I walk on and reach the printworks. Having left in a hurry I didn’t take much notice of the exterior but now I can size it up from the opposite side of the road. The building has certainly seen better days, and those days were probably a century ago. It reminds me of the old cotton mills we studied in history at school when the syllabus covered the Industrial Revolution. There's even a brick chimney stack poking above what’s left of the roof.
Wherever I am, it is surprising to see a building like this still standing. Most were demolished to make way for new developments or converted into high-end apartments. An estate agent’s board buried in weeds suggests this building will meet the same fate. I don’t recognise the estate agent’s name but something else on the sign grabs my attention — the phone number, which consists of just four digits.
Clever, and proof I need to move beyond Weydon Street to undermine this charade.
As I walk further along the road, the buildings peter out and fields take their place. I can’t see any further than a sharp bend in the distance but the trees and hedgerows suggest there’s not a lot to see. Frustrated, I turn around and make my way back towards Barlow’s newsagent.
Halfway there, a car passes. Without time to read the badge, I’ve no idea of the make or model but it’s a boxy brown monstrosity with a serious engine issue if the exhaust emissions are anything to go by.
I reach Barlow’s and stand on the intersection of a busier road. As I try to get any kind of bearing, more cars pass by. The only one I recognise is a Mini; albeit the original incarnation rather than the modern pastiche. Across the road, a billboard invites me to visit the local cinema and take in the latest Michael Caine movie: The Italian Job. Perturbed, I gaze up at Mr Caine’s youthful face.
“Excuse me.”
I turn around to find a woman attempting to pass by with a huge navy-blue and silver pram. She’s young, pretty; hair large, dress small. It’s a style I’ve only ever seen on the cover of Dad’s old vinyl albums.
“Oh, sorry.”
I step to the edge of the pavement and she smiles before continuing on her way. Something else catches my attention as I watch her walk away — a bright red phone box on the opposite side of the road. A prop surely? I head over to investigate.
It's rare to see a phone box of any kind; let alone the traditional red variety. I do recall seeing one on a day-trip to London, but only as a photo opportunity prop for tourists rather than for making calls. I’m certain I’ve never stepped foot in one.
The effort required to tug open the door indicates it’s a permanent structure. What I find inside confirms as much. The receiver is perched on top of a chunky red box with a circular dialling mechanism on the left. On the right there’s a metal plate with two slots where coins are inserted I presume.
I grab the receiver and place it to my ear. The dialling tone is loud and clear but without a penny to my name I can’t call anyone for help. Or can I?
Placing my fingertip in a hole in the dialling mechanism, I whirl it clockwise. It clacks back in a satisfying but laboured manner. Two more rotations and a voice answers.
“Emergency. Which service do you require?”
“Police, I think.”
“Transferring you now. Hold the line.”
This might not be a sensible idea but as common sense left the room some time ago, what the hell.
“Police,” a female voice barks.
“Hi.”
“What’s your emergency?”
“I think I’ve been abducted.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“A phone box near the corner of Weydon Street.”
“And who abducted you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where are they … whoever abducted you?”
“No idea.”
“They’re not with you?”
“Um, nope.”
“Let me get this straight: you’re in a public phone box and there’s no one around acting suspiciously?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What makes you think you’ve been abducted then?”
“I woke up in the old Trinity Printworks. Someone must have taken me there.”
“I think we need to get some details from you, sir. What’s your name and address?”
“Toby Grant, and I live at sixty-three Stratfield House.”
“Where?”
“Stratfield House. It’s the block of flats on Lyson Way.”
“One moment.”
I fear I’m about to be put on hold and subjected to five minutes of Greensleeves, but I can hear muffled voices in the background, as if the operator has her hand over the mouthpiece.
“Lyson Way?” she confirms.
“Yes.”
“There is no block of flats on Lyson Way. I’ve just checked with the beat officer.”
“Ohh … wait, I see. You’re part of this too.”
“Part of what, sir?”
“This prank, or whatever it is.”
“I can assure you, if this is a prank, I’m not laughing. What’s your date of birth, Mr Grant?”
“Thirtieth of May, ’89.”
“You’re eighty years of age?” she coughs.
“Christ, no. I’m twenty-nine.”
“You’re testing my patience, Mr Grant. You said you were born in 1889.”
“No, I never. I’m sure that would make me the oldest human to have ever lived.”
The operator takes a second to compose herself.
“I’ll ask you again: which year were you born?”
“1989.”
“As in twenty years from now?”
“What?”
“You do realise it’s a criminal offence to waste police time. Do you wish to report a crime?”
“I … no.”
“Goodbye.”
A click followed by a shrill tone. I put the receiver back.
This is ridiculous. It’s also impossible, I remind myself.
I leave the phone box and meander down the road. Twice I reach for a trouser pocket which isn’t there, nor the iPhone which always resides in it. I hate being separated from my phone but that isn’t my greatest concern. The day is getting warmer and I’m suffering from a banging headache and raging thirst. I desperately need a bottle of water and some painkillers but, with no means of paying, I’m set to suffer.
I reach a church with a bench outside. Exhausted, I decide to sit down in the shade for a while and gather my thoughts. Time feels irrelevant as I watch dozens of vehicles pass by: vintage cars in various shades of diarrhoea and squat little lorries belching clouds of black smoke as they trundle pass. Every vehicle displays a number plate short on digits and almost certainly illegal.
I’m suddenly minded of a conversation Danny and I had in the pub a while back. We were chatting about The Flat Earth Society and their crazy belief the earth isn’t spherical. I can’t recall why the subject came up but Danny was incredulous that even in the face of overwhelming evidence, the society maintained their stance.
Am I, on some level, a flat-earther? Am I denying a truth which appears to be making its presence felt at every given opportunity?
My thoughts are interrupted when a figure takes a seat at the other end of the bench. Conscious I’m dressed like Hannibal Lecter, I stare down at the pavement in the hope I’ll become invisible.
“I noticed you sitting here,” the figure says. “Everything okay, young man?”
I’m in no mood for conversation but I’m tired of turning the same questions over and over. Perhaps a temporary distraction will help my mind re-boot.
I look across at a man with an unruly mop of white hair and a face like a Christmas card Santa. Inexplicably for a warm day, he’s wearing a tweed jacket with a shirt and sweater.
“I’ve had better days.”
“If you don’t mind me saying, you look like a sheep without his flock.”
His words sing with the fading remnants of an Irish accent.
“Yeah,�
�� I snort. “You could say that.”
“Is there anything I can help you with?”
“I don’t suppose I could borrow your mobile?”
“My mobile?”
“Phone.”
“There’s a phone in the vestry you’re welcome to use but it’s not mobile I’m afraid.”
“The vestry?”
He offers me his hand as the penny drops.
“Father O'Connor.”
With science summarily refusing to play ball, perhaps now would be the ideal time to let religion have a go.
I accept the handshake.
“Toby.”
“What’s your story then, Toby?”
Hoping I can trust a man of the cloth, I explain how I woke up in the printworks with no idea how I got there.
“What a pickle,” he surmises. “And a mystery.”
“Don’t I know it? And to make matters …”
I wince as a sharp jolt of pain spasms across my skull.
“Are you okay there?” Father O'Connor asks, clearly concerned.
I draw a few deep breaths as the worst of the pain subsides.
“Just a headache.”
“You should see a doctor.”
“I’m dehydrated. I just need some water and ibuprofen.”
“Water, I can help you with, but I’m afraid I can’t help with prescription medication.”
“You don’t need a prescription for ibuprofen. You can buy it almost anywhere.”
“Really? I’ve never heard of it.”
He then gets to his feet.
“But I’ve got some aspirin. Would that help?”
“It would. Thank you.”
“Come with me.”
I follow the priest down a path at the side of the church. We reach a solid-looking wooden door and he extracts a bunch of keys from his jacket pocket.
“There was a time when we could leave the church unlocked overnight. Not anymore I’m sorry to say.”
I stop myself enquiring about an alarm system or CCTV.
The door is unlocked and, with the help of his shoulder, forced open. I’m beckoned into a cramped but cool office, dominated by an oversized oak desk.
“Take a seat. I’ll fetch you that water.”
I fall onto a wooden chair in front of the desk. Left to my own devices, I close my eyes and focus on the ticking of a clock somewhere high on the wall behind me. For the first time since I crashed into this madness, my heart rate slows and some semblance of calm arrives. Sleep doesn’t feel too far away and maybe if I let myself go, I’ll wake up in my bed at home.
“Here we go.”
I open my eyes to the welcome sight of a glass of water atop the desk. Father O'Connor then hands me two chalky-looking pills.
“Get those down you and I’m sure you’ll feel right as rain.”
I quickly dispense with both the pills and the water. The priest then takes a seat opposite.
“Do you think you should speak to the police?” he asks. “Perhaps they can help.”
“I tried. They hung up.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t think they believed me.”
“That doesn’t sound right,” he frowns. “If you’ve been the victim of a crime, it’s their duty to investigate.”
“Thing is, Father, I’m not entirely sure I have been the victim of a crime.”
“No? How do you explain what happened at the old printworks then?”
His tone is curious rather than accusatory. I guess priests are well versed in listening without making a judgement.
“No idea,” I shrug. “But can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Do you believe in miracles?”
A broad smile breaks across his face.
“Sure, I do.”
“Forgive me for saying this, but there’s a big difference between believing something to be true and knowing it to be true, wouldn’t you say?”
“Possibly. Do I detect a lack of faith in your question, young Toby?”
“Something like that.”
He leans forward and rests his elbows on the desk.
“What if I told you I’d witnessed many miracles?”
“Depends how you define the word miracle, I guess.”
“A fair point. I’ll let you decide if you’d like me to give you an example.”
“I’m in no hurry.”
“Exactly three weeks ago to the day, I had the solemn task of delivering last rites to one of my parishioners — poor Jean Radford was in her seventies and had acute pneumonia. The doctors informed Jean’s family nothing more could be done and she had but hours left. That’s when I got the call to visit the hospital.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“So was I, but let me tell you this. On Sunday, Jean Radford will be here at St Joseph’s, attending her granddaughter's Holy Communion.”
“She recovered?”
“Completely,” he says, sitting back in his chair. “And I’d say that constituted a miracle, wouldn’t you?”
I’d say it’s open to interpretation, but I didn’t ask the original question to start a philosophical debate.
“If I tell you something, Father, can I have your word it’ll go no further?”
“As long as you’re not planning to commit a serious crime, then yes, you have my confidence.”
“Nothing like that, but I don’t want you to judge me.”
“That’s not my place,” he smiles. “Only one person can pass judgement.”
I shuffle awkwardly in my chair.
“Right, well, let’s hope He’s got an open mind.”
Before I can talk myself out of it, I relay the events which led me to the priest’s door. Despite having lived through every second of the entire ordeal, it sounds more like a fairy tale than a recollection of facts. Credit to Father O'Connor, though, he listens patiently and doesn’t laugh once.
“And that’s all I know,” I conclude. “One minute I’m in Vernon Kirby’s room and the next I’m lying on the floor in the printworks.”
There’s no immediate response or any outward indication of his thoughts. In fairness, it’s a lot to take in and probably a world away from his usual confessions of coveting the neighbour’s wife or wishing ill will upon certain celebrities.
“That’s quite the tale,” he eventually admits. “And just for the sake of clarity, this is most certainly the year of our Lord, 1969.”
“I’m struggling to believe that.”
“And understand I’m struggling to believe what you’ve told me.”
“Great. Then there’s precious little point me being here.”
“Don’t be so hasty. I said I’m struggling but I do possess a tool which can help us both.”
“And what’s that?”
“Faith.”
Oh, crap. Here we go.
“I appreciate you helping me, Father, but I’m not a believer.”
“In God or your situation?”
“Err, both.”
“You ever heard of that coloured fellow from America: Martin Luther King?”
“Of course.”
“Terrible what happened to him last year. Gunned down in his prime.”
“Last year? But, King’s assassination happened …”
“Last year,” he interjects. “Anyway, Dr King once said: faith is taking the first step even when you don't see the whole staircase.”
“Profound, but I’m not sure it helps.”
“Oh, it does. You’ve found yourself at the bottom of an admittedly unlikely staircase. The only way you’ll find faith is to climb that staircase step by step. You’ve already made a start by chatting with me … or perhaps we’ve witnessed divine intervention.”
His closing sentence is delivered with a wry smile.
“Are you saying I should just accept this … situation … and do as Vernon Kirby asked?”
“It’s not for me to say what you do next.”
“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”
“Not at all. I think you’re lost but I’m hoping you can find the right path. I can help you on your way, if you'd like?”
With that, he gets to his feet.
“Come with me.”
Still wrestling with staircase analogies, I follow him out of the vestry and along a narrow corridor.
“We’ve got a jumble sale on tomorrow,” he says over his shoulder. “And in all those bags of jumble I’m sure we can find you a better outfit for your travels.”
The prospect of wearing someone else’s cast offs doesn’t hold much appeal but anything has to be better than the rancid overalls.
Father O'Connor opens a door to a musty hall with trestle tables running down either side. A pile of boxes are stacked in the corner.
“Let’s see what we’ve got for you.”
Ten minutes later I’m heading to the toilet with a pair of brown polyester trousers and a patterned short-sleeve shirt in an interesting shade of mustard yellow. The fit of both garments is a little on the snug side apart from the flared trouser legs which flap around my ankles.
“Very smart,” Father O'Connor comments, as I wander back into the hall. “And these should fit you a treat.”
He hands me a pair of brown leather brogues which are well-worn but don’t smell as pungent as the boots. I’d already declined a pair of used Y-fronts but accept a pair of second-hand socks to complete the ensemble.
“Now, you’re almost set.”
He then delves a hand inside his jacket and pulls out a wallet. A flimsy note is extracted and pressed into my hand.
“That should be enough to last you a few days.”
I examine the unfamiliar ten shilling note. I’ve no idea if it’s enough to buy a coffee or a car.
“Thank you, Father.”
“You’re more than welcome but it won’t stretch to a hotel, mind. If you head down to Brompton Street, there’s a serviceman’s refuge. Tell them I sent you and they’ll give you a bed for a few nights.”
“I don’t know what to say. You’ve been more than kind.”
“All part of the service.”
“I suppose I’d better get on with what I came here to do, and save Mrs Kirby.”
“Indeed. And I hope for your sake our paths don’t cross again.”
He leads me back to the vestry and the side door.
“Well, young Toby. Godspeed.”
I offer the priest my hand which he shakes enthusiastically. I’m about to suggest I’ll look him up when I get back but if I’m not insane, and this inexplicably is 1969, it’s unlikely he’ll still be alive. Much of that thought is rooted in the ridiculous but it still invokes a touch of sadness.
Tuned Out Page 13
