Tuned Out

by Keith A Pearson

  “That actually happened?”

  “Yes, on Friday afternoon … exactly like I told you it would. Surely there’s a way you can check?”

  “The local paper, probably. It comes out tomorrow.”

  “There you go then. It’ll report a robbery but there were no fatalities thanks to me.”

  “So, you’re telling me this Gwen Kirby was supposed to die, but you saved her?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you.”

  I’ve no idea if he believes me or not, but he at least appears to be considering it as he drums his fingers on the table.

  “Two points, if I may?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Knowing someone didn’t die is not proof. I could tell you the postman will die tomorrow, God forbid, and if he doesn’t, would you believe my prayers saved him?”

  “Um …”

  “And, tell me: if there’s any truth in your story, how do you plan to get back?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I thought it would just happen, but it's now been almost seventy hours and … well, I’m still here.”

  “So, you could be stuck here for good?”

  If I don’t say it, there’s a chance it might not come true. I shrug my shoulders.

  “Let’s just pretend any of this is true. Had you considered the consequences?”

  “What consequences?”

  “If a man shall steal an ox, or a sheep, and kill it, or sell it; he shall restore five oxen for an ox, and four sheep for a sheep.”

  “Um, excuse my ignorance, but is that …”

  “Exodus 22:1.”

  “Right.”

  “You’re wondering what the relevance is?”

  “Kind of.”

  “You claim you saved this Gwen Kirby’s life, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And that woman’s husband who instigated your … journey?”

  “Yes. Vernon Kirby.”

  He clambers to his feet.

  “As the good book tells us: all actions have consequences. Had it crossed your mind that perhaps your actions may have had far-reaching consequences?”

  “Err, not really.”

  “You claim to have met that man in a nursing home; decades from now?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he was still mourning the death of his wife?”

  “Again, yes.”

  “So, you miraculously find yourself back in 1969 and save his wife?”

  “Yes,” I huff, becoming exasperated. “That’s what happened. Are you going somewhere with this, Father?”

  “You still don’t see it, do you?”

  “See what?”

  “If you saved Gwen Kirby, you changed the course of not just her life, but her husband’s — they could have gone on to enjoy a long and happy marriage. And when Mr Kirby fell ill in later life, perhaps his wife took care of him at home.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “In which case, he was never admitted to that nursing home where you met him.”

  Father O’Connor leaves that statement hanging for a moment.

  “And that is the crux of my problem,” he continues. “I cannot believe your tale because no one would be so monumentally reckless. Only a fool would change the future to such a degree they render themselves trapped in the past.”

  I take a punch to the stomach with no one throwing a fist.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  “Taking the Lord’s name in vain won’t help you,” he tuts. “But talking to a doctor might.”

  “It’s true; I swear … it never crossed my mind.”

  “And maybe your mind is the problem here.”

  “I … but …”

  “We’ll continue this later,” he says dismissively, making for the door. “I need to get on, and you should be making tracks yourself. It’s just gone seven.”

  Hand grenade lobbed, he leaves.

  I remain where I am because my legs won’t move; my brain hogging every bodily resource while it processes Father O’Connor’s accusation. It doesn’t take long to conclude he has a valid point — saving Gwen would have changed Vernon’s life and therefore it’s unlikely we ever met. This fool failed to realise that.

  And if Vernon isn’t back at the care home, it means his old radio isn’t there either.

  By saving Gwen, I’ve inadvertently torn up my return ticket. That’s the reason I’m still here … it has to be.

  “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

  My legs finally agree to function. I pace up and down the tiled floor and consider all the permutations. In amongst the panic and the overwhelming sense of stupidity, an obvious thought leaks through: this is a good thing — at least I know why I’m still here.

  That positivity doesn’t hang around long once given closer scrutiny. The only way to fix the problem is to put things back how they were.

  I come to a sudden halt.

  It's a heinous thought and I'm ashamed of myself for even contemplating the idea but there’s no getting past it. Dead Gwen means unhappy Vernon, and the unhappy version of Vernon is the one who sees out his days at Trinity Place Nursing Home.

  I glance at the clock on the wall — five past seven.

  As little as I want to leave, I’m unlikely to resolve this quandary in the next few hours and I still need money. Whatever plan I settle on, the decision to end Gwen Kirby’s life cannot be rushed.

  22.

  There is no more stressful an experience than being in a hurry and not knowing how much of a hurry you’re in. I don’t want to be late on my first day but without a watch, I can only hope my brisk strides get me to work on time.

  Puffing, I turn into Nelson Close with my shirt clinging to my clammy skin. It’s already warm, and the sun has barely scaled the rooftops.

  A final dash and I arrive at the gate of number sixteen with George’s car still parked outside at the kerb. As I make my way down the path, the front door swings open.

  “Two minutes early. Good lad.”

  Decked in a set of dark blue overalls and a stubby pencil behind his ear, George looks every bit the plumber.

  “Morning, Boss.”

  Alice appears in the doorway behind him; clutching a carrier bag.

  “Oh, morning, Alice.”

  “This is for you,” she says, offering me the carrier bag.

  “There’s a set of overalls in there, plus a glass bottle of water and a round of sandwiches. I hope you like spam and egg.”

  I’m guessing the sandwiches don’t contain unsolicited email but beyond that, I don’t have the first clue what spam is. Still, at least I won’t go hungry, or thirsty.

  “Um, lovely. Thank you.”

  “Do you want to get changed here?” she asks.

  “He can change on site,” George remarks, checking his watch. “We need to get going.”

  After delivering a perfunctory kiss to her husband’s cheek and a wave in my direction, Alice closes the door.

  My new boss then approaches a set of tall wooden gates to the right of the house. He pulls open each side to reveal the stubby nose of a light grey van.

  “Did your old man use a Bedford?” he asks, while unlocking the driver’s side door.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “She’s a good old workhorse, this one. Hop in.”

  I scoot around the other side of the van and tug the door but it doesn’t budge. From inside, George leans over and I hear a mechanical clunk which I presume is the lock. I tug the door again but it still doesn’t open.

  “Twist the handle and then pull it,” he shouts through the glass.

  With my hand gripped on the chrome handle, I do as I’m told. The twisting part is simple enough but, no matter how hard I tug, the door won’t budge.

  “It won’t open,” I mouth back through the glass.

  George rolls his eyes and gets out. He strides to my side of the van and grabs the handle. One tug and the door opens.

  “Ohh, it slides open,” I gush. �
�Sorry.”

  “Not a great start,” he frowns. “Get in.”

  I clamber in and slide the door shut as George returns to the driver’s seat. As he fiddles with the ignition key, I take a cursory glance around the cabin. To call it basic would be the mother of all understatements. The dashboard houses just two dials, a thin heating vent, and an ashtray. My seat is nothing more than a padded bench and the only form of floor covering is a small rubber mat.

  The engine, when it coughs into life, is no more refined. I’d guess noise insulation was an optional extra as the sound in the cabin is like a herd of two-stroke lawnmowers racing across a field of shingle. To make matters worse, George keeps his door open as we hit the main road. Notwithstanding the additional noise from passing vehicles, it strikes me as remarkably dangerous considering the van has no seatbelts.

  Another feature the van lacks is a proper gearstick. As we trundle along, I watch with mild fascination as George uses a stick protruding from the steering column to change gear. Best I can tell, the van only has four gears: deafening, bastard loud, perforated eardrums, and reverse.

  Any attempt at conversation would be futile so I use the journey time to reflect on the Gwen Kirby dilemma.

  I have killed thousands of people before; albeit virtual people in an online gaming world. Even so, I don’t doubt pointing a gun at someone and pulling the trigger in real life is a completely different proposition, even if I could get hold of a gun. Presuming I can’t, what other options are there? A knife? A cricket bat? My bare hands?

  The more options I consider, the more I realise the choice of weapon isn’t relevant. No matter which one I choose, I’d still have to deploy it. Just the thought of killing Gwen in cold blood turns my stomach — I’m no murderer.

  But how else do you kill someone?

  If I had access to a car, I could run her down, but I’d still have to put my foot on the accelerator and point the steering wheel. No, death by car is no less brutal a way to end a life.

  Christ, why is killing someone so bloody difficult?

  The engine falls silent.

  “Wake up, lad.”

  “Eh? Sorry, I was miles away.”

  It appears we’ve reached our destination: a service yard at the rear of a three-story detached building.

  “Welcome to the Morland Court Hotel. We need to unload the tools so get your overalls on.”

  George hops out of his seat and disappears.

  I grab Alice’s carrier bag and pull out the overalls. Unlike those I found at the printworks, they’re clean but look no more comfortable. With a degree of contortion, I get into them without leaving the van.

  By the time I join George at the rear doors he’s already unloading.

  “Grab this,” he orders, passing me a bulky metal tool box.

  I grab it with both hands but struggle with the weight. George shakes his head as he uses both hands to heave a large wooden chest from the floor of the van.

  “Follow me,” he grunts.

  I stagger behind as George makes his way towards a door with a sign above: Deliveries & Tradesmen.

  A podgy guy in a brown overcoat greets us and, after a few words with George, he shows us to a dingy stairwell I presume is for staff rather than guests.

  “Which floor?” I wheeze.

  “Second,” the podgy man replies with a smirk.

  By the time we reach the first room to benefit from a new bathroom suite, my arms are like Mr Tickle’s; at least four feet longer than they were before I first lifted the weighty toolbox.

  With huge relief, I lower it to the floor in the bedroom.

  “We’ve got a maximum of two days to replace each bathroom,” George confirms. “So, there’s no room for slacking.”

  “Understood.”

  “First things first. Let’s get the old suite out.”

  And so it begins.

  As I’ve no experience, no practical skills, and no idea what I’m doing, I’m tasked with the simplest of jobs: shifting all manner of plumbing detritus from the bedroom to a skip in the service yard. Half-a-dozen trips up and down the stairs and I’m gasping like an asthmatic yak drowning in custard.

  Every time I stagger back into the bedroom, another pile of waste is waiting for me. The job is relentless; more a boot camp with George the drill sergeant. Orders are barked as he rips out fittings and transfers them to the bedroom whilst also darting up and down the stairs to collect tools from the van.

  Soaked with sweat and muscles screaming, I try to keep going but every load is worse than the last. And then I have to lug the old toilet down the stairs. The porcelain shitter weighs a ton, and it’s impossible not to think of the thousands of turds which have passed through it over the years.

  I make it to the skip and heave the toilet in. Virtually spent, I bend over and take a moment to catch my breath.

  “Oi! Chop chop!”

  I look up to a window on the second floor where George is glaring down.

  “Fuck’s sake,” I mumble, and trudge back to the stairs.

  I arrive back in the room to find an empty floor.

  “Just the bathtub to go,” George declares. “And then we can take five.”

  “Great.”

  “It’s a two-man job. They made stuff to last, the Victorians, and every bit bloody heavy.”

  I follow him into the bathroom which is now just a bare shell. In the centre remains the infamous bathtub.

  “This needs to be moved carefully,” George warns. “Or you’ll do your back in a heartbeat.”

  “Okay.”

  “Squat down, grab it by the feet, and then stand up. Don’t try bending over. Got it?”

  “How much does it weigh?”

  “About two hundred and fifty pounds.”

  A quirk of modern Britain is we’ve only embraced as much of the metric system as we could be bothered with. Money: yes. Temperature: kind of. However, we still measure distance in miles and yards, we still measure length in feet and inches, and we still measure weight in stones and pounds. So, I do know there are fourteen pounds to a stone which means the bathtub weighs about the same as your average darts player.

  I also know there’s no way I'd be allowed to move it in my time without first completing a risk assessment. Forms would need to be filled in and someone in a hi-viz vest would arrange delivery of various trolleys and winches. The process would likely take a week.

  George squats down one end of the bathtub. I do the same at the other end.

  “Ready, lad?”

  “Guess so.”

  “On three, lift. One … two … three.”

  With my thighs burning and calf muscles close to exploding, I take the strain and stand upright. It’s bastard heavy but just about manageable.

  “I’ll lead, and you follow.”

  “Okay,” I squeak.

  The ensuing journey down the stairs to the skip is abject hell, with George becoming more annoyed each time I have to stop for a breather.

  “I’m sorry,” I pant. “I’m just not used to this.”

  “How old are you, lad?”

  “Twenty nine.”

  “It’s bloody shameful you can’t keep up with an old man like me. You’ve been sat on your arse too long.”

  The accent is different but the words I’ve heard before.

  “You sound just like my dad.”

  “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “Probably not. I never thought I’d say this but I miss his moaning.”

  There’s more lament in my voice than I expected and George picks up on it.

  “Well, lad,” he smiles. “Seeing as he’s not around, let’s do him the honour of a proper day’s graft. Make him proud, eh?”

  I return his smile but it’s half-hearted. Now I’ve broached the subject, my mind wants to dwell on the question: when will I see my parents again?

  Fortunately, George isn’t the kind to let anyone dwell.

  “Come on. Let’s get this bugger to the
skip.”

  After another session of grunting, shoving, and heaving we get the bathtub down the stairs and out to the service yard. It’s a blessed relief to dump it next to the skip until George reminds me we’ve still got nine more to move.

  “About that, George: how were you planning to move ten cast iron bathtubs on your own?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Eh?”

  “I know a gypo family who deal with scrap metal. They agreed to collect them from the rooms.”

  “What’s a … oh, a gypsy family you mean?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Not quite. I don’t think they appreciate being called gypos.”

  “You’ve asked them have you?”

  “Well, no, but …”

  “The trouble with gypos is they’re unreliable, so it’s better we get the bathtubs out.”

  “Lucky us.”

  George checks his watch and frowns.

  “Problem?”

  “The new suite isn’t being delivered until eleven.”

  “And what’s the time now?”

  “Ten to. Suppose you might as well have a break until it gets here.”

  “Thanks, Boss.”

  Before he can change his mind, I scamper to the van for a few gulps of now-tepid water and a sit down. I’ve barely made myself comfortable when a prehistoric truck pulls into the service yard; the serif signage on the side confirming it belongs to Berkley Plumbing Supplies. So much for a ten minute break.

  I take another gulp of water while George has a brief chat with the driver. The truck then rumbles over and parks next to the van. The driver hops out and George summons me to the rear.

  “Feeling better?” he asks.

  “Yes. That three-minute break made all the difference.”

  “Quit complaining, lad. We’ll break for lunch at one.”

  “And how long is my lunch break?”

  “Twenty minutes.”

  “Are you joking?” I huff.

  “You’re only having a sandwich and a sit down. Why do you need more than twenty minutes?”

  “Err, I don’t wish to sound like a shop steward but I’m sure that contravenes employment law.”

  “Best you write a letter to your union rep then. In the meantime, we need to unload this truck.”

  I’m tempted to throw a sulk but I doubt it’d do much good. I suppose I should count myself lucky as somewhere in the hotel there’s probably a six-year-old child being forced up a chimney.