Rainbows and Lollipops

FADE IN

INT. TOM AND JAKE'S FLAT - DAY
SUPER: '7 JULY 2024’
Sunlight streams into a lived-in Birmingham flat, where JAKE works on his laptop. The living room exudes cluttered charm: a worn leather sofa faces a small TV, and a coffee table is strewn with magazines.

Two weeks before everything changed, Jake’s life had seemed wonderfully, boringly normal. Surrounded by scatter cushions, he perched on the sofa, working from home, reading an emailed complaint from a Horizon Holidays customer whose Düsseldorf mini-break was ‘ruined’ by a lukewarm in-flight beef casserole.

Tom, pale and dishevelled, stumbled from the bedroom, squinting at the sun, and uttered a weary groan. He’d strained a hamstring at the gym, showing off in front of his new and way too good-looking personal trainer. Luis—said with a lisp to emphasise just how swarthily Spanish and horribly handsome he was.

‘Perhaps I should go to hospital,’ Tom said. ‘Better to be safe than sorry.’

Jake set aside his laptop. ‘The best cure is rest. Would you like me to make you a drink?’

‘Tea. But no milk. Best to avoid carbs. If I can’t work out, I’ll balloon.’

‘You’re not having your usual three sugars, then?’

Tom grimaced. ‘I could manage a biscuit. You’re supposed to line your stomach if you’re taking painkillers.’

Jake patted his shoulder. ‘The thing is sweetie, you ate the last of the Jammy Dodgers last night. I suppose I could nip out to the minimart.’

The suggestion was met with a hopeful smile. ‘If you’re going out anyway, would you mind getting me a bag of prawn cocktail Wotsits?’

Jake grinned. ‘So we’re lining our stomachs with carbs and trans-fats today, then?’

Tom collapsed into his favourite armchair, scrunching into a ball, and turning his voice down to a sickly croak. ‘If they’re out of prawn cocktail, the regular ones are fine. And a Mars Bar. And a can of Fanta Lemon. But only if it’s been in the fridge. I was reading online about how it’s important to keep my electrolytes up.’

Jake shook his head, but reached for his wallet and house keys. When he caught Covid, Tom had been the perfect nurse, tending to his every need, chopping an egg up in a cup. He brought him toast with all the crusts cut off. He’d always imagined them growing old together. Long, lazy Sunday mornings flipping through the papers, solving cryptic crossword puzzles, bickering over whose turn it was to walk the Labrador.

He stepped out of his battered grey felt slippers and pulled on the nearest pair of trainers. ‘One fat-bastard junk-food goodie bag coming up.’

Tom frowned, lifted his T-shirt and patted his flat stomach. ‘I’m not actually fat, though, right?’

INT. TOM AND JAKE'S FLAT - NIGHT
SUPER: '19 JULY 2024'
Jake lies on top of the bed, surrounded by his iPad, phone, a magazine, and a spine-up book. It's late, the blind is drawn.

Fate doesn’t bother with polite knocks. Fate boots in your door at stupid o’clock, raids your fridge, eats the leftover Chinese and drinks straight from the milk carton. The worst house guest you never invited, with a particular talent for showing up whenever you think you’ve got your life sorted. Just to remind you that you’re not even close.

Jake shifted in bed, resting his head on Tom's still-cool pillow. Oppressive heat made it impossible to get comfortable, even with the windows open wide, there was just no air. The alarm clock blinked 22:07, each pale blue pulse marking another minute Tom should have been home. Another minute he wasn’t.

Once a year, Bowers Estate Agency summoned everyone to a chain hotel just outside Bristol for a day of motivational team building.

‘Can’t you tell them you’re sick?’ Jake had said.

‘If I don’t go, it’ll look bad.’ Tom had insisted. ‘It’s all about the networking.’

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Tom. He trusted him with his life. He just hated being alone in their flat at night. And the car had been making weird knocking noises. Tom’s solution had been to crank up the music, drowning out what sounded like the engine getting ready to either explode or drop out. What if he’d broken down in the middle of nowhere? Down some out-of-the-way country lane. What if the police found an abandoned Mini Cooper near the last reported sighting of some axe-wielding psychopath?

In a last ditch attempt to talk Tom out of spending the night in a Travelodge, Jake had played his trump card: ‘It’s our anniversary on Friday.’

‘Which one?’

‘It’s been six years since the first time we... you know.’

Tom snorted as he picked out shoes. ‘Does Hallmark do a card for that, now?’

No matter, Jake knew he’d won. Tom had promised to drive home as soon as the last whoop-whoop motivational speaker ended his PowerPoint presentation.

The clock ticked over to 22:09.

INT. TOM AND JAKE'S FLAT - NIGHT
SUPER: ‘JUNE 2022’

After waiting an hour in a Birmingham pub where Tom had suggested meeting up for early evening cocktails, Jake had taken a bus home only to find the love of his life slumped on their sofa, his eyes glassy, his smile lopsided.

‘Did something happen?’

An all-but-empty bottle of Polish vodka sat on the floor.

‘Shit. Forgot. Balls.’ Tom slurred the words together and tried to sit up, his movements clumsy. ‘Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.’

‘It’s fine,’ Jake managed to say, even though it wasn’t. He started to tidy, picking up an abandoned tie, smoothing down a creased jacket.

Tom grabbed the vodka, a smile tugging at his lips. ‘Lemme make you a cocktail?’

‘You sound like you’ve already had enough.’

This met with a bitter, hollow snort. ‘What? You’re keeping count. Are you my mother or something?’

Jake heard these exact, same words each time drink took over—blunt weapons meant to deflect and wound.

‘Tom, this isn’t—’ He took a breath, steeling himself. ‘I’m not trying to control you, but we’ve talked about how much you’ve been drinking…’ His voice wavered, and he swallowed, forcing his tone to stay steady. ‘You promised.’

And there they were. Two little words with the power to turn any isolated confrontation into all-out war. Sure enough, a spark of anger flared behind vodka-soaked, unfocused eyes.

‘Don’t start with that again.’

It wasn’t worth fighting back. Jake had said everything there was to say at least a dozen times. Instead, he hung his coat on a hook in the lobby and unlaced his shoes.

‘I can’t keep doing this,’ he said, trying not to sound like some sort of drama queen.

A suffocating silence followed. Jake waited for Tom to grab the bottle, but he didn’t. Instead, he laughed—a joyless, hollow sound—before sinking back against the cushions, defeated in a way that would crack even the hardest of hearts.

‘You’re not going to leave me, are you?’ Tom’s voice came out small and uncertain.

Jake was angry, tired, and heartbroken. But he wouldn’t leave.

‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re stuck with me, mate.’

He pulled out his phone to order a pizza. With food in his belly, Tom would sober up. Tuesday would go back to being Tuesday.

‘Pepperoni and mushroom?’ he said, tapping at the screen.

Tom let out a breath. ‘I’ll stop,’ he said. ‘I’ll get help. I promise.’

There they were again. I promise. Two little words that could just as easily end whatever war they’d started.

INT. TOM AND JAKE'S FLAT - NIGHT
SUPER: '19 JULY 2024'

A jarring ringtone shattered the quiet, and Jake fumbled for his phone, heart sinking when he saw the caller was Tom’s horrible sister.

‘It’s Tom.’ Her usually clipped voice sounded full of wobble. ‘There was an accident.’

‘But I spoke to him…’

He trailed off, his mind struggling to work out how long ago it had been since Tom had called to say he was on his way. They’d texted at seven. And again just before eight.

Rona’s breathing grew ragged. ‘They took him into the operating theatre.’

‘The operating theatre? Did he break a leg or something? Which hospital?’

‘Tom’s dead.’

Click and she was gone.

Jake’s world slowed down. The floor tilted and the phone slid from his grip, landing with a soft thud. His eyes settled on a framed photograph—the two of them on moving-in day, surrounded by boxes, radiating joy.

Tom couldn’t be dead. He called Rona back, but she sent him to voicemail. He needed to speak to someone. Anyone. Hospital switchboards passed him to wards that passed him to other wards, until a voice confirmed the admission of a Tom Carter, in his early 40s.

‘Is he OK?’ Jake tried to keep his voice calm.

‘Are you a relative?’

‘I’m his… I’m his boyfriend.’

’Not his husband?’

‘We’ve been together six years. So…’

There was a long, awkward silence. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything more. There are rules. Laws. Data protection. You understand?’

Jake had told the woman that yes, he totally understood. That he was sorry for bothering her.

Bile rose in his throat as he stumbled around the flat, his legs weak and unsteady. In the bathroom, he squinted at his reflection, ghostly in the frosted window pane.

‘This isn’t real.’ His voice became a whisper. ‘You are dreaming. Wake up.’

He gripped the edge of the sink, his knuckles turning white. The cold, hard porcelain was real. Everything was real. He wasn’t dreaming. His chest tightened, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Was this how it felt when your heart gave up? When it saw little point in going on?

He sank to the cold tiled floor, his back against the bathtub. Through an open window, the outside world went about its nocturnal business—a car door slammed, a dog barked.

Someone smoked weed.

INT. CITY HOSPITAL - NIGHT
A busy A&E department. All seats are taken, some people are sitting on the floor. An illuminated sign indicates the current wait time is approximately 95 minutes.

When Jake’s employer ran a staff engagement survey and the results sucked, the HR department at Horizon Seeking Holidays compensated not with pay rises, but with a series of compulsory wellness webinars. An Irish guy in oversize specs, with a fondness for Zoom filters, preached the 5-4-3-2-1 method—a grounding technique to manage anxiety and stay present. You identified five things you could see, four things you could touch, three sounds, two smells, and one taste.

Vending machine. Bunched-up tissue. Antiseptic gel. Angry man. Coffee spill.

The A&E department was all anxious faces and hushed conversations. Harsh lighting stressed the worry etched into every face. Porters pushed trolleys, a tired doctor consoled a sobbing woman, and worried family members paced in tight circles.

Armrest. Phone. The ring he forgot he was wearing. Leg.

Jake’s stomach churned, replaying Rona’s words.

‘Tom’s dead.’

All he wanted was an answer. Instead, he’d banged heads with hospital bureaucracy.

‘I only want to know if he’s alive,’ he’d said, and just hearing his mouth form those words didn’t seem real. ‘I mean… I know he’s alive. I just need to know where to find him.’

The stressed-out woman in charge of admissions pointed at a photocopied notice warning of the hospital’s zero-tolerance policy.

‘You’re not a relative. I’m afraid you’ll need to step to one side.’

Phone. Door swishing. Another phone. There’s always another phone.

What if Rona had got it wrong? Hospitals make mistakes. He’d walk around every floor, open every door, check for himself. And then he’d call a cab and go home, clean his teeth, and climb into bed. And wait for Tom to come home.

Stale sweat. Cheap perfume.

He’d walked over to the lifts and pressed a button, his heart pounding. The doors opened and voices yelled to stand aside. Porters wheeled out a grey-faced someone, half-covered by a sheet. Jake jumped out of their way.

And then he saw her.

Rona never changed—tall and slim, salon-fresh blonde hair. Jake ducked behind a vending machine, hoping to stay hidden, but it was too late. She strode towards him, eyes narrowed, lips drawn tight.

‘What are you doing here?’ she snapped.

He tasted blood, sharp and metallic, as if he’d bitten his tongue or the inside of his cheek.

‘I wanted to see Tom.’ His voice sounded so very small.

‘Tom’s body, you mean. You came here to take one last look at the damage you caused.’

Jake flinched. He got it. She was grieving. Lashing out. Trying to find someone to blame.

‘Rona, I’m sorry.’

Her expression hardened. ‘I’ll be sure to tell our mother you didn’t intend to kill her son.’

He wanted to fight back but could think of no words worth saying.

‘Tom is dead because of you. If you hadn’t been so fucking needy—’

‘We agreed,’ Jake said. ‘He was always coming home tonight… last night… yesterday.’

‘You dragged him back.’ She all but spat. ‘You knew he’d be tired, but still you insisted.’

Jake’s stomach churned, and he shook his head. What was she talking about?

‘It wasn’t like that—’

‘Of course it was.’ Rona interrupted, her voice rising. ‘He wanted to have some fun. To get away from you. If you hadn’t been so needy, my brother would still be alive.’

The guilt that had gnawed at him in silence now roared in his ears, but Jake forced himself to stay calm. Tom always said to avoid biting back, but anger took over. White-hot anger. The corridor narrowed. The air turned thick and unbreathable.

‘I have to see him.’

Her lip curled. ‘I’ve called Amelia. She’s on her way. The poor girl is devastated.’

Amelia. The girlfriend groomed to further the Carter family tree. Midway through the third trimester, Tom and Amelia had buried baby Edward with never-worn shoes and an Aston Villa scarf.

‘Tom hasn’t spoken to her in years,’ Jake said.

The words came out sharper than he’d intended. A passing nurse hesitated, looking between them with concern. Rona waved her away.

‘Just go, Jake,’ she said. ‘Before either of us says something we can never take back.’

‘I have a right to be with him.’

Her fists clenched, perfect red talons digging into pale white flesh, ready to unleash another tirade. And then, as exhaustion flickered in her eyes, she took a step back.

‘You have no rights, Jake. You and Tom never married.’

He recoiled. ‘How does that matter?’

‘Please, stop fighting me on this.’ Her voice grew hoarse and raspy. ‘My brother told me he needed a break from you.’

A tightness gripped his throat.

‘Tom would never—’

‘You’re too much for anyone.’ Rona folded her arms. ‘He wanted one night to himself, Jake, and you refused to give him that.’

The walls around blurred and swirled. The windows became distorted funhouse mirrors.

‘We agreed. He said… I never—’

‘He wouldn’t have been on that road if it wasn’t for you.’ She spoke to the floor, her words no longer flung in his face. ‘My brother would be alive.’

Jake backed away. ‘I’m going. No need for fuss.’

But he didn’t leave. Instead, he sat on the far side of a still-overwhelmed A&E department. Tom wanted a break. How come Jake, who prided himself on reading people, on knowing when to step in… how did he not pick up that? And what sort of break? From him? From their life together?

A permanent break?

Still, he couldn’t leave Tom here. Alone. With strangers. He wouldn’t walk away and act as if he didn’t care. Like none of this mattered. When it mattered too much.

Vending machine. Bunched-up tissue. Antiseptic gel. Angry man. Coffee spill.

Armrest. Phone. The ring he forgot he was wearing. Leg.

Phone. Door swishing. Another phone.

Stale sweat. Cheap perfume.

He called Tom’s voicemail. Sweet and low, the man he loved spoke with the smallest of lisps and a whisper of a stutter. Jake told himself Rona had got it all wrong. Tom wasn’t dead. He was caught in three lanes of slow-moving traffic, or queuing for coffee in a service station with patchy 5G. That he’d call any minute.

Every part of him chose that moment to ache.

Doubt took root. What if Tom had stayed in Bristol because he needed space? And what if Tom was drinking again? In secret. What if all their late-night talks, all the moments when Tom insisted he was happy… what if those had been well-crafted lies to protect Jake from a truth he couldn’t handle?

A pair of sensible flat shoes appeared in his downcast field of vision. Without looking up, he knew it must be a nurse, likely at the end of her tether, running on fumes and forced to insist he leave.

‘I need a minute,’ he said. ‘That’s allowed, right? This area is public. I have rights.’

It was the nurse from before. The one who’d shown concern.

‘Who are you here for?’ she said.

‘My partner. Tom. Tom Carter.’

A detached, professional expression softened.

‘Come with me, please.’

INT. CITY HOSPITAL - NIGHT
A side room, with no windows, just a flat hospital bed on which a body lies, unsupported by pillows, covered by a white cotton sheet. There are monitoring machines, all turned off.

The room was too hot, too bright, and Jake’s eyes stayed fixed on the still form lying on the bed. A thin white sheet covered most of Tom’s body, but the outline of his frame was unmistakable. His once vibrant, expressive face had found rest, his dark hair messy in the way it always got after a long day. Tom, who’d always seemed a billion times larger than life, was now so small.

‘Was Rona lying?’ Jake whispered. ‘You wanted a break?’

He reached out, his fingers trembling as they traced the contours of Tom’s cold hand, visible beneath the sheet.

‘You didn’t need to rush back. I know what I said, but it didn’t matter.’

He slid from an orange plastic chair to perch on the narrow bed and rested his head on the pillow, eyes shut, trying to imagine they were back home. In their bedroom, with the low hum of traffic from outside, and their neighbour’s TV set blaring through too-thin walls.

A faint beep broke the silence, coming from the pocket of his shabby denim jacket, and he fumbled for his phone. A new message notification blinked. He opened it, his breath catching.

RONA STAPLES: You need to be out of the flat tomorrow.