, he wasn’t in the mood for company; on the other, his precarious hold on sanity was more likely to stay if he had it. The lift arrived; Ade pushed the button for the fourth floor.

      Studio it is, he said to himself. He took a cautious sip of the now luke-warm latte, grimacing at both the temperature and the miserable ache in his jaw. This was ridiculous. He should have bought some painkillers too. Something else I’ve failed at already today, and it’s not even eight o’clock yet. The lift stopped and the doors opened onto an empty corridor. Ade stepped out, his mind once again starting to fill with destructive thoughts, like live electrical jolts from his jaw. He attempted to repress them by writing a mental list of things he needed to do before the actors arrived—correction, the rest of the actors arrived. He got as far as ‘check their details’, paused to drink a little more of the latte, stopped off at the toilet, tipped the rest into the hand basin and ditched the cup in the bin, all the while terribly aware of his failings reflected in the wide mirror running the length of the wall. The toilet flushed, and he quickly exited the room, not wanting to cause any potential embarrassment for whoever was in there, and also wishing he’d bought some mints or chewing gum to get rid of the fag and coffee breath. It was never a good combination—it was especially the case when working in an enclosed space with other people. Today he felt unworthy enough, without forcing others to endure his bad breath.

      Studio three was in darkness, as he’d expected, because the engineers wouldn’t bother them until midday. He switched on one set of lights and the air conditioning, and glanced around the partly illuminated space, breathing the cool fresh air in deeply through his nose, slowly releasing it through narrowed lips, at the same time gradually easing his mouth open as far as he could. Another breath; another couple of millimetres.

      OK then. Let’s see if proper talking is a possibility. So far so good. He tried jutting out his chin. Excruciating waves of pain shot through his head. Ahh. Too much. Shit. He wasn’t the most talkative of producers at the best of times, having to plan the words in advance as much as he did, but it was going to be a struggle to convey what he needed if he couldn’t even utter a full sentence without the pain making him flinch and swear.

      He sat down and pinched the corners of his eyes, hard. No, he said, breathing rapidly. I will not let this happen. Seeking distraction, even though he’d already looked through it, he picked up the folder containing the actors’

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