“Look at her now,” Vernon snipes. “They wouldn't pay a brass farthing for that.”
“Oh, and you’re such a pretty picture, ain’t ya,” Gwen retorts.
“Shut yer mouth.”
“Or what? You gonna slap me around again?”
It seems I’m not the only one to feel secure in our current location. Seizing the opportunity, Gwen continues her diatribe.
“You’re a lousy husband, Vernon Kirby, and you’ll make an even lousier father. I ain’t ‘avin no kid of mine brought up by a waste of space like you.”
“That ain’t your decision.”
“Oh, yes it is. I had to watch my mum get battered around by my old man and I sure as hell ain’t gonna put my kid through that.”
“That’s my fucking kid, too,” Vernon growls. “And you ain’t gonna stop me seeing him.”
“You wanna bet on that?”
The two of them then swap a barrage of insults. They’re both as bad as one another but Vernon seems oblivious to the fact he’s at fault. This is getting us nowhere.
“Enough,” I bark. “Can you two please shut the fuck up?”
My outburst has the desired effect and they both stop mid-insult. I turn to Vernon.
“I’d like you to do me a favour?”
“What?”
“Will you hear me out without losing your rag or punching me? All I ask is thirty seconds.”
“Why the fuck should I listen to you?”
“Because I know what your future holds. I’ve seen it.”
“What you talking about?”
I draw a deep breath.
“In fifty years’ time, you’ll be in a nursing home, suffering from a debilitating condition called Parkinson’s disease. You’ll be a bitter, angry man without a friend in the world; let alone a wife, kids, or family. You’ll hate everyone and everyone will hate you, but not as much as you’ll hate yourself. You’ll spend long days in a chair, thinking about all the mistakes you made and how you’d give anything to turn back the clock. You’ll keep a black and white photo of Gwen on the bedside table, and every night you’ll stare at that photo and rue the day you lost the only woman you’ve ever loved, or will ever love. Then, you’ll die, and no one will turn up at your funeral and no one will shed a tear at your passing.”
Vernon responds to my sermon with a scowl. It’s a better reaction than I expected.
“My point is, Vernon: I don’t doubt you love Gwen, and although it beats me why, she appears to love you. But if you don’t mend your ways and deal with that temper, my prophecy will become your reality. You can swear at me or punch me in the face but it won’t change anything — you’ll still lose this woman and you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. With God as my witness, I absolutely guarantee it.”
Vernon’s angry scowl becomes a worried scowl. Because I know exactly what his future looks like, I’m hoping the sheer conviction in my delivery hit home. But, with every silent second that passes, the hope ebbs away.
“I ain’t right,” he then mumbles. “My heads all messed up.”
“Sorry?”
“My head is messed up. I don’t mean to hurt my Gwen, but … I can’t help myself.”
There’s still a bitter undercurrent in his tone but there’s also a hint of genuine remorse. Fuck knows how, but I think I might have got through to him. I need to nudge him a step closer to the finishing line.
“I’ve had similar problems in the past, Vernon, but trust me: those problems can be fixed, if you want to fix them.”
“And how am I supposed to do that? I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“You’ve already started. Half the battle is accepting you need to do something. I’m no expert but I can help you find someone who is, if that’s what you want?”
My question is met with silence. Gwen then speaks up.
“Vernon?” she says softly. “Will you at least try, for me and the baby?”
The tension in his shoulders appears to ease as he looks at his wife. It’s barely perceptible, but he nods.
“Thank you,” Gwen sobs, as she rushes towards him. The couple embrace.
I’m so wracked with relief I don’t notice the desk sergeant's approach.
“That’s her husband?” he asks.
“Oh, hello again. Yes it is.”
The sergeant then taps Vernon on the shoulder. He turns to face the policeman.
“Mr Kirby. We need to have a chat.”
“What about?”
“For starters, the black eye you gave your wife.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The accusation prompts an immediate change in Vernon’s demeanour.
“Who told you that?” he snaps.
Sergeant big-mouth throws a furtive glance in my direction and then towards Gwen. His good intentions are about to fuel a bad outcome if Vernon’s body language is anything to go by.
Vernon shoves Gwen away and turns on me.
“You almost had me there, you devious fucker.”
“Please, Vernon. Just think for a minute.”
“Fuck you. Who grassed on me?”
The sergeant makes a move to calm the situation.
“Mr Kirby,” he says, in a level tone. “You need to come inside the station, and you can do that peacefully, or …”
“I ain’t going nowhere.”
Vernon makes a break for it but, sensing her last chance of reconciliation is about to disappear with him, Gwen grabs hold of his arm.
“Let go,” he barks.
“No. We need to sort this out. I ain’t gonna tell them nothin’.”
“And you reckon they’ll just let it go? Don’t be fuckin’ daft.”
Vernon’s refusal to see sense only results in Gwen grabbing his arm with both hands; clinging to him for dear life.
“Please, Vernon,” she begs. “Don’t do nothin’ stupid.”
“Mr Kirby. I won't ask again.”
The sergeant makes a move forward while extracting a set of handcuffs from his belt. Desperate to free himself from Gwen’s hold, Vernon swings around whilst shoving her shoulder. The speed and force do the trick as Gwen’s hands slip from his arm. She stumbles back a few steps until her left heel catches the edge of the pavement.
Three men watch on. If Gwen had stumbled a foot to the left, or right, the outcome might have differed. She didn’t, and the sound of her head cracking against the foot of a metal pillar will never leave me.
The same three men freeze, until finally the policeman shakes off the shock and reacts. He squats down next to Gwen’s motionless body.
“She needs an ambulance,” he yells. “Now!”
Vernon ignores the instruction and crouches down beside his wife, leaving me to alert whoever is at the reception desk. I dash back into the police station.
Inspector Clarkson looks up.
“There’s been an accident,” I gasp. “Call an ambulance.”
He grabs a radio and summons help. I don’t wait around to offer an explanation.
Back outside, Gwen is still unconscious and there’s no obvious sign she’s moved. What is obvious is the trickle of blood emanating from the back of her head and pooling on the pavement. Vernon is near hysterical.
The desk sergeant looks up at me.
“Ambulance?”
“On its way. How is she?”
“I don’t know. Alive, but she’s not responding.”
On his knees, Vernon grabs Gwen’s coat and buries his face in her chest. Whatever he’s saying, it’s too muffled to make out, but it sounds a lot like pleading. Sirens sound in the distance.
There’s nothing I can do but watch the pitiful scene unfold; the sergeant trying to stem the bleeding and a husband sobbing over his wife’s lifeless body. I’ve only got sympathy for one man and that man certainly isn’t Vernon Kirby.
The ambulance arrives and I’m ushered away by Inspector Clarkson as the ambulance men attend to Gwen.
“What happened, lad?” h
e asks.
“I … I’m not sure. It happened so quickly.”
“Take your time.”
“Vernon … he tried to shake Gwen off and she stumbled. Next thing I know she’s falling backwards and … that’s when she cracked her head against the pillar.”
“Was it an accident, or deliberate?”
“It was …”
I stop myself before the word escapes. This evening has already cast a long shadow over my future but if Vernon ends up getting charged with assaulting Gwen, I’ve no idea how that’ll play out. No matter what, the Kirby’s must stay together — any other outcome could set Vernon on a path to his miserable life without Gwen and I’ll be whisked away from Jan. I can’t take the risk.
“It was an accident.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“Okay.”
“Can I see how she’s doing?”
He glances over my shoulder.
“Too late. They’re putting her in the ambulance now.”
The rear doors slam shut and in a blaze of blue lights and sirens, the ambulance speeds away.
If it wasn’t so tragic, I might raise a smile at the scene which then unfolds. Unlike every police drama I’ve ever watched, there is zero effort to protect the integrity of a potential crime scene. Instead, the desk sergeant returns from the station with a bucket, and sets about mopping up the pool of blood.
“I need to see how she’s doing.”
“You know where the hospital is?”
“Err, I think so.”
Late but still welcome, the cab pulls up. I give the sergeant the Nelson Close address and phone number in case he needs to speak with me again, and jump into the waiting cab.
Five minutes and a handful of random coins later, I’m at the hospital entrance. No part of me wants to go inside but I have to check Gwen is okay. If anything happens to her … I can’t even bring myself to consider the implications.
Steeling myself, I make my way to the main reception. Once inside, I’m then directed to the emergency department.
Traipsing through the featureless corridors it could be any period in time. The stench of disinfectant is just the same and my trainers squeak with every step as they did the last time I had the misfortune of visiting a hospital. On that occasion I was there to say a final goodbye to my dying granddad. I pray this visit has a better outcome.
I reach the reception desk in the emergency department. Unsurprisingly, the face which greets me is female, and white.
“Can I help?” she asks.
“Gwen Kirby? She was admitted within the last half an hour with a head injury. I really need an update on her condition.”
“Are you family?”
Lie!
“I’m her cousin. Toby Grant.”
“Take a seat, Mr Grant. It’ll be a while before there’s any news.”
I plod over to a row of chairs and join a worried-looking couple who are staring at the floor; no attention paid when I take a seat at the end. If ever there’s a place to put your own problems into perspective, I guess it’s a hospital waiting room.
For the first time in weeks I reach for my pocket and inwardly groan. This is the one time a mobile phone is more a necessity than a distraction as Jan will be worried by now. Beyond her worry, I have an overwhelming urge to hear her voice.
I need to find a pay phone.
I get up and make for the reception desk again. As I approach, a door crashes open and the last person on earth I want to see lumbers in.
Vernon scans the room and scowls when our eyes meet.
“You can’t fucking leave us alone, can ya?”
“I came to check if your wife is okay.”
“Ain’t you caused enough trouble?”
“Me?” I reply indignantly. “You’re the reason she’s here, Vernon.”
“It was an accident.”
“Like the punches and the bullying and the verbal abuse? None of that your fault either?”
He squares up to me.
“You know nothin’ and, if you wanna avoid another hiding, I’d keep my gob shut if I were you.”
I can’t be dealing with his crap, and I suppose there’s no better place to get beaten up than in a hospital.
“Listen to yourself, Vernon. Your wife could be at death’s door and all you care about is picking a fight.”
“I’m warnin’ ya.”
“And I’m warning you — Gwen might die. For once in your pitiful fucking life, try thinking about someone other than yourself.”
We’re interrupted by a stern voice.
“Gentlemen, please!”
The reception nurse is on her feet and glaring at us like a disapproving schoolteacher.
“I have some news on Mrs Kirby,” she adds, in a quieter tone.
Vernon and I make for the desk.
“What’s happened?” Vernon blurts. “I’m her husband.”
“They've transferred her to the intensive care unit.”
“What for?”
“The doctor has detected severe swelling to her brain.”
“Is she … she’s gonna be alright, ain’t she?”
“I’m afraid all we can do is wait, and hope the swelling subsides but your wife is in a serious condition, Mr Kirby.”
“You didn’t answer me. Is she gonna be alright?”
“I’ll update you when we know more.”
The nurse’s lack of an answer is enough to steal Vernon’s angst, and he joins the middle-aged couple in staring at the floor.
“Do you want to sit down?” I ask.
He looks at me but doesn’t answer. Then, I see it — the same look I first saw back at Trinity Place when Vernon showed me the photo of Gwen. It’s the look of a man in despair. We both heard what the nurse said, and the sombre tone in which she said it, and we both recognised the pity in her eyes. Vernon knows it, I know it — the outlook for Gwen is grave.
The urge to speak to Jan returns but this time it’s a savage yearning. I need to be with her.
“I’ve got to go.”
38.
A forty-minute wait for a cab. Frustrated, I slam the phone down and make for the exit. By my reckoning, I can be back at Nelson Close in half that time if I hurry. Nevertheless, I now regret not taking the damn car.
I leave the hospital and break into a sprint. My calf muscles burn within a few streets but my mind ignores the pain; working instead on the permutations if Gwen doesn’t recover. It’s impossible to see any positive outcome for Jan and I. Fate might have brought us together but now fate threatens to drag us apart.
With every yard of pavement I cover, the dread grows.
The journey passes in a blur until I find myself gasping for air on the driveway. I take a second to let my heart rate settle and for some sense of composure to return. Before I unlock the front door, I look to the heavens.
“If you’re listening, God,” I whisper. “Please, let Gwen be okay.”
A clearly fraught Jan is already waiting in the hallway when I open the door.
“Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”
Stepping across the hall, I throw my arms around her.
“I’m so sorry. It’s … things haven’t turned out the way I hoped.”
Detecting the fear in my voice, Jan looks up at me.
“What’s happened, Toby?”
“Are your parents in the lounge?”
“No, they’re playing bridge next door with the Andersons.”
“Let’s sit down. We need to talk.”
We return to the sofa and I explain the evening’s events. Jan’s concern is no less than I expected.
“Oh, my, that’s just awful. Will Gwen be okay?”
“I … I honestly don’t know.”
The nurse’s words echo in my head. I don’t know if Gwen will be okay, but I suspect the sick, hollow feeling in my stomach is a more accurate barometer of the truth.
“Jan, I need to tell
you something.”
“What? What is it?”
The declaration made, I realise I don’t have the words. There aren’t any words which might convey the unbearable repercussions if Gwen dies — how do you explain the unexplainable?
“It’s just … I hope you know how much I love you.”
“Of course I do,” she replies softly, taking my hand. “But I bet it’s not half as much as I love you.”
“I’ll take that bet.”
Someone once said love can conquer all. If that were true, I wouldn’t be feeling so utterly helpless. The pessimist in me says I should make the most of every second I have left with Jan, but the optimist says I shouldn’t worry: Gwen will recover, Vernon will finally realise what he stood to lose, and we’ll all live happily ever after.
I command a smile which just about reaches my lips, but not my eyes.
“You look ghostly white, honey. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“No, I’m fine, but …”
“Yes?”
“Sorry, I’m … maybe its delayed shock.”
“I’m so stupid,” she huffs. “I should have realised. Come with me.”
“Where?”
“You need to have a lie down, and I’ll make you a nice milky drink with a nip of brandy. Dad says it’s good for treating shock.”
“Honestly, I’ll be okay.”
“I’m not willing to take that chance. Now, I don’t want to carry you up the stairs, but I will.”
She gets to her feet and offers me a hand. The pessimist says I should grasp it for a long as I can.
Jan leads me up the stairs to her room. She then switches on a lamp and plumps the pillows on the bed.
“Now, Mister. Come and lie down.”
I don’t want to lie down. I can’t risk falling asleep and waking up in a world without my beloved Jan.
“Will you have a dance with me?”
“Um, well, I’d love to but that won't fix your shock.”
“I promise it’ll make me feel a whole lot better.”
“If you’re sure?”
“I’ve never been surer of anything in my life.”
Jan prepares her Dansette record player while I flick through the albums on the shelf. Last week, we jokingly discussed what record we might have as a first dance at our wedding. Tonight, I face choosing a record for what could be our final dance.
Tuned Out Page 33
