“Would you like me to paraphrase the article?” Graham asks.
“I … err.”
“Apparently,” he continues. “Councillor Clifford has launched a petition to seek regular police patrols of Gostrey Park. As he lives opposite, the councillor is worried about increased anti-social behaviour in the park. The article goes on to say, that a few weeks ago, he and his wife had the misfortune of stumbling across a couple having sex in the gazebo.”
Ohh, fuck.
“Mrs Clifford had already called the police after hearing ‘ear-splitting screams’ and the couple in question were subsequently arrested. They were formally charged, and last week the court found them guilty of outraging public decency. The couple — named as Kayla Martine Flanagan, 27, and Tobias Edward Grant, 29 — were both ordered to pay a fine and carry out unpaid work in the community.”
Graham leans forward and rests his elbows on the desk.
“Anything to say about that, Toby?”
Red faced, all I can offer is a mumbled apology.
“Do you know how I found out about your sordid secret?”
“Um, no.”
“I bumped into one of our clients at a networking breakfast this morning. He showed me the article because he couldn’t believe it referenced the Toby Grant he knew.”
“I … I don’t know what to say, Graham. I made a stupid mistake.”
“That, we can both agree on. You’ve put me in a difficult position, Toby.”
“I know, and I’m truly sorry, but give it a week or two and everyone will have forgotten about it.”
“I’m not referring to the article — I’m referring to your criminal record.”
“I, um …”
My mouth is so dry, I try to gulp but it results in a cough. Graham presses on.
“You do understand this is a major problem?”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“What if a potential client is looking to hire a marketing company and you’ve just been in to pitch for their business. Then one of our competitors pitches for the same contract. If I were working for that competitor, I’d make damn sure the prospective client found out that Red Rocket’s social media manager is a convicted criminal.”
“But … that wouldn’t …”
“Be honest, Toby. If a competitor got even a sniff we were pitching for the same contract, your criminal record would be all the ammunition they’d need to blow us out of the water.”
I can’t argue, because he’s right.
“So, you’re telling me I can’t pitch for business?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying.”
A wave of relief washes over me.
“Thank God for that. For a moment, I thought …”
“Toby, stop.”
A moment of silence. Graham slumps back in his chair and puffs a long sigh.
“I need to do the right thing here.”
“And what exactly is the right thing?”
“To protect the company, I should really fire you.”
Another wave arrives; bringing nausea rather than relief.
“But … no, please, Graham. I need this job.”
“Your contract states we have the right to terminate your employment if you’re found guilty of a criminal offence.”
My mind grasps three words and replays them over and over: terminate your employment.
With the mind otherwise occupied, the body reacts in the only way it knows how: hammering heart, sweaty palms, and shortness of breath. It’s been two years since I last experienced the symptoms of an anxiety attack but you never forget that sense of uncontrollable panic.
“Toby? Are you okay?”
I desperately try to recall the control method my therapist taught me. Closing my eyes, I draw deep, slow breaths. Six seconds in, six seconds out. It’s enough to take the edge away, but the damage is already done. Two years of relative stability are drawing to a close.
“Sorry,” I gasp. “I’m … I didn’t expect this.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? Can I get you a glass of water?”
“No, I’ll be alright.”
My voice is as feeble as the lie.
“Just for the record, Toby, I said I should fire you.”
A glimmer of hope.
“However, I would be more than willing to accept your resignation instead. And as a token of goodwill for your service I’m prepared to give you four weeks gardening leave on full pay, plus any outstanding holiday pay.”
His offer is akin to being kicked in the bollocks by someone wearing slippers rather than steel toecap boots. Whichever way you package it, it’s still a kick in the bollocks.
“Isn’t there any other way? I could take a demotion, or …”
“I’m sorry, Toby, I really am, but you’ve left me with no alternative. If I make an exception for you I open myself up to legal action.”
“Eh?”
“Remember that incident with Jack last year?”
The incident he is referring to involved a member of my team, Jack Sealy. Jack shared a few mildly sexist posts on his Facebook page and those posts were shared by his friends. As is the case with Facebook, it didn’t take long for those posts to pop up in the wrong place and one of our more sensitive clients saw them. Less than impressed, he complained to Graham, who subsequent fired Jack for bringing the company name into disrepute.
“Contracts are contracts, Toby, and I have to be consistent with employees breaching the terms of their contract. Hell, I’m giving you a lifeline by allowing you to resign — I didn’t give Jack that opportunity.”
I have no appetite to argue, and even less reason.
“Understood.”
The next twenty minutes are a blur. In an almost out-of-body experience, I say goodbye to the team and empty my desk. Before I know it, I’m driving back home with a copy of my pre-prepared resignation letter on the passenger seat.
I come to a stop at a red traffic light. Without the need to concentrate on the road, an entire bus load of thoughts catches up; every one of them more damning than the predecessor. Two thoughts are so damning I know they’ll follow me home and stay for days. The first is securing a new job. Opportunities in my industry are hard enough to come by but with a criminal record now tarnishing my CV, it isn’t likely to make any potential employer’s shortlist. And then there’s that bastard newspaper article — how long before everyone I know sees it?
How has it come to this? A few minutes of unfulfilling sex and my entire life is ruined. I’ve lost my job, my career prospects are in tatters, and pretty soon everyone will know what a fucking idiot I am. And I can’t even think about how I’ll pay the rent after next month.
I’m so busy smacking the steering wheel in frustration, I don’t notice the lights change to green. That is until a horn blares behind me.
I slam the car into gear and pull away, knowing there’s a far worse journey ahead of me. The pit awaits.
11.
Barely an hour after I arrived home I knew I had to get out of the flat. I tried hiding in the online world but even there it proved impossible to escape the reality of my fucked-up life. My problems became the enemy and they lurked in every dark corner, ready to leap out and attack my fragile mind without warning. It also became obvious one of those problems might explode in my face if I didn’t deal with it, so I called Dad and asked to meet. The last thing I needed was my parents finding out about my indiscretion via a gossipy neighbour, and I preferred Dad’s judgemental pragmatism over Mum’s hysteria.
In the glorious surroundings of the Crab & Anchor, I confessed.
In fairness, he took the news better than I expected and veered close to sympathetic when I told him of my punishment. He then told me about the variety of unusual places he’d ‘rogered’ my mother when they were young. I changed the subject.
We then talked about my community service and the residents of Trinity Place. I complained they’re a nightmare, and a good reason to legali
se euthanasia. Dad lost his shit. After a stern lecture about respecting my elders, he suggested I might actually learn something if I bothered getting to know them. I would have used Vernon Kirby's behaviour to make my point but I’m not that brave — Dad could still beat the crap out of me if sufficiently provoked.
Once he calmed down, he made a worthwhile if not unwelcome suggestion: I get my community service hours out of the way by working at Trinity Place the rest of the week. I can’t say it appealed, but beyond fulfilling my obligation within five days rather than five weeks it also meant I wouldn’t be at home wallowing in my own dark thoughts. I rang Trudy and she spoke to Tammy.
The net result is I am now edging through the morning traffic towards Trinity Place.
Two days after my first shift, I pull into the car park knowing exactly what lies ahead of me for the next ten hours.
I can’t decide if knowing is worse than not knowing. It’s a dilemma not unlike the one I faced in what proved to be the final weeks of my relationship with Gemma.
I knew something wasn’t right as her nights out became more frequent, and on a couple of occasions she stayed out all night — supposedly staying with her friend, Abbie. Our sex life had become non-existent and on reflection, all the signs were there. Every time she went out I pretended not to mind, but the moment she left the flat I would curl up on the sofa and let my own imagination torment me. Those evenings were horrendous and, when she finally confessed to her affair, the only comfort came from knowing I’d never have to endure that feeling again.
Despite my current low ebb, nothing can compare to how wretched I felt back then. Perhaps it is better to know.
A long sigh, fifty yards of tarmac, and I’m back in the warm confines of Trinity Place. I’m told by the receptionist to head straight up to Tammy’s office where she no doubt has a list of God-awful tasks waiting for me.
I traipse up the stairs and along the corridor to find the office door open. Tammy is behind her desk, frowning at a form.
“Morning.”
She looks up.
“Couldn’t keep away, eh?”
“Something like that.”
“I understand we’ve got you for the next five days.”
“You have.”
“Good timing. I’ve had two members of staff call in sick this morning so we’re up against it.”
“Well, I’m ready and able.”
“What happened to willing?”
“It didn’t like the pay.”
We share a smile neither of us is fully committed to. Tammy then hands me a clipboard.
“Guess what your first job is?”
“I’m doing the room checks?”
“You’re a fast learner. We’ve had a change over the weekend in room eighteen. One out, one in.”
“Err, one of the residents has left?”
“Yep, she has.”
“Where did she go?”
Anywhere has to be an improvement on Trinity Place.
“The morgue,” Tammy says flatly.
Perhaps not anywhere.
“Sylvia was a heart attack waiting to happen.”
“What?” I gasp. “Not plump Sylvia?”
“Don’t panic. I don’t think Saturday’s incident had anything to do with it.”
Beyond the shock, I’m perturbed by Tammy’s casual attitude to the death of a resident.
“Shouldn’t we … I don’t know … mark her passing somehow?”
“This is a state-run residential care home for the elderly, Toby — most of our residents die here. As sad as that is, we don’t have the time or resources to indulge in grief.”
Death hasn’t featured too heavily in my life and maybe that’s why the news of Sylvia’s death pricks more than it should. It’s patently not the same for Tammy but I guess she’s just become desensitised over the years.
“Barbara is now in room eighteen,” she adds. “And you’d better get on. Lots to do today.”
Conversation over, Tammy returns to her form.
Taking the hint, I slope out of the office. As I walk to the first room, I offer a silent prayer Sylvia and Martin are now reunited, and he stays away from Angela.
Not having much of an understanding of old folk, I don’t know if they’re creatures of habit. I’d guess they are, as my first seventeen room inspections are like a replay of Saturday morning. Miriam is still staring into space and counting down the hours before lunch, and all the other residents are in the same mixed state of confusion, apathy, or lethargy.
Then I reach room eighteen. A quick knock on the door and I enter.
“Good morning.”
The new resident is lying in the same bed Sylvia occupied and probably died in. I try not to let the cold shiver show.
“Morning,” she replies, with a weary smile.
“I’m Toby. You must be Barbara.”
She doesn’t reply. I check the clipboard to identify which medical condition has brought her to Trinity Place. It appears Barbara is suffering early onset dementia.
I step over to the bed.
“Can I get you anything, Barbara?”
A slight tilt of the head followed by a puzzled frown as she looks me up and down.
“Have we met before?” she asks.
“Um, I don’t think so.”
She then squeezes her eyes shut as if trying to concentrate. I glance at my watch, hoping Barbara doesn’t hold me up much longer.
“You look familiar,” she then announces. “I’m sure we’ve met before … a long time ago.”
“How long ago?”
“Ohh, well … when was it?”
Her mind appears to drift as she turns her head towards the window. She’s confusing me with someone else and I don’t have the patience to indulge her.
“You have a think, Barbara. I’ll pop back later.”
I leave her staring out of the window.
Halfway through dealing with the second batch of residents, a mild pang of guilt surfaces; courtesy of my father’s lecture. Perhaps I should have given the old dear a few more minutes of my time. It’s her first few days at Trinity Place and I, of all people, should understand what it's like being dumped here against your will.
That niggle takes a back seat as I approach the final room — Vernon Kirby’s room.
Of all the residents of Trinity Place, Kirby is the only one to have crossed my mind outside these walls. He is, without question, one of the most obnoxious humans I’ve ever met and that piques my curiosity: how does a man turn out like him? Maybe he’s always been a cantankerous, foul-mouthed arsehole — some people are just born that way I guess. Then again, perhaps Vernon Kirby’s life spiralled out of control similarly to mine — one moment of madness and all his hopes and dreams fizzled out before his very eyes. Christ, what if I’m looking at my own future?
For the second time in an hour, a cold shiver arrives.
Distracted by thoughts of my own future, I rap on the door and march straight in — forgetting Tammy’s order I should always wait for Kirby’s acknowledgement before entering.
I come to an immediate standstill.
Wearing just pants and a vest, Vernon Kirby is stood with his arms outstretched, hands gripping an old radio atop the chest of drawers. I stand and watch him for a few seconds, expecting a volley of abuse at the unannounced intrusion. He doesn’t move or seem to care I’m in the room. The only sign he’s even conscious are his trembling legs and the odd groan.
As the groans intensify, I edge a few feet closer but his attention remains fixed on the wall above the chest of drawers. The tremble in his legs develops into a full-blown wobble, accompanied by what sounds worryingly like a man about to reach sexual climax.
And then, for no obvious reason, he collapses to the floor.
“Christ! Are you okay, Vernon?”
A muffled grunt and a few shakes of his head are all I get back. He appears in the same state we found him yesterday, and unlike the psychiatrist who examined hi
m, I have a vague idea why.
Knowing a polite response is unlikely, I don’t bother asking if he needs a hand. I bend over and reach for his arm.
“Get the fuck away,” he yells.
“But, I think you’ve had an electric shock.”
I glance up at the antiquated radio he’d been clutching. Cased in pearl-coloured Bakelite with chunky knobs and a single speaker to the front, it must be at least sixty years old.
“Has that thing been PAT tested?” I ask, pointing at the radio.
“What?” he spits.
“Portable appliance testing. Electrical appliances, particularly older ones, are supposed to have routine safety checks.”
“Just help me up and then get the hell out of here.”
Once again I help him to his feet, and once again he snatches his arm away. On shaky legs, he then shuffles the few feet to the edge of the bed and flops down.
“Are we going to talk about what just happened?” I ask.
“You still here?”
“That radio is dangerous. I have to tell Tammy, and she’ll probably insist it’s sent off for testing.”
“Anyone touches my radio and I’ll swing for them.”
What is it with this guy? There has to be some semblance of civility in the man, surely? Maybe he just needs a little coaxing.
“Tell you what: I’ve got a decent radio at home I no longer use. You’re welcome to have that.”
My suggestion is met with silence. Progress, possibly.
“Just … just leave me be,” he grumbles. “I don’t want your radio.”
He bows his head forward and stares at the floor.
“I’ll leave you in peace but please be careful.”
With Vernon sulking I scribble a note about the radio. If he wants to electrocute himself that’s his problem, and Tammy’s, presumably. I head to her office.
She’s just leaving in a fluster when I arrive.
“I’ve finished the room inspections.”
“Any problems?”
“Nope, not really.”
Tuned Out Page 9
