Page 2 of Crying in the Rain

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 ofIt Always Rains on Sunday—the script’s excellent.” He felt like a bad ventriloquist, squeezingthe 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.

2: Early Birds

Kris

TheManchester trainwas as empty as the platform had been, for the time being at least. Their hometown station was so small, Kris had rarely seen anyone else boarding the first train even when he’d taken it regularly, but the commuters wouldn’t be far behind. He kind of missed being one of them, if only because he’d had a travel permit and wouldn’t have been worrying about accidental fare evasion since there was no longer a staffed ticket office. Nor was there an automated machine, so Kris took his seat, fare in one hand, script in the other, and kept a lookout for the guard.

He didn’t need to leave this early. He wasn’t really sure why he had. This job was no different from any of the other plays he’d worked on, other than it being the first decent role he’d picked up in a while, and it felt like a step in the right direction, a real move away from ads and voiceovers. Not that he regretted the fourteen years he’d been doing that. After all, how many actors secured long-term, salaried positions straight out of college? Admittedly, he’d shared his classmates’ mindset in thinking radio acting was an old man’s game, but unlike his classmates, he’d had responsibilities to people other than himself.

It might not have been a glamorous road to stardom, but it had paid the mortgage, and, despite his friends’ over-the-top imitations of more or less every ad he’d ever recorded, he was glad for the experience. He had a solid repertoire of accents and a ‘very agile register’—his agent’s contribution to his CV. Kids with bikes, young dads at the pub, middle-aged car salesmen,oldies wowed by their stair lifts, Kris had played them all. If not for the upheaval of the last couple of years and the awkwardness of seeing Jack at the studio every day, he’d have still been playing them, and happily, but he couldn’t deny it felt good to have a role with some meat to it.

Kris flicked through the script, carefully, as the stapled top corner was barely holding. Even though they weren’t highlighted or marked in any way, his lines leapt from the pages. He knew the entire script—he’d printed it as soon as he’d had confirmation the part of Tommy was his—but there were still bits that surprised him. Not the story itself. His drama class had watched the original black-and-white movie, their tutor selling it to them as ‘the ultimate 1940s British noir’, which as young, pretentious students they’dadoredbecause the movie was avant-garde, but it was only when Kris read Sally O’Connor’s script that he appreciated how complex the characters were…and how much of a challenge it would be to capture the danger, the sexiness and the ordinariness through sound alone.

The train slowed and stopped at the next station, and a couple of office workers boarded Kris’s carriage, taking a seat at either end. One put in earphones, the other took out their ebook reader. The doors closed, and the train moved off again. Kris watched out the window until the platform was no longer in view and returned his attention to his script as best he could. The money for his ticket was sticking to his palm; no sign of the guard yet, he took a chance and put it back in his pocket, exchanging it for his phone so he could go over the email and double-check he was heading for the right studio, wondering if the other actors were doing the same. Probably not. He was a worrier by nature. As Shaunna had pointed out the previous evening,aftershe’d gasped in mock horror when he’d sat down for dinner without his script, he couldn’t be any more prepared than he was—than he’d been for a week already.

Remembering that didn’t stop him fretting, but he did put his phone away and, for a few minutes, sat back and managed to takein the scenery along the side of the track, mostly fields, a few houses, a single car waiting at the level crossing. The train slowed again; Kris didn’t see how many passengers boarded, and none joined his carriage, but they were still a way out from the city with plenty more stops before his. He waited for a minute or so after the train took off again, still no sign of the guard, and chanced running through his final scene one more time—without his script—the scene when Tommy finally showed his true colours, the violent nature underlying his seeming heartbreak over abandoning Rose. True, there were clues littered throughout, and Kris would be taking his lead from the producer over how much he pushed those. Too obvious and the ending would be trite and predictable, too obscure and it would feel inauthentic.

“Tickets, please.”

The call startled Kris back to his surroundings. He hadn’t noticed that the train had stopped, never mind taken on quite a few more passengers, all of whom flashed permits as the guard moved swiftly along the aisle. Kris had to stand to get the coins out of his pocket, and he had them in his hand before the guard reached him, but he still apologised.

Presumably, the guard had seen where he’d joined the train, as he dispensed Kris’s ticket without comment and continued on his way, through to the next carriage. Soon after, they reached the next station, and the train filled considerably. A woman talking on her phone took the seat opposite Kris’s and continued her conversation. It wasn’t loud, but it was distracting, so he tucked his script back into its folder and, not wishing to eavesdrop, though it was impossible not to, took out his phone again.

~ Be amazing today! x

The message was twenty minutes old, which surprised him. Shaunna wasn’t an early riser, and she wasn’t in work today.

He sent back:Thanks. Hope I didn’t wake you. x

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