“No, I didn’t nick it. He died seven years ago and left it to me in his will.”
“Some inheritance.”
“He meant it to be the ultimate gift.”
“A crappy old radio? No disrespect, Vernon, but did your boss hate you?”
“Quite the opposite — he was about the only friend I had.”
“Oh, right.”
Another awkward silence.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but Tammy is probably wondering where I am. If we can get to the point, it would …”
“Open the drawer in my bedside table,” he interrupts.
I do as instructed.
“See the envelope? There’s a letter inside — read it.”
My patience wearing thin, I grab the envelope and extract three pages of hand-written notepaper.
“It’s from Dr Novak,” Vernon confirms. “Written in the days before he died.”
“You want me to read it?”
He nods, and I begin deciphering the scrawled letter.
Vernon,
Let me please begin with an apology. I have wrestled with a dilemma since the doctors confirmed my diagnosis and many times I have considered telling you in person what I’m about to say. Because of my own selfish reasons I decided not to. Here, lying in a hospice bed with death looming closer by the day, I must accept this is the final opportunity.
Over these years you have been a good and loyal friend; our mutual sense of loss perhaps binding us together. Fourteen years have passed since I lost my beloved Sarah and as a man of science, I’m afraid I cannot accept we might be reunited in the afterlife. I fear an eternity of nothingness awaits.
However, some years ago science afforded me an opportunity — a remarkable, improbable opportunity. I now bequeath that same opportunity to you, and the value is beyond any trinket or chattel I could have left in my will. All you require is faith, and the trust we have nurtured. Can I ask that of you, Vernon?
There is a vintage radio in my study; a seemingly antiquated box of wires and valves. You may recall I spent a day clearing the attic a few years back, and that’s where I discovered the radio. I can only assume the previous owners of Selborne Manor left it behind and it was my intention to check if it still functioned and return it to them.
That’s when I discovered the radio is not what it seems.
I don’t have the energy to explain in great detail but through a mechanism I still cannot comprehend, that very radio transported me back to the weekend of my wedding. I don’t mean figuratively, or it invoked memories of my wedding … I actually relived that weekend as a young man exactly as I did all those years ago: the stag party, the ceremony, our first dance, the honeymoon night … every part of it. I was there, Vernon; of that I am certain.
You might now understand why I chose not to share this with you in person. I know it sounds like the ramblings of a dying man losing his mind but I beg of you not to dismiss a gift of immeasurable value.
What I would like you to do is take the radio and use it to spend time with your wife. All you need to do is set the correct frequency (the details of which I have included on a separate sheet), and place both your hands on the radio casing. You should, I hope, experience some nausea and a headache, coupled with redness to your vision — do not be alarmed.
I cannot say how long the process lasts as it was impossible to measure time but if your experience is the same as mine, you will wake up as a young man at a point in time before your wife’s tragic passing.
My gift however, comes with two caveats. I am almost certain the radio can only be used once. I have tried countless times to return but to no avail. Use your opportunity wisely as I suspect it will be the only one. Secondly, I cannot guarantee it will work for you at all.
Without revealing the reason why, I have asked many others to touch the radio to see if they experienced the same initial symptoms, but only one of fourteen volunteers did — my nephew. My theory is thus: the journey back in time can only be made by individuals with a very specific gene sequence and once a journey has been completed, the individual’s gene sequence is fractionally altered, therefore preventing a return.
I can’t force myself to read another word.
13.
Shaking my head, I fold the pages up and tuck them back in the envelope.
“Aren’t you going to read the whole letter?” Vernon asks.
“One page was enough to determine your friend was batshit crazy.”
“No, he wasn’t. Dr Novak was an eminent physicist — the complete opposite of crazy, but I do concede it seems implausible.”
“Not just implausible — impossible.”
“You don’t believe any of it?”
“No, not a word.”
“Neither did I.”
“Err, you said ‘did’, Vernon, as in past-tense.”
He leans forward and stares me straight in the eye.
“I worked it out, kind of.”
“Of course you did,” I nod sagely.
As much as I try, I can’t hold back the smirk. Either Vernon is so bored he’s concocted this story to amuse himself, or his mind is going the same way as Barbara’s and Judith’s. Either way, I’d rather he confided in someone else.
“I think you should probably talk to Tammy.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Hmm … let me think about that. Do I believe you inherited an old radio capable of transporting a person back in time to relive a previous period in their life?”
My sarcasm is met with a frown.
“I believe the first part, Vernon — I’m sure you inherited an old radio. As for the rest, I reckon your friend has played an elaborate prank on you.”
“How do you explain what happened to you earlier?”
“The radio has been tampered with in some way, but if you want my opinion it’s a wind-up.”
“I can see why you’d think that, but you’re wrong.”
“Seriously? You think?”
“I don’t think,” he replies confidently. “I know, and I’m prepared to place a bet on it.”
“How much?”
“Five grand.”
There is surely some rule about hoodwinking the residents into bets they can’t possibly win so whilst the offer of five grand is tempting, I have no intention of taking his money. However, this might be a way to get my hands on the radio.
“Alright, Vernon. I’ll take your bet but, if you lose, the radio goes. Deal?”
He offers a shaky hand.
“I’ll take that deal.”
Now we’ve cemented this ridiculous wager, I’m wondering how exactly we determine his radio is nothing more than, well, a radio.
Vernon, though, has apparently used the last hour to formulate a plan. He settles back in his chair and clears his throat.
“Before we do anything,” he begins. “I need to tell you everything I know.”
“Okay, but just the edited highlights. I haven’t got much time.”
“Like you, I didn’t believe a word of the letter but one evening at the cottage I was fiddling with the frequency dial so I could listen to the football. As I turned the dial, suddenly my body just froze — couldn’t move a muscle.”
“You sure you weren’t suffering a stroke?”
“Are you going to take this seriously?”
“Sorry.”
“I had this pain in my head like nothing I’ve ever felt before, and the whole room took on a red hue. Thought I might be having a brain haemorrhage. I don’t know how long I stood there, but the room began closing in on me and …”
His voice trails away and his mind appears to follow suit.
“You okay, Vernon?”
Seconds pass before his composure returns.
“I … yes,” he nods. “And, the next thing I started falling through … nothing.”
“Maybe you were close to falling unconscious?”
“No, because I was completely aware of my surroundin
gs, and the sensation of falling through a cloud. And then I saw him.”
“Him?”
“Amos Jinks.”
“Err, and who is Amos Jinks?”
“The former groundsman at Selborne Manor.”
“And what’s so amazing about that?”
“Amos had died years before, yet when I saw him he was just sat there, in an armchair, smoking a pipe, and very much alive.”
“I don’t wish to sound sceptical, Vernon, but had you been drinking?”
“Not a drop that night. I saw him, boy, as clearly as I can see you now.”
“It could have been a dream, a hallucination, or for all I know you’re making the whole thing up.”
“I know what I saw, and everything he described in his letter happened to me that night in the cottage.”
“So, you spent the weekend with dead Amos?”
He shakes his head.
“Something happened. I don’t know what, but one minute I’m in the room with Amos and the next I’m back in the present.”
“To be clear then: you never spoke or interacted with Amos?”
“I didn’t have a chance.”
“How convenient. Why didn’t you try again?”
“What the hell do you think I’ve been doing for the last six years? Every time I try, the same thing happens — I get the headache and the blurred vision but then … nothing. I end up on my arse on the floor.”
I glance at my watch. Bet or no bet, this charade has gone on long enough.
“Let’s pretend any of this is actually true, Vernon. Why are you telling me?”
“Two reasons. My condition is getting worse and I’m running out of time, and because you’re the only person to have touched the radio and experienced the red mist. Trust me: I still think you’re a jumped-up little shit but you’re my only hope.”
“Obi Wan.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Anyway, I thought you never let anyone touch the radio?”
“I did before I arrived here, and nothing happened — at least two-dozen people touched it. Then I got sent to this shit-hole and I didn’t want to risk any of the morons here taking it away from me.”
“Until this moron touched it.”
“You said it.”
“And you seriously believe what happened to me earlier might have been a pre-cursor to a trip back in time?”
“Only one way to find out.”
“You want me to touch the bloody thing again and hope I end up reliving a childhood weekend?”
He adopts a grave expression.
“No. I want you to go back to 1969 and stop Gwen walking into that Post Office.”
A snort of laughter escapes. Vernon doesn’t share the joke.
“I’m deadly serious.”
“I’m sure you are,” I scoff. “But you said the radio allows someone to relive a previous period in their life. I was still floating around my dad’s ballsack in 1969 and I sure as hell don’t want to spend a weekend there.”
“Let me explain the theory.”
“Bloody hell, Vernon,” I groan. “I really don’t have time for this.”
“One minute, I swear.”
“Hurry then.”
“Right, if you’d read all of Dr Novak’s letter, he theorised that if he’d gone back to a period before he was born, he would have arrived as he was in the time period he left. Therefore, if you weren’t born in 1969 you should arrive there as you are now. All you need to do is find Gwen and stop her walking into that Post Office.”
“And — I can’t believe I’m even asking this — how do I get back?”
“Dr Novak said a journey like that could only ever be temporary, and he came back after forty-eight hours.”
“Oh good,” I reply, mockingly. “As long as the good doctor has guessed correctly, I see no problems at all with this plan.”
“If I’m wrong, you’ve got nothing to lose.”
“Except another electrocution.”
“For the umpteenth time, you were not electrocuted. And don’t forget you stand to gain five grand.”
“I don’t want your money, Vernon. I just want to get this day over with.”
“Then do it. Humour this old man … please, I’m begging you.”
He then reaches into his pocket and hands me a slip of paper.
“Here’s all the details. Gwen’s full name, our address, the details of the robbery.”
It seems the only way I can leave the room without breaking this deluded old fool’s heart is to go through with his ridiculous plan. I grab the slip of paper and take a cursory glance before slipping it into my pocket.
“Fine,” I sigh. “I’ll humour you, but don’t go reneging on our deal. The radio has to go.”
“You have my word.”
I get to my feet.
“One other minor issue, Vernon: how do you know I’ll be sent back to the right time?”
“By setting the frequency dial using the formula in the letter. That’s where I went wrong the first time. It’s quite simple when you follow Dr Novak’s instructions properly.”
“Of course it is. Come on.”
I help him out of the armchair. Once upright, we shuffle over to the chest of drawers and stand before the radio which isn’t a time travel device.
“Remember the details, boy. Gwen Margaret Kirby of nineteen Cumberland Street. She goes to the Post Office at three-fifteen on Friday the sixth of June. By my reckoning, you’ll arrive at eight in the morning … give or take a few hours.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve got it.”
“Good. Now, place your hands on the radio.”
“I know — then stand here looking like a twat for five minutes.”
“We’ll see.”
“And you’re sure I won’t be electrocuted?”
To prove his point, a shaky hand stretches forth and taps the top of the radio.
“I’ve been doing what you’re about to do at least five times a day for the last six years. I’m still alive, ain’t I?”
“Hmm … just.”
“And I won’t be much longer if you don’t get the hell on with it.”
“Alright, alright.”
Beyond Vernon’s mounting frustration, a tiny part of me is curious about what I experienced earlier, if it wasn’t electrocution. Perhaps Dr Novak stumbled on some kind of mind-altering electrical impulse, and that could be useful in other applications. Once this farce is over, perhaps I’ll suggest to Tammy I take it home to fix, and I can have a nose around its inner workings.
For now, though, I’ve got a bet to win.
“Here we go then, Vernon,” I chirp in a puerile tone. “Wish me luck.”
I lay my hands on the radio and wait. Seconds tick by and nothing happens.
“This is fun.”
“Let me check the frequency.”
Vernon bends forward and fiddles with the dial whilst I whistle a jaunty tune. The old man removes his hand at the precise second my tune ends.
I don’t consciously recall instructing my lungs to stop but Dr Novak’s psychedelic radio now seems to be functioning correctly. Then, the migraine-like pain returns, bringing with it a dose of regret. Why did I agree to this?
The pain is accompanied by the same red tinge in my peripheral vision. The redness encroaches my line of sight, becoming increasingly vibrant. Panicky seconds pass until it feels like I’m looking at the wall beyond through a red filter.
Yep, definitely a bad idea and I want no further part in it.
I try to move my hands but the best I can achieve is a twitching in my red-tainted fingers. Perhaps I’ll have more luck with my legs. The instruction is sent to step back and I sense the muscles priming for movement, but my feet remain rooted to the spot.
What. The. Fuck.
My initial curiosity gives way to mild terror as everything in my line of vision becomes increasingly shrouded in a red haze. With my neck muscles as frozen as those in my legs, I can’t even
turn my head. In a desperate bid to summon Vernon’s assistance I scream, but the words remain trapped inside my head.
The only strand of positivity I can grasp is the pain in my head is easing. However, that relief is countered by what I can see — or, more to the point — what I can’t see. It’s like a pair of scarlet red curtains have been drawn across my face.
And then, events take a turn for the worse, as a throbbing sensation develops at the back of my eyes. There’s no pain but an unadulterated fear as it spreads quickly until my entire head pulses like a beacon. The throbbing intensifies; the beats coming faster and deeper. It spreads down my neck and engulfs my chest, syncing in time with my now-hammering heart.
If I could speak, I would call Vernon every name under the sun. No, scrub that. I would beat the old bastard to within an inch of his life for putting me through this. Whatever is causing this hallucinogenic episode, I sure as fuck didn’t agree to it.
The throbbing approaches a crescendo and the red curtains slowly dissolve; only to be replaced with a white vista of absolute nothingness in a vacuum of total silence.
I’m minded of movie scenes in which the protagonist dies and journeys to the afterlife. I’ve never believed those scenes were anything but pure fiction until now. Perhaps my place in heaven is booked and I’m about to complete the final leg.
In a heartbeat I can’t hear, the peaceful prospect of an eternity in paradise shatters as a kaleidoscope of colourful, indeterminate shapes zoom from the centre of my vision. With the explosion of colour comes a sense of weightlessness; inert at first but the sense of a downward trajectory soon follows. I feel like I’m falling faster and faster, as the coloured shapes spin past me at an increasing pace. A metallic tang hits the back of my throat. The assault on my senses is completed when the silence is broken by the sound of static crackling in my ears. The throbbing then becomes so intense it thrums; penetrating every limb, every muscle, every nerve. The crescendo reaches a peak, and then … nothing.
I think I’m dead.
14.
Dying can be painful. Death itself shouldn’t be.
The initial analysis isn’t good. If there's a part of my body which doesn't hurt, I can't identify it. I let my eyelids flutter but a fierce light only adds to the catalogue of misery as my gritty eyes object to their sudden employment. Whilst I'm unable to confirm my whereabouts visually, I do know I’m lying on my back, on an unforgiving, damp surface.
Tuned Out Page 11
