Tuned Out

by Keith A Pearson

  I stop when I come to an album we recently acquired at the record store. I wasn’t keen but Jan loved one particular track so we took it home and played it here in her bedroom. The album itself wasn’t to my taste but the lyrics of Jan’s favourite track perfectly mirrored my new-found view on life.

  I pass the vinyl disc to Jan.

  “Good choice.”

  “The perfect choice.”

  She sets it up, and with deft precision drops the needle into the correct groove. The speaker crackles and hisses while I pull Jan into my arms.

  Louis Armstrong’s What a Wonderful World begins as I replay the last ninety-four days in my head.

  Never could I have envisaged when I awoke in that printworks how my life would change; for worse, for better, and then to arrive here in this moment. I drink in every second, and the woman in my arms: the warmth of her body pressed against mine, the scent of her hair, the softness of her skin, her delicate breath. The perfect moment shared with the perfect woman.

  The front door slams.

  “Hello?” Alice calls out. “Are you up there, love?”

  We’ve barely got to the closing chords when Jan pulls away.

  “I’d better go tell them why you’re up here. I don’t want them getting the wrong idea.”

  “Please, just stay with me a few minutes longer.”

  “I’ll only be a tic. And I’ll bring you that milky drink.”

  She goes to leave but I grab her hand.

  “I love you, Janet Wilson. Promise me you’ll never forget that? Ever.”

  I have to choke out the last word.

  “Hey,” she says softly. “What’s the matter?”

  I bite my lip as Jan wipes a solitary tear from my cheek.

  “I’ll never forget,” she smiles. “Because you can tell me every day for the next fifty years.”

  She cups my face and imparts the tenderest of kisses.

  “You sit down. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  Before I can stop her, she skips out of the room.

  Whether it is fate playing the cruellest game, or blessing me with a chance to say goodbye, it doesn’t make one iota of difference. Within seconds of Jan leaving, I know Gwen Kirby is dead and Vernon’s miserable future has been reinstated. I know because the lamp next to the bed is tinged red.

  The pain quickly follows; incapacitating pain I know will pass. The pain of losing Jan will never leave.

  39.

  The first sign is the hint of a distinctive and unpleasant odour. Thoughts crash in a head which is already fit to explode … so much pain, both physical and mental. It builds to a point I can no longer contain it and a guttural roar of primordial proportions escapes. It only ends when my lungs are void of oxygen.

  I gasp in air as my eyes flicker open. A flash of navy blue — a discarded uniform further evidence of my whereabouts. I try to move, and the naked skin of limbs which feel too heavy to be mine scrape across the nylon carpet tiles. I’m back in the fleshy body I left here; the lithe physique I gained through hard work left behind with everything else I’ve come to love.

  The ringing in my ears is profound: but not so much I can’t hear the raspy voice saying my name over and over again.

  Ignoring the voice, I continue to pull deep breaths. The pain eases to a bearable level but the inner rage remains at boiling point. One large gulp of air and I snatch at the uniform. Then, using the bed for support, clamber to my feet.

  “What happened? Tell me,” the voice urges.

  I sit on the edge of the bed and reinstate my uniform; all the while trying to ignore the lingering nausea and the equally nauseous voice heckling from the corner of the room.

  “Just … will you … shut the fuck up for a moment,” I gasp.

  I glance to the left where a jug of water sits on the bedside table. With hydration an absolute priority, I shuffle across and grab the jug with both hands. The water is tepid and carries a metallic tang but my thirst is so fierce I don’t care. I empty the jug in seconds.

  A litre of water might be enough to ease my thirst but there’s not enough water on earth capable of quelling the fire raging inside of me. I return the jug to the bedside table and get to my feet.

  I turn around. Instinctively, my fists ball as I snort shallow breaths of air through my nose.

  Seeing the elderly figure in the armchair delivers a rush of adrenalin. It proves a sufficient, if not temporary, remedy for my leaden limbs as I edge around the bed towards him.

  Vernon Kirby looks up at me as I move towards him with equal amounts of purpose and menace. His expression twitches between fear and confusion.

  “It’s … you … I don’t understand.”

  Somewhere in that scrambled brain of his, memories are almost certainly being updated like a software patch. I have no idea how long has passed since I left this room but at that point, Gwen Kirby’s post-mortem confirmed she died as the result of a fatal gun wound; inflicted during a Post Office robbery in 1969. In this reinvented future, she died from a brain injury, caused by the man in the armchair. I’d hazard Vernon’s thoughts are confused by the sight of the same twenty-nine-year-old man present when that accident occurred — stood in front of him fifty years later.

  “You don’t remember, do you, Vernon?”

  “I … how can … it’s not possible.”

  “You remember me being here before?”

  He nods.

  “And what happened with the radio?”

  Another nod.

  “You suggested I could go back in time and save your wife. Recall that?”

  “The … the police station,” he blurts. “You … you were there.”

  My head is already so far fucked I can’t even begin to calculate the permutations but it is entirely possible Vernon no longer has any memory of Gwen’s previous fate.

  “Yes I was, because you hoodwinked me into using that fucking radio to go back in time and save Gwen from being shot in a Post Office robbery.”

  “I … no, that’s not …”

  “And stupidly, I did — trapping myself in the past as a result.”

  I edge closer; looming over the old man.

  “But, I made a life for myself, and Gwen would have had a life too … if you hadn’t ruined it.”

  “I … but …”

  I lean over and jab my finger in his bony chest.

  “You’re a vile piece of shit now and you were a vile piece of shit then. From the very moment you met Gwen, her fate was sealed — she had no chance to enjoy any kind of life as long as you were in it.”

  “No, I loved her.”

  “Love?” I scoff. “You have no fucking idea what the word means … but I do, and you’ve stolen away the only woman I’ve ever truly loved.”

  Before I can stop myself, my hand is around Vernon’s throat. He might have had the upper hand on me fifty years ago but now he’s too old, too frail to defend himself. A hand which I can’t control tightens its grip as his eyes bulge. The hatred is all-consuming; the desire to avenge all the lives Vernon Kirby has destroyed too great. I want him to suffer. I want him to die.

  He grabs at my arm and tries with all his might to pull it away. Fingers claw and nails scratch but his efforts are futile.

  As I revel in his obvious terror, a faint voice whispers from the corner of my mind — it is the voice of sanity and it wants to be heard. Vernon Kirby was already suffering the day I first met him, and he’ll continue to suffer for the rest of his pitiful life. Killing him would be a release and I’m not in the mood for clemency.

  I force the muscles in my hand to relax.

  “Fuck you, Vernon,” I spit. “I hope you live another twenty years and suffer through every second of it.”

  I need to get away from him before I change my mind. More importantly, I need the radio. Despite Vernon’s claim, if there’s even the slightest chance I can go back, I have to try.

  As I move across the room, I almost tread on the iWatch lying on th
e floor where my clothes were piled. I bend over and pick it up. There was a time I considered the watch the crowning glory of everything I wanted to be; the ultimate technological status symbol. Now, I see it for what it really is: a manacle to hold me prisoner in a digital plutocracy.

  I shove the iWatch in my pocket and make for the radio. A deep breath and I place my hands on the Bakelite casing.

  Please, let this work.

  Immediately, my vision tinges red as the world around me loses clarity. I wait for the red to creep further as the dull ache in my head returns. It builds, and builds, until …

  Dazed, I shake my head and squint.

  “Fuck!”

  I’m on my backside near the bed — very much in the here and now.

  “It don’t work twice,” Vernon croaks. “I’ve tried a thousand times.”

  I clamber to my feet and unplug the radio. Tucking it under my arm, I turn to face its now-previous owner.

  “In which case, I’ll try a thousand and one times, but this is the last time you’ll ever see it.”

  “No, you can’t …”

  “Have a fuck-awful life, Vernon. Goodbye.”

  I slam the door on my way out.

  In the quiet confines of the corridor, I lean up against the wall. With no other distractions and the rage having blown itself out, my mind can finally continue working through its emotional checklist.

  Next up is grief.

  I slump to the floor, place the radio down, and bury my head in my hands.

  For some reason my thoughts turn to that Sunday outside the supermarket after I first arrived in 1969. I still recall the wretched feeling of despair, and how I couldn’t possibly sink any further. How wrong I was. To think, at that point I would have given my left arm to come back, but from that despair I found a life I wanted to keep at any cost. Now, I’d give my soul to make the return journey.

  My thoughts then descend to a darker place: the bedroom of a nondescript, semi-detached house in 1969. As I sit here, what scene is unfolding there? The paradox — knowing that scene unfolded some fifty years ago — is irrelevant. To me, the reality is recent and cruel and gut-wrenching.

  Did Jan return to her bedroom and find nothing but a pile of clothes on the floor? How did she react upon discovering the man she loved had seemingly vanished? What of George and Alice? Did they try to comfort their daughter whilst cursing the day they ever let Toby Grant into their lives? They must hate me, loathe me. Jan will no doubt speak to Father O’Connor and question if he has any clue to my whereabouts. The priest’s worst fears will have come to fruition and he too will hate me.

  No deaths, but I’ve left more misery in my wake than even Vernon. I share their hatred.

  The first tear falls.

  “Toby?”

  I look up, and I’m greeted with the concerned face of a woman I haven’t seen in over three months. She last saw me thirty minutes ago.

  “What’s the matter?” Tammy asks.

  “I … she’s gone.”

  “Who?”

  I try my hardest to keep the grief contained but there’s just so much of it.

  “I’ll never see her again,” I whimper. “She was everything.”

  Tammy crouches down beside me and places a hand on my shoulder.

  “Has something happened? Have you had some bad news?”

  I nod as more tears cascade.

  Tammy has wrongly assumed I’m displaying all the symptoms of sudden bereavement; although her assumption isn’t too far from the truth.

  “I’m so sorry, Toby.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and attempt to compose myself.

  “Do you need to go home?” she asks.

  For a second I can’t even recall why I’m here.

  “Don’t worry about your probation officer,” she confirms. “I won’t say anything.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Don’t be silly. At a time like this, you need to be with your family.”

  Yes, my family. I’ve spent weeks convincing myself having Jan in my life made up for never seeing my parents again; eased in part by George and Alice acting the role of surrogates. I told myself they were both happy and healthy; living their lives across town as carefree teens. Without Jan, I no longer have anyone but my parents.

  “I … yes … I need to go see my parents.”

  “Do you want to have a sit down in my office and get your head together first?”

  “No, I’m okay.”

  “Are you absolutely sure you’ll be alright driving?”

  I’m not sure I’ll be alright ever again; behind the wheel of a car or otherwise.

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “If you’re sure?”

  Tammy then turns her attention to the radio.

  “I’ll take that back to the office.”

  “No,” I blurt. “I, um, told Vernon I’ve got a friend who’ll fix it this evening.”

  “Toby, I think you’ve got more pressing matters, don’t you?”

  “I want to sort it out. I made a promise.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Well, it’s up to you. At least the silly old fool won’t keep electrocuting himself.”

  Getting to her feet, she helps me up and double-checks I’ll be okay.

  “I’ll be fine. Honest.”

  With the radio tucked under my arm, I follow Tammy zombie-like to the main entrance. After another check I’ll be okay, she sends me on my way.

  I step out into the cold and shudder. No January day has ever felt greyer and I’ve never felt less like myself. I am, perhaps, suffering some incarnation of Stockholm syndrome. I was held captive in a different world and adapted to make that world my own. What I’ve returned to now feels as alien as the first few days in 1969. Reintegration will not be simple as the Toby Grant who walked into Trinity Place this morning is gone, and I don’t think he’ll ever return.

  40.

  With no memory of where I left it, I traipse up and down until I finally locate my car. Like a nervy learner driver, I unlock the door and lower myself in. As I do, my phone slips out of my pocket. I rescue it from the gap next to the seat and jab the screen — the once addictive rush of endorphins fails to materialise. My feelings for the phone are now as cold as the glass and polished aluminium casing. I turn it off and toss it into the glove box.

  Time to head home to a flat which no longer feels like home — my heart still resides in a cul-de-sac across town.

  I’m in no hurry and drive accordingly. Within the first mile I’m served a stark reminder just how frenetic modern roads are compared to those I’ve been driving for the last three months. There’s no patience, no social etiquette; just blaring horns and a flurry of offensive hand gestures. It’s a hateful experience and I arrive at Stratfield House with even less appetite to remain in this life.

  After trudging up the stairs and through the drab corridors, I push open the front door expecting three months’ worth of post to have piled-up on the mat. There’s not so much as a postcard because I already collected the post this morning. I’m then hit with the same disjointed feeling you experience after returning home from a long holiday.

  My first port of call is the lounge. I plug the radio in and place it on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Vernon may have already tried and failed to return countless times but there could be any number of reasons it never worked again for him. One attempt is not enough for me.

  If I learnt anything from that attempt, it’s to avoid standing up. With some trepidation, I sit on the edge of the sofa and place my hands on the Bakelite casing.

  Hope mounts as the red hue taints my vision and the scene beyond the coffee table blurs. Willing the pain to intensify, I close my eyes as the dull ache creeps across my skull. With no method of measuring time I can only guess, but I must be close to surpassing the duration of my last attempt. I offer a silent prayer and prepare to open my eyes. The message leaves my brain but, before it reaches my eyelids, an uns
een force propels me backwards.

  The next thing I know I’m sprawled back on the sofa, panting.

  “Fuck it!”

  I take a moment for the worst of the wooziness to clear before trying again.

  The same build up and the same hopes — the same result. I try again, and again.

  On the fifth attempt I’m knocked back like a punch-drunk boxer hitting the canvas. My body can’t take any more but I refuse to go down and accept the count.

  I adjust the frequency dial a fraction and try again. It results in a shorter, less intense experience but with the same outcome. I try again, and again; each time making tiny adjustments to the dial and each time getting further away from the first attempt.

  I return the dial to the original position, and begin another attempt. It delivers the knock-out blow.

  With mind and body broken, I have to admit defeat. How Vernon has continued to try for so long is beyond me but it only worked once for him and once for the scientist who bequeathed him the radio. The conclusion provokes more tears — my inexplicable, remarkable journey was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I can never return.

  Jan has gone, for good.

  All I want to do is curl up in a ball and die. The sense of loss is on an altogether different scale to that I suffered after Gemma left me. Even after she confessed her feelings for another man, I clung to the thinnest strand of hope it might just be a phase and one day she’d come back. There is no strand of hope for Jan and I. We are a lifetime apart.

  Getting to my feet takes an effort but I stagger through to the kitchen. It’s been so long I can’t recall but there has to be alcohol somewhere. I open drawers and check cupboards, and finally the fridge. Two cans of lager won’t take me where I want to go.

  I need to leave the flat, but not before necking a couple of pain killers and a pint of tap water. A series of deep breaths restore just enough composure. I grab my keys and leave.

  With no conscious recollection of exiting the car park, I drive through the streets on semi-autopilot. My destination is the supermarket; the intention to acquire enough alcohol so I can obliterate the rest of the week. It’s the only coping mechanism available without a prescription.