Laughing at the Rain

By Richard McCusker

When a former TV personality has his world thrown into chaos by false allegations and media uproar he finds himself fighting for his life in the hands of an obsessed fan. What follows is a shrewd examination of celebrity, the influence of the media and enslavement to the limelight that is sometimes too addictive to quit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard McCusker
• Release date: Oct 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370129058

Book preview

Laughing at the Rain

CHAPTER ONE

It’s over Taylor whispered, her words ignored. John was busy trying to look mournful, attempting to hide his disinterest at the death of someone he’d never met. She whispered it again, leaning closer to him, hoping her words might break into his conscious but he still didn’t respond.

The mourners gathered around the coffin as it was lowered towards its final resting place. The vicar began to speak, appealing to the divine, delivering words that seemed heartfelt and sincere but had been recycled from a hundred other funerals.

John scanned the faces of those attending. They were all attempting to look moved by the vicar’s words. Eyes closed, nodding in agreement with his claim the departed had gone to a better place, most secretly doubting heavens existence.

The deceased’s sister was sobbing silently, her shoulders moving up and down as she cried. Her husband had his arm around her, occasionally whispering comforting words in her ear.

No one else cried. No one else seemed particularly upset. By all accounts he wasn’t a nice man. They were here out of obligation. The death of a family member required their presence, to deny it would be cause for scandal.

John considered what his own funeral would be like. Morbid curiosity, something derived from our need to believe in our own importance, prompted such questions. He hoped for press attendance and that his un-timely demise would invoke huge outpourings of public grief. Maybe it would be televised. Commentators would speak of his life in glowing terms, detailing all his achievements and summarising the feelings of the millions mourning his death.

But this was wishful thinking. He was slowly sliding into obscurity, something he was quickly becoming aware of as fewer people recognised him. Maybe if he died tragically such a funeral may take place, a tragic death always appealed to the public, but otherwise no one would really care other than his parents and a couple of old friends.

Taylor tried to get his attention prodding two fingers into his ribs. He looked at her enquiringly.

Did you hear what I said she muttered, exasperated at being repeatedly ignored. No John replied bluntly, feeling where she had prodded him with his left hand, feigning pain.

It’s over she asserted. She looked angry. Her face was screwed up, her eyebrows lowered. John starred back at her confused, letting the words absorb into his thinking.

The funeral is over? he said.

Not the funeral John, us. We are over. I’m breaking up with you. I no longer want to be with you. You and I are finished. Understand? she spoke with clarity, ensuring every word was delivered with an accuracy that would prevent further confusion.

Why? John asked.

Why what John? she replied.

What do you mean why what? Why is it over?  Taylor shrugged like disengaged teenager. I can’t believe you’re trying to break up with me at a funeral, who the hell does that? Are you completely heartless? John felt anger erupt from within. His voice raised in volume, his expression altered.

Taylor ignored him. She gazed up at the clear sky as if nothing had happened. She was detaching herself from the situation. She wanted the break to be clean. She had no desire for anger and tears. That wasn’t something she was prepared to deal with.

The vicar finished speaking and the mourners, passing the coffin one by one, tossed handfuls of dirt on top of it before dispersing. The odd person hanged back to chat and catch up, the mood suddenly lifted as their obligation to look solemn ended.

The small crowd made their way back to the car park, walking slowly, gravel crunching underfoot. Taylor headed in the same direction, walking briskly prompted by a desire to escape.

John stood alone. He tried to absorb what had just happened. A minute ago he was at the funeral of a relative of his long term girlfriend, now he was single. How had that happened? He was confused and angry. It was like a bad dream but one he couldn’t wake from.

After the mourners had left the graveyard was restored to peace. John scanned the headstones that were all neatly lined up. Some old and decrepit, the elements having taken their toll, the grass growing up around their bases, their maintenance forgotten as those who once tended them were no longer around. Some were new, the marble glinting in the sun, fresh flowers carefully arranged around them.

For a moment he lost himself in the scene, forgetting why he was here. He absorbed his surroundings. He let them drift loosely into his thoughts. He looked at the church studying it, partly impressed by its architectural beauty, partly curious about its purpose.

It was a simple red brick building barely tall enough to be seen over the trees that lined the graveyard. It didn’t impose itself on the area like a medieval church with a tall spire reaching up towards the god it was built in praise of, but sat within the scenery as if it was a natural part of it.

Taylor was stood on the path in the distance. She gestured for him to hurry up so He made his way towards her looking at the gravestones as he passed them, wondering who all these people were.

A raven flew just in front of him as he neared her, its evil squawk piercing through the air. John, lost as he usually was in a world that only contained himself, didn't notice it.

When he finally caught up with her she looked at him sternly.

Hurry up John, Uncle Ray wants to get to the wake

Oh John said in response. I still have to go to the wake?

Well yes of course you do. Why the hell wouldn’t you? she said angrily.

Because you’ve just broken up with me?

So?

John shook his head in disbelief. He hated family events. For him they were something to be endured not savoured. All he wanted to do was escape but he wasn't allowed to. His connection to the people gathered here was lost yet he was forced to continue his participation.

You want to break up with me but I still have to go to the wake? Why the fuck would I do that?

Taylor said nothing. She walked to her Uncle Rays car, opened the door and looking across at John, gestured for him to come over.

Reluctantly John accepted his fate. At least there would be drink at the wake, and he needed one more than usual.

In the car he sat in silence. Taylor, the tone in her voice altered, talked to her auntie and uncle with ease. They discussed the family, gossiping about relatives, speculating about the state of people’s marriages. John stared blankly out of the window. He paid little attention to what was happening around him. He was lost in his own thoughts.

It began to dawn on him what had just happened. In a graveyard, surrounded by mourners paying their last respects to the deceased, it hadn’t seemed real. It was like odd dream. But sitting silently, he now contemplated for the first time the implications of what Taylor had said and he felt hurt, an emotion he very rarely experienced.

He naively assumed they were in love, that things were going well and that their relationship, although not perfect, was solid and enduring. But he was wrong. He mentally sorted through the last few months, trying in vain to find a reason why she might leave him. What had he done? Why, out of the blue and with little warning, had she decided, without giving him a chance that their relationship was over.

He had nothing. It was so sudden and unprovoked that he could find no reason for it. It was senseless. It was devoid of reason. He began to feel hurt and angry.

He continued starring out of the window at the scenery as it passed them by. The British countryside bare with the onset of winter looked lifeless. Soon it was replaced by the old shops and houses of the market town which was their destination. As they passed through John starred at the people wandering the streets, embroiled in their own problems, their lives hampered in ways John would never know or understand.

He looked over at her as she spoke to her relatives. Her carefully cultivated curls framed her face. The black hat they’d picked out last week perched carefully on her head, constantly being adjusted to maintain the perfect angle. She looked beautiful. He couldn’t let her go, not without a fight. He loved her and he knew that she loved him.

He tried to hold her hand, smiling at her warmly as he did, but she pulled it away, looking at him like he was pervert persisting with an unwelcome advance.

He tried again but was confronted with the same reaction. He looked at her raising his eyebrows as if to ask what was going on but she turned away, continuing the conversation she was having with her aunt as if he wasn’t there.

John was relieved when they finally reached the destination. He wanted to get out of the car. He wanted a drink.

The wake was being held in an old town hall. It was flat roofed building that looked tired and flimsy. The paint on the wooden exterior walls was peeling badly and damp was rotting around the windows. It was incongruous amongst the old stone buildings of this quant English town.

Walking in John looked at Taylor, wanting her to smile at him, wanting some indication that maybe it was salvageable but she ignored him.

Inside there was a buffet laid out on trestle tables. Circular tables and chairs were arranged around the room most of which were already occupied.

Random assortments of people were gathered, brought together by a connection to a person who was no longer alive. The mourners gathered into groups formed out of familiarity, desiring the company of those they knew or those they wished to speak to.

The vicar sat next to an elderly couple who were chatting to him while he smiled warmly and nodded in agreement. He held himself as vicars often do, open and prompting approachability, something that was duty bound and second nature.

On the table next to the vicar sat a group of middle aged women chatting furiously, only pausing to take sips of tea. Laughing occasionally, the conversation flowed freely. They seemed at ease with each other, able to flutter from topic to topic without awkward silences.

Behind them three burly men sat in suits that were too small, their body mass pushing the stitching to its limits. They each had a plate filled with stacks of sandwiches and sausage rolls which they shoved into their permanently open mouths as if it was the first time they’d ever eaten.

To the right of their table Taylor’s Uncle Ray stood at the centre of a small crowd. He was lifting his shirt to reveal a scar he was proud of as if a permanent reminder of physical injury was an achievement. The on-lookers were both curious and repulsed as they starred. Taylor had warned of this behaviour. She said it was a likely outcome of a few drinks.

Those gathered were from her mum’s side of the family. She saw them rarely since her mother had passed away but was a willing participant in any gathering she was invited to because they provided an indelible connection to her, a connection that neither time nor circumstance could ever break.

Her father had declined an invitation to attend. He disliked his wife’s relatives, considering them beneath him. He had a small accountancy firm in a little town in Berkshire which endowed him with enough assets to consider most people below him.

The first time John met her father he knew instantly from his rigid formality that he needed to behave in a certain way. He was from an era, now slowly being forgotten, when people had their place and the measure of someone could be ascertained from the way they conducted themselves.

John, nervous at the prospect of spending time with someone so formidable had taken several strong painkillers to quell his anxiety. Drowsy from them he fell asleep while her father was talking to him. This behaviour, however much Taylor tried to explain it away, had left her father with an impression of John which could not be changed.

John located the bar at the far side of the hall. It was already occupied by two men sipping pints in silence. He walked across, sat down on bar stool and ordered a pint receiving a warm can and a dirty glass.

The bar man looked out of place in a hall full of smartly dressed mourners. He was wearing a denim jacket, the sleeves ragged and frayed, a black t-shirt with skull and crossbones embossed in the middle and large, leather motorbike boots that produced a low thudding sound as he moved around the small bar. On both arms he was inked with a random assortment of tattoos, most of which were difficult to make out having bled into the surrounding skin.

Out of the corner of John’s eye he noticed the barman starring at him with an intent that was hard to ignore. He looked up and smiled but was greeted with a look of contempt. He turned in his chair, facing into the hall so he could avoid the gaze of someone who had taken an immediate dislike to him.

He noticed Taylor walking towards him, anger infused into her facial expressions, her strides long and purposeful. When she reached him she lowered herself so she could talk directly into his ear. What the hell are you doing she whispered.

I’m having a drink, what does it look like? he said curtly.

I thought I told you not to drink. You know what you’re like, you have absolutely no control! John shrugged and took another sip, wincing as he did, the warm frothy lager difficult to drink.

Well that’s the only one you’re going to have or so help me god she continued. John, drawing the glass slowly up to his lips whilst maintaining eye contact with her, drained the rest of the glass and held up a twenty pointing it in the direction of the bar man who scowled at him as he took the money.

Can I have another one and a whiskey chaser? Oh and get one for yourself John said trying in vain to win him over.

What the hell are you doing John? It’s bad enough that you turned up hung-over when I told you not to have a drink last night and now what? Are you planning on getting hammered at my uncle’s wake?

John could see the anger in her face. He had riled her more than usual.

I wasn’t hung-over actually he said, smiling at the barman as he brought over his drinks.

Oh come on John. I could smell the fucking whiskey on your breath and your eyes were completely bloodshot. I wasn’t born yesterday. She stood up straight with her arms folded.

Well I wasn’t hung-over. I was still drunk if you must know and I will have a drink if I want to. And you can’t tell me otherwise because you’re no longer my girlfriend he said smiling smugly. Taylor bent down to whisper in his ear, careful not to make a scene, trying desperately to retain her dignity as she always did.

We may not be together any more but that doesn’t mean you have to stop being a decent human being and ruin my uncle’s wake.

John sipped his lager as she spoke. It was more palatable with each sip as his taste buds adjusted to it.

I’m not going to get hammered Taylor. Give me some credit. I’m just having a drink as are these gentleman sat next to me, and those other there he pointed to a group of middle aged men sat with a bottle of wine and some glasses, laughing heartily as if they had no idea where they were.

She starred at him, realised there was little she could do to persuade him otherwise, and marched off without saying another word.

In trouble are we? one of the old men sat next to him enquired, his breath, wafting over as he spoke, already smelt of cheap lager.. John smiled and nodded, resolving not to reply verbally. He had no desire to start a conversation and was prepared to detour one without care of being rude.

After several drinks John made his way to the toilet. Whilst washing his hands he looked at himself in the mirror. He examined the reflection, considering the man presented before him. He admired the deep blue eyes with their youthful vibrancy. The face was chiselled and had strong, masculine lines as if it had been sculpted; its structure arrived at by careful design. His hair was Brown and full. His smile was sometimes warm, sometimes sensual but always seeming genuine. His nose was straight and perfectly symmetrical. His ears protruded slightly through his hair, the exposed flesh in perfect, circular shapes. His shoulders were broad, his posture upright. He was a beautiful man, that was his conclusion, one arrived at many times looking into many different mirrors.

What his eyes ignored was more telling. One eye was larger than the other, the smaller one appearing half shut. Crow’s feet spread out from the corner of both eyes like rays of light from the sun on a child’s picture. Deep wrinkles were entrenched in his forehead adding years to his appearance. His hair was greying and had split ends making it look damaged and in poor condition. He had dark patches under his eyes that seldom shifted and he was loose and flabby around his midriff.

The assumed perfection was an illusion, a pre-requisite to the arrogance he required to perform his role as a TV presenter. His good looks had been eroded by time, alcohol and late nights. He was no longer the man who’d been spotted on a busy, London street by a model agency because of his striking looks. One day he would see his face for what it was and he would grow as a person, but that day was a long way off.

As he walked back to the bar he realised how drunk he had become. He stumbled as he tried to navigate through the maze of tables. He managed to steady himself but the warnings signs were there. His stomach was empty and needed food.

He made his way to the buffet.  Picking up a paper plate he piled it high with the remains left after the initial surge. He picked up a cheese and pineapple stick and starred at it. He didn’t realise they still existed. He thought they’d been left in the seventies. He was used to canapés served by expensive London catering companies’ not mini sausage rolls and partially defrosted Vol-Au-Vents.

He walked to the nearest unoccupied table and ate the food, each item so greasy his stomach struggled to cope.

When he’d finished, tossing the empty plate into the middle of table, he made his way back to the bar, his walk steady, and his mind slightly clearer. He ordered another lager from the barman who slammed the drink down, spilling beer on John’s sleeve but he didn't notice. John was too consumed watching Taylor to pay attention to others.

He watched her as she glided around the room from conversation to conversation. He felt angry, upset and lost all at the same time. The alcohol, cavorting with his own doubts, increased his paranoia. Their breakup, swift and impossible to fathom, must have happened for a reason.  Relationships don’t end without explanation.

Watching her talk with a tall, classically handsome male who was broad shouldered and chiselled, it suddenly dawned on him that maybe there was someone else. It would explain the abruptness of the breakup and why the reason for it wasn’t immediately obvious.

Sat next to him she stroked his arm, smiling as he spoke. She laughed at something he said, tilting her head back as she did. She was enjoying his company too much for Johns liking. Feeling betrayed he clenched the plastic pint glass in his hand so tightly it began to give way under the pressure, frothy lager spilling over the lip.

He downed the rest of the drink and ordered two double whiskeys which he polished off as soon as they were handed to him. Angry but unwilling to make a scene, he produced his phone and text her, holding it close to his face as he did, his inebriation affecting his ability to type.

U sleeping wth that guy? That why you leave me? he pushed send and ordered another double whiskey. He watched as she reached into her handbag, looked at her phone and put it back, ignoring what he’d sent.

He picked up his phone and typed another message. Well are u!! Answer me!

This time she reached into her bag, read the message and replied Fuck off! He’s my cousin you moron but it was too late. The wheels in Johns head were in motion. If it wasn’t him then he assumed it was someone else. This, after all, provided a reason for the breakup and in his drunken state and with nothing else to go on it was good as any.

He continued drinking, getting angrier as he did, compiling a list of the chief suspects. The electrician that came round to her house with the huge biceps. Her personal trainer, Rodrigue. Her married co-host Simon. The car mechanic she insisted on using even though he overcharged. The barista in the cafe at the end of her street she smiled at too warmly for his liking. The researcher on the show who was soooo funny.

The list of suspects grew and grew as he remembered those she had regular contact with. He needed to confront her. He needed answers. If she was seeing someone else he had a right to know.

Just as he was finishing his drink, mentally preparing himself for the confrontation, an elderly woman wearing an ankle length black dress and a hat with a black, lace veil approached him. John, so consumed with anger, hadn’t noticed her until she tapped him on the arm.

You’re Taylor’s boyfriend aren’t you? John is it? she sounded like Hyacinth Bucket, well spoken in a way that sounded forced, the annunciation unnaturally clear. John nodded.

I watched the show you used to be on. What was it called? she paused as she tried to remember. Up and at em. That was it. Well. She stopped, looked directly at John as if readying herself to say something of extreme importance. You should be ashamed of yourself. All that swearing and crudeness. Were you dragged up? I was absolutely appalled. I said to my Harry, I can’t believe Taylor has got herself involved with such a thug. What does your mother think? She ought to be embarrassed that her son is on TV saying f’ing this and f’ing that. Personally I think you’re a disgrace. If you were younger I would take you over my knee and give you a good spanking. No wonder the country is going down the pan with people like you on TV. She spoke indignantly as if greatly offended by the utterance of a few words that were barely still offensive.

John, drunk, angry and realising he would never have to see this people again, sighed and looked down at her.

Fuck off you old bint he said, his gaze lingering after the words had been spoken.

She looked at him aghast. Eventually she managed to force some words out through the shock. You horrible man she

Reviews for Laughing at the Rain

[chirutai · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I just discovered this gem. Totally underrated book. This inspired me to be the man I am today. This will be a massive hit in Romania. Multumesc Richard.