The '86 Fix: A 1980s Time Travel Novel

by Keith A Pearson

  “I’m seducing an attractive young woman, although for some inexplicable reason I also appear to be talking to you, teddy.”

  “Actually, my name is Cuthbert, but that’s beside the point. She’s not a young woman is she, Craig? She’s just a kid, you pervert.”

  “Well, legally she’s an adult, and how am I a pervert if I’m the same age as her?”

  “You’re forty-six years of age for crying out loud! You’re taking advantage of her because you want to prove that you’re not a pathetic sexual failure.”

  I nibble on Tessa’s earlobe as I become annoyed at the voice interrupting my seduction.

  “What the hell do you know about anything?”

  “You forget I was here the first time, Craig. I witnessed the whole pitiful, embarrassing episode. What you’re about to do is driven by your own selfish need to prove yourself. You don’t give a toss about Tessa, or the consequences for her. You’re a self-serving shit.”

  “She seems to be enjoying it, and to be honest with you, Cuthbert, it’s been a while for me. Please shut up, or I’ll wipe my dick on you when I’m done.”

  “Fine, do what you like. But if you think this will fix your future, you’re more deluded than I thought. She isn’t the problem, you are.”

  “Stop being so melodramatic. Tessa will be fine and so will my future.”

  “You’re kidding yourself but don’t worry, I’ll still be here for her tonight when she cries herself to sleep, much like she does most nights. She’s a fucked-up kid, but you already know that, don’t you?”

  I turn my head away from Tessa and stare at the potty-mouthed teddy bear. Whether it’s Cuthbert or my conscience talking, the words cut right through me. I shouldn’t be doing this. What the hell was I thinking?

  I gently place my hands on Tessa’s shoulders and manoeuvre her around so she’s facing me. I bend down, pick up her dressing gown and drape it over her naked shoulders. I grab the ends of the cord and loop them into a makeshift knot. She looks up at me, clearly frustrated.

  “What are you doing, Craig? I was enjoying that!”

  “So was I, but it’s not right is it?”

  Before she can answer, I move away and sit on the bed.

  “Come and sit down for a minute and I’ll explain.”

  She pulls her dressing gown on properly and sits next to me on the bed, her arms crossed. Her expression has changed from puzzlement to sulky frustration. Her body language that of a stroppy teenager not getting what they want, which sort of vindicates my decision to stop.

  “Look Tessa, I really fancy you, but I don’t think you feel the same, do you? Let’s be honest, you don’t know anything about me.”

  “What are you on about, Craig? I know you fancy me, you stare at me in class like a lovesick puppy. I don’t understand why we’re sat here talking when we could be shagging. Don’t you want to shag me?”

  “That’s irrelevant. I’m more curious why you want to have sex with me? Be honest, Tessa.”

  She shoots me a fierce glance but doesn’t reply. She unfolds her arms and sits forward, staring at the pink carpet. Moments pass and I can feel a bubble of tension growing.

  “Well?” I ask again.

  She turns to me and the bubble bursts.

  “What do you want me to say, Craig? That I’m doing this because I feel like I should?” she yells. “You fix Kevin’s computer, and I let you shag me. You don’t want to hear that, do you? It’s just sex, what’s the big deal?”

  Her outburst would have stung if I hadn’t already known her motivation. I decide not to say anything as she rests her elbows on her thighs and lets her head drop to her hands. The room is deathly quiet for a minute.

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” she whispers.

  “It’s the truth though, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she sighs.

  I place my hand on her shoulder.

  “Look at me, Tessa.”

  After a few seconds, she lifts her head and turns to face me. Light from the window glints off her moist eyes, those beautiful caramel eyes.

  “You don’t have to apologise and you certainly don’t have to have sex with me just because I did you a favour. I'd have been happy with a bag of Maltesers.”

  Tessa lets out a slight chuckle and runs a sleeve under her sniffly nose. For the first time this afternoon, I see her for what she really is. There are no remnants of sexual bravado, just the confused face of a kid trying to make sense of her life. Seeing her like this makes me feel like an utter bastard for taking advantage. My sixteen year-old self didn’t know any better, but I’ve got no excuse.

  “For what it’s worth Tessa, I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have let things get as far as they did. I promise you, I only came here to help Kevin with his computer, not to end up in bed with you.”

  “But sex is all you boys care about though, isn’t it? Seems that if you want something in life and god has given you the tools why not use them?”

  “Sex is not a bargaining tool, Tessa. It’s what people do when they’re in a relationship, you know, when they care for each other. Every time you have sex with somebody you don’t care about, you’re giving away another slice of your self-respect. You keep giving it away and eventually there won’t be anything left. Do you understand?”

  She drops her head and slowly nods. Perhaps I’ve overstepped the mark with my advice. I need to bring this back to more relevant matters.

  “The reason I’m saying this stuff is that I’ve heard a few rumours at school. Rumours about you and Marcus Morrison.”

  On hearing his name she sits up and glares at me defensively.

  “What rumours?” she snaps.

  “You know what Marcus is like, always bragging about stuff. I heard he’s been telling his mates he’s going to get you into bed.”

  “What! He’s been flirty with me lately but nothing more than that.”

  “At the moment maybe, but boys like Marcus eventually find a way to get what they want. All I’m saying is be careful. If you end up in bed with him, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. The guy is toxic, and I’d hate to see you caught up with him.”

  I look her in the eye and let my final words sink in. She pauses for a moment and finds some resolve.

  “You don’t need to worry about me, Craig. There’s no way that creep is getting anywhere near me, and that’s a promise.”

  I give her a reassuring smile, conscious I don’t say too much more. It’s tempting to give her the further benefit of my wisdom but there’s every chance I could send her life spinning off in a direction that doesn’t end as happily as her current one. I also need to remember that to her I’m just a classmate, a kid. She probably thinks I’m a bit preachy already so any further counsel might freak her out. I’ve done my bit by warning her about Marcus, and more importantly, I managed not to have sex with her. An unusual but productive afternoon’s work.

  I get up from the bed and take another exaggerated glance at my watch.

  “So I guess you’re not going to finish what you started then?” she asks with a wry smile.

  “As much as I’d love to, Tessa, I’ve got to be somewhere else I’m afraid. Besides, I don’t think Cuthbert would approve.”

  She laughs and picks up the teddy bear.

  “How did you know his name?”

  “He introduced himself, wanted to know my intentions,” I smile.

  She stands and playfully punches me on the arm.

  “You’re a funny guy, Craig.”

  I’m not sure if she means funny weird or funny hilarious. I’d take either over the way she felt about me when I left her bedroom the first time.

  Tessa gives me a goodbye hug and I breathe in her delicious scent one final time. She then leads me downstairs to the hallway and plucks a set of keys from a hook on the wall, about three feet from the door. I ruefully smile as she unlocks the front door. Given the choice, I’m glad I wasn’t able to escape before I had the chance to talk
to her about Marcus, even though my testicles are now throbbing. I may need to reacquaint myself with Lars & Sabine when I get home.

  “I’ll see you at registration on Monday then,” she says as I step out of the door.

  “Yes you will. Don’t be too freaked if I seem a little distant at school. Got a lot of studying to cram in so my head might be all over the place.”

  “You’re such a nerd,” she says with a wink.

  I turn and crunch across the driveway. I get halfway when Tessa calls out to me.

  “Craig, just one thing. Where did you learn those...err...bedroom moves?”

  I turn to face her.

  “PornHub.com”

  A final, fleeting glance at her confused face and I walk away.

  I stroll along Tessa’s road, the sun finally gaining a little warmth, heightening my contented mood. All things considered, that went pretty well, if you overlook the impromptu foreplay and talking teddy bear. I actually feel quite proud of myself because for once in my life, I decided not to take the easy option. It would have been so much simpler, and more gratifying, if I’d just gone along with Tessa’s seduction. But I chose to do what was right rather than what was easy. It’s just a shame it’s taken me forty-six years to realise that the path of least resistance isn’t always the right path.

  As I cross the footbridge and head back towards the main road, my thoughts turn to the schizophrenic conversation with Cuthbert. I don’t know if I was conversing with a teddy bear or my subconscious mind, but the points raised remain valid. I may have changed one fundamental aspect of my future, but it won’t make much difference to the person I become. I may avoid the post-virgin crisis and pass my exams, but I’ll still have all the negative traits that held me back throughout my life. I need to confront a few other demons I’ve let fester for far too long. Demons I should have dealt with when I was originally sixteen. Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t be living the wholly vapid existence that is my future life.

  I pass the arcade, the shops, and the cafe, carefully plotting what I need to do to ensure that I don’t return to a future tarnished with the same hangups. By the time I reach the edge of the estate, I think I’ve got some semblance of a plan. Whether I have the fortitude to follow it through is another matter. I guess one potent motivator is that I’ve only got about thirty-four hours left here before I’m thrown back to my middle-age. What a catastrophe it would be if I return to find the only thing that’s changed is that I’ve got a drawer full of exam certificates. It would be like your numbers coming up on the lottery in a week where you’ve forgotten to buy a ticket. The thought makes me feel a little sick. However daunting it might be to fix my past, it can’t possibly be as bad as the way I’d feel if I blow this opportunity.

  I wander through the estate and turn into our road. I can see Dad’s car sat on the drive so he’s almost certainly still at home. Every step closer to our front door is a step closer to my next challenge. Butterflies flutter in my stomach and my mouth is bone dry. I pull my key from my pocket and unlock the front door to silence. The thick stench of stale cigarette smoke invades my nostrils and I hold the door open for a few seconds to acclimatize. I take a final deep breath of clean air and pull the door closed. The first thing I have to do is confirm that Mum isn’t home so I call her name up the stairs. No reply. I wander through the sitting room and into the kitchen. Mum isn’t home, which is good.

  I open the fridge looking for something to drink but there’s no beer, no wine, nothing. I could kill for something alcoholic about now. Not just for refreshment but a little Dutch courage. I have to settle for a carton of Um Bongo, which I slurp through a plastic straw. Thirst sated, I cross the kitchen to the door which leads out to the garden. I take a deep breath and open the door.

  Here goes nothing.

  8

  I hate gardening, always have done. Actually, that’s not strictly true. I’m hopeless at gardening, always have been. Every plant I’ve ever had to take responsibility for has died within weeks. If society treated plant life like human life, I’d be on some sort of register by now, or locked away in horticultural prison for crimes against geraniums. I can just about push a mower across our tiny lawn at home but that’s as far as the green in my fingers extends. However, that’s not to say I can’t appreciate a nice garden when I see one, and the one in front of me is particularly nice. Beyond the aesthetics, the smell of freshly cut grass and tubs of sweet-smelling flowers provides a welcome relief from the sickly stench of cigarettes inside the house.

  But I’m not here to complement my father on his gardening skills.

  The old man is nowhere to be seen so I wander down the slate path towards the centre of the garden. I rarely came out here as a child because it wasn’t somewhere to play. This was strictly Dad’s space and woe betide anyone who messed with it. I lost count of how many errant footballs came over the fence from our neighbour’s garden, only to be punctured with a garden fork and tossed back. He was never a man willing to engage in reasoned discussion, which is why I’m not in a rush to find him now.

  I edge down the path in ponderous steps, inspecting the beds either side of me in more detail. The old man is clearly off-the-scale obsessive about every detail. The borders are straight as a rod and so neatly manicured I suspect scissors were used. Beyond the clinically trimmed borders, the dark soil beds contain a wide variety of plants that look lovely, but are all totally alien to me. Maybe someone with knowledge of such things could truly appreciate the meticulous placement of carefully selected plants, but that person isn’t me.

  As I watch a bee lazily float from flower to flower, the serenity is spoilt by a waft of cigarette smoke and the sound of a throaty cough. I turn to face the potting shed, just as another plume of cigarette smoke drifts from the open door. My foe is obviously in residence so I stride towards the shed, trying not to let my nerves get the better of me. My analytical mind delivers a crumb of comfort by reminding me that my dad is actually my junior by a few years. It’s a minor psychological advantage, but as this could be the most difficult conversation I’ve ever had, I’ll take it.

  I stand in the doorway of the shed and let my eyes adjust to the relative gloom. The shed is about eight foot square, and the only light is provided by two grimy windows either side of the door. The still air is heavy with cigarette smoke, and tinged with an undertone of creosote, compost, and sweat. Shelves run the entire length of the back wall, laden with plastic bottles, metal cans, hand tools, and an assortment of gardening paraphernalia. A bright orange hover mower is sat on the floor below the shelves, next to a wheelbarrow, and two large cylindrical tubs. The opposite side of the shed is given over to a wooden workbench, covered with packets of seeds and white polystyrene trays. Stood at the bench, with his arm buried to the elbow in a bag of compost, is the old man.

  Judging by his startled expression at seeing me, I suspect he doesn’t entertain many guests down here. That expression only stays on his face for a second as his default frown returns.

  “What do you want?” he snaps, the cigarette in his mouth flicking up and down in time to his words.

  I let the question hang for a moment as I fuel my resolve by mentally picturing my dreary future. This is a one-shot deal. I have to push through with this, as otherwise I’m consigning myself to the exact same future as before.

  “Just thought I’d pop down and see what you’re up to,” I nonchalantly reply.

  He says something under his breath I don’t catch and returns his attention to a tray of plants on the bench.

  “Are they Delphiniums?” I casually enquire.

  Fate has played into my hands on this occasion as I’ve just won the flower lottery. From my own failed efforts to grow anything in our garden, I recognise the distinctive spiky Delphiniums because I’d purchased some from the local garden centre last year, and subsequently murdered them within three weeks.

  “How do you know what they are?”

  “Let’s just say I’m more worldly w
ise than you give me credit for. You’d be amazed what I know.”

  He doesn’t reply. He turns away and continues to scoop handfuls of compost into a tray. Maybe he thinks I’ll go away if he ignores me, but I press on.

  “I know, for example, that those twinges you get in your knees from time to time will eventually become arthritis.”

  He bellows cigarette smoke from his nostrils like an irritated dragon, but still doesn’t say a word.

  “And I know that it’s Mum who pays for all my Christmas and birthday presents.”

  His frown deepens and I can tell he’s becoming increasingly annoyed at my presence. He’s going to snap any moment, so I get to my point.

  “And I know that you’re not really my dad.”

  He freezes for a second, his face reddens, and tiny twitches ripple in his cheeks. He removes the cigarette from his lips and crushes it into an ashtray on the bench.

  “What the hell are you on about, boy?” he barks without warning, causing me to flinch.

  I regain my composure.

  “You see, it’s things like calling me ‘boy’ that give it away. That, and the way you’ve treated me over the years.”

  Actually, his behaviour was just a series of clues — a DNA testing kit, purchased online last year, provided me with the categorical proof. I don’t know what I hoped to achieve by finding out but it was something that niggled away at me for years. When I opened the envelope from the testing company and read the results, it wasn’t any great surprise, and it changed nothing. As terrible a job as he’d done, he's the only father I’ve ever known, and I'm stuck with him. I never shared my revelation with anyone. Too much water had passed under the bridge and true to form, I buried it away.

  “How dare you say such a thing. Get out of here before I do something we’ll both regret,” he bellows, his face full of apoplectic rage.

  My heart is now pounding in my chest and I’m thinking this wasn’t such a great idea. Too late, the genie is now out of the bottle. I have to stand my ground and follow this through.

  “I'm not listening to your threats any more. You either tell me the truth and we deal with this now, or I’ll ask Mum the minute she gets back. Your choice, but I'm not going to let this go.”