Tuned Out

by Keith A Pearson

  George steps over to him.

  “Next time you pick a fight with an old man, lad, best you check that old man isn’t a former Marine.”

  Despite his obvious pain, Vernon crabs backwards across the tarmac. George follows.

  “Now, I’ll tell you one more time. Get off my property and don’t come back.”

  For possibly the first time in his pitiful life, Vernon sees sense. With blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, he scrambles up. Despite his dented pride, he still throws a warning in my direction.

  “You go near my missus again and I’ll fucking kill ya … and that’s a promise.”

  He staggers away.

  Vernon’s pride might be dented, but mine shatters into a thousand pieces when I realise Jan witnessed the whole sorry scene from just inside the driveway gates. With her arms folded, she follows behind her father as he approaches.

  I clamber to my feet; wincing all the way.

  “You alright, lad?” George asks.

  “I’ll live.”

  “I reckon we need a little chat. Don’t you?”

  “It’s not what it looked like … I swear.”

  Neither Jan nor George look convinced.

  “Is that man’s wife who you went to see on Thursday?” Jan asks.

  No point lying now. I nod.

  “If you were messing around with his wife,” George growls. “You got precisely what you deserved.”

  “I wasn’t messing around with her. I was trying to save her … from him. You’ve seen what he’s like. The man is a fucking animal.”

  “No need for profanity, lad.”

  “Sorry, but can you blame me for trying to help the poor woman? She doesn’t want to be with him.”

  Jan shakes her head.

  “She wants to be with you?”

  “No, it’s not like that. I swear to God I have no interest in his wife … not in that way.”

  “Well, lad. Whatever you were up to, I think you’ve learnt a hard lesson. Whether your intentions were honourable or not, you shouldn't interfere in another man’s marriage.”

  “My intentions were honourable,” I reply forcibly. “I tried to do the right thing.”

  “That's as maybe but this better not happen again. I won’t have this kind of nonsense brought to my door. Are we clear on that?”

  “Crystal, and I’m sorry. I had no idea he’d just turn up like that.”

  His point made, George nods and makes for the gates. Jan remains where she is; arms still folded.

  “Did you mean that?” she asks when the two of us are alone.

  “Mean what?”

  “When you swore to God you weren’t interested in that man’s wife?”

  “I’ve got a lot of failings, Jan, but I’m no liar and I’m no coward. If you knew what their relationship is really like, and what kind of man he is, you’d feel compelled to help.”

  “But it isn’t your battle to fight. They’re married.”

  “Is that how things work here?” I scoff. “A woman is trapped in a toxic marriage and everyone turns a blind eye because they don’t want to be seen as interfering?”

  I wave my arm to emphasise the point but the resulting pain in my ribs induces more wincing.

  “Bollocking bollocks,” I gasp. “That hurts … excuse the language.”

  “Come here,” she says, her softer tone of voice restored. “We need to get those injuries looked at.”

  I don’t argue as she slips her hand around my waist and guides me back towards the gates. After a bit of stumbling and a few groans, I make it back to the caravan where Jan sits me down at the table.

  “Where does it hurt?” she asks.

  “My ribs, my jaw, and my male pride isn’t coping too well either.”

  “Fighting isn’t your forte, is it?”

  “I haven’t had a fight since school, and that amounted to two shoves and a punch. Still lost.”

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. If people learnt how to solve problems without violence, the world would be a better place.”

  “Amen to that.”

  “I’m just going to nip inside and grab the first aid box.”

  “Thank you, and I’m sorry for being such a nuisance.”

  “Nonsense. It’s me who should be apologising.”

  “For?”

  “Judging you. I think it’s honourable; you sticking up for that poor woman.”

  I find a smile.

  “Won’t be a tick.”

  Left alone, I’ve more than just my physical wounds to lick — Project Kirby is now perilously close to failure. Vernon might be an odious thug but there’s no reason for him to lie about their new home, and there’s no obvious way of establishing where that home is. However, that problem is a mere technicality compared to the much larger issue of the Kirbys starting a family. I doubt there’s a demand for pregnant models and even if there is, once that baby is born there’s no way Gwen will leave Vernon with a newborn child to support. Her dream is dead, and so too is my plan.

  The conclusion hits harder than any punch — I’m stuck here for good.

  Jan bustles back in.

  “Right, let’s get you fixed up.”

  She sits opposite and places a battered tin on the table. She then extracts a cotton wool swab and a tube of antiseptic cream.

  “I’m just going to clean the graze on your cheek. This might sting a little.”

  She applies a dab of antiseptic cream to the cotton wool and leans forward. I draw a sharp breath when the swab first connects, and the sting arrives.

  “There, there,” Jan purrs. “It’ll all be better in a second or two.”

  I close my eyes and I’m a child again; Mum treating one of the many grazes I bought home from the park. I’d arrive at the door bleary eyed and bloody, and Mum would fix me up in a jiffy. A plaster, a kiss, and a loving smile was all it took to make everything better.

  I’ll never see her or Dad again. Nothing will ever be better.

  I open my eyes and a solitary tear escapes.

  “Oh, Toby. What’s the matter?”

  Avoiding the question, I stare at the table and focus on the physical pain; anything to avoid the emotional pain I sense is about to consume me.

  “Please, tell me.”

  I don’t want to do this but I can’t keep it in. Another tear rolls.

  “I … I’ve lost everything … everyone.”

  Jan jumps up and takes my hand.

  “Come here,” she urges.

  I don’t resist as I'm pulled into her arms.

  Seconds, minutes pass. I’ve no idea how long but I’m in no rush to leave the sanctuary of Jan’s embrace. Like a man on death row saying his final goodbye, I’m terrified of what will follow once I let go.

  The only reason I pull away is to protect the final remnants of pride.

  “I’m sorry,” I gulp. “I … I’m just … God, this is embarrassing ...”

  “Don’t you dare apologise,” Jan interrupts. “No one should ever apologise for being human.”

  “I guess there’s nothing like an unprovoked punch in the face to bring home how vulnerable you really are. I, um, I don’t usually blub like that …”

  “Shh.”

  She presses her finger against my lips.

  “You don’t have to justify yourself and you don’t owe me an explanation. If you want to talk, I’m here, but if you don’t, that’s fine by me too.”

  I nod and the finger slips away.

  “Now, shall we get you fixed up?”

  If only all my problems could be fixed with a little kindness and a dab of antiseptic cream. And by problems, I mean my life.

  As Jan treats another graze on my elbow, the finality sinks in — when Vernon Kirby adjusted that radio dial, he altered the frequency of my future. I have been well and truly tuned out.

  31.

  It must have been around the year 2000, and Stephen had come home from University for the weekend. I recall him
listening to a CD in his bedroom while I played Crash Bandicoot on my PlayStation. As an eleven-year-old, I had no real interest in popular music until one particular track echoed through the plasterboard wall: Craig David’s 7 Days. I didn’t quite understand the narrative — specifically the part about making love for four straight days — but the way Mr David listed events Monday through Sunday fascinated me. Stephen made a copy for me and I played it until the words became ingrained in my head.

  Two weeks on from Vernon’s visit to Nelson Close, I find myself lying in bed, creating my own version of Craig David’s tune …

  Wander round the shops on Saturday,

  Went to church on Sunday,

  Worked like a dog on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday,

  Repeat.

  Fuck my life.

  I concede I’ll never make a lyricist.

  It’s half-seven on a Saturday morning and the only reason I’m awake is because of Jan’s ongoing mission to cheer me up. I haven’t confided in her about my previous brush with depression but she can tell my head hasn’t been right since the minor breakdown the weekend before last.

  I’ve somehow become her project.

  We’ve been on long walks and talked incessantly. We’ve pawed over jigsaw puzzles and crosswords. And we’ve spent many hours listening to her collection of albums. Her efforts and her kindness have certainly made a difference to my mental wellbeing but deep down I’ve been reliving the same emotional turmoil I experienced after splitting with Gemma: the denial, the anger, and the depressive thoughts. I’m still waiting for acceptance.

  Beyond Jan’s support, working with George has helped to keep the worst of the depressive thoughts at bay. My therapist used to drone on about how the psychological and physical benefits of exercise would improve my mood and reduce anxiety. Turns out she had a point.

  It’s been a shitty fortnight since Project Kirby came to an abrupt end, but every day I’ve summoned just enough mental strength to get up and live the life I’m now stuck with.

  Still half asleep, I crawl out of bed and fill a small pan with water. Without a kettle, I’m reduced to the primitive method of boiling water on the hob if I want tea — I haven’t found any form of coffee fit for human consumption. Still, at least I’m self-sufficient and no longer need to trouble Alice for my breakfast. To my relief, I discovered the local supermarket stocked sliced bread and a broader range of cereal options beyond porridge oats.

  Somehow, I convinced myself there might be the thinnest of silver linings to the Kirby cloud in that I no longer had to save money to fund Gwen’s escape. That freed-up cash for new clothes, including a hideous, half-price dressing gown for trips to the outside toilet. I also acquired a second-hand transistor radio. Notwithstanding its feeble speaker and lack of time-travel functionality, it’s a welcome distraction listening to something other than my own thoughts when I’m alone. I can now listen to the voices of disc-jockeys I’ve never heard of, bar Tony Blackburn and paedo Saville, and music which veers between nostalgic and tragic. It was also a revelation to learn Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich is a band and not a list of artists. A shit-awful band, but a band nonetheless.

  The water comes to the boil.

  I make myself a cup of tea and two rounds of toast which I eat at the table. With a routine now forged, I then trudge to the outside loo and return for a wash in the sink before brushing my teeth with chalky toothpaste.

  Beyond the welcome additions of new pants and socks to my wardrobe, I also purchased two pairs of jeans. The feel of denim is preferable to polyester and despite the flared bottoms, I’m at least dressed age-appropriately when I wear those jeans with a t-shirt and trainers. Clothes in the sixties are not cheap though, so it’s no wonder darning is a national pastime.

  There’s a rap at the caravan door. Jan is two minutes early.

  I grab my wallet and open the door. I’m greeted with a smile and a cheery good morning.

  “Morning,” I mumble in reply.

  Jan’s outfit is as happy as her greeting: yellow, knee-length shorts and a sleeveless white blouse splashed with multi-coloured lines. Together with her seagrass tote bag and sunglasses, she could not be more appropriately turned out for the day ahead.

  “All set?” she asks.

  “I think so.”

  “Great. Shall we make a move then?”

  I close the door and we make our way back through the house and out the front door.

  “How long have we got?” I ask.

  “Ten minutes, but the pickup point is only a few streets away.”

  The pickup point in question is where we’re meeting the coach for Jan’s annual company outing to Eastbourne. Despite my protestations, Jan insisted a day at the seaside would do me the world of good and, as one of the few staff members without a partner, I’d also be doing her a favour by tagging along. I don’t mind being her plus-one but I can’t say I’m looking forward to spending my day off in the company of her colleagues; she’s hardly painted them in a positive light.

  “Have you been to Eastbourne before?” Jan asks, as we stroll through the quiet streets.

  “If I have, I don’t remember it. You?”

  “No, but then there’s plenty of places I haven’t been.”

  “You must have been to different places on holiday?”

  “We always go to the same caravan park in Bournemouth.”

  “What, every year?”

  “Yep, every year. I bet you’ve visited some exciting places?”

  “Um, a few.”

  “Like?”

  “Most of the major European cities: Paris, Rome, Barcelona, and Amsterdam on more than one occasion.”

  “You flew all the way from America? That must have cost a fortune.”

  “Oh, err … I flew with Ryanair. They’re a cheap airline.”

  “I’ve never heard of them but seeing as I’ve never even been to an airport, it’s no wonder.”

  It’s hard to imagine a person reaching adulthood without having travelled anywhere of note. Even at school I went on trips to Northern France and Berlin, and we always holidayed as a family in either Spain or Portugal. By my mid-twenties I’d visited at least two-dozen countries yet Jan hasn’t even been to Calais.

  A sudden bout of guilt re-balances my attitude to our day out.

  “Well, it may not be abroad but I’m sure we’ll have fun today.”

  “I hope so. I wasn’t really looking forward to it so I’m glad you’re coming along.”

  “Me too.”

  We reach the pickup point where a small group of Jan’s colleagues are already congregated: two middle-aged couples and a twenty-something guy dressed like he’s heading to Bible class.

  Jan does the introductions.

  “This is Jeff, and his wife, Barbara. Malcolm, and his wife, June. And Colin, who works in my department.”

  Only the men offer a handshake; the two women just smile.

  As we wait for the coach, the men make small talk while Colin remains silent. Once or twice I catch him glaring in my direction.

  “Hey, it’s here,” Jan suddenly whoops.

  The two-tone coach approaches. Judging by the exterior, all the way from 1951.

  It pulls up and one-by-one we climb on board. With most of the seats already occupied, I follow Jan towards the back. I’m not usually prone to paranoia but I receive more than a few suspicious glances as I wander up the aisle. It could be my casual attire, but it could just as easily be my stubble or messy hair. I don’t much give a shit either way.

  We locate a pair of empty seats two rows from the back and Jan slides in next to the window. The last to sit, the driver pulls away the moment my denim-clad arse touches the vinyl. We’ve barely reached the end of the street before the guy across the aisle lights a cigarette.

  “For Christ’s sake,” I mumble under my breath.

  “What’s the matter?” Jan asks.

  I look up at the fog of cigarette smoke already formi
ng above our heads.

  “I’m guessing this coach doesn’t have air conditioning?”

  “Um, I doubt it. Shall I open the window?”

  “Please.”

  I settle into my seat and try to ignore the inconsiderate arsehole puffing away to my right. My thoughts turn to another arsehole.

  “What’s that Colin’s problem? He kept glaring at me while we were waiting for the coach.”

  “Ahh, yes. I think he expected me to come alone.”

  “What does it matter to him?”

  Jan leans in and replies in a hushed tone.

  “Rumour has it Colin might have developed a bit of a crush on me.”

  “Ohh, I see. That explains the daggers.”

  “Sorry. I hope he didn’t make you feel uncomfortable. He’s not a bad chap, really.”

  “Of course not,” I grin. “But I wouldn’t want to stand in the way of true love.”

  “Fat chance,” Jan snorts. “He’s about the polar opposite of my type.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I reckon you’re just in denial.”

  I receive an elbow in the ribs for my suggestion.

  It takes almost two hours to hit the outskirts of Eastbourne — two hours of abject hell. In my day you wouldn’t be allowed to transport livestock in the conditions I had to endure. With Jan force feeding me barley sugars, I witnessed three women with travel sickness puking into paper bags and endured I Do Like to Be Beside the Seaside being sung continuously for forty minutes.

  By the time we arrive on the seafront I can’t get off the coach fast enough.

  “Can we walk home?” I suggest, as Jan joins me on the pavement. “I’ll carry you if it means we can avoid getting back on that thing.”

  “It wasn’t that bad. Anyway, we’re here now.”

  She then delves into her bag and pulls out a camera, of sorts.

  “Say cheese.”

  I comply and Jan snaps a photo.

  “Can I have a look?” I ask.