Tuned Out

by Keith A Pearson

  “I want to see a lawyer,” I demand.

  “You can request legal representation once we arrive at the station and you’re processed.”

  “Is that before or after you’ve beaten a confession out of me?”

  “Do be quiet, Mr Grant,” Sergeant Jerome sighs. “You’re not helping your cause.”

  I’m angry at Kayla, I’m angry at the Cliffords, and I’m angry at the police officers. But most of all I’m angry at myself for walking into this. As much as I try to contain it, the anger needs venting.

  “Don’t tell me to be quiet. That’s a breach of my human rights.”

  With no reaction to my allegation and the officers unwilling to engage, I turn my angst on Kayla.

  “Just how many men have you dragged into your sordid hobby?”

  “None of your business.”

  “It wasn’t, but it is now. How many?”

  “Why do you care?” she sneers. “Is your precious male ego bruised because you weren’t the first?”

  “It’s got nothing to do with my ego and everything to do with my liberty. How many?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a few dozen men.”

  “Jesus.”

  “And five or six women.”

  “Good grief.”

  “Don’t look so shocked, Toby. This is the twenty-first century and women are entitled to enjoy sex where they want, when they want, and with whom they want.”

  “And you didn’t think to mention your track record before involving me?”

  “I don’t recall you listing your previous sexual partners but that’s okay, isn’t it, because you’re a man?”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying.”

  “Yes it is. You obviously have a problem with empowered women.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it? How many women has your mate Danny slept with? Hundreds I bet, but you don’t judge him, do you?”

  “I, err …”

  “Will you two pipe down,” Sergeant Jerome snaps. “Or I’ll charge you with breaching my peace.”

  It’s just as well I have nothing else to say.

  Five minutes later we arrive at the station. I’ve never been inside a police station before and it's every bit as grim as I imagined.

  Kayla and I are separated and after begrudgingly giving my details to the custody sergeant, I’m offered legal representation. That comes in the way of a phone call to a duty solicitor who couldn’t be less interested in my plight. He advises me to offer no comment to questions and confirms a caution is the most likely outcome.

  I’m taken to a cell to await questioning. Having been stripped of my iWatch and mobile phone, time drags; not helped by the awful accommodation. All I can do is sit on the concrete bench and feel sorry for myself.

  Eventually, PC Challinor arrives and I’m escorted to an interview room. With the duty solicitor’s advice still fresh, I offer no comment to every question, much to PC Challinor’s annoyance. All I want is to receive my slap on the wrist, go home, and pretend the last few hours never happened.

  The interview ends and, much to my horror, I’m taken back to the cell while they decide my fate. It doesn’t take long.

  Within maybe twenty minutes I’m released from the cell and accompanied back to the custody area. The clock on the wall confirms it’s just gone midnight which means paying double-time for a cab or a twenty-minute walk home in the cold. The perfect end to the perfect evening.

  As I wait for the custody sergeant to prepare my caution, my mind turns to Danny and how much I can’t wait to punch him in the face tomorrow. This is the last time I let him interfere with my love life.

  “I’m ready for you,” the custody sergeant confirms.

  “Right.”

  “Tobias Grant, you are hereby charged …”

  “Wait … what do you mean charged?”

  “If you let me finish …”

  “But the solicitor said I’d just receive a caution. It’s my first offence — you can’t charge me.”

  “We can, and we are. You’ll have your day in court to plead a defence.”

  My head swims and my stomach spins as the details of my alleged crime are read out. I don’t hear a word of it.

  “Do you understand, Mr Grant?”

  “Eh?”

  “You’re being bailed, and you’ll receive a letter within the next week confirming the date of your court hearing.”

  In a state of profound shock, I just nod. I’m handed a copy of the charge sheet and my possessions are returned. There are so many questions I know I should ask but my mind concludes this has to be a bad dream and I’ll wake up any moment.

  Three hours later, wide awake in bed, I finally accept this is no bad dream.

  What the fuck have I done?

  6.

  They say the wheels of justice turn slowly — not in my limited experience they don’t. Sixteen days after my dalliance in the park with Kayla, my day in court has arrived. I feel sick, although I’ve spent the last sixteen days feeling sick to varying degrees. I’ve also endured a whole raft of less-than-positive emotions; the most pronounced being regret. I regret listening to Danny, I regret meeting Kayla, and I regret not sticking to my principles.

  The day after my arrest I called a firm of solicitors and sought proper legal advice. It transpires the police rarely deal with my supposed crime in any other way than a caution unless there are multiple witnesses. Councillor Clifford knew this too, and after a minor publicity campaign to highlight the various abuses of the public park, he secured two further witnesses: a gentleman with superhuman eyesight who watched our tryst from the window of his fourth-floor apartment, and a fellow dog walker who stood fifty yards from the scene and watched me hump Kayla while his Labrador took a particularly long shit. To make matters worse, Councillor Clifford and his wife also claimed the experience traumatised them — and they say my generation are too easily offended.

  With four witnesses to the crime itself, and testimony from two police officers stating they arrived to find me in a state of semi-nakedness, the Crown Prosecution Service had enough evidence to pursue our case. However, I remained optimistic there might be a way out of it, although that optimism was based on watching too many courtroom dramas. I expected the solicitors to appoint a hotshot defender who would use all their cunning and guile to find a loophole in the prosecution case. What actually happened is they advised me to plead guilty and show remorse. They even went as far as to say it would be a waste of money having representation as Kayla intended to plead guilty.

  Now it’s my turn to be fucked.

  They call my case and I enter the courtroom. From my prior research, I know there’s no jury at a Magistrate’s Court and three wizened crones will decide my fate. Sporting my best suit and a suitably repentant expression, I take my place in the dock.

  My name is confirmed and they read out the charge. The head crone then asks how I intend to plead.

  No part of me wants to utter the word. Granted, I had sex in a public place but only late at night in the pitch dark, in what I presumed to be a deserted park. How is it I’m being persecuted yet perpetrators of real crimes are let off with a caution?

  “Guilty, your Honour.”

  “Sorry. Can you speak up?”

  “I said, guilty.”

  There isn’t a hint of remorse in my tone; just bitterness and resentment.

  The head crone then begins a lecture about my civic responsibilities but barely any of it sinks in. Only when he moves on to the sentence does my attention return.

  “You are hereby ordered to complete sixty hours of unpaid work and pay a fine of three-hundred pounds.”

  “What?”

  “Do you have a problem with your hearing, Mr Grant?”

  “No, your Honour.”

  I am dismissed.

  Whilst I didn’t have the highest of hopes for the New Year, never did I imagine I’d attain a criminal record three weeks into it. There might be a f
ine I can’t afford and unpaid work I don’t want to do, but by far the worst aspect of my punishment is the shame. I am officially a criminal. The question is: do I tell anyone?

  Danny obviously knows what happened that night but I’ve barely spoken to him since. I don’t know if he feels any guilt but I do know he won’t tell anyone. As for my employer and my parents, the conversation itself doesn’t bear thinking about. Graham will fret about the company’s reputation, and Dad will have fresh material for a whole series of lectures about my lack of responsibility.

  I think it would be best if I kept this to myself.

  Having booked the day off on the pretence of visiting a sick relative, I now have a free day. Never has there been a worthier excuse to drown my sorrows. I drive home via the off-licence; intent on spending the rest of the day shooting people in a virtual world and drinking myself into oblivion.

  I’ve barely made it through the front door when my phone rings. It’s Dad, again — that man has too much time on his hands.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Ah, there you are. I’ve just been into your office.”

  “My office? Why?”

  “I had to nip to the DIY store and thought you might fancy a spot of lunch while I was in the area.”

  Christ, I hope they didn’t mention the reason for my absence.

  “Who’s this sick relative you had to visit then?”

  Bollocks.

  “I might have told them a slight white lie. I had somewhere to be this morning, and I didn’t want them knowing my business.”

  “Right. How about that lunch then? My treat.”

  “Where’s Mum?”

  “At one of her book clubs.”

  “Oh.”

  The line falls silent as I try and fail to muster a plausible excuse. I certainly don’t want to tell him what I actually have planned for the afternoon, or why.

  “Where do you fancy going?” I ask through gritted teeth.

  “How about The Crab & Anchor?”

  “Okay. I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.”

  “Good lad.”

  He hangs up. Can this day get any worse?

  I gaze longingly at the cans of lager on the kitchen side and make a solemn promise to return and deal with them later. Not wishing to rouse Dad’s suspicions, I swap my suit for jeans and a hoodie before heading back down to the car park.

  The Crab & Anchor is my parent’s local and, in my humble opinion, an awful pub that should have been closed down years ago. The food is dull, the decor tatty, and the landlord a closet racist. Come to think of it, it isn’t just ethnic minorities he hates — it’s every minority. But as long as you’re white, English, and heterosexual, a lukewarm welcome is always assured.

  Fifteen minutes later I pull into the car park and spot Dad’s Mercedes Coupé at the far end. From memory I think he’s now on his fourth midlife crisis and the year-old Mercedes is the latest in a long line of expensive playthings he’s wasted my inheritance on. He gets out and strides over.

  As old as the dinosaurs, or sixty-seven to be precise, a lifetime of manual work and an equally active retirement have kept Dad trim. Genetics have also been kind, and he still has a full head of sandy-grey hair.

  He does, however, dress like an old man. His idea of casual attire is more akin to that of the landed gentry and comprises corduroy trousers, a starched shirt, and a tweed sports jacket.

  “Alright, Dad,” I huff, getting out of the car.

  “I’m particularly chipper today, Son.”

  Not really a question, but hey.

  We make our way to the public bar with Dad wittering on about the cost of insuring his new car.

  “I had to pay the robbing bastards just over two-hundred quid,” he complains.

  “Consider yourself lucky. Archie in the office passed his test in October and his annual insurance is just shy of eighteen-hundred quid … for a ten-year-old Vauxhall Corsa.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t spend my evenings tearing around supermarket car parks or drag racing down the High Street.”

  “Neither does Archie.”

  As with every argument Dad looks set to lose, he changes the subject as we reach the bar.

  “They do a lovely drop of Timothy Taylor's Landlord. Fancy a pint?”

  “You know I don’t like real ale. I’ll just have a Coke, thanks.”

  “Suit yourself,” he replies, handing me a menu. “What do you fancy?”

  I can choose from a dozen different items served with chips, or sandwiches.

  “I’ll have the burger and chips, please.”

  “Righto.”

  “Oh, and can I have the burger served in a Brioche bun, with Portobello mushrooms?”

  “Are you taking the piss?”

  “Yep.”

  He shakes his head as the landlord, Norman, waddles over.

  “Afternoon, Dave,” he wheezes, greeting me with just a nod. “What can I get you?”

  Dad places our order and they engage in small talk as Norman pulls our drinks.

  “You heard what those muppets at the council have done?” the balding, obese landlord asks.

  “No,” Dad replies.

  “They’ve told me I’ve got to take the flagpole down.”

  I assume he’s talking about the flagpole he recently erected in the beer garden; taller than the pub itself and flying the flag of St George.

  “That’s the problem these days, Norm — no patriotism. Everyone is entitled to fly the national flag, like the Yanks do.”

  Something tells me the council’s objection has nothing to do with patriotism and everything to do with a breach of planning law. This conversation is only going one way and I’ve already heard enough.

  “I’ll go grab a table.”

  “Alright, Son.”

  I retire to the far corner where I can’t hear any more of Norman’s drivel. However, as much as he irritates me, at least it's a distraction from this morning’s events; akin to punching yourself in the face to distract from a stubbed toe.

  “Here you go, Son.”

  Dad hands me a pint of Coke and takes a seat opposite.

  “How’s Mum?”

  “Excited.”

  “About?”

  “We’re heading down to Kent this weekend to see your brother.”

  “Say hello from me.”

  “Isn’t it about time you went down there? When did you last see your nieces?”

  “Um, August bank holiday, I think.”

  “You need to make more effort. There’s nothing more important than family, you know.”

  Maybe he’s right but Stephen and I have never been close. I put it down to the nine-year age gap — he was learning to drive while I was still learning how to ride a bike. He’s also a police officer and although he’s unlikely to learn of my misdemeanour, I’d rather remain off Stephen's radar just in case.

  “Well, I had planned to go down on New Year's Eve but I had car troubles.”

  “That sounds like an excuse, and you know what I say about excuses.”

  Christ, I do. I’ve had it drilled into me since childhood.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I sigh. “If you want it, you’ll find a way. If you don’t, you’ll find an excuse.”

  “Precisely. You could have taken the train.”

  “But …”

  His scowl is enough to end my defence, and he moves on to another topic of conversation I’m not keen to discuss.

  “Did you think about my offer?”

  “To move back home?”

  “Yeah. You know it makes sense.”

  “Financially, maybe, but not in any other way.”

  “Tell me then: how do you intend to save a deposit for your own place?”

  “I’m getting there.”

  “You’re nearly thirty. I’d already bought and sold two homes at your age. And don’t be giving me excuses about it being easier back then — your brother managed to buy his own place.”

  “Let’
s not go through this again.”

  Stephen bought his first flat with no financial help from my parents. Dad now holds the view it would be unfair to help me, particularly as I stand to inherit half of everything he owns down the line. That’s not to say he’s unwilling to offer me his opinions, though.

  “Do you know what your problem is, Son?”

  “A judgemental father?”

  “Very funny. No, your problem is a lack of gumption. You and your generation are forever whining about how tough life is but you don’t know you’re even born.”

  And, he’s off. I need this today like a hole in the head.

  “Look at your Granddad — God rest his soul. He fought on the beaches of Normandy, risking his life for Queen and country, yet he didn’t expect special treatment. He didn’t come home and complain about his lot in life — he got the hell on with it. Got himself a trade and worked his bollocks off for everything he ever owned. Just like I did.”

  “What you’re saying is I need to work harder and everything will magically happen for me?”

  “No, I’m saying you’ve got yourself into a rut, and I think you’ve made yourself at home in that rut. Be honest with yourself: you’re coasting, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m trying to keep my head above water; both financially and mentally.”

  “Oh, here we go,” he groans. “Not that depression nonsense again. How long are you going to keep using that as an excuse?”

  It would be fair to say my father was less than sympathetic when he learnt I had depression, and he’s maintained that lack of sympathy ever since.

  “Come off it, Dad. Would you be so dismissive if I had, I don’t know … rheumatoid arthritis?”

  “No, because that’s a proper debilitating illness. All you’re suffering from is a dose of self-pity, and it’s certainly nothing a good kick up the arse wouldn’t cure.”

  “Have you ever considered a career in medicine? You’d save the NHS a fortune in treatments.”

  “Don’t be a smart arse with me, young man. You’re not too old for a good hiding, you know.”

  “Ahh, the ‘good hiding’ line. I wondered when that would come out.”

  “Maybe that’s your problem. I never gave you a good hiding as a child.”

  “Gee, thanks.”