The '86 Fix: A 1980s Time Travel Novel

by Keith A Pearson

  The ‘86 Fix

  By Keith A Pearson

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  www.keithapearson.co.uk

  Copyright © 2016 by Keith A Pearson. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  PART ONE

  1

  They say you should never google your symptoms if you’re unwell. I knew this, and it was sage advice. While suffering from a fever last year, I developed a particularly unattractive rash. Of course I googled my symptoms, and I had Ebola, obviously. A doctor corrected my ludicrous self-diagnosis and sent me home with some antibiotics, and a warning not to do it again.

  I did it again.

  The stakes were lower on the second occasion because there was nothing physically wrong with me, and I was thrilled to discover I was suffering from a condition called hyperacusis. I initially thought it was just one of those things that happened when you hit middle-age, like haemorrhoids or gout, but my intolerance of everyday sounds was recognised as a legitimate medical condition, my constant complaining validated. However, my thrill was short-lived once the doctor told me there was no magic pill to cure it. If I wanted to overcome my condition, I had to undertake a three-month course of therapy. That would be far too much effort for a man like me, so I never bothered.

  My hyperacusis is at its worst in the morning when I first wake up. Lying in bed with no distractions, my ears torment me by picking up every sound within a sixty yard radius of our bedroom. It starts with the neighbour’s dog barking. Next, thumping music from a car cruising slowly up our road. A young child wailing incessantly from a bedroom somewhere. Finally, Steve from next door, stood in his garden and coughing through his first cigarette of the day. So many irritating sounds, each one spiking anxiety.

  Then there’s Megan’s breathing.

  I’ve spent an unhealthy amount of time analysing Megan’s guttural breathing, trying to identify a comparable sound that might explain to her why it’s so annoying. Sucking lumpy gravy through a straw was the best I could do. She replied that it didn’t matter because she was asleep and therefore it was my problem, not hers. That single statement nicely sums up the state of our relationship after twenty-five years of marriage.

  The clock beside our bed squeals an alarm. 7.30am; time to rise and begin another god-forsaken day. I sit up, grimacing at the random aches and pains my forty-six-year old body has bestowed upon me this morning. I stare at my sleeping wife as she lies on her back beside me, every breath nudging her closer to a throttling. Her blonde hair is splattered across the pillow, and her once-pert breasts now hang like the ears of a springer spaniel. Her nightdress has the word ‘Dreamy’ emblazoned across the front — it’s a delusional statement. I know I’m being harsh, and if I’m honest, the years have been equally unkind to me. I’m at least five stone overweight and my once thick mop of sandy hair is now beating a hasty retreat from my forehead, while simultaneously turning grey.

  Couple our aesthetic issues with the contempt we now harbour for one another and it doesn’t make for a happy marriage. What we have is a loveless marriage of habit, filled with so much apathy that neither of us can even muster enough enthusiasm to end it. It’s a pitiful existence.

  “Megan, it’s seven thirty,” I mumble while prodding her shoulder.

  No response, just the sustained guttural breathing. I try again with a little more volume.

  “Megan, wake up.”

  A slight break in her breathing suggests she might have heard me, but still no answer.

  “Megan, get up,” I shout.

  “Shut the fuck up, Craig. I heard you the first time.”

  Megan is apparently awake now. I don my dressing gown and scuttle out of the bedroom.

  I pad across the landing to the bathroom and position myself in front of the toilet, my bladder screaming to be emptied for the third time since I went to bed last night. I wash my hands and head downstairs to put the coffee on while Megan readies herself for work. She’ll take a two-minute shower, throw on some random items of clothing, and drag a brush through her tangled hair. Minimal makeup is then applied before she douses herself in far too much perfume. This routine is usually accompanied by a series of screamed profanities and the sound of doors being slammed. My wife is not a morning person.

  Downstairs, the percolator finally deposits sufficient coffee into the pot. I fill two mugs and drop one teaspoon of sugar in mine, three in Megan’s. Despite consuming the output of a small sugar plantation each week, Megan has somehow maintained a reasonably slim figure, and that annoys me immensely. As I stand in our small kitchen sipping my coffee, Megan storms in. Any attempt at conversation would be futile, so I offer a faint smile which isn’t reciprocated. She grabs her mug from the kitchen side and stomps off to the sitting room. I glance at the clock on the wall which suggests I need to get my arse in gear. I gulp down the rest of my coffee, drop the mug in the sink and head upstairs to conduct my morning ablutions.

  Shaved, showered, and dressed in a neatly pressed pair of grey trousers and a light blue shirt, I grab my mobile phone, wallet, and keys from my bedside table. I traipse back downstairs to find Megan in the kitchen washing up our coffee mugs.

  “Would it kill you to rinse your mug?” she asks in a tone that suggests she’s spoiling for an argument.

  “Sorry,” I timidly respond.

  She slams the clean mugs onto the draining board and pulls a tea towel from a drawer.

  “We’re going out for drinks after work so don’t bother with dinner,” she says.

  Megan is the manager of a call centre. Her job is to supervise a team of enthusiastic irritants as they plague the nation with telephone calls to sell services nobody needs and products nobody wants. Despite being at least twenty years older than most of her colleagues, Megan is under the misguided illusion that working with a group of immature idiots keeps her spirit young. Based on previous experience, she’ll probably stumble home after midnight, moderately drunk and convinced she’s had a good time. At least that leaves me in charge of the TV remote control for the evening. It’s the small victories that make life with Megan sufferable.

  She departs for work without saying goodbye. I take a few minutes to sift through the spam emails on my phone and leave the house. I lock the front door and squint at the bright morning sun as it climbs through a cloudless blue sky. I almost appreciate the moment until our neighbour’s bastard dog starts yapping again. Wishing the damn thing would drop dead, I lumber the thirty yards to a bay where my car is parked. I pause for a second to look back at the only thing in my life of any real value — our small, two-bedroom terraced house. We bought it in 1992 when home ownership didn’t require a mortgage comparable to the national debt of Greece. It sits on a street of equally unattractive properties that were all constructed in the mid-70s. After forty-odd years, most of the homes now look tired, neglected and in urgent need of maintenance. That irony isn’t lost on me.

  I haul my backside into the car and turn the engine over. My ten-year-old Mazda is one of the ugliest cars ever to have graced British roads, but it’s reliable and cheap to run. On cue, the engine spits into life. I drag the seat belt across my bulging stomach and hit the power button on the stereo. The sound of Rockwell’s ‘Somebody’s Watching Me’ rings out from the speakers. I swing the car out of the parking bay and embark on the short journey to work, accompanied by Mr Rockwell’s paranoid delusions.

  For the last twenty-six years, I’ve worked at the
local branch of RolpheTech. The company was founded in 1983 as a small chain of five stores that just sold computers. RolpheTech now has over two hundred branches and we sell an array of electrical paraphernalia from toasters to tablets, cameras to coffee machines. We occasionally still sell the odd computer.

  Ten minutes later I pull into the staff car park behind the store; an architectural eyesore situated in a small retail park on the outskirts of town. Even on this bright, sunny morning, the grey concrete facade retains a depressive quality. I began working here as a sales assistant in 1990 and climbed the greasy pole to become branch manager twelve years ago. I have no idea where the last twenty-six years have gone, but I do know this isn’t how I saw my future panning out when I was a bright, ambitious teenager.

  My plan was to pass my O-level exams and secure a position at a decent college. I'd then go on to university to study computer sciences before embarking on a career as a distinguished programmer. I envisaged spending my days cracking codes for the government, or developing software for a multi-national company.

  My grand plans patently never came to fruition. I don’t know whether to blame fate, bad luck, or my incompetent decision making. It’s probably a combination of the three, but as I can’t control fate or bad luck, I have to accept that my decision making is the most likely reason I now live such an underwhelming life.

  So here I am.

  I fiddle with the multitude of locks at the rear doors of the store. There are two padlocks to undo plus a rusty mortice lock. I’ve done this so many times now, I’m almost Houdini-like with my unlocking duties. I turn the final key just as a white BMW enters the car park, squealing to a halt a few spaces away from my Mazda. The BMW belongs to our recently appointed sales director, Marcus Morrison.

  Sometimes life deals you a hand so appallingly bad, it beggars belief. Six weeks ago I was dealt such a hand. My new boss and I were not strangers. We had history.

  Thirty years ago, Marcus and I were pupils at Heathland Secondary School. Although we happened to be in the same building at the same time, we rarely mixed in the same circles. Marcus was one of the cool kids. I was a social leper. Marcus was handsome and possessed the physique of an athlete. I was gawky and possessed the physique of a malnourished trainspotter.

  We also both lived on the same housing estate, although the term ‘estate’ was highly contentious amongst its residents. Those who had delusions of grandeur insisted on calling it a ‘development’ while those of us from a working-class background always called it ‘the estate’. Regardless of the label, it was a badly-planned smorgasbord of three hundred boxes, scattered in a seemingly random manner across the various roads, avenues and cul-de-sacs. A box for everyone and everyone in a box.

  My family lived in a modest semi-detached house while Marcus’s family lived in one of the expensive executive homes on the other side of the estate. Despite coming from very different homes and mingling in very different peer groups, for one hour every week Marcus and I shared a single interest — the school computer club.

  Computer club was run by Mr Scott, a stout, fifty-something career teacher who patently lost a straw-pulling contest. His forfeit was to oversee computer club. He would appear at 3.15pm to open the computer lab so we could pay homage to the dozen BBC Microcomputers, then return at 4.15pm to usher us out, and ensure that nobody had the school’s one-and-only floppy disk drive stuffed in their Parker jacket.

  That hour was by far my favourite of the school week. I was obsessed with computers and desperately wanted to be part of the technological revolution they promised. In the mid-80s, it was becoming increasingly obvious that those who controlled the computers would eventually control the world. The potential was intoxicating. In reality, our hour in computer club was typically spent listening to the high-pitched screeching of a cassette player as it took an age to load a blocky hangman game.

  While the cassette player screeched away, Marcus would chat with me, but there was always an ulterior motive. We both owned the same model of computer at home and he would regularly ask to borrow one of my games. He could be the model of consummate charm, but if that didn’t work, he’d drop the mask and resort to a series of subtle threats. Never of a physical nature, he was too clever for that and preferred to use psychological means to achieve his objective. He was a devious little shit.

  Despite all the blessings that both his wealthy parents and Mother Nature had bestowed upon Marcus, I subsequently learnt that his life after Heathland Secondary School was somewhat chequered. He went through college and attended university, only to drop out after just four months. An equally brief stint working for his father’s company followed before he left under a cloud. He then spent the next few years travelling and generally doing very little.

  Then in the early 1990s, Marcus got his big break.

  He took a job as a sales assistant with a startup company in the fledgling mobile phone industry. He could not have been in a better place at a better time. The industry was on the verge of unprecedented growth as the demand for mobile phones rocketed. The company prospered and carried Marcus along on their wave of success.

  Then six weeks ago, during what I assumed would be a routine RolpheTech management meeting, I sat, mouth agape, as Marcus was introduced as our new sales director. After a thirty-year break, Marcus Morrison is back in my life, and today we’re scheduled to have our first official meeting.

  2

  Marcus strides across the RolpheTech car park towards me, carrying a leather briefcase and immaculately dressed. His tailored charcoal suit precisely fits his tall, athletic frame. His insincere smile reveals platinum-white teeth and his dark brown hair is meticulously coiffured. In the bright sunshine his hair colour looks synthetic, suspiciously free from even a single strand of grey hair.

  “Morning Pelling,” he chimes.

  Using my surname is a throwback to our schooldays, and a reminder that the dynamics of our relationship are no different. Marcus is still in control.

  “Morning Marcus,” I reply a little nervously.

  “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  “Yep, another day in paradise,” I mutter quietly enough for him not to hear.

  Pleasantries over, he barges past me and through the door at the rear of the building. I pull the heavy door shut behind us, enter the alarm code and guide Marcus up the stairs towards my office on the first floor. Although this is his second visit to our branch since he joined RolpheTech, he was escorted by our managing director the first time. He was fairly aloof that day, and we barely spoke, but judging by his demeanour this morning, I’ve got a feeling the Marcus Morrison I remember from school has turned up.

  We enter the poky confines of my office and Marcus surveys the room with a look of disdain plastered across his face. He places his briefcase on my desk and clicks the catches open.

  “Coffee with one sugar would be nice,” he says as he sits himself down in my chair on the opposite side of the desk.

  He opens his briefcase, withdraws a wad of paperwork and slaps it on the desk. I stand motionless with my hands in my pockets, silent and seething.

  “Quarterly sales figures for this branch. We’ll go through them when I’ve got that coffee. Chop chop Pelling,” he says with a thin smile, almost willing me to defy his instructions.

  He’s obviously assumed that I haven’t changed and I’ll be just as subservient as I was at school. I don’t disappoint him. I exhale a quiet sigh and slope out of the office. I trudge down the corridor to the staff room and put the kettle on. I grab a couple of mugs from the draining board and dump two large scoops of instant coffee and then sugar into both, resisting the overwhelming urge to spit in Marcus’s mug.

  As the kettle boils, the first of my colleagues arrives.

  “Morning,” grunts Geoff Waddock.

  Geoff joined RolpheTech four years ago after his insurance business went bust. He lost his big house, the expensive cars, and the luxury holidays, followed by his wife, his career prospect
s, and what remained of his hair. He’s become a bitter man who now views life through a grey lens of pessimism. Despite his sullen attitude, I like having Geoff around as he makes me feel slightly better about myself. As crap as my life is, at least it isn’t as bad as Geoff’s.

  “Morning Geoff. Coffee?”

  He nods and lowers his plump, fifty-nine-year old frame onto a chair which creaks in complaint.

  “Who owns the BMW in the car park?” he snaps.

  “Marcus, our new sales director,” I reply while grabbing another mug from the drainer.

  “He’s parked in my bloody space. Typical BMW driver, no consideration.”

  “I’ll be sure to point that out to him.”

  I stir Geoff’s coffee and leave before he has the chance to complain about it.

  I shuffle back into my office and place the mugs of steaming coffee on the desk. I take a seat while Marcus sits back in my chair studying our branch sales report. He lifts the nearest mug with his free hand and blows across it. No thanks are offered as he sips the coffee, almost oblivious to my presence. Minutes pass before he finally drops the report on the desk and begins his lecture.

  “Disappointing quarterly sales figures again, Pelling. 17% below target and the board of directors are not happy. You are aware this is the third quarter in a row your branch has failed to meet target?”

  I feel myself becoming riled.

  “As I’ve already told the board, the targets are unrealistic. Our sales have been declining since a new supermarket opened in the town. They stock almost everything we do: phones, cameras, tablets, kitchen appliances. It’s no surprise we’re losing sales.”

  “So what are you going to do about it?”

  “What can I do about it? Frankly, I’m surprised we’re only 17% down.”

  “You’re the manager, Pelling, and therefore it’s your responsibility to find the answers. You need to come up with something more constructive than blaming the competition, because the board won’t want to hear that.”