Preview of Latest Richmond Story

Anyone fancy a preview of the latest Richmond story, Richmond’s Podcast Crisis? Well, here it is, anyway. It’s been beta tested by my mate Dan, so it’s safe for consumption, don’t worry. Enjoy!

‘That was the Pinstriped Pedants with “So Many Semicolons, So little Time”. That rap slash rant in the middle eight about good grammar was a bit preachy, wasn’t it, but never mind. The time is ten past eleven in the PM, but then time, as they seem to be saying more and more these days, is irrelevant. Today could be tomorrow and tomorrow could be yesterday. Every day’s the same, isn’t it. It doesn’t even matter about seizing the day anymore. If you miss your opportunity today, there’s always tomorrow or the next day, or the one after that. It might not necessarily be ten past eleven where and when you are is what I’m saying. Because of the miracle of podcasting, anyone could be listening from anywhere or anywhen.
‘Of course, podcasts are a bit of a mixed blessing. Anyone can record one with the right equipment or app. I was listening to one earlier – checking out the competition – and it started off pretty well. They were discussing the Caged Bimbo Birds seminal album “Looking back is Easier Than Falling Forward” track by track. It started off well, but then one of them – there were three alleged broadcasters – started going on about what he’d had for breakfast that morning, and the others had to try and outdo him by declaring that they’d had a ridiculous amount of toast, and it was almost half an hour before they realised that they were getting slightly off topic. By then, I just didn’t care anymore, switched off and started preparing for this show. Our show. Because this isn’t just about me; it’s about you, the listener. I think some podcasters forget that. They certainly did. I was checking out the ratings last night and I was pleasantly surprised that forty-two of you had listened to the last show. Forty-two! Back when I was doing the hospital radio, I would’ve been lucky to get two listeners. I do miss it, though. There’s nothing like live radio. The buzz, the banter, the friends, the companionship. I miss them.
‘Anyway, let’s not dwell on the past. Here’s a track from the aforementioned Caged Bimbo Birds from that aforementioned album “Looking Back is Easier Than Falling Forward”. This is called “Cornered Fox”. I’ll seeya in a couple of ticks. You’re listening to Richmond’s Pandemic Podcast.’
Of course, it would be more than “a couple of ticks”. It could be less. All he had to do these days was upload the song to the playlist on the computer and then carry on. He felt like taking it a bit easier tonight, though. He could take his time, maybe go down to the kitchen and make a brew. Maybe something stronger. It was Friday night, after all, and he had another hour and forty-five minutes to record. The song had already uploaded and now he found himself torn between a can of beer and carrying on with the show as if it was live. But it wasn’t, was it. The truth was, he could come back to it in the morning and no one would be any the wiser. No! He had to carry on. If he didn’t, then, well, it wouldn’t be the same, and that was why he’d started doing the podcast in the first place: to try and keep things as normal as possible.
The virus had come from out of nowhere. One minute it was China’s problem, and over the next few weeks it’d infected the world; a wave of death, leaving thousands in its wake. Before anyone had had chance to get used to one set of restrictions, another set came in, until lockdown was enforced and at least half of the working population, including him, were put on furlough. Doing his office work from home only made him realise how truly dull it was. At least when he’d been doing work at work, he’d had the distraction of the other people finding ways to curtail their own boredom. Lenny was particularly entertaining with his juggling of the staplers, especially since he was so bad at it. It turned out that without all the distractions he could get the work done in around four hours; three, if he cut out the couple of trips down to the kitchen for biscuits and coffee.
It was a shared kitchen, which was a bit of a mixed blessing. There were two other people in the house. One was a nurse – quite attractive – but with everything that was going on, the most he’d heard from her was the front door slamming shut first thing in the morning and last thing at night. He’d fancied her when she’d first moved in, but the way his luck had been going with the ladies recently… And besides, it probably wasn’t the best idea to get involved with a housemate.
The other one was Ernie: a germaphobe’s germaphobe. Even before the pandemic hit, he’d become almost unbearable in recent weeks, so it was probably for the best that he was mostly too scared to leave his room, except for cooking in the kitchen and prolonged trips to the bathroom. He timed him once, and he must’ve been in the shower for an hour and a half. How clean could one person get? The most he heard from him these days were ominous notes attached to the cupboards and fridge. The latest was the most ridiculous yet. For some time, Ernie had been accusing him of taking his milk without his permission. Ages ago, he’d borrowed a tiny splash of his milk, but only because he’d run out of his own and it was too late to get any from the corner shop. There was no way he could’ve known.
For some time now, Ernie had been becoming more and more accusatory via his notes, but this time he’d gone too far. On the latest note, he’d attached a piece of cellotape with his thumbprint on it.
‘I found this on my milk carton. MY milk carton. How do I know this is your thumbprint? Because I have a sample of my thumbprint, and Liz’s. And besides, she’s lactose intolerant, so what would she be doing stealing MY milk?’
Dave knew that he hadn’t stolen Ernie’s milk. How did the thumbprint get on there? Probably from when he’d accidentally knocked the carton on the floor and picked it up. He had this argument on standby for when Ernie finally did confront him, but he wasn’t expecting a confrontation anytime soon. He could hear him down in the kitchen, fumbling about in the cupboards. That settled it: It was time to carry on with the show.
‘There y’go. That was the Caged Bimbo Birds – CBB to their most devoted fans – with “Cornered Fox”. Speaking of which, I’m feeling a bit like that at the moment. Holed up in the smallest room in the house, doing my best to broadcast to you, dear listener, with a Wi-Fi connection that’s about as reliable as the information that comes out of our prime minister’s mouth. I’m sorry. I promised I’d never get political. I need someone here to stop me from going too far, but unfortunately it’s just me at the moment.
As I’m sure I’ve mentioned before, before all this, I used to do a show on Pulse Hospital Radio. I was on my own for a good long while doing that as well, but then James came along, and then Justin, and then Justin’s – Anyway, there were a few of us in the end, and we had a great thing going on. Every Sunday was something to look forward to. Organised chaos, as they say. But then this virus hit and we weren’t allowed to go in. I tried to get the gang back together for this, but for one reason or another – mainly dodgy Wi-Fi connections on their end – it just didn’t work. I didn’t hear anything from Justin at all, but James gave it a go. Well, it sounded like he’d learnt a new language during lockdown: “Bock, lock, sock, tock.” That was supposed to be klingon by the way. Just an impression, obviously. It may surprise you that klingon is not my first language, despite those weird lumps on my forehead, so apologies if I just said something offensive. It was the signal, obviously. He tried to do a feature: “James’ High Jinx Gone Wrong”, a kind of “You’ve Been Framed” for the radio, but it just didn’t work out. It was a relatively new feature, and no one was sure – including James – whether it would work, but it would’ve been nice to see it fail together. He was about to get his own show, anyway, before the virus hit. I’m surprised he’s not doing his own podcast. I mean, maybe he is, but I assumed he would’ve sent me a link. Maybe not.
‘Sorry. I don’t usually ramble on like this, but it’s good to talk about these things, even if it is to people I’ll never meet. I’ve not heard from any of them since our failed interlinked podcast. I guess they’re busy. I think they’re classed as keyworkers, so I guess they must be. Busy, I mean. But surely they could’ve found some time to… I suppose this pandemic has taught me one thing: who my friends are.
Anyway, let’s get back to the music now. I always pride myself on playing artists and bands who are way out there, and this one’s no exception: Haemorrhoid Helpline with “Friendship and Loyalty in Liquid Form Part One.” Seeya in a couple of minutes.’
He felt slightly bad about slagging them off on air, but not that much. They could’ve got in touch. Surely there’d be some window in either of their schedules. Then it dawned on him: what if Justin wasn’t talking to him because of what happened with his sister. No, that couldn’t be it. That’d been weeks before lockdown and he’d still been coming to the show afterwards, doing his Big Annoying Quiz (that wasn’t a putdown; they’d all agreed it should be called that). Unless, maybe he’d had time to think about it and decided that he wanted to have nothing more to do with him.
‘But it wasn’t my fault.’ He was surprised to hear himself say that out loud, but then, he said a lot of things out loud these days. Back in the days of him doing the radio show at the hospital solo, he had still seen it as an escape from the mundanity of work, but the loneliness of it did get to him, and when he was there, he was always talking to himself; treating himself as another person, just to keep himself from feeling too sad for the two hours he was there on his own. Now that he was on his own, practically twenty-four seven, the habit was becoming more apparent to him.
‘It’s probably a good thing that I realise that I’m doing it, I suppose,’ he said. ‘But then, why did I need to say that out loud?’ He stopped himself. He needed to talk to someone. He picked up his phone and scrolled down the contacts until he got to Justin’s name. He’d known James longer, and it hurt slightly more that he hadn’t made the effort to keep in touch. Maybe that was why he chose to call Justin first. Maybe, subconsciously, he wanted to explain what happened between him and Laura. Whatever the reason, he pressed the green button and waited for the call to connect.
‘Hello.’ The voice sounded sad and forlorn, and nothing like Justin.
He knew who it was, but he wasn’t prepared. ‘Um… I was… I was trying to phone Justin. Did I dial the wrong number?’
‘No, Dave, you didn’t.’ Her voice sounded cold. Like an icicle reaching out across the soundwaves, trying to stab him in the heart.
‘Laura, I’m sorry.’ He said it reflexively, without meaning to.
‘You heard about it? How did you_?’
‘About what?’
‘About Justin. About my brother.’
Something clicked into place. It all made sense now. This was why he’d not been in touch. Why hadn’t he thought of it before.
‘He… has it. The virus.’ Her voice suddenly took on a whole new tone; one of acceptance and practicality.
He couldn’t tell whether it was because she was talking to him or because of what she’d just told him. It didn’t matter: his friend was ill. ‘Oh my God. I’m sorry. Is he…? Is he…?’
‘He’s on a ventilator. The doctors say he’s stable at the moment.’
‘That’s… that’s good. How are you holding up?’ This wasn’t the conversation that he’d hoped to be having, but it felt good talking to her, despite the circumstances. It felt good to ask her that; to bring her some kind of comfort and care, after the way he’d left things. She hadn’t said anything yet, but he didn’t want to push it. Maybe she didn’t want to talk to him, but she was still there, so that was something at least. Maybe right now it didn’t matter who he was and what he’d done; she just needed to talk to someone… anyone.
‘I’m okay,’ she said finally. ‘It’s hard to see him like this. Y’know we never really get on, but he’s my brother.’
‘I know. I remember when I first met you…’ He stopped. He didn’t mean to, but the memory of when he first saw her came rushing back. The purity of that moment.
‘I’d better go,’ she said. ‘I need to skype my parents.’
‘I’ll… I’ll come and see him.’
‘That’s probably not a good idea.’
Despite her words, It sounded to him like she wouldn’t’ve minded too much.
‘I mean, with lockdown and everything. You probably shouldn’t be in a hospital if you don’t need to be. And I think it’s… yeah, it’s family members only at the moment.’
‘Yeah, you’re right. Of course, you’re right.’
A moment’s silence, and then: ‘It was good to hear your voice.’
He couldn’t believe it! Did that just slip out of her mouth by accident? He had to say something. Something just as good, just as sweet, but he hesitated too long. The moment had passed.
‘Okay, well, I’d better go.’
And just like that, she was gone.
He was so confused. Torn between all the emotions tripping over each other; shouting over each other to make themselves heard. He was happy to hear her voice and the fact that she seemed relatively pleased to hear from him, but Justin… How could he have been so selfish? He should’ve known it was that. God! What if James had it, too? He’d not heard from either of them in such a long time. He had to phone James. He had to know for sure. He had to have a drink. He was shaking like a leaf. No; the whole world was shaking around him.
He headed down to the kitchen. Ernie was there. The bloody milk.
‘Look, mate. There’re some things more important than a tiny bit of milk!’
Ernie looked stunned, stood there in his black dressing gown. With his long black hair framing his face, he looked like a miserable pair of curtains. The joke never even occurred to him, but he did notice that Ernie hadn’t actually said anything yet. He avoided looking at him by opening the fridge and grabbing a beer, making sure that it was from his shelf. He needn’t have bothered checking: No one else in the house drank lager.
‘Look, I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’ve just had some really bad news, and I’m just not in the_’
‘My dad’s got it.’
He shut the fridge and quickly leaned up against the door. ‘Your dad’s got your milk?’
Ernie looked disappointed and shook his head slightly. ‘No.’
‘Oh…’ Dave said dumbly. ‘You mean he’s…’
‘Yeah.’
He didn’t know what to say, other than: ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay. You didn’t know. It’s really put stuff in perspective for me. I mean, I know I can be a bit of a pain in the…’
Ernie’s words faded out of focus, as if someone had just put a giant goldfish bowl over his head. He was drifting away from the moment, getting lost in thoughts and fears. Everything in his life had always mostly been ordered and predictable. And although he’d often complained about that, he’d always secretly known that he wouldn’t have it any other way. Now, nothing was predictable. The virus had taken any hope of that away. Anyone could get this thing. Justin had it. God. Justin had it. What if Laura had it, too, and she didn’t know it? He could lose her without ever really giving her and him a chance. But it wasn’t just that. No, the one thing that hadn’t even crossed his mind suddenly hit him like an eighteen-wheeler at eighty mph: He could get it. All this time he’d been living in his bubble, never even conceiving of such an idea, and now he was stood in the shared kitchen. A kitchen he shared with a nurse who was in and out of hospital every day, and a man who had just openly admitted that a member of his family had caught this thing.
‘Are you alright?’
Ernie was stood right in front of him. His face creeping out from behind his hair curtains, concern etched all over what he could see of it; mostly his nose.
‘No. No, I’m not okay.’ He could feel himself getting hotter as Ernie crept nearer, so he backed away and was suddenly stopped by something cold: the fridge. He slammed it shut and looked back at his flatmate. He looked confused, but Dave knew he had to get away. An instinct for survival was telling him to get away… from everyone.
The sweat was giving him a chill now, and his legs moved before he’d even thought about it. They were leading him upstairs, even if his spinning head wasn’t fully aware of it. He locked the door behind him, stumbled towards the bed and collapsed on to it.
He could still feel the ice cold can of lager in his hand, and with a dexterity he never even knew he had, he managed to pull the ring pull off the can. The foam started spilling all over his fingers, so, in one single movement, he propped himself up and slammed the drink up towards his mouth. He let out a surprised squeal of pain as the can bashed his teeth harder than expected, but then a moment later he poured what was left of the drink down his throat.
The posters on the wall, the CD towers and books were all spinning around him. He looked at the beer.
‘How strong is this stuff?’ Not strong enough. He needed more. He needed to stop the pain; stop the feeling that everyone in his life was slipping away.
Then he saw it. The room stopped spinning just long enough for him to see that there was a bottle of wine in a bag in the corner. He didn’t drink wine. How did he have wine? Had he been given it? An unexpected Christmas pressie? No. Everyone he knew, knew that he was no wine drinker. His drink addled brain tried to deduce where this magical bottle had appeared from. Did he buy it, intending to give it to Laura? Yeah… yeah, maybe… maybe that was it.
He could feel himself getting weaker. The room was getting steadier but darker, but he didn’t want to pass out; not yet. He quickly got up and grabbed the bottle, hoping against hope that it was a screw top. It was! Laying back down on the bed, propped up by a single pillow, he drunk it straight from the bottle.
‘That was the Mighty Mighty Mighty Mighty Mighty Mighty Mighty Taker Makers with their number one hit: “There’s Something on the End of Your Nose.” I’m here on the radio for you and me, and, yeah, I thought so… James is here. Have you got anything to say for yourself, Jimmy boy?’
James was trying to say something, but the goldfish bowl on his head made it really difficult to tell what he was saying.
‘Why don’t you lose the bowl, man?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Coming up later for the End of Show Stunt, I’m going to be jumping off a diving board – diving off a diving board, I suppose – into the Pulse Hospital Radio swimming pool. That might not seem so spectacular, but it may surprise you that I can’t swim. What d’you reckon, Justin? Oh no, you’ve got a goldfish bowl as well! Is this some new fashion my stylist forgot to tell me about?’
‘You should have one, too.’
‘Can’t hear you. Oh. He’s gone. James, too. Claire, what do you think? Am I being extremely brave or what?’
She was in a giant glass cylinder, her whole body covered from head to toe. ‘I think you’re a fool.’
‘Well, I heard that loud and clear. What kind of glass is that?’
‘Broken.’
It shattered, and the glass filled the studio like lethal shards of ice firing out in every direction.
He could hear the phone ringing. ‘Is that a request? What d’you reckon?’

Daylight. A thin beam of daylight hit his face and he could still hear the phone, even though the dream had abruptly ended.
As the room gradually shifted into focus and the dream faded, his head wanted to split itself in two and jam itself back together again the wrong way round. The pain was like a spike, driving itself right through his temple. The last time he’d felt this bad was at least several birthdays ago. The too-chirpy-for-this-time-in-the-morning tune of “Too Much of a Good Thing is a Bad Thing Sweet Thing” was still emanating from his phone, so he got up.
He was only slightly bemused by the fact that he was still in his clothes from the night before; it wasn’t the first time this had happened. At least this time he had the excuse that he’d been too drunk to be bothered to change into his t-shirt and boxers. Every movement felt like shifting a mountain, and he felt like he was moving in slow-mo.
Finally, his feet hit the floor. Now all he had to do was lean over to the bedside cabinet and stop the alarm on his phone from ringing. Funny, he thought: I don’t remember setting an alarm. Just as he picked it up, he saw the screen for a split second before it went blissfully silent again. It wasn’t the alarm. It’d been a phone call, and the name on the screen had been James. Strange that he’d picked this morning to finally get in touch. And then he remembered: he’d had a dig at him on the show last night. But then he remembered that he’d not finished that show, much less uploaded it for everyone to hear. So, why would he be calling? Maybe it was a coincidence? Maybe…
It started ringing again. It was James again. Y’wait months for a phone call from someone and then two come along in one morning. He tentatively pressed the “accept” button.
‘Alright, mate. How are you?’ He didn’t mean to sound so cold, but then again, maybe he did.
‘Alright. How’s your head?’
‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘Wow. You must’ve been even more sozzled than you sounded.’
What was he on about?
‘Did I upload the show last night? I didn’t think I_’
And then it came to him. Vague snippets and flashes of picking up the phone and talking. He didn’t remember anyone talking back. In fact, it seemed like quite a one-sided conversation. No! That was it: he’d left a message. He’d left an answer message on James’ phone. Oh God.
‘Is that the sound of a penny dropping?’
‘Look, James, whatever I said, I didn’t mean it. I was drunk. More drunk than I’ve_’
‘Yeah y’did.’
The usual matter-of-fact tone was there. Somehow, he’d missed that.
‘But it’s okay. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you quite so honest. And right. You were right. I should’ve kept in touch, but the truth is, I’ve been in a pretty low place myself. Here on my own all day, it’s all too easy to talk myself into a black hole.’
‘But I thought you were working.’
‘No. I’ve been off with stress. I suppose I’ve always been a bit of a secret germaphobe, and the thought of all those people, and catching the virus, it was just too much I think… I think I’ve got a handle on it now, but it was pretty grim for a long time.’
‘I’m sorry. I should’ve called you.’
‘So should I.’
‘Did I… I can’t remember… did I tell you about Justin last night?’
James wasn’t saying anything, there was just a dead silence.
‘Yeah, y’told me. I can’t believe it. I tried phoning him this morning, but his sister picked up. Sounds like he’s in good hands, at least. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell her what you said about her.’
His heart sank to his feet as he tried desperately to recall something from last night. Any small detail that might unravel the gigantic hole in his hungover memory. There was nothing.
‘You don’t remember that, either, do you.’
That matter-of-fact tone was starting to get old again.
‘Not exactly, no.’
‘Well…’
‘Go on then,’ he sighed, ‘tell me how embarrassed I should be.’
A moment of silence, and then…
‘Not very. I mean, you got a bit soppy, but I think you were being a bit hard on yourself, mate. I mean, you’re not the first person to go out with someone whilst still being a bit hung up on your ex.’
Snippets and flashes of the conversation were starting to come back to him now, and it wasn’t making the hangover any better.
James mistook his silence as a sign to carry on talking. ‘It seems to me, you did the right thing, mate. I mean, if you weren’t sure whether you were over – what was her name?’
‘Claire.’
‘Yeah, Claire. If you weren’t sure whether you were over her or not, then it wouldn’t be fair to Laura to carry on with her. You did the right thing, mate.’
‘I did the right thing by snogging her, and then saying I couldn’t see her again?’
‘Well, I’ll admit, that’s a bit of a mixed message, but we all make mistakes.’
‘Yeah. Yeah, we do, don’t we.’ Then, something came to him. Just talking to James about it had unlocked something in his mind. Nothing from last night, but something he knew to be true. Something that he’d known all along. He was scared. Scared to move on. He had thought that he could. Laura herself had convinced him of that on the first night he met her that Christmas.
It seemed so long ago now. He’d been over Claire, and then it turned out that she’d been listening to the show in the hospital. She’d phoned the studio and he went to see her. It’d been ten years, but she looked almost exactly the way he’d imagined her in his mind’s eye. Somehow, his imagination had been pretty accurate in aging her. She acted the same, as well. The way she spoke; the way she looked at him. And, ultimately, it’d had no effect on him. At the time, he still had a very fragile connection to her. The way a photo brings old memories back; both good and bad.
She’d explained the mix up; the reason why they’d been apart for a decade, but, somehow, he didn’t care. He still cared for her, but not in the same way. He didn’t want to hurt her or lose touch completely, so he’d agreed to exchange numbers with her, but he’d never got round to making that call. Maybe it felt good to be caught between two women; between the past and the future, but now, he knew that it was because he was still scared to move onto someone new, but sometimes the only way to move on is to move on; not think about it too much. Maybe if the pandemic hadn’t happened he would’ve done something about it, but it did happen, and so many people had lost so much. He could finally see what a complete idiot he’d been; keeping one foot in the past whilst dipping his toes in the future. He could lose her. He could lose her without her ever knowing how he really felt about her.

That’s it for now. If you want to know how it ends, check out the ebook which I’ll be publishing soon.