Beat the Rain

  WHAT PEOPLE ARE SAYING ABOUT

  BEAT THE RAIN

  Gripping storytelling from the very start, this book draws you in and keeps you engaged, often on the edge of your seat, right till the bitter sweet end. Beat the Rain is a wonderfully written, fantastically pacey debut novel from an author with a truly compelling insight into the human condition and all its frustrating and often cruel twists and turns. The book is rich in characters, atmosphere and the element of surprise. It’s serious and often sad but also laugh-out-loud funny all at the same time. A touching and sensitive portrayal of the interconnected mess of everyday life and love. One of those reads that leaves you wanting more.

  Siobhan Kennedy, Channel 4 News

  Emotional rollercoaster, psychological thriller – Beat the Rain ticks both these boxes for me. I was sucked in from the start. The sensitive characterisation, level of observation and Nigel’s ability to not only touch on the plethora of issues that come from the train smash of life, death, family and relationships but also express so effectively the emotional highs and lows was compelling throughout. Absolutely compelling.

  Caroline Follett

  Intriguing, painfully honest and beautifully written.

  Nina de la Mer, Author, 4.a.m, Layla

  Beat The Rain is an atmospheric and neatly paced first novel. Behind the scenes – shining through the two main characters’ inner dialogues – is a refreshingly honest intelligence at work.

  Poet Charlotte Gann, The Long Woman, Noir (forthcoming)

  First published by Roundfire Books, 2016

  Roundfire Books is an imprint of John Hunt Publishing Ltd., Laurel House, Station Approach, Alresford, Hants, SO24 9JH, UK

  office1@jhpbooks.net

  www.johnhuntpublishing.com

  www.roundfire-books.com

  For distributor details and how to order please visit the ‘Ordering’ section on our website.

  Text copyright: Nigel Jay Cooper 2015

  ISBN: 978 1 78535 364 2

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015960667

  All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publishers.

  The rights of Nigel Jay Cooper as author have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Design: Stuart Davies

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY, UK

  We operate a distinctive and ethical publishing philosophy in all areas of our business, from our global network of authors to production and worldwide distribution.

  For Andrew, if he wants it

  Acknowledgements

  To my children, Florence and Louis, thank you for inspiring me every day. No words written or spoken could describe how much I love you. And you’re right, if a baby was strong enough to carry the whole wide world, he/she might spin us around and around and tip us upside down and we could all be thrown into space and die. (Except, gravity. We’ll talk about that when you’re older).

  Andrew, I’d never have finished this without your support. Thank you for putting up with me and believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself. You inspire everyone you meet to strive to achieve his or her potential and I don’t think you know how wonderful that is. Always be you.

  To my parents, thank you for your continuing love and support and for being such wonderful grandparents.

  To Caroline, you deserve an award for how many times you’ve read this novel during the editing process. Thank you for your feedback, your emotional support, guidance and unfaltering belief – you’ve been amazing.

  To lovely Ali, thank you for your beautiful cover designs, they helped more than you know. Amanda, thank you so much for the author photographs and for your feedback on my first draft.

  Thanks to Nina, Charlotte, Caroline and Siobhan for your endorsements, they meant such a lot. Thanks also to Charlie, Kate, Sam, Emily, Clare, Dr Dixon and Sara for reading and feeding back on my early drafts – it was really useful to see it through other people’s eyes.

  Thanks to everyone who downloaded my opening chapters and left reviews on the website – you have no idea how much it meant to me or how important they were in getting the attention of publishers.

  Last but not least, thanks to John Hunt Publishing and Roundfire Books for publishing Beat the Rain.

  Part One: The Unsaid

  “I’m going to let it take me.”

  Chapter One

  Louise does all of the things the bereaved are supposed to do; she’s had enough practice. She gracefully accepts well-meant platitudes from people she can’t stand; she smiles in the right places and pretends she’s still able to care. Everything she’s become is now an invention, a persona created to make other people feel better.

  If she could, she’d never leave the flat again, she’d switch off her mobile, stop answering the door and lie in bed, endlessly staring at the ceiling. This morning she slept through the postman knocking as she dreamt of hot narrow lanes and enormous churches. She smiled and pointed out of the window, past the church, past the market stalls in the square, past the sea. She felt Tom’s presence behind her, tried to turn around to see him, to kiss him. Then she felt her sheets clinging to her. Morning.

  Tom would have heard the postman. He would have jumped out of bed like an excitable ten-year-old.

  “A package, Lou,” his gleaming eyes would have said.

  “You’re a grown man, Tom,” she would have replied, barely glancing at him as he danced around the bedroom in nothing but his boxer shorts.

  “What do you think it is?” he’d have asked.

  “Same as every month, Tom,” she’d have smiled. “Your books.”

  She stares at the yellow-white stained walls of their flat. Her flat now, she reminds herself, just hers again. Today is book day again. She has one every month but this one’s early. She stubs a cigarette out on the faded mahogany dresser under the hallway mirror. This thing that she is, this woman, barely formed, stares back at her, like an alien, a shadow of someone who used to exist. Is loss something she’s supposed to accept in her life, like other people accept doing a job they don’t love or avoiding chips and chocolate cake? She checks her eyes in the hallway mirror to make sure they’re not too puffy and braces herself before opening the front door, mentally preparing her ‘outside’ face, the one that can still smile.

  Her days are alike, or different. It doesn’t matter. None of them contain a version of her that isn’t alone. She shuts her front door, looking away from Mr Carmichael, her ever-smiling, ever-gardening neighbour as he potters around in a pair of overalls. Louise has often wondered what he does for a living – he and his wife don’t seem to work, they’re always at home, gardening or singing in their front room around an enormous piano that seems much too big for the space. She feels lucky her flat is upstairs so at least she doesn’t have to listen to them harmonising.

  “Louise.” He smiles at her with ceaseless hedge-trimmer hands. “How are you feeling today?” She ignores him and shuffles down the street, sinking into her jumper.

  The post office is a thirty-minute walk or a five-minute bus ride away. She imagines the jolting, crowded red double-decker full of kids, old bag ladies and men with body odour and decides to walk. For the most part, her journey produces untroubled faces but occasionally, they become familiar. That’s when everyone’s smiles freeze.

  “Louise, you look great,” the familiar will say eventually, their frosty hands touching her jacket sleeve in faux concern. Louise will lick her dry lips in preparation.

  “Do I?” she’ll fin
ally ask, sometimes genuinely. They’ll nod as their fingers grip her arm more tightly.

  “We were so sorry to hear about…” Then their voices will trail off. They all think she’s dealing with it and she has become practiced in keeping her smile on long enough to reassure them they’re right. She waits until they’ve scuttled away before allowing it to crack.

  “Tell your fortune,” someone says as she rounds the corner by the bank or pub or restaurant. A lucky-heather woman is standing in front of her, a rainbow headscarf and flowing dress billowing in the gentle breeze. With the morning sunlight glinting behind her, she looks somehow otherworldly and for a moment Louise is mesmerised.

  “Some change for your fortune?” the woman says again and for the tiniest of moments, Louise thinks to herself, Why not?, then she shudders, remembering what her fate is like. She closes her eyes tightly for a second, as if this will help her break free from the spell she’s sure the lucky heather woman has put her under.

  “No,” Louise says loudly, almost shouting and stepping away. Then, as her manners take over, she says quietly, “Thanks anyway,” and continues her journey.

  * * *

  “What would you do if I died?” Tom asked her once, leaning over and smiling. His left hand invaded her top, resting on her breast.

  “I wouldn’t let you,” she replied, thrusting her chest out and grinning.

  “But if you couldn’t stop it.”

  Fingers explored, she pulled him closer. “I’d fuck the postman.”

  Later, smoking cigarettes and shivering: “Promise you’ll never leave me,” she said. He kissed her, rolled over, slept.

  * * *

  “It’s Louise, isn’t it?”

  Louise rounds another corner and is confronted by a woman who grabs her and hugs her tightly, as if she has found her long-lost sister. Louise wishes she’d caught the bus, at least people would have left her alone then.

  “I haven’t seen you for ages.”

  Louise stands motionless, arms by her side, not returning the embrace.

  “It’s me, Narinda,” the woman says. “From school. You remember? Of course you remember. The old gang?”

  “How are you?” Louise forces out eventually. Seeing her is almost as painful as losing Tom. Narinda is someone from an old life, one Louise wants no part of. Just seeing her has given her gooseflesh, reminding her of the person Tom helped her leave behind, someone she no longer recognises.

  “Oh it’s so good to see you again. How’s…oh what was his name? Tom, wasn’t it?”

  “Dead,” Louise says defiantly, cutting her off. Narinda rocks back slightly, clearly unsure what to do or say.

  “Oh, I am sorry,” she manages eventually.

  “Bye, Narinda,” Louise says quietly, pushing past her and continuing her journey.

  As she enters the post office, the air conditioning dries her eyes. People are littered around, some waiting in the queue, some filling out forms with broken black biros with snapped silver chains hanging from the ends. Louise hugs her jacket to her chest and waits her turn and when she eventually gets to the counter, she looks away from the man and pushes the card under the glass along with a bill and driving licence as proof of address, hoping she’s not going to have to have the same conversation as last month and the month before.

  “Has Tom Gaddis signed to say you can pick this up for him?”

  “He’s dead.”

  A beat. Frozen features, unsure how to respond to her. “We can’t release anything to you unless he’s signed to say you can pick it up for him, you see.”

  “Can dead men sign forms?” Steely green eyes, staring unflinchingly through the glass, daring the man to be a jobsworth. “You can see it’s my address, you can see we live together…” A pause, reality sinking in for the twentieth time that day. “Lived together.”

  Luckily, today, the assistant simply looks at the note and says, “Cold, isn’t it,” and he grins a British yellow-tooth smile. “Sign here.” He shunts a form towards Louise. Her fingers do the work and as he hands her the parcel; she clutches it to her chest and steps back out onto the morning high street.

  Every month, she receives the company’s ‘choice’ of book for Tom. It was in the small print when he signed for it – if he didn’t choose one himself from their catalogue, they would send one of their own recommendations for him to read. She couldn’t allow herself to cancel it, to cancel him. It’s strange, though, because the books are early this month and the package seems different. She lets her arms fall back slightly to read the label. It’s not the normal printed name and address at all. It’s a handwritten one. Tom’s writing: Lou.

  * * *

  “Why don’t you like Lou?” Tom asked her once, slipping onto the arm of her chair.

  “It’s not my name.”

  Eyes smiled. “So?”

  “I was christened Louise.”

  “Lou, Louise. Same name.”

  “Different name entirely. Different name, different pronounciation,”

  “Pronunciation.”

  “What?”

  * * *

  She clutches the box tightly, swallowing and swallowing again, sure the spinning in her stomach will cause her to be sick. She drags herself upstairs and sits staring from the window, hugging the parcel so tightly it hurts her small breasts.

  Time is suspended as she walks down their street. Her street. The parcel is warm in her arms, like it’s emitting some sort of heat, some sort of life. As she walks into her front gate, Mr Carmichael is still pruning his hedges and deadheading flowers. He smiles and nods. Her fingers are freezing as she hunts for her keys to the flat, avoiding his gaze, pretending she doesn’t feel like a madwoman screaming behind alabaster skin.

  “They can teach you a lot, you know,” he says.

  “Sorry,” she mumbles, trying to get her keys in the lock to avoid a lengthy discussion with him.

  “Plants and flowers. Trees.”

  “Sorry, Mr Carmichael, I’ve really got to get in and…” Louise says without looking around, not even caring if she appears rude.

  “When leaves die in autumn, the trees don’t hold on to them,” Mr Carmichael continues regardless. “They let them go, Louise. If they didn’t, no new leaves would grow.”

  “Mr Carmichael, I…” she starts, glancing around at him and pursing her lips.

  “And how sad that tree would look when spring arrived. Still bare.”

  Louise doesn’t respond, she simply nods her head as if she’s listened and walks into her flat. She mounts the stairs and stares down the end of the hall at her kitchen, swimming in washing up and ready meals. If Tom were alive he’d be angry.

  “Ready meals?” He’d read an article in New Scientist once and had become obsessed with modified foods. “They’ll kill you.” He was probably right of course, but his abstinence didn’t save him. She wonders what choices people actually have and which are illusions. His diet couldn’t rewrite his death so what made him think anyone else’s could?

  “The place is a pig sty,” she hears him say in her head as she drops her handbag and jacket in the hallway. The package, which she has momentarily placed on the dressing table under the mirror, stares at her, uncomfortable out of her arms. The heating isn’t on and she reaches out and touches the parcel gingerly; it feels warm. How can she get a parcel from him six months after his death? Somewhere, in the background, a telephone rings.

  “Adam,” she says quietly, leaning against the wall and cradling the telephone in her neck. She wipes her eyes as she glances through the open door into the sitting room. Similar to the state of the kitchen, the floor holds newspapers. Last week’s dinner plate sits next to last night’s, the night before that’s. If she could care long enough she’d tidy up.

  “Look.” For the tiniest of moments, she thinks about telling him what is sitting on the hallway dresser but as quickly as the thought appears she releases it. This is hers, it’s for her. It’s her name scrawled on the parcel, n
ot Adam’s. Lou.

  “Can I talk to you later, Adam?” she says finally. She can’t look at anything other than the parcel. Since his brother’s death, Adam usually manages to bring her back to the real world, but this morning he’s an irritation, a barrier between her and the past. She nods her head as Adam says something, as if she’s listened to him and has understood what he’s said. She hasn’t, she’s already thinking about re-cradling the phone as her fingers fiddle with the corner of the brown-paper package, mysteriously back in her arms without her realising she’s picked it up again.

  “Yeah,” she finds her lips saying, hanging up.

  She opens the parcel with shaking and unfamiliar hands. The only thing that stops her tearing at it is his handwriting. That must be preserved. She walks into the sitting room and sits on the sofa, pulling the paper back, opening the top of the box. Lots of packing paper hiding…what? Her fingers grab and pull, throw the packing paper on the floor with the other rubbish. Inside the box lies a DVD and a bottle of red wine, bubble-wrapped.

  * * *

  Memories, one week before he dies:

  “What did you buy that for?”

  Tom flinches, darts his head towards the kitchen door as Louise stands there, back early from university, taking her jacket off.

  “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She smiles, wandering into the kitchen and putting her jacket on the worktop. “What are you up to?” she continues playfully.

  “I don’t know,” his thick red lips reply. He stands poised, holding a bottle of red wine half in, half out of a shopping bag.

  “What did you buy that for?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The wine.”

  “It’s red.”

  “Yes. But what did you buy it for?”

  “To drink. What else?”

  “You like white. Are you cooking me dinner or something?” She puts her arms around the back of his waist, but he shirks her off.