This very short story is set mere minutes before my ebook Richmond’s Rarity starts. I’m planning on relaunching the original story soon with a new cover and including this with it, so enjoy this exclusive preview.
As Dave turned the key and typed in the code which his fingers knew more than he did, he closed his eyes and made a silent wish. He already knew that it wouldn’t come true, but maybe that was the problem: Negative reinforcement psychologists would probably call it; Looking on the dark side. Reality, he called it.
He opened his eyes and surprise surprise, he was right: No light. There was no dot of light coming from the other side of the peephole, and therefore he knew he’d be alone again for the entire evening. Unless there was someone lying in wait for him in the shadows. That would at least make the night a bit more eventful, he thought.
I could overpower him – or her. No need to be sexist, Davey boy – and then get them to stick around for an interview. And if I don’t overpower them, maybe I’ll end up down the hall and I’ll finally have someone come and visit me on a Sunday night.
As he opened the door and flicked the light switch, a sigh escaped from somewhere deep inside him. Despite everything, he was surprised at how disappointed he felt that there was no one lying in wait, ready to hospitalise him.
‘Good ol’ Pulse Hospital Radio, a friend at your bedside,’ he said out loud as he put his radio bag down on the floor. ‘Could do with one of those myself.’
The diary was open and as he looked at the other days in which the other volunteers had signed in, he felt more depressed than ever. There were names that he knew: Ollie, James, Sarah, Richard and Vicky. He’d not seen them for a long time, and they were becoming just that: names on a page, but at least he could just about remember what they looked like. But the other names that accompanied them? They would have made the cast of The Lord of the Rings jealous. Not because they had weird names like Legless or Aragran, or whatever, but because there were so many of them. Monday had four, including presenter James. Tuesday had six, but Thursday was the worst offender. Eight. Eight! That was including presenter Vicky – but eight?! Really?
‘How do they even fit in the studio?’ he shouted to the indifferent empty room around him. ‘Do they sit on each other’s laps? Can some of them fly? Are they all on some kind of special diet?
‘What’s wrong with my night? What’s wrong with my show? What’s wrong with me?’ He slammed the book shut – forgetting in his rage to sign in himself – and stood there, seething.
If someone had been there with him, they would have told him to calm down. They would have told him to think about how lucky he was to not have the stress of organising a show around seven people, and how lucky he was that he never got any requests and that he could play pretty much his own choice of music for the entire show.
Of course, if someone else had been there he wouldn’t be feeling the way he was, and he wouldn’t need that someone to tell him those things.
He looked at his watch. Ten minutes ‘til show time.
Plenty of time, he thought.
He needed someone to be there and so he decided – as he did on most Sunday nights – to talk to himself, just for some semblance of company and kinship.
‘Shall I dust off a bit of the old vinyl tonight?’ he asked himself.
‘You know what, I think you should.’
‘I think I shall.’
‘Oh, shall you?’
‘Yes, I shall.’
Suddenly, he jumped: The phone. The phone was ringing. The phone never rang.
He dashed through to the main studio and before he could get to it, the ringing stopped and was replaced by someone answering the call.
It was Richard. It wasn’t the phone – It was an advert.
Rookie error, he thought. How many times have I fallen for that one? Even when he’s not here he gets more requests than me.
Dave looked over at the real phone – the phone that might just as well have not been there at all. Maybe tonight would be different. Maybe tonight he would get a call – a request. Maybe not. Probably not, he thought.
It was the same every week. Two hours of solitude. Two hours of talking gibberish between songs. Two hours of talking gibberish to himself between songs. He didn’t even know if anyone was listening, and he’d certainly not had anyone phone whilst he was there for a very long time.
I suppose I am quite lucky in some ways, he thought. Maybe the others are jealous of me. Maybe they look at my playlists and think: Hey, he gets to play such cool songs. I’ve never heard of The Pinstripe Porta Cabins, but I bet they’re cool. I wish I could play my own music, instead of doing the soap update with Jim or whoever.
He suddenly felt a little better. He was often surprised at his uncanny ability to cheer himself up. And if he could cheer himself up then maybe, just maybe he could make someone else feel better, if there was anyone even listening.
As he gathered the various CDs and vinyl he was planning to play and sat down in front of the mixing desk, he noticed how pretty and inviting the buttons and switches looked, lit up in the darkened room. The dust motes floating in the rays of the setting sun, shining through the windows, added to the allure of the whole thing.
‘Shall I do the show in the dark for once?’ he asked himself.
‘Nah, it’ll be getting dark soon and you won’t be able to see to cue up the songs. And vinyl’s a headache enough to cue up, even with the lights on.’
In the end, he knew he was right. Besides, if someone was lurking in the dark, he didn’t want to give them the advantage. He switched the light on and glanced at the clock on the wall.
‘Two minutes to go? Where did that time go?’
He grabbed a CD, cued it up, and did a quick microphone check.
‘Testing, testing, one two three. Hello, nobody and welcome to Richmond’s Rarities on Pulse Hospital Radio. I know no one’s listening and no one will phone in, but I just wanted you to know that I don’t care. I’m playing the music that I like and if it’s just me that hears it, that’s just fine with me.’
Ten seconds ‘til show time.
The song that was going out automatically via the computer started to fade, so he looked over at the phone one last time before putting the fader up on his microphone and doing his real introduction.
He breathed in, readying himself to take on the persona of Dave Richmond: radio presenter.
‘Hi there, it’s eight ‘o’ clock on the dot on a Sunday night and that can mean only one thing – to me, at least. It’s time for Richmond’s Rarities, with me – your mostly genial host – Dave Richmond.
‘Let’s start proceedings with this classic from Ricky and The Shark Fins: ‘Stuck in Tarmac Next to The Magistrates Court With You’. A bona fide classic, I think you’ll agree.’
END
JOHN D. PAYNE IS WRITING 