Tuned Out

by Keith A Pearson

  With a full stomach and basking in an air of contentment, I lay back and blow a long satisfied sigh — life feels good.

  There’s a knock at the front door.

  My head snaps to the right at the precise moment Jan’s snaps to the left.

  “I’ll get it,” we both say in unison, leaping up.

  With George and Alice both engrossed in the play, I get to the front door a millisecond before Jan. Fearing the worst, I slowly ease it open. It could be anyone on the other side but my concern is it’s Gwen returning for another attempt to plead her case, or worse, her short-tempered husband.

  As it transpires, it’s neither.

  “I’m looking for Toby Grant,” the police officer states.

  36.

  My immediate reaction is to panic as I haven’t told Jan about my criminal record, or the sordid manner in which I acquired it. The panic eases when I remind myself I don’t yet have a criminal record as my partner in crime is a long way from being born.

  “Err, I’m Toby Grant. What can I do for you?”

  Sporting a stiff tunic and stiffer expression, the police officer eyes me up and down.

  “You don’t look much like a solicitor.”

  “Eh? Who said I’m a solicitor?”

  “Your client, a Mrs Gwendolyn Kirby.”

  “My client? I’m not with you, officer.”

  “It’s constable. Constable Bowman.”

  “Okay. I’m not with you, Constable Bowman.”

  “Mrs Kirby has been arrested, and she gave your name as her legal representative.”

  “She did?”

  “Yes, and now I’ve informed you, my duty is fulfilled. You'll excuse me if I don't hang around for a chat but I've got other calls to make. If you want to speak with your client, she’s at the station.”

  “But, I don’t even …”

  “Good evening, Mr Grant.”

  He turns and walks away.

  “Why would Gwen think you know anything about the law?” Jan asks.

  “I might have made reference to her divorce options, but I never claimed to be a solicitor.”

  “Well, she’s clearly got the wrong end of the stick.”

  “So it seems, but nothing has changed. I don’t want to get involved.”

  “You can’t just leave her to rot in a cell.”

  “Can’t I?”

  “No,” she frowns. “This isn’t interfering in her marriage. I very much doubt her husband even knows, or cares she’s been arrested.”

  “But for all we know she popped home after leaving here and stabbed Vernon to death.”

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  She looks up at me, her eyes large and expectant.

  “Oh, come on, Jan,” I huff. “Please don’t make me do this.”

  “I know you don’t want to, but I won’t sleep tonight knowing that poor woman is locked up with no one willing to help her. Can’t you at least check she’s okay … for me?”

  Resistance is futile against such a beautiful adversary.

  “Fine,” I sigh. “I’ll check she’s okay but that’s it. Whatever she’s done, I’m the last person who should be giving her legal advice.”

  “Then tell her that and make sure she gets herself a proper solicitor; one who can help her deal with that husband of hers.”

  Having won the battle, Jan delivers a conciliatory kiss.

  “One of the reasons I fell in love with you is because you’re so principled,” she adds. “Never change that.”

  Beaten, I reply with a nod and a half-smile.

  “Do you know where the police station is?”

  “It’s not far. A fifteen-minute walk or I can ask Dad if you can borrow the car.”

  “No, don’t worry. I could use the time to consider what the hell I’m going to say.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you say. What matters is you’re trying to help.”

  Jan then provides me with directions to the police station before I nip back to the caravan to grab a coat. As much as I don’t want to go, it would be hypocritical to argue against Jan’s considerate nature. She fell in love with me because of my supposed principles, and I fell in love with her because she has a big heart. I can’t blame her for caring, even if I don’t.

  Having decided I’m going for Jan’s benefit, rather than Gwen’s, I make it halfway to my destination before I give any thought to the core reason I’m making the journey: Gwen’s arrest. I only want to confirm they're not waterboarding her and then I can report home with my reputation intact, but a niggling concern builds as I pound the pavements. If they arrested Gwen for something serious — so serious it might involve jail time — how would that affect Vernon? I couldn’t give two shits about his feelings, but I can’t risk their marriage imploding.

  By the time I get to the front desk at the police station, I’m concerned there's more at stake than appeasing Jan.

  The desk sergeant looks up from his newspaper. He’s maybe a few years older than me but has the look of a Second World War RAF pilot; natty moustache and hair slick with Brylcreem.

  “Yes?”

  “Toby Grant to see Gwen … sorry, Gwendolyn Kirby. Constable Bowman informed me you have her in custody.”

  “Are you her solicitor?”

  “I’m her legal representative, yes.”

  “Hold on.”

  He picks up a telephone, dials a number, and mumbles something unintelligible into the handset. The conversation is short but serves its purpose.

  “Someone will be down in a minute.”

  “Thanks.”

  He returns to his newspaper.

  I’m about to take a seat in the waiting area when another officer barrels through the door. Nearing pension age and clearly more accustomed to a desk job, he lumbers over.

  “You’re here to see Mrs Kirby?”

  “I am, yes. Toby Grant.”

  I offer my hand which he half-heartedly accepts.

  “I’m Inspector Clarkson.”

  “As in Jeremy?”

  “Who?”

  “Err, doesn’t matter. Can I ask: what has Mrs Kirby been charged with?”

  “We've not charged her with anything … yet.”

  “Sorry. I mean, why has she been arrested?”

  “Common assault.”

  “Oh, really? Who did she assault?”

  “She was on the train to Waterloo when a ticket inspector found her hiding in the toilets. He asked to see her ticket, and when it became clear she didn’t have one they got into an argument. That ended when Mrs Kirby gave him a slap.”

  It seems Gwen ignored my advice and tried to flee. Thank Christ I’ve now got another chance to change her mind.

  “I’m guessing he didn’t sustain any serious injuries if she only slapped him?”

  “Hard to say. The ticket inspector is fresh off the boat so his English isn’t great.”

  “What do you mean by fresh off the boat?”

  “He’s a Paki.”

  Hearing a police officer use that word with such casual abandon makes my skin crawl. I could correct him — as I’ve tried with other people who’ve used equally offensive language in front of me. Experience suggests he won’t care one jot so I’ve become adept at biting my tongue. When I think back to the faux-outrage I used to suffer when scrolling through Twitter, it feels ridiculous by comparison.

  “Can I see her?”

  “You can. Come with me.”

  I follow the Inspector back through the door and along a corridor to a windowless interview room.

  “Take a seat and I’ll go fetch Mrs Kirby.”

  He waddles off.

  Rather than sit, I pace up and down the tiled floor.

  Sunday evenings must be the quietest of the week as the Inspector returns a minute later. He guides Gwen into the room and instructs her to take a seat.

  “I’ll come back in ten minutes,” he confirms, before closing the door on us.

  I sit down
opposite Gwen. She looks a state; eyes puffy and makeup smeared.

  “Thanks for coming,” she mumbles. “Wasn’t sure you would.”

  “It’s okay. The Inspector told me what happened — what were you thinking?”

  “Told you; I had to get away from Vernon.”

  “And I told you that isn’t fair. I’m not defending him — far from it — but running away from the problem won't fix it. Where were you intending to stay once you got to London?”

  She shrugs her shoulders.

  “In a month or two it’ll be freezing at night. Were you going to live on the streets?”

  Another shrug.

  “You haven’t thought this through, Gwen, have you?”

  “Maybe I ain’t, but you got any better ideas?”

  “Yes — sorting out your marriage, but first we need to deal with this mess. What happened between you and the ticket inspector?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “The truth, please?”

  “Alright,” she huffs. “I was hiding out in the loo for about twenty minutes when he banged on the door. He said he’d come in if I didn’t open it, so I did, and told him I’d lost my ticket.”

  “And he didn’t believe you?”

  “Nah, said I had to pay for another one.”

  “And you don’t have any money.”

  “That’s when he got the hump and started jabbering on. Couldn’t understand a bleedin’ word he said.”

  “Right.”

  “Then the train pulled into a station, and I made a beeline for the door. He grabs my arm, and that’s when I turned round and slapped him.”

  “Just the once?”

  “Yeah, but the bugger wouldn’t let go though. He pulled a chain above the door and next thing I know the coppers have arrested me.”

  “Did you hurt him?”

  “He was a big bloke, so I doubt it.”

  “Okay. I’ll speak to the Inspector and see what he intends to do. Hopefully, they’ll let you go and we can talk about sorting your marriage.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re having a baby together. Don’t you think it’s worth trying to fix the situation for the sake of your child?”

  “It ain’t me you’ve gotta convince. I’m not the one dishing out the punches.”

  “Fair point, but I’ve got a vague idea how we can make Vernon see the error of his ways.”

  I get to my feet before she can ask for details I don’t yet have. Despite his obvious anger issues, I don’t doubt Vernon loves Gwen and if someone can make him realise what he stands to lose, maybe he’ll consider his actions. How I’m going to arrange such an intervention remains to be seen, but one step at a time.

  “I’ll go chat to the Inspector. Don’t go anywhere.”

  She looks around the tiny room.

  “Like where?”

  “Anywhere.”

  I leave the interview room and head back to the reception desk where Inspector Clarkson is chatting with the desk sergeant.

  “Have you got a moment, Inspector?”

  “Not really. I want to get Mrs Kirby charged and on her way.”

  “I’m sorry,” I reply in disbelief. “You’re charging her?”

  “Seems pretty clean cut to me.”

  I call upon the vast knowledge of criminal law I’ve gleaned from watching Suits and The Good Wife.

  “There were mitigating circumstances.”

  “She got onto a train without paying and slapped a ticket inspector — there’s no excuse for that kind of behaviour.”

  “I’m not denying that, but I’m sure you noticed she’s pregnant and sporting a black eye?”

  “So?”

  “She was trying to escape an abusive relationship, and therefore desperate.”

  “Her domestic issues are not my concern.”

  “Aren’t they? So, it’s okay for a man to punch his pregnant wife is it?”

  The desk sergeant stops what he’s doing and looks up at me.

  “Her old man gave her that shiner?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Men like that make me sick.”

  With one of the policemen on side, I turn back to Inspector Clarkson.

  “All I’m asking, Inspector, is you give her a break. Her life is miserable enough as it is, and a criminal record will only make matters worse. She’s genuinely remorseful and you have my word she’ll behave herself in the future.”

  He runs a hand through his grey hair.

  “Alright,” he huffs. “If she accepts a caution, we can have her out of here sharpish.”

  “Thank you. She accepts the caution.”

  Inspector Clarkson heads off to fetch Gwen while I try to decide what I’m going to do with her. I’m not sure it’s a good idea seeing her back home — I’m the last person Vernon will want to see. Then again, I can’t see her being too keen on heading home alone.

  The Kirby’s fractious marriage is the only blot on my otherwise sunny horizon so I need to find a solution where they can at least put up with one another.

  “Um, there’s something I need to tell you,” the desk sergeant pipes up, sheepishly.

  “What?”

  “Constable Bowman was planning to visit Mrs Kirby’s husband after calling round to see you.”

  “He went to see Vernon?”

  “It’s our duty to inform the husband.”

  “Even if that husband is a violent arsehole?”

  “How were we to know?”

  The last thing I need is a pissed-off Vernon entering the fray before I’ve had a chance to plan. I need to get Gwen away from here before Vernon turns up; that’s if he’s bothered enough to turn up.

  “Okay, Sergeant. Thank you for telling me.”

  Inspector Clarkson returns with Gwen and they go through the caution process, and an inordinate amount of paperwork. Even now, I struggle to comprehend how organisations cope without computers — trying to find a single document must be an absolute nightmare.

  On the upside, the time allows me to consider what I’m going to do with Gwen. With George’s previous warning still fresh, I can’t take her back to Nelson Close in case Vernon finds out. I don’t think either George or the neighbours will appreciate a re-run of Vernon’s last visit. However, Jan will never forgive me if I abandon Gwen.

  An idea strikes just in the nick of time. Gwen is given permission to leave.

  I approach Inspector Clarkson.

  “Is there any chance I could make a quick call? I need to book a cab.”

  “I suppose so.”

  He places the phone on the desk and offers the number of a cab company. I make the call and book a cab to the Morland Court Hotel.

  “It’ll be here soon,” I confirm to Gwen.

  “Why are we going to Morland Court?”

  “I know the head porter. He’ll find you a room if I slip a few shillings in his back pocket.”

  “I ain’t ever stayed in a hotel before.”

  “What, ever?”

  “Nah.”

  “Well, enjoy it. It’ll give us a chance to decide what we’re going to do with you.”

  Judging by her embarrassed smile, I get the impression Gwen hasn't had much experience displaying gratitude. It’s a stark reminder I need to consider her life as much as my own. God knows how, but it’s imperative I get Vernon to change his ways; for both our sakes.

  That, however, is tomorrow’s problem.

  “You look like you could use some fresh air. Let’s wait outside.”

  The two policemen nod a goodbye as Gwen follows me to the front door. Now gone eight o’clock, the deserted street is bathed in the orange glow of streetlights. Sunday days are quiet here, but Sunday evenings have an almost other-worldly silence; probably because it’s bath night. Hygiene habits have a long way to go.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Tired.”

  “Fifteen minutes from now you’ll be lying on a nice soft bed. And who knows: aft
er a night without you, Vernon might realise what he stands to lose if he doesn’t get his act together.”

  “We’ll see, but I ain’t holding my breath.”

  There’s little I can say in response so I don’t. We both lean up against the front wall of the police station and wait in silence.

  As my thoughts turn to Jan, and what I’ll say to her, the slightest flicker of movement across the street catches my eye. A figure emerges from the darkness and breaks into a jog. Barely thirty yards away, the figure passes under a street lamp and changes direction — our direction.

  “Oh, bollocks.”

  I glance across at Gwen. Her expression probably mirrors mine as neither of us wants to see the man currently heading towards us.

  The only consolation is we’re stood outside a police station. That thought provides just enough security for me to step forward.

  “Before you do anything stupid, Vernon, we need to talk.”

  37.

  Vernon Kirby has many failings, but he isn’t stupid enough to attack me outside a police station; least not physically.

  “What the fuck you doing here?”

  “If you calm down, I’ll explain.”

  “I warned you to stay away from my missus.”

  “And I had every intention of doing so, but I came here to help after Gwen’s arrest. I’m her, err … solicitor.”

  He turns to Gwen.

  “What the hell is going on here? Why did the bleedin’ cops nick you?”

  “It don’t matter now. Mr Grant has sorted it all out.”

  My turn for more of Vernon’s bile.

  “Always turning up to save her, ain’t ya?” he spits. “What’s innit for you, cos’ we ain’t got a pot to piss in?”

  “I’m not in it for anything. I’m just trying to help.”

  He takes two steps towards me.

  “What, by filling her head with all manner of nonsense about modelling?”

  “That was a mistake, and I apologise. I shouldn’t have interfered.”

  “Waddya mean?” Gwen replies. “You saying I never could have been a model?”

  “What … no, I meant I shouldn’t have suggested you go to London.”