Tuned Out

by Keith A Pearson

  Beyond the various aches, pains, and general discomfort, there’s something else — I’m naked. I know this because I can feel a slight breeze circulating my genitals. I let my head roll to the left and almost gag at the ensuing pain. Wherever I am and whatever happened, death would be welcome about now.

  I risk opening my eyelids again. With my head tilted, I’m not staring straight into the source of the light and I can at least get some measure of my whereabouts.

  That knowledge brings no relief.

  Beyond my naked shoulder the floor extends about twenty feet and abuts an exposed brick wall. The floor itself is formed of warped, ill-fitting floorboards, strewn with chunks of masonry in varying sizes, fractured remnants of house bricks, and shattered pieces of slate tile.

  Where the fuck am I?

  I invite my other senses to join the party. The air is warm and musty like a loft but tainted with a dank odour. Together with the cursory visual inspection, it appears I’m in a derelict building. But how did I get here and why am I naked?

  A petrifying thought strikes: have I been abducted? Has some heinous individual had their wicked way with me before dumping my sorry arse in a disused warehouse? I recall my last memory; standing in Vernon Kirby’s room at Trinity Place. Shit — it fits. Vernon possesses all the characteristics of a predatory deviant.

  The few known facts fit the theory. It’s not beyond the realms of comprehension Vernon is involved in a grooming plot where young men are lured in with the preposterous tale of a desperate, frail old man before being drugged, violated, and then left for dead in an abandoned building. It would explain the hallucinogenic episode, the pain, and my nudity.

  Perhaps I shouldn’t even be alive. Did Vernon and his co-conspirators presume they were disposing of a corpse? What if they’re coming back to finish the job … or worse still, start it?

  There is so much I don’t know, except the obvious: I need to get out of here.

  The urgency is enough to summon a rush of adrenalin and I scramble on to all fours. A few ragged breaths help to quell the nausea but do little to address my lack of energy. It's an effort, but I clamber to my feet.

  As I wait for a dizzy spell to pass, my eyes adjust to the bright light coming from above. With my hand against my brow, to shield still-gritty eyes, I look up. The source of the light and the warm air is the sun; visible through a gaping hole in the roof and resting in a cloudless blue sky. It’s a sight which should invoke delight but, in this situation, the opposite applies.

  Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.

  This morning’s forecast promised low cloud, drizzle, and a high of just six degrees. I know weather forecasters aren’t renowned for accurate reporting but the sky should be grey and I should be shivering because it’s bloody January. There can be only one conclusion: wherever I am, the weather is too warm for it to be anywhere in northern Europe at this time of year. It lends further credence to my theory. Persons unknown have abducted me and I've been trafficked overseas for some God-awful fate. I'm not waiting around to discover that fate.

  I scan the room in search of an exit. A large arched window dominates one wall but the glass panes are opaque so I’ve no idea what lies beyond, or even if I’m on the ground floor of the building. I could break the window and see but that might attract unwanted attention. If all else fails, it’s a last resort. Then, I spot a wooden door recessed in an alcove in the far corner. I edge my way through the minefield of building debris towards it; every creak and groan of the floorboards spiking anxiety.

  As I reach the door, an internal dispute breaks out. My heart wants me to wrench it open and flee but my head says I should be wary. Those responsible for my kidnap could be on the opposite side. Head wins, so I press my ear to the wood and listen. Seconds turn to minutes but, beyond my own frantic heartbeat, all I can hear are birds chirping outside and the occasional thrum of a car passing by on a nearby road.

  I grasp the handle, turn it, and open the door just enough to view whatever lies beyond. The initial view is that of a largish room with a tiled floor and grimy walls; bathed in muted light from another window with opaque glass. From my vantage point I can’t see the left-hand side but if anyone had been waiting for me, the squeaking door hinges would have already alerted them to my presence.

  I open the door and step into the room.

  A row of rusting metal lockers comes into view. Lined up against the left-hand wall, almost every locker door is ajar bar those which no longer have a door. Edging slowly across the tiles I peer into each locker as I pass. Most are empty but one contains a filthy hessian rucksack thick with cobwebs. The internal dispute resumes as I consider having a closer look; not for curiosity’s sake, but to garner any kind of clue to my whereabouts. Even knowing what country I’m in would help.

  I reach a compromise with myself — thirty seconds.

  Brushing away the worst of the cobwebs, I drag the rucksack from the locker and drop it to the floor. Judging by the general state, I can’t imagine there’s much chance it’ll contain a mobile phone but a weapon of some kind wouldn’t go amiss right now. I unbuckle the flap but rather than delve my hand into the unknown, I grab the bottom of the rucksack and tip it upside down. The contents flop onto the floor, and my hopes soon follow. There’s no mobile phone and no weapon; just a pair of battered old work boots and an oily set of tan-coloured overalls. Disheartened, I’m about to continue my path across the room when an obvious but unwelcome thought occurs — the overalls would at least solve the nudity issue. My lack of clothes is adding to the general sense of vulnerability and even a set of filthy overalls is better than nothing.

  I step back and snatch the overalls from the floor. After a quick shake to dislodge any reluctant arachnids from their home, I hold them up to check the size. Fortunately, they’re much like my frame — average. I’m about to slide my leg in when I notice the name embroidered on the chest pocket in black thread: Trinity Printworks.

  Besides the coincidence of my abduction from the Trinity Place Care Home, the name offers a clue to my whereabouts. Assuming whoever owned the overalls worked in this building, it isn’t too much of a leap to conclude I’m being held in a disused printworks. And wherever that printworks is, English is the first language. I’m not sure if that knowledge is good, bad, or meaningless.

  I slip into the overalls. They prove a reasonable fit but reek of stale sweat and the coarse material is like sandpaper on my skin. Common sense suggests I should also don the boots but they smell even worse than the overalls. I consider leaving them where they are until I step on a discarded screw and add to my long list of aches and pains. With much reluctance, I give the boots a shake and put them on. A size too big but just about fit for purpose.

  Now dressed like a post-war printer, I continue onwards past the row of lockers to another door. It appears more robust than the first and rather than a handle or knob, a metal bar runs horizontally; a strong hint to the door’s purpose — a fire exit. Could my captors be as dumb as to hold me in a building with such simple means of escape, or am I about to walk into a trap?

  I could ponder the answer all day but the urge to flee trumps caution. I press the bar down and shove hard.

  Light explodes into the room. I’m temporarily blinded and turn away while my eyes adjust to the sunlight. When I turn back, I’m met with the sight of a bare metal platform at the top of a staircase. Escape is now maybe just a dozen steps away. I edge onto the platform and the first taste of freedom proves too much — I need to get away.

  Putting pain and caution to the back of my mind, I skip down the metal staircase which wobbles and groans in protest, threatening to tear itself from the external wall. Safely at the bottom, I take a moment to assess my options. I’m on a weed-ridden path which appears to run from the front of the building to the back, although I’ve no way of determining which is which. Corrugated metal fencing runs the entire length of the path so I’ve two options: a rickety gate one way or traversing a jungle of overgrown vegeta
tion the other.

  With insufficient energy for an expedition into the undergrowth, the rickety gate picks itself. Step by step, I follow the path knowing answers might lie beyond the rotten timber. I don’t bother trying to force the rusted bolt; instead slamming a well-placed boot heel into the cross brace. It doesn’t open in the traditional sense but hangs in the air by a lone hinge before folding to the ground.

  I make my escape.

  My first instinct is to run. Once I’ve put some distance between myself and the printworks, I can then try to work out where I am and my next move. For now, though, getting away is all that matters.

  I put my head down and sprint.

  The last time I had cause to sprint was in school. The lack of practice is telling and exasperated by my lack of fitness and ill-fitting boots. I push through long, ungainly strides whilst keeping my entire focus on the pavement ahead. Wherever I am, it’s unlikely the NHS will send an ambulance if I turn an ankle, or worse.

  I eventually succumb to exhaustion and an overwhelming need to vomit. Hunched over, I gasp to draw-in air as the contents of my stomach attempt a journey in the opposite direction. Another battle between heart and head breaks out, but this time it’s to decide which can thump the hardest. It’s a close-run contest with no clear winner.

  The sprint has finished me and, with nothing left in my legs or lungs, I slump against a wall. There is precious chance of rest, though, as my mind is still working overtime trying to find answers to an entire battalion of questions. I need to bring order and determine my priorities; the first of those being to establish where I am and the second to seek help.

  I look up and the initial scan of the street only begs additional questions. If I’m in a foreign land, and the weather suggests I must be, why does the street look so familiar? Opposite, a dozen terraced houses stretch off towards a junction at the end of the road. Each house looks no different from the typical two-up, two-down Victorian dwelling you’d find in most towns; each with a red brick facade and grey tiled roof. Attached to the last of the terraced houses there appears to be a shop of some kind on the corner. I shield my eyes again to read the sign: Barlow’s Newsagent & Tobacconist.

  I’ve travelled to a fair few countries and I don't recall ever seeing a newsagent in any of them. I’m no expert but I always assumed newsagents were a British institution and the only other part of the world you’re likely to find one is Australia; being a former colony of the British Empire.

  To add further credence, fixed to the brickwork of the upper floor of the shop, is a street name. The sign is filthy and barely legible but after a bit of squinting and guesswork, I can just make out the second word: Street. I remember watching the TV show Neighbours as a teenager and that was set in Ramsey Street so whilst I’ve never been to Australia, that part at least fits.

  I ponder the possibility for a few seconds. No … I can’t be.

  Another, more sensible, theory surfaces. Perhaps I’m still in the UK but I’ve somehow lost five or six months. Is it more likely someone took me from Vernon’s room in January and I’ve been kept in a coma-like state for months? Maybe but how, and why?

  Both theories are a stretch and neither makes sense.

  Clearly I’m lacking facts, yet just up the street there’s a shop where I’ll be able to confirm one of my theories. I’m wasting time kicking ever-more ridiculous ideas around.

  I cross the road and hurry past the terraced houses towards the newsagents.

  On closer inspection, it couldn’t look any more like a traditional British newsagent although some of the cigarette brands advertised in the window aren’t familiar. I’ve never smoked, so it’s no great surprise I’ve never heard of Woodbine or Piccadilly. Neither sounds particularly Australian, though.

  I push the door open and a bell chimes above my head. Before I get a chance to scour the shelves for clues, a voice trills across the shop.

  “Good morning.”

  I turn to face the counter and a guy in an appalling knitted tank top smiles back. I don’t think he’s much older than me but his slick hair and moustache add years.

  “Err, morning.”

  “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  His accent is as British as can be. My second theory now seems the least ridiculous.

  “Yeah, lovely.”

  “What is it you’re looking for?”

  “Um, newspapers.”

  He then steps from behind the counter and strides over.

  “Any particular newspaper?”

  Before I can answer he notices the name embroidered on my overalls and his expression changes.

  “My, I haven’t seen that name in many a year — did you use to work at Trinity? You don’t look old enough.”

  “Oh, I … no. The overalls belonged to my dad. I’m only wearing them because …”

  His smile returns.

  “Ahh, doing a bit of tinkering under the bonnet were we? What motor have you got?”

  “Motor? A, err, Ford Focus.”

  He scratches his head.

  “I’ve not heard of that model. I’ve got a Spitfire out the back, myself.”

  I presume he’s talking about the old Triumph model rather than the World War II aeroplane.

  “Nice.”

  “Have you driven one?”

  I could do without a conversation about vintage cars but I might need to use this guy’s phone so best keep him sweet.

  “No, but a former colleague had one. I understand they’re quite collectible now.”

  “Collectible?” he replies, with a frown. “Already?”

  “Err, yeah. Anyway, about the newspapers.”

  “Oh, yes. They’re just over there below the magazines.”

  He points to a stand on the opposite wall.

  “Thanks.”

  With a nod, he returns to the counter but I can feel his eyes on me as I make my way towards the magazines.

  Ignoring my odd friend, I scan the piles of newspapers stacked on the bottom shelf.

  What the hell?

  The names are familiar but the typesetting of every front page is almost unrecognisable. I don’t read papers myself but I’ve seen plenty abandoned in coffee shops to know they look nothing like what’s in front of me.

  I snatch a copy of The Daily Mirror and scan the front page. It isn’t just the typesetting which is bizarre; the headline story is just as baffling as it refers to Prince Charles and his ambitions once he leaves Cambridge University. Below the article is a grainy photo of a youthful heir apparent.

  Confused, I check the publication date.

  “Fuck off!”

  I drop The Daily Mirror and grab a Daily Express. It displays the same date: Friday 6th June 1969. So does The Guardian and The Times.

  “Are you okay there?”

  I spin around. Mr Tank Top has escaped from behind the counter and is eyeing me with some concern.

  “I … no.”

  “You look a bit pale, old boy.”

  “I’m … just a … confused.”

  “Oh dear. Do you want to sit down for a moment? I’ve got smelling salts out back if you need them.”

  “No, um, thanks. What’s the date today?”

  “Sixth of June.”

  “And what …”

  I stop mid-sentence — I can’t bring myself to ask such a ridiculous question. I scour my addled mind for an alternative.

  “Do you know what’s number one at the moment … in the charts?”

  “The hit parade?”

  “Err, yeah.”

  “I’m not an avid follower of popular music but I seem to recall The Beatles were number one last week. Get Back, I think.”

  I stare back; perplexed. One of us is clearly mad and I can’t determine which of us it is. My eyes flick beyond his shoulder at a shelf stacked with confectionery and very little of it is familiar.

  There is a third explanation to my presence here. Actually, there’s a third and fourth: I’m either experiencing t
he mother of all hallucinogenic episodes, or …

  15.

  Fearing another anxiety attack is imminent, I barge past the bewildered shop assistant and stagger back out to the street.

  Pulling short breaths, I look up at the previously unreadable sign fixed high on the wall. From closer quarters I can now read the full street name: Weydon Street. It’s no wonder I thought the road felt familiar — it’s the same road I drove up this morning and the same road Trinity Place Nursing Home is situated … except it’s not the same road because I never passed either a newsagent or a disused printworks this morning.

  There has to be a logical explanation.

  Partly to keep my mind from imploding and partly in search of a covert camera crew who must be filming this prank, I traipse back up the street.

  I pacify the raging panic by setting myself a challenge. All I have to do is find one item out of place and I’ll expose whoever set me up. Just a satellite dish on the side of a house or a discarded Coke Zero can — any evidence this is not what it seems. The newsagent proved an admittedly impressive ruse but faking a whole street and the surrounding area is beyond even a Hollywood studio.

  I settle into my stride and focus on the minutiae; looking for tell-tale litter in the gutter or a flat-screen television beyond the net curtains of the terraced houses. The first minute bears no evidence until I reach the last house and a car parked at the kerb. I peer through the window of the dark green Morris Minor in search of a sat nav or phone charger. Nothing.

  Moving to the front of the car, hope flickers when I notice the tax disc. It’s been a few years since the vehicle taxation process changed and the discs became obsolete but you still see the odd one now and again. I lean over and check the expiry date — Aug 69.

  “Jesus wept.”

  For a slip of paper almost five decades old, it’s in remarkably good condition. These people are nothing if not sticklers for detail.