Tuned Out

by Keith A Pearson

  In order to keep my mind occupied, and with no other method of determining the time, I revert to counting seconds in my head. I soon discover it’s boring as fuck and give up after losing count for the fourth time. Another glance up the street does little to break the monotony with no sign of Gwen, or anyone else.

  As time drags, my concern mounts. What if I’ve got the time wrong? Considering what I’ve been through, I might be excused for not recollecting the exact details Vernon quoted, but that doesn’t help Gwen. Shit, what if she’s already lying dead on a mortuary slab somewhere across town?

  I decide to give it another minute and if there’s still no sign of her, I’ll head to the Post Office and keep my fingers crossed half the local constabulary aren’t already there.

  One … two … three … four … what am I going to do about dinner? Shit, I still need to visit that refuge Father O'Connor mentioned.

  My attention drifts away until the sound of a slammed door echoes up the street. I scan both pavements and breathe a sigh of relief when I spot a young woman stood outside one of the houses, fumbling around in her handbag. She then looks up, and strides purposefully in my direction.

  It takes just a glance to confirm I’m looking at the same face I saw in Vernon’s black-and-white photo. It must be said Gwen looks cuter in colour with her glossy bob of chestnut-brown hair and large oval eyes. Unsurprisingly, she’s wearing a dress; a sleeveless pale yellow number which falls just short of her knees.

  This is it.

  She gets within a few steps.

  “Sorry to bother you. You’re not heading to the Post Office by any chance?”

  Coming to a stop, Gwen eyes me up and down before answering.

  “Err, yeah, I am.”

  Her accent is at odds with the cute aesthetics; erring on chavvy.

  “Oh, the only reason I ask is because there’s been an incident. A hold-up, I heard.”

  “Blimmin’ hell,” she blurts. “Has anyone been hurt?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “And who are you exactly?”

  “I’m, um, just a good Samaritan. It’s probably best you stay clear for now, you know, for your own safety.”

  “I need to check if Mr Cooper is okay.”

  “Mr Cooper?”

  “The post master. I’ve known him since I was little.”

  “Oh, but …”

  “Thanks for letting me know.”

  Clearly concerned for Mr Cooper’s wellbeing, Gwen then hurries away in the direction of the Post Office.

  Fuck!

  Why didn’t Vernon warn me his wife knew the post master? Even in a one-minute conversation I can tell she’s the headstrong type and I bet she tried to intervene in the robbery. Probably why she got herself shot.

  I realise I’m thinking in past tense — this is yet to happen. The question is: how the hell do I now stop it? With the Post Office only a few streets away, I’ve got no more than a minute to formulate plan-B.

  With Gwen now out of sight, I scamper after her.

  Rounding the corner, she’s already halfway down the next street. I break into a jog and catch up as she nears the junction.

  “Wait,” I call out. “I need to talk to you.”

  She slows to a stop and turns around.

  “You can’t go anywhere near the Post Office.”

  “And why not?”

  “I lied.”

  “Eh?”

  “The hold-up … it’s happening any minute now.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “I … um, overheard a conversation in the pub.”

  “In which case, Mr …”

  “Grant. Toby Grant.”

  “If that’s true, I need to warn Mr Cooper.”

  “You can’t,” I protest. “It’s too dangerous.”

  To make my point, I position myself in front of her, blocking the path.

  “Please get outta my way.”

  “I can’t.”

  “If you don’t bugger off, I’ll scream.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” I groan. “I’m trying to stop you being shot.”

  Her face puckers into a frown.

  “I don’t like being told what to do; especially by some bloke I don’t even know.”

  She steps off the kerb, bypassing my futile blockage, and strides away.

  I simply needed to delay Gwen by five minutes but, at a guess, I’ve managed barely two.

  As I watch her turn the corner, a significant part of me wants to let her go. Who am I to mess with fate? I tried to help, but she’s as bloody-minded as her husband. However, the underlying issue with giving up is I’ll be lumbered with a lifetime of guilt if I let Gwen wander blindly to her death.

  Prompted by admittedly selfish motives, I set off in pursuit again.

  Rounding the corner, my eyes are drawn to a bright red Post Office sign towards the end of the street. Midway between that sign and my current position is Gwen Kirby. Another reluctant sprint ensues.

  I close in on her as she crosses the street; no more than twenty paces from the Post Office door.

  “Wait!” I yell. “Don’t go in there.”

  She pauses for a second and glances back at me.

  “Go away,” she hisses, before marching on.

  Just half-a-dozen steps to the Post Office and Gwen’s attention turns to her handbag. As she rummages around she doesn’t notice the hulking figure backing out the door. Dressed in jeans, a leather jacket, and a black ski mask, it isn’t his attire which concerns me; more the shotgun he’s brandishing.

  Gwen looks up from her handbag and comes to a sudden halt when she realises there’s a large and deadly obstacle in her way. The masked man then twists ninety degrees and points the shotgun at the now-frozen housewife.

  I skid to a halt behind a pea-green car on the opposite side of the street. Too far away to intervene, and that’s no bad thing in my book. I agreed to save Gwen but I’m no hero and never agreed to be a victim in her place.

  The masked gunman raises the barrel towards Gwen’s chest. Rather than prevent her death, it now looks like I’m about to be the star witness. Not a role I’m keen on.

  Shit. What do I do?

  I’ve been in this situation hundreds of times, albeit in a video game, and the reality of hiding from an armed assailant isn’t as thrilling in the here and now. Nevertheless, playing video games has given me a broad knowledge of weaponry and I know two things about shotguns: they only hold two cartridges, and they’re woefully inaccurate; particularly when half the barrel has been sawn off.

  If I were playing a video game, what would I do? Usually I’d hurl a few insults at the other players.

  I poke my head above the car roof and yell as loudly as I can.

  “Oi, bellend!”

  The masked man swings the shotgun in my direction and I instinctively duck. A fraction of a second later, an ear-splitting boom reverberates over my head.

  Fucking hell!

  I’ve just been fired at … someone actually tried to shoot me. As I suspected, there’s no great thrill when your actual life is at stake.

  Then I hear the sweetest of sounds. Faint, but gaining in volume; the distinctive nee-naw melody of police sirens I remember from the old cop shows Dad used to watch.

  I risk a peek. Gwen is still frozen in the same position but there’s no sign of the masked man. My initial relief is fleeting when it occurs he might be heading my way.

  Crouched low, I scuttle to the side of the car; now peppered with dozens of tiny shot holes. I risk another peek through the side window and glance left and right. Unless he’s lying on the pavement, it appears the masked man has fled. Just to be sure, I glance under the car. The kerb is clear.

  I allow myself a moment of self-congratulation. Gwen is safe, although she’ll probably require clean underwear, and I’m not riddled with shotgun pellets. A pretty good result. I get to bellow a belated sigh of relief, but across the street Gwen is in the midst of a sobb
ing fit. I jog over to her.

  “Don’t worry. He’s gone.”

  “Thank you,” she weeps. “You saved my life.”

  To demonstrate her gratitude Gwen throws her arms around me. Returning the embrace, I’m taken by how soft her skin is, and how deliciously sweet she smells; like a McDonald's vanilla and chocolate McFlurry. No wonder Vernon is such a miserable old bastard — I’d be pissed to have a woman like Gwen stolen from me.

  “I should have listened to you,” she chokes. “My Vernon is always tellin’ me I should do as I’m told.”

  “Never mind. You’re safe now, and that’s all that matters.”

  As lovely as it is to have Gwen’s arms around me, the police sirens are growing louder and I don’t want to be here when they arrive. They’ll have too many questions I can’t answer, and I’d rather avoid spending the next two days in an interview room.

  “I’ve got to go,” I declare.

  “But shouldn’t …”

  “Look after yourself. Goodbye.”

  I make a move in the opposite direction of the sirens.

  “Wait,” Gwen calls after me. “Can I get your address?”

  As it’ll be several decades before my current home is even built, there’s no point answering her, so I don’t.

  My work here is done.

  18.

  If anyone were to ask, I’d give them two snippets of advice about travelling back in time. I’d suggest they plan ahead and somehow ensure they have access to money — lots of money.

  After the Post Office incident, the subsequent forty hours of 1969 were a major disappointment because nobody offered me any advice about time-travel.

  Now, as I wander back to the Trinity Printworks on an already warm Sunday morning, I can take some credit for saving a life but the journey hasn’t made one iota of difference to my life. It feels a monumental waste of a miraculous opportunity; assuming the experience is as real as it now feels.

  Sandwiched between two nights in a serviceman’s refuge — where I slept in a dorm with broken old men who were clearly suffering undiagnosed post-traumatic stress disorder — I spent an entire day wandering around aimlessly. The initial novelty of stumbling across buildings which no longer exist soon wore thin, as did living on a diet of tap water and ready salted crisps.

  Of the billions of people on the earth, only I knew the future. You’d think the opportunity to change the world would be a gift, but without the time, means, or credibility to impart that knowledge, it became a frustrating curse. How does one man convince a Government to change policies destined to fail? How does one man warn of impending disasters like the Boxing Day Tsunami in Asia or the Ethiopian famine of the eighties when they’re still years away from happening? Knowing hundreds of thousands of people will die, and there’s nothing you can do about it, is a burden I never want again.

  Even on a smaller scale I couldn’t change anything; including my own future. I’ve seen enough time-travel movies to know how events play out in fiction: buy shares in a fledgling company and return to the present where those shares are worth millions, or place a bet on a sporting event where the winner defies incredible odds. Both great ideas; if you have money.

  I spent three hours on a park bench trying to think of ways I could bequeath a better future for myself. Shit, it wasn’t even as though I could shove a list of sure-fire betting or investment tips through my parent’s letterbox in the hope I’d return to find they’re now billionaires. I don’t know where they live and there’s no obvious way of finding out in a world without the Internet.

  No, it’s safe to say there won’t be a bidding war amongst Hollywood producers for the film rights to my expedition back in time.

  I turn into Weydon Street, passing Barlow’s Newsagents and the row of terraced houses. There's no way of knowing if it’s important I’m in the exact place I entered this world when the forty-eight hours are up, but I’d rather not take the chance. I’m tired, hungry, and I want to go home; albeit back to my shitty life.

  I reach Trinity Printworks to find someone has attempted to reinstate the gate I knocked down. It’s not even eight o’clock yet, and the street is quiet so there’s no one around to witness me wrench it open.

  Retracing the exact journey I made two days ago, I head up the fire escape where the door itself is still ajar. Back through the musty room with the lockers into the larger room with the hole in the roof and assorted building debris. I’d like to say it’s good to be back but it’s not. I shuffle over to the far wall and sit down. Nothing to do now other than wait.

  I wait.

  It has been said, mainly by my parents, I possess a low boredom threshold. My numb arse is the eventual catalyst to get up and potter around. I discover another door leading through to an adjoining room but the floorboards are spongy and many are missing altogether. There’s a wooden staircase in the corner but I’m not brave enough to run the gauntlet of rotten floorboards.

  Unlike the previous room, the window hasn’t escaped the attention of local vandals and several of the opaque panes are shattered, affording a view over a yard at the rear of the building. Mother Nature has reclaimed it now and all I can see is a forest of overgrown weeds leading up to a crumbling wall at the rear boundary.

  I return to the room where I arrived.

  After kicking chunks of masonry around I retake my seat on the floor. The familiar shaft of sunlight is angling through the hole in the roof and illuminating the foot of the wall opposite. If I were interested enough, I could work out some kind of rudimentary timekeeping system, like a sundial. However, I think my time here can now be measured in minutes so it seems a pointless exercise.

  Boredom turns to fatigue.

  I only managed a few hours’ sleep last night and I’m now feeling it. Although the serviceman’s refuge were kind enough to offer a bed, that bed was cast iron, and topped with a thin mattress and an itchy wool blanket. The uncomfortable bed wasn’t the only reason I couldn’t sleep. Of the five other beds in the stifling room, three were occupied by men who spent both nights snoring like warthogs. When they weren’t snoring, they were mumbling or yelling in their sleep. In hindsight, a park bench would have been a quieter, more comfortable option.

  My eyelids droop. I don’t have the energy to fight and let them close.

  I’m too anxious to sleep but drift on the periphery for a while, waiting for the first signal I’m heading back where I belong. Sketchy half-dreams come and go but the birdsong outside anchors reality just enough so I don’t slip away. Every now and then I feel a sudden throb of pain in my head. My pulse quickens as I expect it to build but every time it ebbs away; lack of sleep and dehydration the likely culprits.

  A thought arrives: perhaps it’s important I’m awake. I blink a few times and yawn. As my eyes adjust to the light, I glance across to the opposite wall to check how far the shaft of sunlight has moved. It’s no longer on the wall — it’s now shining in almost the same position I arrived at.

  I get to my feet and shuffle across the floorboards. As I reach the patch bathed in sunlight, I nudge a broken tile to the edge and stare at it intently. Millimetre by millimetre and barely perceptible, sunlight creeps across the surface.

  Surely my return is now only seconds away.

  I step into the shaft of sunlight and look up; trying to compare my position relative to the sun. The result is troubling. When I arrived, the shaft of sunlight beamed in at an acute angle. Now, I’m stood directly below the hole with the sun shining above. I’ve always been shit at physics but you don’t need to be Einstein to know the sun climbs higher in the sky the closer you get to midday.

  Concern mounts.

  For no other reason than to distract my mind, I nudge the slate back beyond the patch of illuminated floorboards. Staring at it won’t make one jot of difference but that’s all I can do.

  Another spell of indeterminate time passes until the birdsong is accompanied by a second sound — church bells. Apart from an occasiona
l wedding, christening, or funeral, I’ve seldom had reason to visit a church but I do know most hold two services on a Sunday morning; one early and one late.

  Frantically, I dredge my memory. I know I left the serviceman’s refuge at seven-thirty and it couldn’t have taken more than twenty minutes to get here. Did I hear church bells? Shit, I can’t recall.

  I'm certain I’ve been here over an hour; possibly two or more. That means the bells are currently peeling for the late morning service and coupled with the sun's position, it must be eleven o’clock.

  I shouldn’t be here.

  Concern becomes panic as I pace up and down. This isn’t right … why am I still here? Vernon said I’d come back once forty-eight hours had elapsed but, at a guess, I’m beyond fifty hours.

  I come to a standstill and draw a dozen deep breaths. An anxiety attack won't help — I need a clear head.

  My dad has a saying which he’s drummed into me since childhood: every problem has a solution. At a guess, I don’t think Dad ever found himself stuck in a disused printworks two decades before he was born. This problem has no solution. Worse still, the inability to return is just the tip of a problematic mountain. What if I’m stuck here forever? Where do I live? How do I earn money? What happens when 1989 rolls around and I’m born? Can two versions of the same person inhabit the same period of time?

  My head throbs and for a split-second hope returns. It fades, and for the first time in my life I try to will the pain back.

  “Okay, Toby. Try to stay calm.”

  In times of high stress I find my own voice calming. I need a plan, and for that I need to think clearly.

  One thing is obvious — I could drive myself insane questioning why I’m still here but it’ll change nothing. And if there’s nothing I can do about it, what’s the sense in worrying about it? It’s not as though I don’t have an extensive list of other, more immediate worries to contend with.

  I sit down again. Much like when I had to wrestle with a problematic project at work, I mentally compose a flowchart of key issues and work through them one by one.