Tuned Out

by Keith A Pearson

  “I don’t have time for ambiguity, Toby. Were there any problems?”

  “Well, you know this mystery with Vernon Kirby and how he seems to spend an inordinate amount of time collapsed on the floor?”

  “I told you it’s nothing to worry about.”

  Tammy grabs a folder off her desk and makes for the door; stopping momentarily to confirm my next task.

  “Can you shoot down to the dining room and give it a hoover.”

  “What about Vernon?”

  “If there were underlying issues behind his behaviour, we’d know.”

  “But …”

  “Toby, please,” she snaps. “I should have been somewhere else five minutes ago.”

  “I think he’s electrocuting himself.”

  “What?”

  I have her attention for at least the next sentence.

  “I found him holding on to that old radio in his room and that’s when he collapsed.”

  “For goodness’ sake. Why on earth would anyone want to electrocute themselves?”

  “I don’t know. He just stood there holding on to it for dear life, and then he collapsed.”

  She glances at her watch again.

  “If it’s dangerous, he can’t have it.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Well, why on earth did you leave it in his room?”

  “Err …”

  “Go fetch it. Now.”

  After a shake of the head and some aggressive eye rolling, she hurries away — leaving me to rue ever mentioning Vernon’s damn radio. I presumed Tammy would take responsibility for prising it away but it seems I’m now lumbered with the task.

  With a distinct lack of urgency, I potter my way back to Vernon’s room. The only consolation I can take is at least the old man is physically incapable of putting up any resistance. The verbal resistance, I fear, will be ardent.

  I arrive and knock on the door.

  “Can I come in, Vernon?”

  After some mumbling I receive a less-than-gracious invite: “If you fucking-well must.”

  Sadly, I must, so I do.

  Now, thankfully wearing trousers, Vernon is in a wingback armchair near the window. There seems precious little point trying to sugar-coat the reason for my visit so I get straight to the point.

  “Tammy wants me to remove your radio because it’s unsafe.”

  Red faced, he glares at me like I’d just suggested we spend the day listening to Justin Bieber’s back-catalogue.

  “What did I tell you, boy? Nobody touches my radio.”

  “Trust me, Vernon: I don’t want to touch it but Tammy insisted.”

  “I couldn’t give less of a fuck what she wants. Leave it alone!”

  We could spend the rest of the morning going backwards and forwards like this. I need to be decisive.

  “Sorry, Vernon. It’s not my decision.”

  By my reckoning, I can unplug the radio and be out the door before the old man is even on his feet. And, with his limited mobility, I’ll have completed my community service by the time he catches up.

  I skip across to the chest of drawers and reach for the plug.

  “Don’t!” Vernon rasps, as he desperately tries to lift himself out of the armchair.

  With one hand on the radio, I reach for the plug.

  “I really am sorr …”

  My hand doesn’t reach the plug.

  12.

  As a teenager I went through a hypochondriac's list of excuses why I couldn’t help with the household chores: stomach bugs, sprained limbs, various aches, and all manner of debilitating but temporary conditions.

  I then discovered migraines.

  Online research suggested the sufferer should be left alone in a dark, quiet room for several hours and that suited me just fine. Better still there were no outward symptoms. Suddenly I began suffering migraines once or twice a week; usually on Saturday mornings when Dad wanted help in the garden.

  Then, just as my mother began to worry there might be something seriously wrong with me, karma decided to teach me a lesson. While watching TV one evening I suffered my first genuine migraine. The pain became so unbearable I remember sobbing into my pillow. My mother called out the doctor and I had no option but to confess the truth — I’d never suffered a migraine before. I took some tablets, went to sleep, and felt right as rain the next day. Dad didn’t see the funny side and forced me to help in the garden all day as a punishment for crying wolf.

  To this day I’ve never had another migraine. I’ve never forgotten the symptoms, though.

  With my hand frozen in mid-air, a sharp pain surges from the base of my skull and explodes towards my temples. The tunnel vision and nausea follow, and an entirely new addition to the migraine experience as my vision becomes tinged blood-red at the edges.

  Somewhere in my confused mind, a connection occurs as I stare down at my hand resting on the top of the radio — this is more likely electrocution than a migraine. I send the message but my hand doesn’t comply. Even in the panic’s midst, I still find time to question my own stupidity; grabbing hold of an electrical device which I knew to be faulty.

  Unable to move, I stare down at my immobile hand as my skin takes on a red hue, as does the Bakelite casing. I conclude my brain is being broiled and the pressure is forcing blood where blood isn’t supposed to flow.

  And then, a sudden impact and I feel myself falling.

  Somehow, several frames of my life appear to skip and the next thing I know I’m lying on the floor beside a furious Vernon Kirby. As awful as it is being in such close proximity to a man with chronic halitosis, it’s tempered by relief as the pain and the nausea ebb away. And my eyes appear to be functioning correctly as they absorb the old man’s angst-ridden face.

  “I told you not to touch it,” he rants. “Why didn’t you listen?”

  “Shit … that was … what the hell just happened?”

  “Nothing happened. Get out of my room.”

  I clamber to my feet and take a second to shake off the residue effects of the shock. Vernon attempts to get up but he can stay where he is for the moment.

  “That damn radio is dangerous. I’m not leaving here without it.”

  It’s a threat made without forethought. I’ve no idea how to unplug it without risking further electrocution.

  Vernon ignores the threat anyway, and gingerly crawls to the edge of the bed.

  “Did you hear me, Vernon?”

  “Jesus wept,” he groans. “Just help me up, will you?”

  With more force than is necessary, I help him up. He then leans up against the chest of drawers to steady himself, or perhaps shield his beloved radio.

  “I need to speak to Tammy. She’ll need to organise an electrician to disarm your instrument of death.”

  “No! Don’t you dare tell her anything.”

  “Or what, Vernon? Are you going to give me a clip round the ear? A good hiding, maybe? I don’t think so.”

  “Ten years ago I’d have been fit enough to beat the living daylights out of you.”

  “Yeah, and ten years ago I had a future. We’ve both lucked out.”

  My tone is almost as bitter as the old man's.

  “There's somewhere else I need to be. I’ll speak to Tammy and she can deal with this.”

  I make a move for the door.

  “Wait,” he barks.

  I afford him no more than a glance over my shoulder.

  “What now?”

  “Tell me what happened?” he asks in a low voice.

  I’m so thrown by his sedate tone I turn to face him.

  “Sorry?”

  “What happened when you touched the radio?”

  “I would have thought it obvious, wouldn’t you? I was electrocuted.”

  “You weren’t electrocuted.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’m not an idiot. If you’d been electrocuted you’d have been blown across the room, and probably knocked unconscious.
”

  He might be right; Trivial Pursuits never had an ‘electrocution by antique radio’ category.

  “Well?” he urges. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know what happened. I touched the radio and it felt like my head was about to explode. Next thing I know, I’m lying on the floor.”

  “Was your vision … different?”

  “Err, kind of.”

  “How?”

  “I’m not sure, really … blurred and reddish, I guess. What’s with the questions, Vernon?”

  He snorts a lungful of air and his expression suggests a battle is being fought in his head. He wants to know something from me — quite what, I don’t know — but I’d guess he’s also trying to suppress his usual caustic disposition.

  “How old are you, boy?”

  “Is my age relevant to what happened?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’m twenty-nine.”

  He lifts a shaky hand and rubs his chin for a few seconds.

  “Come back later, will you?”

  “It’s my job, apparently. And what about the radio?”

  “What about it?”

  “Tammy won't be best pleased if I leave it here.”

  “Just tell her you caught me having a wank or something, and you didn’t want to disturb me.”

  “Do men your age still wank? Actually, don’t answer that — I don’t want to know.”

  “Just do it … please?”

  I can’t imagine how much the word ‘please’ must have stuck in his throat.

  “Seeing as you asked nicely, okay. But if Tammy demands I come back and get it, I’ll have no choice.”

  Even if they were paying me, it wouldn’t be enough to put up with this hassle. In the three years Vernon has been a resident here, no other member of staff has identified his radio as a problem so why should I worry about leaving it here a few more hours?

  “I’ll see you later, Vernon.”

  Lost in thought, he doesn’t reply.

  Behind schedule, I make my way to the dining room where the vacuum cleaner awaits. En route, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I check the screen and see Danny’s name. No doubt news of my departure from Red Rocket has reached him and he’s probably wondering why he didn’t hear it from the horse’s mouth.

  With no one around, I jab the screen to accept the call. Danny gets straight to the point.

  “When were you going to tell me you’d resigned?”

  “Sorry, mate. Yesterday passed by in a blur and I didn’t feel much like talking to anyone.”

  “And what about the article in the paper? Fuck’s sake, mate — you should have told me.”

  “What would have been the point?”

  “I could have helped.”

  “How? With that bloody councillor on the warpath there wasn’t much anyone could do.”

  “I meant, help you with a bit of moral support. Did you tell anyone?”

  “No.”

  “So you’ve had this hanging over you for the last few weeks?”

  I nod and realise he can’t see me.

  “Err, yeah.”

  Like a disappointed parent, Danny then puffs a long sigh.

  “Do you want to meet up later?”

  “I don’t finish here until seven.”

  “Where’s here?”

  “Community service. I’m working in an old folk’s home.”

  “Ahh, shit. That must suck.”

  “You have no idea, and to be honest the last thing I want to do after a ten-hour shift here is go out drinking. And I’m here all bloody week.”

  “Fair enough. Why don’t I pop round your place at eight, then?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not exactly great company at the moment.”

  “You’re never great company,” he sniggers. “I’ll bring some beers if that sweetens the deal?”

  The sound of footsteps at the far end of the corridor curtails any argument.

  “Gotta go. I’ll see you later.”

  I hang up and slip the phone back in my pocket.

  As I trudge down to the dining hall my thoughts turn to that bastard newspaper article. If Danny has now seen it, chances are everyone has seen it: family, friends, casual acquaintances, former colleagues, and worst of all, potential employers. Every time someone googles my name, the first thing they’ll see is that article. Somehow, I need to fix that, so perhaps a chat with Danny might be worthwhile in order to pick his brains.

  The second I arrive in the dining room I’m accosted by the catering supervisor, Veronica, a middle-aged harridan with a fake-tanned face like a conker.

  “Where have you been?” she snaps. “You were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago.”

  “I was dealing with one of the residents.”

  “Don’t give me excuses. You youngsters are all the same.”

  “Youngsters? I’m twenty-nine.”

  Undeterred by facts, she continues droning on while I count the tiles on the floor. After two minutes, her reprimand begins to grate.

  “Shall I get on now?”

  “Yes, and I’ll be keeping my eye on you, young man.”

  After a scornful glare she finally returns to the kitchen. I’d guess Veronica has only just been promoted to catering supervisor and the power has gone to her head. I’ve met plenty of people like her whilst working at Red Rocket. I didn’t mind dealing with the business owners but inevitably I had to work with subordinates who wanted to stamp their mark on our work and justify their existence. I always tried to be tactful but, even in the face of good advice, their ego wouldn’t let them back down over disagreements. A tiny consolation, but not my problem now.

  I get on with the hoovering.

  Veronica returns just as I’m finishing and demands I wipe down all the tables; despite them already looking clean to me. I don’t argue as she strikes me as the type to go whining to the boss if she doesn’t get her way.

  The first residents arrive for an early lunch as I'm wiping down the last table. With Veronica busy in the kitchen, I make my escape.

  I should probably go straight to Tammy’s office but I daren’t return without Vernon’s radio. If it means I have to have a chat with the odious old git, then so be it, but I will not risk Tammy’s wrath just so he can listen to The Archers.

  Another traipse back through the corridors and I arrive at Vernon’s room. I knock on the door.

  “Vernon, it’s Toby.”

  “Come in,” he replies almost instantly.

  I open the door. Vernon is in the armchair.

  “Sit down,” he orders, nodding towards the bed.

  He seems calm and I’d rather he stayed that way so I don’t argue. I cross the room and perch on the edge of the bed, facing him.

  “Right, boy,” he begins. “I need to ask you a question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Can I trust you?”

  His opening question is pointless. If someone isn’t trustworthy, they’re unlikely to tell you.

  “Yes, Vernon. You can trust me.”

  He slowly nods. I don’t know if he believes me but I don’t much care.

  “I haven’t always been like this, you know … the feeble, twisted man you see before you.”

  “No?”

  “Up until six years ago I worked full-time as head groundsman up at Selborne Manor — you know it?”

  “Yeah, I went there for a conference once. Lovely old place.”

  “I worked there for best part of three decades. Had my own little cottage in the grounds and that was my life, or the best life I could make for myself … under the circumstances.”

  “Circumstances?”

  “Fate wasn’t kind to me,” he says wistfully. “Or her.”

  He nods towards his bedside table. Next to the lamp there’s a silver picture frame containing a black and white photo.

  “Have a look if you like.”

  I reach over and pick up the frame. Whoever the woman is in the photo, she’s girl
-next-door pretty but nothing special.

  “That’s my Gwen.”

  “She’s, um, beautiful.”

  “That photo doesn’t do her justice. Gwen had a … what’s the word … an aura about her. She’d light up a room just by walking in.”

  “Where’s Gwen now?”

  As the final syllable passes my lips, I wish I could suck it back. Wherever Gwen is, it certainly isn’t at Vernon’s side.

  “Long gone,” he says wistfully. “We were only married eight months when I lost her. Back in the summer of ‘69, it happened.”

  The urge to quote a line from the song is so overwhelming I have to bite my lip.

  “I don’t know what to say, Vernon.”

  Actually, I do. I want to suggest it’s about time he got over it but best I keep that thought to myself.

  “She died during an armed robbery on a Post Office. Five minutes earlier or later, and it would never have happened.”

  Now I don’t know what to say, other than the obvious.

  “That’s just … awful.”

  “Yep. Lost the love of my life that day and, when she left. a large part of me went with her. I hit the bottle for a few years and then joined the Army. Did ten years in the Paras until I got myself court martialled and kicked out. That’s how I ended up at Selborne Manor — my commanding officer put in a good word with Dr Novak.”

  “Right.”

  Having delivered a summary of his life, Vernon stares at the photo of Gwen for a moment. If I wasn’t already uncomfortable listening to his sob story, the prolonged silence is beyond awkward.

  “Anyway,” I cough. “Is there …”

  "You’re wondering why I’m telling you all this?”

  “Curious, particularly as you haven’t sworn at me in almost five minutes.”

  He then nods towards the chest of drawers.

  “The radio.”

  “What about it?”

  “It isn’t … you’re going to think I’m insane.”

  “To be frank, Vernon, I had you pegged as a cantankerous old git so insane would be an upgrade.”

  Remarkably, he manages a thin smile. Then, with some effort, he leans forward in his chair.

  “Dr Novak,” he says in a hushed tone. “The radio belonged to him.”

  “Wait … is this a confession? Did you nick it?”

  Vernon’s facial muscles twitch as he tries to curtail a scowl.