The '86 Fix: A 1980s Time Travel Novel

by Keith A Pearson

  “Can I help you, sir?” a voice says tersely.

  The shop assistant has rid herself of the bothersome woman, her patience obviously worn thin. I turn to her and hand over my shirt. She scans it, then unceremoniously dumps it into a fancy bag. I pay with a credit card and she pushes the bag across the counter with a disingenuous smile.

  “Have a nice afternoon, sir.”

  I offer an equally weak smile back, and look across the store to check Marcus hasn’t spotted me. Thankfully, he’s now heading off in the opposite direction. With clothing acquired, I hurry back to the car park and spend fifteen minutes searching across several identical floors before I locate the Mazda.

  I drive back to work, sneak in the back door, and head straight to my office before any of the staff spot me with my shopping bags. It would have been the perfect crime had Lucy not been coming out of the staff room at the precise moment I creep past.

  “There you are. Geoff said you’d popped out to see if they’d added any new lines at the supermarket.”

  “Right, yeah, I did,” I reply sheepishly.

  Lucy’s eyes drop to the store bags I’m clutching.

  “That journey wouldn’t have involved a slight detour to the new shopping centre by chance?”

  Rumbled. A wry smile crosses Lucy’s face.

  “Okay, you got me. Thought I’d treat myself to some new clothes for this bloody reunion tomorrow.”

  “Let’s have a look then,” she orders.

  Feeling just a little awkward, I pull the shirt from the bag and hold it aloft for Lucy’s inspection.

  “Very nice, try it on for me then.”

  “What? No, I don’t think you need to see it on,” I protest.

  Lucy pushes out her bottom lip and scrunches her face in a show of fake indignation.

  “Don’t be shy, Craig. How am I supposed to give you an honest opinion if I don’t see you wearing it?”

  She stares at me with her opal-green eyes and my defences crumble.

  “Okay, give me a few minutes and I’ll see you in my office.”

  I traipse to my office and close the door. I strip off my work shirt and slip the new one on. I’m still fastening the last few buttons when there’s a knock at the door.

  “Are you decent?”

  It’s a subjective question, but I tell Lucy she can safely enter. She closes the door and stands a few feet in front of me, arms folded across her chest.

  She nods her head.

  “Almost perfect. One small alteration if I may?”

  Without waiting for my response, Lucy unfolds her arms and steps forward. She grasps the material either side of my love handles and pulls it out, so it’s no longer tucked into my trousers. She then grabs the hem and pulls it down, to straighten the shirt.

  “There, much better untucked don’t you think?”

  I cast my eyes downward and examine Lucy’s work. With the shirt now hanging loose, the prospect of an errant button pinging off is greatly reduced, and my bulging stomach isn’t quite so obvious.

  “Okay I concede, it looks better. Thank you.”

  Happy with her work, Lucy smiles and turns to leave. She stops, pauses for a moment, and turns back to face me.

  “Do you mind if I say something?”

  “Course not, fire away.”

  Lucy stares awkwardly at her feet before returning her eyes to mine.

  “Are you happy?”

  Not the sort of question I was expecting. I shoot her a puzzled look.

  “I care about you, Craig,” she says, “and it seems...I dunno, like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. I get the feeling that something is wrong.”

  “Where’s this coming from?” I ask.

  “Buying new clothes is supposed to make you feel good about yourself, but your face says the complete opposite. Then there’s your mood over the last few days. Actually, if I’m honest, it’s your mood over the last few weeks. I’ve known you long enough to tell when there’s something wrong. You know you can talk to me, Craig, don’t you?”

  It’s typical of Lucy to notice things that most people, including my own wife, either don’t see, or choose to ignore.

  “I’m okay, just a lot going on at the moment.”

  “But you didn’t answer my question. Are you happy?”

  I look to the ceiling and exhale a deep breath.

  “Not really Lucy, no.”

  She steps forward and puts her hand on my arm.

  “Talk to me, please.”

  I spend the next fifteen minutes unloading to Lucy. Everything from my woeful marriage through to my terrible relationship with my father. I explain my feelings of inadequacy about what I’ve achieved in life. I tell her about Marcus and his apparent vendetta against me, but I stop short of telling her about the possibility of the branch being shut down. I let everything out as Lucy sits patiently and listens.

  By the time I finish, I feel slightly embarrassed, but also hugely relieved. I can’t remember the last time I managed to get so much off my chest. My mum is too fragile these days and has her own problems to cope with. I never talk to Megan because she’s usually unsympathetic and judgemental. I definitely can’t talk to Dave, as he’d laugh and tell me to ‘man up’.

  “I’m sorry Lucy, you shouldn’t have had to listen to that. I’m just feeling a bit sorry for myself, just ignore me.”

  “You’re my friend, you should be able to talk to me. God, you’ve heard enough about my problems over the years, haven’t you?”

  I nod, and we smile at one another before a more serious look falls on Lucy’s face.

  “Tell me to mind my own business, but it seems like a lot of your unhappiness stems from your home life. If your marriage is so awful why don’t you end it? It can’t be doing either of you any good.”

  The million dollar question. Why?

  “It’s complicated. I know that our marriage is a car crash, but if Megan wants to end it, that would be her call, not mine.”

  “But what if she never ends it? Are you going to spend the rest of your life in an unhappy marriage just because you feel obliged to?”

  It was a valid question, with an answer I had begrudgingly come to accept. Of all my shortcomings, I had a deep sense of loyalty passed down from my mum. While we never discussed it, I often wondered how she put up with my dad for so long. Was it love or was it a sense of duty? Either way, her blind loyalty was both a blessing and a curse I’d inherited.

  “I guess I am,” I sigh.

  Lucy frowns at my reply, her eyes carrying a message I can’t interpret. With nothing left to be said, she makes an excuse about needing to be somewhere else, and stands to leave. As Lucy reaches the door, she holds it ajar and turns to face me.

  “You’re a good man, Craig. I hope things change for you one day, you deserve it.”

  Although the words are said with a smile, they’re delivered with a hint of sadness.

  3

  It’s Megan’s day off today, so I tip-toe around the bedroom, trying to get ready for work without waking her. She rarely shows me the same consideration when it’s my day off, but best let sleeping dogs lie. I sneak another look at my new shirt and jeans for tonight’s reunion, and satisfied my investment was a wise one, I quietly close the wardrobe door. I creep down the stairs and decide I can’t be bothered to set up the coffee percolator. Megan will be pissed-off she’ll have to start her day with instant coffee, but I’ll be well out of earshot by that time.

  I leave the house, jump in the Mazda and switch on the radio. A few hundred yards down the road, the fan belt makes an unhealthy screeching noise. I guess I’ll have to change it tomorrow, hangover or otherwise. It doesn’t matter. I’m determined not to let anything dampen my mood, because in around eleven hours, I’ll be seeing Tessa for the first time in almost thirty years. So against a backdrop of cloudless blue sky, I drive onwards, serenaded by the sound of a screeching fan belt and Salt n Peppa on the radio, the latter repeatedly s
uggesting I should “Push it real good”. If I knew what it was they wanted pushing, I’d gladly do it this morning.

  Saturday is the busiest day of the week, and the morning flashes by with a steady flow of customers demanding assistance. My spirits are so high, I even manage to spend an entire hour helping a technophobic pensioner with his laptop, without wishing him dead even once. While I might be in an unusually good mood, Lucy is the opposite of her happy-go-lucky self. She spends most of the morning stomping around angrily and rolling her eyes whenever anyone asks her anything. Not like her at all. After several failed attempts to corner her, I get the feeling she might be avoiding me. She finishes at lunchtime on a Saturday, so whatever it is she’s sulking about, any conversation will have to wait until Monday.

  While the morning passed quickly enough, the afternoon drags slower than a tectonic plate. It’s an afternoon for shorts and t-shirts, for paddling pools and barbecues, for pub gardens and iced cider. It certainly isn’t an afternoon for browsing electrical goods. As the flow of customers decreases, the temperature in the store steadily increases to a stifling level — our ancient air-conditioning system merely wafting the humid air around. The few customers who venture in are sweaty and lethargic, much like the staff tasked with serving them. When closing time finally arrives, it’s with blessed relief.

  I lock up in record time and squint at the early evening sunshine as I walk across the staff car park. The Mazda has been sat in direct sunlight all day so when I open the door, I’m struck by a wave of broiled air, tinged with the smell of super-heated vinyl. I drop into the driver’s seat and open all the windows to cool the oven-like atmosphere. I switch the air-conditioning to maximum, but it seems to have taken solidarity with its compatriot in the store, and just blows warm air in my face. With sweat pouring from places I didn’t know it was even possible to sweat from, I exit the car park with the windows still open — allowing me to appreciate the squealing of the fan belt at maximum volume. I can now look forward to spending the next ten minutes being deafened or gently roasted.

  After a tortuous drive home, I pull into the bay outside our house. My clothes cling to my clammy body, and my light blue shirt is heavily dappled with dark patches of sweat. I unlock the front door, wander through to the kitchen, and pull a microwave lasagna from the fridge. I’m not particularly hungry, but I need something to line my stomach for later. I stab the cellophane lid with a fork and throw it in the microwave. While I wait for the lasagna to cook, I casually stare out of the kitchen window. Megan is sat on a lounger in our tiny garden, reading a magazine, and seemingly uninterested in welcoming her husband home. I think back to my chat with Lucy and contemplate if I really can spend the rest of my days living with Megan. Much like my diet, it’s something I’ll address another day.

  My thoughts are interrupted by the microwave beeping away. I stand in the kitchen and take unenthusiastic mouthfuls of the sloppy, anaemic gruel that looks nothing like the appealing picture on the packaging. I manage to eat half of it before nervous excitement snuffs out the final remnants of my appetite. I drop the plastic tray in the bin and head upstairs for a final, paranoid check of my outfit, and a much-needed shower. Half an hour later, I look, feel and smell significantly better. I head back downstairs and book a taxi into town. Although it’s only a twenty-minute walk, the evening air is still muggy, and I don’t think even the liberal amounts of deodorant I’ve applied are up to that challenge.

  The taxi arrives, and with Megan still sat in the garden, I leave the house without a farewell. The air-conditioned interior of the taxi almost justifies the exorbitant charge for the short journey, as I reach the town centre without breaking into a single bead of sweat. I’ve arranged to meet Dave at a strategically located pub, which is far enough from the reunion venue to avoid bumping into any former schoolmates, but close enough we can still walk there. I pay the taxi driver, and push open the door to the pub where, to my utter astonishment, I find Dave at the bar with two full pints of beer at the ready.

  “Thought I’d break the habit of a lifetime and get the first round in,” Dave says with a grin.

  I grab one of the glasses and take a large gulp of the cold beer.

  “You have no idea how much I’ve been looking forward to that,” I say.

  “Nice shirt,” Dave says.

  I don’t know if he’s being sincere or taking the piss, so I ignore his comment. Either way, I feel a tad inadequate compared to Dave. Judging by his bronzed skin, he’s obviously spent the day sat in the garden, and he’s wearing a tight white t-shirt which is cut low at the front to reveal the defined pectoral muscles at the top of his chest. Despite there being only a few months difference in age between us, Dave looks at least a decade younger than me — something that many, many people will no doubt point out this evening.

  We grab our pints and head for the beer garden where we secure a table in the corner.

  “So, on a scale of one to ten, how much are you shitting yourself about seeing Tessa then?” Dave asks.

  “Probably somewhere between eleven and eighteen.”

  I’m actually so nervous I could happily stay sat where I am all evening.

  “You do realise that your brief encounter thirty-odd years ago is unlikely to be grounds for a repeat performance, don’t you?”

  “I’m not a fucking idiot, Dave. Firstly, I’m married, and secondly, I only want to see her to clear the air about a few things.”

  “Just saying, mate, don’t want you to have unrealistic expectations.”

  While Dave’s comment was tongue-in-cheek, perhaps a tiny part of me still harbours feelings for Tessa. And while I genuinely have no expectations, I can’t ignore the fact that Tessa was the girl who took my virginity. Like the first record you bought, the first car you owned, or your first job, nobody forgets the moment they lost their virginity, or who broke it.

  One hour and three pints later, we’re just about in the fashionably late zone, so we leave the pub and take the ten-minute walk to the reunion venue. Bolstered by alcohol and laddish bravado, my nerves have settled, perhaps to the point where I might have dropped a few points on the shitting-myself scale. We round the final corner and the venue is ahead of us. It’s a bland municipal building that typically hosts wedding receptions and jumble sales. The front of the building is whitewashed brick, with a set of double doors in the centre below a weather-beaten sign that reads ‘Memorial Hall’. Pairs of matching blue balloons, printed with the number thirty, are fixed to the woodwork either side of the doors, and I can just make out the faint hum of music from within.

  We approach the doors and Dave drapes a muscly arm around my shoulder.

  “You ready for this, matey?”

  “Nope, but what the hell,” I reply, as I push open one of the double doors.

  We enter a reception area with doors to the toilets on one side, a cloakroom area opposite, and a set of solid double doors straight ahead. The volume of the music is now loud enough to determine the track — that established floor-filler, ‘Sledgehammer’ by Peter Gabriel. Apparently all the music this evening will be from the 1980s, so I expect it to be nostalgic and tragic in equal measure. As we approach the double doors that lead into the main hall, they burst open, filling the reception area with noise and the frumpy frame of Helen Robinson, the reunion organiser.

  “Hello gentlemen,” she shrieks, her voice only marginally louder than the yellow dress she’s wearing.

  As the door swings shut behind her, Helen consults her clipboard and asks for our names, which we duly provide.

  “Oh David, you look amazing. You must give me your secret,” she coos as she presses a sticky name label to Dave’s sculpted chest, letting her fingers linger just a little too long.

  “Um, Craig, yes. Lovely to see you,” she says with significantly less enthusiasm, as she hands me my name label.

  “We’ve nearly got a full house which is wonderful. Go on in and introduce yourselves to everyone. The bar is at the back of
the hall on the left. We must catch up later, but I’ve got to run, lots to do, and I need to encourage a few people on to the dance floor.”

  Helen then tucks her clipboard under her flabby arm and disappears back through the door, into the hall. Dave looks across at me and shakes his head.

  “What the fuck was that?”

  Now furnished with name labels, we tentatively enter the hall and stand for a moment to survey the scene. With the lights switched off, and the blinds drawn, the only light in the hall is coming from the mobile disco rig and the bar area at the rear. Tables and chairs are set out, but unused, with most of our former schoolmates preferring to stand in small groups either side of the hall. It seems that many of the school cliques have withstood the test of time. I scan the room to see if I can spot Tessa, but its near-impossible to identify individuals at distance in the dim light.

  Dave taps my shoulder and points towards the back of the hall, suggesting our first priority is to acquire beer. I nod in agreement, and we make our way through the middle of the hall. The twenty-yard walk to the bar feels much longer as dozens of heads turn to inspect us as we pass. I catch several women nudging one another and ogling in our general direction, presumably to eye up Dave, rather than in admiration of my new shirt. We reach the bar area, and I follow in Dave’s wake as he bulldozers his way through the crowd to the front. More heads turn in Dave’s direction, but as the bar crowd is primarily male, the looks are begrudging rather than admiring.