The '86 Fix: A 1980s Time Travel Novel

by Keith A Pearson

  “Bullshit! I know it was you who wrote that graffiti on my locker at school.”

  “Wait, what? I seriously have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  But then I do.

  During the final weeks of school, somebody defaced Marcus’s locker by scrawling, ‘Marcus has a tiny cock’, on the door with a permanent marker pen. While it caused a few laughs, I don’t recall it being regarded as anything other than a childish prank. The culprit was never identified, but after this evening’s revelations, I’m guessing Tessa had the strongest motive.

  “Do you have any idea how much stick I got over that? One of you two obviously wrote it, and seeing as it was in the boys’ locker area, my money is on you,” he snaps.

  He’s obviously made up his mind, so there seems precious little point in arguing with him.

  “Look Marcus, for the record, it wasn’t me. Even if it was, does it matter now?”

  “To me it does. Nobody fucks with Marcus Morrison and gets away with it. Ever.”

  I’m stunned just how bloody-minded and melodramatic he’s being. I’m wasting my time even trying to reason with him, so I do what anyone backed into a corner would do — I start laughing.

  “You’re unbelievable, Marcus, but hey, if putting me out of a job makes you feel better about your tiny cock, then fair enough.”

  In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have said that.

  He storms forward, and before I can even flinch, his hand is around my throat, his momentum slamming me against the wall. Marcus is taller, fitter and stronger than me, so I’m helpless as he leans in, his hand crushing my windpipe.

  “What the fuck did you say?” he snarls.

  Even if I felt like repeating myself, I can barely breathe, let alone speak. As much as I want to push him away, he’s standing too close for me to position my hands for leverage. All I can do while he throttles me is stare at his reddening face. For a moment, I wonder if he actually is trying to kill me. His lip is curled, and a deep furrow has formed on his usually pristine forehead. He’ll need more botox after this, for sure. His eyes are now just narrow slits and he’s breathing heavily. I’m barely breathing at all. The fucking psychopath might actually be trying to kill me.

  As Marcus maintains the pressure on my throat, I hear a toilet flush and a lock slide open. I can’t move my head, and most of my vision is full of Marcus’s contorted face, but I flick my eyes just in time to catch a slight movement beyond his left shoulder. I feel light headed — he is trying to kill me. Seconds pass and a hand taps Marcus on the shoulder. As he turns his attention to the shoulder tapper, his grip on my throat loosens slightly and I gasp for air.

  With Marcus’s head now turned at ninety degrees, and his grip loosening, I manage to shift my position a fraction. I turn my head just in time to see the blurry motion of a fist as it swings through the air and connects perfectly with Marcus’s jaw. Within a split second, his hand is gone from my throat, followed by the rest of his body as he flails backwards and violently crashes into the door behind him. The snarling expression is replaced with one of total shock, and I suspect, a fair amount of pain. His legs buckle and he falls to the floor where he stays, groaning.

  “You alright, matey?” Dave asks.

  I nod. Dave moves across the floor and stands over Marcus.

  “That was for fucking with my Big Trak,” Dave growls.

  Marcus correctly decides not to question what he’s talking about.

  “If you’ve still got a problem with Craig, we can discuss it outside if you like?”

  Marcus shakes his head, and I take solace seeing the fear in his eyes. Dave then nonchalantly turns to me.

  “Your round I believe.”

  5

  Karen Carpenter used the medium of music to complain about rainy days and Mondays. If she was still of this earth, then she’d certainly be down today, because it’s a Monday, and it’s pissing down. I gaze out of my office window at the gloomy skies above the puddled RolpheTech car park. The monotone scene is only broken by half-a-dozen coloured cars and a small stretch of grass at the far boundary. I close my eyes and try to ignore the thumping headache and queasy stomach, which are now into their second day. Coupled with the throbbing pain from my bruised throat after Marcus’s throttling, I feel appalling.

  My thoughts drift back to Saturday’s reunion, and it’s only now that the implications are coming home. Marcus made a swift exit after his encounter with Dave’s fist, but knowing Marcus, retribution will head my way soon enough. Tessa stayed for another hour before I caught her fleeting and final goodbye. The rest of the evening is a bit of a blur. There was definitely tequila drunk, there may have been dancing, and I vaguely recollect Dave and I doing a rendition of, ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’. I cringe and push the hazy memories aside. I’ve got more important things to worry about, which is why I’m holed-up in my office.

  Brian sent me a text message this morning saying he’d call at eleven o’clock. I’ve spent the last few hours building up to his call, trying to plot and plan for whatever news he delivers. However, after my altercation with Marcus on Saturday, it seems pretty clear my future at RolpheTech is looking bleak. I need to be realistic and make the best of a bad situation. If Marcus has his way, and the branch is closed, the saving grace will be my redundancy package. With twenty-six years’ service behind me, I’ll be due a significant lump sum. It will be enough for me to live on while I find a new job — but the obvious downside to the branch being closed is my colleagues will lose their jobs.

  But what if Marcus fails, and the branch is saved, where does that leave me? My colleagues would keep their jobs, but my position would no longer be tenable. I have no desire to hang around waiting for Marcus to enact his revenge, so what do I do? My mind whirls as I consider all the various permutations. Then the throbbing pain in my neck gives me an idea.

  Of all the terrible decisions I’ve made in my life, attempting to blackmail my boss could turn out to be the worst. But desperate times call for desperate measures. Armed with photographic evidence of my badly bruised neck, I’ll give Marcus a simple choice — he resigns, or I’ll take the pictures to the board and report his assault. Surely if he’s facing the threat of instant dismissal for gross misconduct, he’ll have no choice but to leave RolpheTech? It’s a ridiculous plan, but if the branch is saved, it's my only plan.

  I’m pulled from my thoughts as my mobile phone trills on the desk. I snatch it up and accept the call.

  “Morning, young man.”

  Brian’s greeting is not delivered with the same enthusiasm as last week.

  “Morning Brian. How did the game go?”

  “I came last by four strokes, but I suspect that’s not what you want to talk about?”

  “I guess it’s not. Dare I ask if you got anywhere?”

  There is a brief pause, and I hear Brian exhale a deep breath.

  “Well, things are certainly afoot behind the scenes at RolpheTech. Pull up a comfortable chair because there’s a lot to tell you.”

  I heed Brian’s advice and flop into my office chair.

  “Right, where to begin? Six weeks ago, a mobile telecoms company called Randall Holdings purchased a small stake in RolpheTech. It was a precursor to a complete takeover of the company. By making that initial investment, they could get a look inside the business and if they found any significant problems, they could walk away with only a modest amount of money still invested. It’s like putting a deposit down on a car before a test drive, a show of good faith I guess.”

  “Okay, I follow you,” I reply.

  “That initial investment came with a catch though. Randall Holdings wanted one of their own men on board, to see the business in operation first hand. His job was to take a thorough look at every aspect of the company, from the branches through to the management, and identify any hidden issues beyond what the accounts told them. After six weeks, and based upon this chap’s findings, Randall Holdings would then decide if they wanted to co
mplete the takeover. I’m sure you can guess who their man is?”

  My already queasy stomach does a turn.

  “Marcus Morrison?”

  “You got it. From what I can gather, this Morrison chap has gone beyond his remit and has been throwing his weight around. The current board aren’t happy with the way he’s been operating, but they don’t want to rock the boat. It looks like the takeover will go ahead within the next week or two, subject to the final report from Morrison, which came in this morning.”

  “I don’t suppose you know what was in that report?” I ask.

  “My guy on the board was kind enough to email me the highlights, which I've just received. It’s not good reading, Craig. Morrison’s recommendations are for the takeover to go ahead, but subject to a number of branch closures, including yours. I’m sorry young man, but it looks like it might be the end of the road for your branch.”

  Part of me is relieved that I won’t have to enact my ridiculous blackmail plan, and at least I’ll be able to walk away with my redundancy payment. Then a severe prick to my conscience reminds me that this isn’t such good news for my colleagues.

  “Do you think the board will follow through with Marcus’s recommendations?”

  “What you have to understand is that most of the current board members are approaching retirement age, and this is a chance to retire with a huge pay-off. They’ll do whatever the buyers want to ensure their pay day happens, even if it means closing branches. Besides, the industry is changing, and RolpheTech badly needs new investment and fresh ideas — something the current board are unable, or unwilling, to provide. If this takeover doesn’t happen, the fear is that the whole business could go under.”

  “Jesus, this will hit a lot of people hard. What would be your best guess at a timetable for the closures?”

  “My contact thinks they’re going to re-brand the stores, so they won’t want the negative PR of branch closures to affect the launch of their new brand. My guess is that they’ll want the branches closed down quickly. I’m afraid you’re probably looking at a few weeks at most.”

  “That soon? It doesn’t give the staff much time to look for new jobs. I need to tell them today then.”

  “Hold on a second, young man. It is imperative you tell no one about this. This information is highly sensitive, and I’ve gone out on a limb to get it for you. If even one person finds out, the news will spread, and that could have serious implications for the whole takeover. I want your word this goes no further.”

  “But my colleagues have a right to know,” I plead.

  “Maybe they do, but you cannot say a word until an official announcement is made by the board. If this leaks, fingers will point in my direction, and you’ll be putting me in an incredibly difficult position. You tell no one, are we clear on that?”

  I reluctantly promise I won’t tell a soul, and with little left to say, Brian offers his apologies one final time before hanging up.

  I return to the window and the bleak scene beyond. For some reason it sparks a memory of the relatives’ room in the hospital where I stood all those years ago. Maybe it’s the helplessness — life playing itself out while I spectate from the sidelines. The key difference is that when Megan was in hospital, everyone involved wanted to achieve the same goal, whereas now, everyone has their own selfish agenda. How can it be right that hundreds of loyal employees lose their jobs, while a dozen old bastards on the board get a six-figure pay off? The employees are nothing more than a series of digits on an Excel spreadsheet, deleted in an instant with the indiscriminate click of a mouse. But as unfair as it is, I have to face facts, and that means taking control of my own future. There is nothing else I can do now.

  I sit back at my desk, wake the PC and open the Internet browser. I stare at the screen for a long while — I feel conflicted. I don’t really want to leave RolpheTech but perhaps this could be my last chance to do something constructive with my life. My redundancy package will give me options. I’ll be able to forge a new career, to start again, and that does excite me a little. But while I plot my future with money and time on my side, my colleagues downstairs won’t have either luxury. Lucy will get a reasonable pay-off for her ten years of service, but she has a mortgage to pay on her own, and a teenage daughter to provide for. Her redundancy pay will only cover her living costs for a few months, and then she’ll be in trouble if she hasn’t found another job. Then there’s Geoff. He’s only been with us for four years, so he won’t get much, and he’s approaching the point of becoming unemployable. Most of the other staff members have only worked here for a few years, so none of them will leave with a golden handshake either.

  I have to remind myself that I can’t do anything to change the situation for my colleagues. While I feel for them, I’m not the one responsible for their impending unemployment. I return my focus to the computer screen and the empty search box. It’s been a long time since I had to look for a job and I’m not really sure where to start. I type 'start a new career’ in the search box and hit ‘Enter’. A page of results appears and I scour the links for something that might point me in the right direction. An advert at the top of the page catches my eye.

  “Don’t Start a Career, Start a Business - Search Our Franchise Opportunities.”

  It’s an interesting proposition, and not one I would have considered. Could I actually run my own business? On reflection, the thought of spending the next twenty years working as a wage slave, possibly with another arsehole like Marcus for a boss, holds little appeal.

  I click the link and I’m greeted with a list of franchise categories. I scan the list until one option leaps out at me — ‘Computer Services’. I click that link, and yet another list appears with information about specific franchise opportunities in the computer services sector. I scroll down the page and spot a franchise that provides IT support to businesses. I move closer to the screen and study the information. The franchise fee is just under £10,000, they provide full training, and the earning potential is almost treble what RolpheTech pay me. There’s a big green button pleading with me to ‘Enquire Now’. I click it, and I’m directed to a page containing more information about the franchise, and an enquiry form. I complete the form and click the ‘Submit’ button.

  I sit back in my chair and contemplate the prospect of working for myself. The more I think about it, the more it appeals. I won’t have to put up with insufferable customers and their tedious questions about domestic appliances. I can work the hours I choose, which won’t include every weekend, and I won’t be answerable to anyone. This option makes sense on so many levels I wonder if perhaps fate is giving me a break for once. In a twisted irony, being made redundant will give me both the cash, and motivation, to build a better future.

  Fuelled with a real sense of purpose, I’m just about to explore the franchise market in more depth when an email pings into my in-box. It’s from Marcus, and the subject line simply says ‘Urgent Meeting’. I open the email and read the two lines of text. Marcus is coming into the store on Wednesday morning for a meeting and my attendance is compulsory. I guess it must be to gloat that his plan has come to fruition, and our branch is closing. He must be wetting himself with excitement at the prospect of delivering his revenge. It’s a pity for him I’m already one step ahead.

  6

  After a constructive afternoon spent researching the franchise market, I arrive home with a wad of reading material downloaded from the Internet. Megan is already home, and I can hear her stomping around upstairs. There’s no sign of dinner being prepared, so it looks like I’ll be ordering a Chinese takeaway as I’m not in the mood to cook tonight. I take my reading material to the sitting room and flop down in my armchair. Five minutes into my reading, Megan appears in the doorway. She’s wearing a pair of tight black jeans and a low cut white blouse, her hair and makeup immaculate. The smell of a perfume I don’t recognise drifts across the room, and I have to admit she looks good for a change.

  Without ac
knowledging my presence, she clacks across the laminate wood floor in her high-heeled shoes. She then rummages through a drawer in our abysmally constructed flatpack sideboard.

  “Since when have we started dressing for dinner?”

  “Hilarious, Craig. You do what you like for dinner, I’m going out.”

  “Again?”

  This is becoming an increasingly common occurrence and the third time Megan has been out in the last week alone.

  “Why should it bother you? It’s not as though we ever do anything, is it?” she spits.

  I can’t argue with that. Apart from the occasional trip to the supermarket, we haven’t been anywhere in public together since the RolpheTech Christmas party last year. While I’m not the most romantically attuned man in the world, even I know a trip to Tesco doesn’t constitute an evening out.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Do you actually care where I’m going? Don’t wait up, I’ll be home when I’m home.”

  She slams the drawer shut and struts out of the room. I watch her backside wiggle in the tight black jeans and begrudgingly admit to myself that it’s still a fine arse. Perhaps I should have told her that once in a while.

  The brief conversation with Megan has quashed my appetite for franchise research or Chinese food. I drop the wad of paper into the magazine rack and switch the TV on. The news is just starting, but I pay it little attention as a seed of troubled thought sprouts in my mind. Even the least perceptive of husbands couldn’t fail to notice the recent changes in Megan’s behaviour. Going out more, buying new clothes, making more of an effort with her appearance. This is the realm of newspaper agony aunts, where the answer is obvious to everyone, except the dumb spouse writing in. All evidence suggests that my wife could be having an affair.

  I let the possibility of Megan’s infidelity sink in, and much like the moral dilemma of the store closing, my feelings are torn. The initial feeling is one of relief. Could this be the catalyst that brings our sorry excuse for a marriage to an end? Then a more surprising feeling rises — jealousy. No matter how dysfunctional a marriage is, no husband wants to picture his wife screaming in ecstasy while another man screws her senseless. The more I try to cast that image aside, the more vividly it returns.