Tuned Out

by Keith A Pearson

  I wish I’d known that five minutes ago.

  “Right. Sorry.”

  She sits down and scans my completed forms. They’re then placed atop a heaving in-tray so I assume all is well.

  “Now we’ve got that out of the way, let’s find something constructive for you to do. How do you feel about making the rounds today?”

  “It seems fairly straightforward, but shouldn’t a qualified member of staff be doing it?”

  “First, we’re understaffed and there isn’t always someone available to do the checks. Second, I’m not asking you to administer medication or give anyone a bed-bath. Really, it’s just to keep an eye on the residents and to let them know they’re not alone. Some of them might want a natter, and some just want to see a friendly face.”

  “Even Vernon Kirby?”

  “Perhaps not, but we still need to keep an eye on him.”

  “Okay, if you’re sure I’m up to it.”

  “It’s not rocket science, Toby. And the car park still needs sweeping if you’d rather?”

  “Let’s go with plan-A, shall we? I don’t like the cold.”

  I’m handed a clipboard with a list of the room numbers, resident names, and their various ailments. All I have to do is note the time I arrive at each room, the time I leave, and tick a box to confirm all is well with each resident. There’s also a section to note any issues or problems raised. It appears idiot-proof.

  “What shall I do once I’ve finished?”

  “That’ll take you to lunchtime. You can eat in the dining room if you like.”

  “I saw a Starbucks on the way in. I think I’ll take a walk there.”

  “Suit yourself. Any other questions?”

  “Nope. I’m good.”

  “In which case, come back here when you’re done.”

  And with that, I’m sent on my way.

  I head straight to the first room I visited with Tammy and knock on the door. I’m no legal expert but I’m sure barging in uninvited is a breach of privacy laws so, contrary to my instructions, I wait for a reply. A frail voice replies with an invitation to come in.

  I find Miriam in almost the same position we left her two hours ago — seated in an armchair staring into space.

  “Hello again, Miriam.”

  She looks at me, confused.

  “I’m Toby, remember? I popped by earlier with Tammy.”

  Her face brightens.

  “Oh, yes. You must excuse me; I’m better with voices than faces.”

  “No problem. I’m just checking if you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine, dear. When is lunch?”

  “Err, an hour or so, I think.”

  “Do you know what we’re having?”

  “I don’t, but I could find out if you’d like me to?”

  “No, don’t worry. It’ll be a surprise.”

  “Great, well, if there’s nothing else you need, I’ll pop by again later.”

  Miriam smiles and then turns her head to stare at nothing again. Maybe that’s how she likes to spend her days — lost in her own thoughts. I scribble down the time and leave her to it. Early days, but this doesn’t seem too much of a challenge.

  The next dozen rooms prove equally straightforward. I’m asked a few mundane questions about my family, the weather, and one old guy asked if his daughter is visiting today. I didn’t know, so I just said ‘probably’. He seemed happy enough with my reply.

  Within thirty seconds of stepping into room-fourteen, I sense I’m about to meet my first obstacle of the day. That rather large obstacle comes in the form of Sylvia; a rotund woman who, according to the clipboard, is suffering from dementia.

  The minute I enter, Sylvia waddles over and throws her arms around me.

  “Hello, Martin,” she coos in my ear. “So lovely to see you.”

  Tammy warned me this might happen and made it clear I shouldn’t distress Sylvia by correcting her.

  “Lovely to see you too. Shall we sit down?”

  With a final squeeze, I escape Sylvia’s clutches and she plonks herself down on the edge of the bed. Having established she’s fine, I’m about to leave when Sylvia pats the bed next to her.

  “Are you going to sit down then? We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

  Ahh, shit.

  “That would be lovely, Sylvia, but I’ve got to … be somewhere else.”

  Like someone flicking a light switch, her mood changes in an instant. The happy, smiley face is replaced with a thunderous scowl.

  “You’re going to see her, aren’t you?”

  “Her?”

  “That bitch, Angela! You told me you’d finished with her.”

  I have a nasty feeling Martin is, or was, Sylvia’s husband. What the fuck do I say now?

  “Erm, I swear it’s over.”

  I don’t sound convincing.

  “Liar!”

  This plump bomb needs defusing before it blows up in my face. I can’t tell her the truth on account of Tammy’s warning, but I’m not a convincing liar either.

  “I’m not lying and swear on my life: Angela means nothing to me.”

  It’s the truth, and to my surprise it appears to hit home.

  “She doesn’t?”

  “Nope. Cross my heart, hope to die.”

  Her smile returns.

  “But I do need to get on,” I add.

  “Can I have a hug before you go?”

  I don’t want to risk tripping her switch again and plod over to the bed. Sylvia stands up and, once again, I’m smothered by her bulk.

  “Before you go,” she whispers in my ear. “Do you fancy some nookie?”

  I have no idea what nookie is, but it sounds like an old breakfast cereal from the seventies; probably similar to Ready Brek or Quaker’s Oats.

  “I don’t have time now.” I reply. “But we can definitely have some when I drop by later.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yeah, why not?”

  Crisis averted, I leave Sylvia sporting a broad grin. Her cereal better be gluten-free.

  The remaining rooms prove less problematic although I’m twice mistaken for a relative, and once for a young David Dimbleby. Besides those awkward moments, I’m generally met with resigned indifference. You’d think they'd be pleased to see a new face; even if it’s only on a flying visit. Talk about ungrateful.

  I reach the final room, and that means another meeting with Vernon Kirby. Now Tammy isn’t here, I’m less inclined to tolerate his appalling attitude. She might be willing to suffer verbal abuse but I’m not.

  Still, it’s probably best not to antagonise him so I rap twice on the door and wait for a reply. Ten seconds without a response, then twenty. I knock again and wait. After counting to twenty I conclude Tammy would rather I check on him than just stand here repeatedly knocking.

  I’m about to open the door when a thought occurs — what if he’s dead? I’ve never seen a dead body before and it’s not an experience which features highly in my list of life goals. There’s every chance I might be traumatised by the sight of Vernon Kirby’s lifeless corpse, although it would offer a cast-iron excuse to leave early.

  Unsure if I’m doing the right thing, I slowly turn the handle and open the door.

  Relief comes when I find Vernon on the same patch of carpet he occupied earlier; this time on his haunches and mumbling something unintelligible.

  “Not your lucky day is it, Vernon — two falls in one morning. Do you need a hand?”

  There’s another bout of mumbling before he finally looks up.

  “What do you think, dipshit?”

  Ignoring his sarcasm, I cautiously cross the carpet and offer my hand.

  “You need to pull me up,” he rasps.

  I’d like to teach him a lesson in common courtesy and leave him exactly where he is. Knowing my luck, though, he’d probably die, and I’d end up back in court charged with wilfully ignoring a stranded arsehole.

  I throw the clipboard on the bed and lean
over him. As little as I want to touch his clammy-looking skin, I wrap my hand around his upper arm and heave the old man to his feet. He’s nothing if not consistent and just as he did with Tammy earlier, he whips his arm away the moment he’s upright. I take some solace knowing it hurt; judging by the sharp intake of breath.

  “You’re welcome,” I huff.

  “You want a fuckin’ medal for doing your job?”

  With some effort he takes a seat on the edge of the bed.

  “This isn’t my job. I’m just … volunteering … so I’m not even being paid to suffer your verbal abuse.”

  “Sticks and stones,” he mumbles. “You need to grow a pair.”

  “Or, how about you try being civil?”

  “Oh, you want me to be civil do you?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Fair enough. Will you please fuck off and leave me in peace?”

  As much as I’d love to give Vernon a taste of his own sweary medicine, I remind myself he’s an old man with a degenerative disease. I need to be the bigger man.

  “Suit yourself. See you later.”

  I leave Vernon to it and head back to Tammy’s office. It’s been an eventful morning and if I were in the mood for positivity, I might be pleased to have already completed five percent of my community service hours. My mind decides it would rather focus on the ninety-five percent still to complete.

  Tammy is behind her desk when I arrive.

  “You made it out alive then?” she chuckles.

  “I did.”

  “Any issues?”

  I hand her the clipboard.

  “I’ve made notes where necessary. There were a few minor incidents but nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  “How’d it go with Mr Kirby?”

  “He was offensive. Oh, and I found him on the floor again.”

  “At the end of the bed?”

  “Yep — I made a note.”

  “For future reference, don’t bother making notes if you find him on the floor at the end of the bed. Just help him up, check he’s okay, and leave.”

  “Okay. Can I ask why?”

  Tammy leans back in her chair.

  “Because we think he’s doing it deliberately.”

  “Really? What makes you think that?”

  “Because it happens three or four times a day … every day, and always in the exact same spot.”

  “That’s so random. How does he explain it?”

  “You’ve met Vernon Kirby — do you really need to ask how he explains it?”

  “Err …”

  “We’ve asked him countless times and all we get is a barrage of abuse, so we stopped asking. The doctor thinks it’s probably psychological; either a coping mechanism of some kind or just good old-fashioned attention seeking.”

  “How bizarre.”

  "As I said: Mr Kirby is a complex character. You’ll get used to his ways."

  I don’t want to get used to any of this, let alone Vernon Kirby.

  As I slope off to lunch, that ninety-five percent statistic reminds me I have little choice.

  10.

  There are two kinds of people in the world: those who dread Monday mornings, and the deluded fools who embrace the start of the working week. For the first time in my life, I find myself erring towards the latter category. It’s not because I’m feeling particularly positive this Monday morning but because I’ve just endured a monumentally shit weekend and I’m glad it’s over.

  Saturday morning lulled me into a false sense of optimism. It was easy enough calling in on the residents of Trinity Place and checking they were okay, but little did I know what Tammy had planned for the afternoon. After I returned from lunch she ordered me to help in the kitchen, and there I endured ninety minutes of washing, mopping, scrubbing, and generally being treated like a dogsbody.

  I then set off on another round of room checks, only to find plump Sylvia waiting in bed for me. Clearly I rebuffed her offer of afternoon delight and made a quick exit; only to be pursued by a semi-naked, amorous pensioner. Thankfully, another member of staff came to my rescue and escorted Sylvia back to her room. Tammy laughed for a full five minutes after I explained the mix up.

  Next up, my boss tasked me with humping forty boxes of old files from the reception office to a storage unit at the far end of the car park. Tammy then decided it would be a good time to sweep the car park seeing as I’d already acclimatised to the cold. After another round of room checks, I returned to the kitchen to help with preparations for dinner, and the aftermath in the dining room. I finally clocked off at seven o’clock, and as I climbed wearily into bed three hours later, I could still smell cabbage and Weetabix.

  So, today I’m actually looking forward to spending eight hours on my arse giving, rather than receiving, orders.

  I pull into my parking bay at Red Rocket and head through the front door. After another awkward exchange with the nameless girl on reception, I head to my office. There is some comfort in going through the familiar motions and knowing it’s unlikely anyone will call me a dipshit or make unwanted sexual advances.

  The team all arrive at nine on the dot and quietly settle into their work. I’m about to check they’re still conscious when I receive a visitor.

  “You still sulking?” Danny asks, peering round the door.

  “I wasn’t sulking and I’m still not sulking.”

  He saunters over and perches on the edge of my desk.

  “Look, mate: I know the evening didn’t exactly end on a positive note but just put it down to experience. If I’d been in your shoes I’d have gone for it too so it’s just bad luck you got caught.”

  All Danny knows is we got caught — I haven’t filled him in on the ensuing shit storm because I’m still in denial, and too embarrassed.

  “In a few weeks’ time,” he adds. “You’ll look back at it and laugh.”

  “I very much doubt that.”

  “We’ll see. Anyway, did you have a good weekend?”

  “Uneventful.”

  “Lucky you — I’ve been trying to avoid that Charlotte bird. Ever since that evening she’s been messaging me five or six times a day.”

  My stomach spins, and not because Danny is avoiding one of his conquests but the reason she’s messaging him. Charlotte patently knows Kayla and I received far more than a slap on the wrist, and if Danny does get around to reading her messages, my secret will be out.

  “Um, she’s patently a nutjob. Best you block her.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. I’m seeing someone else now, anyway.”

  “What a surprise.”

  “Shall I ask if she’s got any fit mates?”

  I glare up at him, incredulous.

  “If it’s on my behalf, no thank you.”

  “Fair enough, but if you change your mind …”

  “Trust me — I won’t.”

  “Alright, Mr Buzzkill. Have you got plans for this weekend?”

  “Why?”

  “I thought we could go watch the footy Saturday afternoon. Maybe a few beers and a curry afterwards?”

  “I’m busy Saturday.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Just, err, helping my old man with … something.”

  “Rather you than me. If you finish before two, let me know.”

  “Okay, but don’t hold your breath.”

  “I won’t and I’m sure I’ll find something, or someone, else to keep me occupied if you can’t make it.”

  “Hmm, I’m sure you will.”

  I return my attention to the monitor and Danny takes the hint.

  “I’ll catch you later, mate.”

  “Yep.”

  He darts off but not before stopping to flirt with Freya. That man is insatiable.

  Peace restored, I get on with my day. I’m delighted to find there are no meetings scheduled, and even my email inbox is particularly light for a Monday morning. I’m relieved not to find any further threats from the psychopath
ic used-car dealer, Barrie Taylor. If I try really hard, I could almost pretend my life is back to dull normality. Almost.

  I spend an hour replying to emails and sorting out another troublesome client account. Just as I’m contemplating whether another coffee is in order, the phone on my desk trills to signal an internal call.

  “Toby Grant.”

  “Toby, it’s Katherine.”

  Katherine is Graham’s personal assistant, and an uber-bitch. I don’t like her and she certainly doesn’t like me.

  “What can I …?”

  “Can you come to Graham’s office?” she interrupts. “Now, please.”

  The word ‘can’ implies a question. Her tone implies an order.

  “Err, sure.”

  She hangs up.

  I’ve got a horrible feeling Graham has received a call, or a threat, from Barrie Taylor. Perhaps the accounts department have been chasing payment for his invoice and he’s decided to take it up with my boss. I can hardly be held accountable for the shocking way Barrie runs his business so I expect Graham’s support on this, rather than a bollocking.

  I finish sending an email and make my way to his office.

  Katherine is at her desk when I arrive.

  “Go straight in,” she orders.

  With my defence already prepared, I waltz into Graham’s lavish office safe in the knowledge I’m not guilty on this occasion.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “Take a seat.”

  No invite to the leather sofa this time. Hopefully that’s a sign this will be a quick chat. I flop down on the chair in front of Graham’s desk.

  “The reason I called you in,” he begins. “Is because a troubling matter has come to my attention this morning.”

  “If this is what I think it is, I can assure you I’ve done everything by the book.”

  He peers over the top of his designer glasses.

  “And what do you think this is about?”

  “Err, the Etondale account, and Barrie Taylor.”

  “I’m afraid it’s far more serious than a disgruntled client.”

  With that, he turns his monitor ninety degrees.

  “This is the troubling matter.”

  They say a picture paints a thousand words but on this occasion, a picture prompts a sudden sphincter twitch. I’m looking at a page on the local newspaper’s website, and in amongst the plethora of adverts is a photo of a stern-looking Councillor Clifford holding a clipboard. The photo is innocuous enough; it’s the accompanying headline which worries me: Councillor launches petition to curb anti-social behaviour in Gostrey Park.