The '86 Fix: A 1980s Time Travel Novel

by Keith A Pearson

  “Okay, have a nice time.”

  The old man shuffles around while attempting to pull something from the pocket of his beige slacks.

  “Your Mum says you’re off to the arcade. Here.”

  He hands me a pound coin and I catch his expression which seems to imply that the coin is in no way payment for my silence.

  “Cheers, Dad.”

  Mum plants a lipsticked kiss on my cheek and they leave the house. All is quiet apart from the ticking carriage clock and the grating voice of Keith Harris on the TV. I shudder and switch if off.

  I trot up the stairs and put my trainers back on. Knowing it will be the final time I ever visit Astro Arcade, I want to ensure I’m sufficiently financed for a lengthy session. While the pound Dad gave me is symbolically priceless, I suspect my gaming skills will be rusty so I’ll need more than just a quid. I scan the bedroom and locate my Darth Vader money box, which I empty. I put on my jacket, and just as I close the bedroom door behind me, the doorbell chimes downstairs.

  I pad back down the stairs and cautiously open the front door. For once, I’m hoping it’s somebody selling tat on the doorstep, rather than somebody I know. Unfortunately, it is somebody I know and my heart sinks when I open the door to Ross Glavin, the future pension adviser. I could really do without a conversation with, if I recall correctly, one of my more immature schoolmates.

  “All right Craig? You coming out?”

  He stands there with a wide grin, his hair heavy with gel and his pale face dotted with angry spots. I stare at him for a moment while I consider the quickest way to end this impromptu meeting.

  “Earth to Craig. Hello, did you hear me?”

  “Sorry Ross, I was miles away,” I reply, wishing I was.

  “Watcha doing?”

  “Um, I’m meeting my parents for dinner in a minute.”

  As excuses go, it’s a poor one. I don’t recall ever going out for dinner with my parents on a Saturday evening.

  “You saddo! I’m meeting Barry at the skate park, he’s got his hands on a few bottles of cider. Why don’t you blow-out your parents and come along?”

  For a nanosecond, the prospect of consuming alcohol clouds my judgement, and I actually consider his invitation. Do I want to spend the next few hours sitting in a concrete bowl, drinking cheap cider and listening to Barry and Ross brag about which girls they’ve allegedly fingered?

  “Think I’ll pass mate. My folks won't be happy if I don't turn up.”

  “Suit yourself. More booze for me then.”

  A few seconds of silence pass, and just as I think he’s about to go away, he continues.

  “Oh, do you know Charlotte Pike?”

  “No, don’t think so.”

  “Yes you do. She’s in our physics class.”

  I don’t know why he felt it necessary to ask me a question to which he already knew my answer.

  “Oh, yeah. What about her?”

  “I titted her up last night.”

  Ross lets his revelation hang in the air, his grin widening. I don’t know what reaction I’m supposed to have to his claim, or indeed what's involved in a girl being ‘titted up’.

  “Right, well done you,” I offer.

  “Yeah, probably gonna shag her next week if she’s lucky. Anyway, seeing as you’re being boring, I’d better get going before that greedy sod drinks all the booze.”

  “Good luck with that. I’ll see you at school on Monday.”

  “Okay, seeya mate.”

  As I watch Ross jog away, I can’t help wonder why I ever hung around with him. The naivety of youth I suspect.

  I wait five minutes for Ross to clear the area, and armed with £3.80 in loose change, I head out into the evening sun towards the arcade.

  Compared to modern amusement arcades where the games are incredibly sophisticated and a quid a go, every machine in Astro Arcade requires a single ten-pence piece to play. I stretch my £3.80 budget to almost three hours, losing my final life on Gorf just minutes before the arcade is due to close. It’s almost ten o’clock when I emerge onto the quiet street, penniless, but contented with my evening of retro gaming. I stroll home under dark skies, the scenery bathed in a phosphorous orange glow from the street lights. I pass a chip-shop, which is doing good business even at this late hour. The mouth-watering aroma of freshly cooked chips hits me, triggering regret I’ve blown all my money.

  I arrive home to find the house in complete darkness, and a space on the drive that would usually be occupied by Dad’s car. This bodes well. They’re obviously still having a good time at the pub as Mum is usually tucked up in bed by now — either that, or they’ve gone dogging up on the heath. I admit the latter isn’t likely, I’m not sure dogging even existed in 1986. I let myself in and spend a few minutes blindly patting the walls in search of a light switch. With light eventually shed, I head into the sitting room, slump down on the sofa and stretch my legs out in front of me. A deep yawn reminds me how long today has been. Long, yet constructive. Constructive, yet challenging. I can say with all certainty it has been the most extraordinary day of my life, possibly anyone’s life.

  With no other distractions in the silent room, my ears fix on the unabating tick-tock of the carriage clock. My eyelids grow heavier with every passing second until I can no longer resist. I close my eyes. Sleep isn’t far away, the rhythmic beats of the clock enticing me to move closer. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. I drift slowly from reality until I fall into the blissful abyss of sleep.

  I could have slept where I sat for hours, but the slamming of a car door outside the sitting room window puts paid to that. For a few seconds I struggle to comprehend where I am. Once I establish the where, the dawning realisation of the when eventually follows. I quickly acclimatize back into my role and through bleary eyes, I consult my watch. 11.25pm. The sound of the front door opening is accompanied by laughter. My parents, or at least two people I assume to be my parents, waltz into the sitting room. It’s difficult to tell if they’re deliriously happy or just drunk. Maybe a little of both, but I’ve never seen them like this before.

  “Hello sweetheart. We thought you’d be in bed by now,” Mum literally shouts.

  She wobbles across the room and plants a sloppy kiss on my forehead, the smell of Cinzano Bianco heavy on her breath.

  “You had a good evening I assume?”

  “We had a lovely time, didn’t we Colin?”

  “Magic dear,” the old man slurs, clearly quite pissed.

  I’m just about to launch into a sermon about the perils of drink-driving when I remind myself that this is a different era. As enlightened as 80s society thinks it is, there isn’t anywhere near the same social stigma attached to drink-driving as there is in the present day. My parents are of a generation where it’s considered no more a crime than speeding. Everyone does it, and that’s fine as long as you don’t get caught.

  “Did you have a nice time at the arcade, sweetheart?” Mum asks.

  “Yeah, not bad thanks,” I reply wearily.

  “You should be in bed, young man, you look beat.”

  “I am. I was just about to head up when you came in.”

  “Okay. We’re heading up to bed now, aren’t we darling?” Mum says suggestively as she nudges the old man in the ribs.

  “Yes we are,” he replies with a little too much enthusiasm.

  Mum gives me another kiss on the forehead and wishes me good night. She disappears up the stairs, leaving me with the old man. I’m just about to get up when he strides across the room and flops down next to me. He turns and places his shovel of a hand on my knee. I wish I’d gone straight up to bed when I came in. This is beyond awkward.

  “I’ve had a few drinks, so I’ll say this now because I don’t think I could if I were sober.”

  “Okay,” I reply nervously.

  “Thank you, son.”

  “Err, you’re welcome. I’m not sure what for though.”

  “I forgot how lucky I am. Our little chat earlier help
ed me to remember.”

  He’s right about one thing. I cannot imagine those words leaving a sober mouth.

  “I’m pleased Dad. You just have to keep reminding yourself, every day. I guess it’s easy to take what we have for granted.”

  “You’re not wrong, son.”

  He gives me a drunken smile and staggers off to bed, leaving me to reflect on the hypocrisy of my advice.

  I sit and wait until I hear my parents’ bedroom door close and drag myself upstairs, collapsing onto my bed. I strip off my jeans and lie on top of the duvet, waiting for sleep to return. That prospect diminishes as the muffled sound of giggling passes through the paper-thin wall of my parents’ bedroom. A few minutes pass, and all is quiet once more.

  Then it’s not.

  It starts with the faint groaning of a single voice, barely audible. Then another voice joins in with the groaning, raising the combined sound a few decibels. It grows louder, interspersed with an occasional shriek and several heavy grunts.

  I leap off the bed and frantically rummage through the drawers opposite. I find my Sony Walkman in the third drawer. I place the padded headphones over my ears and flick the output switch to radio, the volume to maximum. A jazz track bursts through the headphones. I’ve got an eclectic taste in music, but I detest jazz with a passion. However, anything is preferable to the sound of my parents having sex. What horrors have I unleashed?

  As I return to my bed, I pray the Walkman batteries last longer than the old man.

  PART FOUR

  1

  One of the many criticisms Megan levied at me during our twenty-five years of marriage, was my inability to show spontaneous affection. This was such a problem for her she even went to the trouble of giving it the acronym of SAD — Spousal Affection Deficiency. Despite Megan’s prognosis, it was something that I just couldn’t change. As I saw it, the act of being spontaneously affectionate needed to be exactly that; spontaneous. But how can something be spontaneous if you have to consciously make an effort to do it? After a decade of trying to fix my SAD, she gave up and accepted that I would never be as affectionate as she wanted me to be.

  I always blamed the old man for my inability to show affection. Mum was always very demonstrative but I don’t recall receiving even a handshake from him. As for any affection shown by the old man towards his wife, it was perfunctory at best. A peck on the cheek as he left for work, and maybe one on his return if his day hadn’t been too stressful.

  So as I sit in the kitchen munching on a slice of toast, it’s a little disconcerting watching the old man stood behind Mum at the kitchen sink, his arms wrapped around her waist. While I don’t know the specifics of what occurred in their bedroom last night, nor do I wish to think about it too deeply, it seems to have had a profound effect on the old man. It’s no bad thing, I’d just rather not pay witness to their public groping. Hopefully this will calm down in time and they’ll find a happy balance, otherwise I might have just inflicted years of late night Dizzie Gillespie on my teenage self.

  I finish my breakfast and leave the lovebirds to it. I head upstairs to the bathroom for a ninety second shower, and with a towel wrapped around my waist, I dart across the landing to my bedroom. It’s just gone 10.00am and the countdown timer on the computer shows I’ve got a little under fourteen hours remaining before it reaches zero. Unfortunately, I have to fit at least an hour into my schedule for Sunday lunch where my presence is mandatory. I’ve now got a three-hour window to complete the first of my planned tasks. This is a task born of pure principle. It probably won’t make a difference to my revised timeline but I’m hopeful it will prove beneficial for the teenager who wakes up tomorrow. I’m not sure the consequences will be so positive for the other individual involved, but I don’t care.

  Bedecked in a clean pair of jeans, a dark blue polo shirt and my Nike trainers, I scour the bedroom looking for loose change. I’ve already rued two occasions where I’ve not had any money in my pocket — the lack of easy access to cash is something I’m finding a real annoyance. In my time, I leave the house with a contactless debit card, three credit cards, and a payment app on my phone. Cash is becoming increasingly redundant in my life, but here it’s still king. I wonder what a teenager of this era would make of our burgeoning cashless society? It would be quite something to see their shocked face as they watch you pay for a coffee, simply by waving a piece of plastic or a mobile phone over a small terminal. Saying that, they’d probably be more shocked that you’re willing to pay four quid for a cup of coffee.

  Having wasted ten minutes searching every drawer in the room, I manage to scrape £1.08 together. I drop the meagre funds into my pocket and head back down the stairs. I cautiously open the kitchen door, fearful I might find the old man rodgering my mother up against the fridge-freezer. It’s with some relief I find them both sat at the table, reading the Sunday papers.

  “I’m just going out for a while. Be back in time for lunch.”

  “Okay sweetheart, see you later.”

  “Bye son,” the old man cheerfully adds.

  I give them both a smile and leave the house, destined for what is likely to be the first of several interesting encounters today.

  Unlike my initial foray into 1986 yesterday, it’s much warmer today and there’s little breeze. The streets echo to the sound of lawn mowers and dozens of cars are being washed on driveways. The smell of cut grass lingers in the air, occasionally joined by a trace of frying bacon. If you wanted to capture the quintessential essence of a suburban Sunday morning, today would be the day to do it. The scene is only fractionally marred as I pass a dowdy woman, stood watching her Labrador take a shit on the pavement. I hurry my pace to avoid the rancid stench. After a few seconds I turn to see both the dog and his owner cross the street, the mound of shit left where dispatched. It seems we haven’t reached the point where dog owners are obliged to scoop their pets’ faeces into a thin plastic bag and carry it home like a stinking fairground goldfish.

  It takes less than ten minutes to reach the far side of the estate, but another five minutes to navigate my way through the confusing network of cul-de-sacs. I seldom had reason to venture into this part of the estate unless I was making a delivery to the house I’m about to visit. The goods being delivered were my computer games, and the recipient was a young Marcus Morrison. It wasn't something I did through choice. Marcus would overhear me mention a new game during computer club and then suggest I lend it to him. And by lend, I mean deliver it to his house that evening and immediately rescind ownership. When it dawned on me that I would never see the games Marcus borrowed again, I made copies using the tape-to-tape recording facility on my stereo. I ended up with about a dozen bootleg copies of games I’d actually bought and paid for. It didn’t seem fair, but in Marcus's intimidating style, he demanded and I always obliged.

  Now I’m stood at the junction of Orchard Gardens, there is no fear, just simmering anger and determination. I’m here to reclaim my computer games and more importantly, my self-respect. Physically I might be a teenager, but my middle-aged mind won't let a spoilt teenage brat win this particular battle. I have the psychological advantage and thirty years of pent up angst to call upon. And one thing I do know is that despite Marcus’s threats in school, he never once had the guts to follow through on any of them. Sure, he could intimidate because he was taller than most of the kids, but when it came to inflicting physical harm, he was strictly third division compared to some of the psychopaths in our school. His only weapon was fear, but if he sees I’m no longer afraid of him, I’m confident he’ll back down. At least that’s what I hope.

  As I enter Orchard Gardens I focus on a picture in my head. It’s a picture of Marcus’s future where he’s sat on a toilet floor with terror in his eyes. One punch from Dave and he goes down, he stays down. I wish I’d been the one to deliver that punch, but that’s an irrelevance now because my actions yesterday should ensure that I’m never in the same toilet as Marcus, and certainly never in a posi
tion where he can destroy my career. However, this isn’t about Marcus, this is about giving my teenage self the chance to be a better, stronger person. What I hope to achieve in the next ten minutes is to remove the fear and the self-doubt that blighted my life. I just need to show Marcus that I'm not scared of him any more.

  Marcus’s house is situated at the end of Orchard Gardens; a leafy cul-de-sac of seven imposing mock-Tudor houses. Compared to our modest semi-detached house, these homes are more like mansions. Nobody here is washing their car or mowing their lawn, probably because the residents would rather pay somebody else to complete such menial chores. With no reason for anyone to be outside, it’s eerily quiet, just the sound of birdsong and my trainers scuffing across the tarmac pavement as I approach No. 4. Despite the presence of a double garage, there are two cars sat on a paved driveway outside Marcus’s house. A dark green Jaguar XJS and a silver VW Golf. Both are less than a year old and I suspect the Jaguar is worth more than my dad earns in a year. Mr & Mrs Morrison are clearly wealthy people, which would go some way to explaining Marcus’s indulged upbringing.

  As I take a few steps along the path to the front door, I hear something. Shouting? I stop and turn around, but there’s nobody else in the cul-de-sac. Whatever it was, I can’t hear it now. I shrug my shoulders and continue along the path. Barely four steps later and I hear it again. Definitely shouting, from Marcus’s house. The double glazing is doing a fine job of dampening the voices so I can’t hear what’s being said. Maybe I should come back another time. I’m only fifteen feet from the front door so if I’m going to abort, I need to do it now. I’d rather avoid being embroiled in a family argument. Seconds tick by as I stand motionless, feeling exposed. I need to make a decision, but then my mind is made up for me.

  At the very second I shift my weight onto my right foot to turn and walk away, the front door opens. I freeze, and my initial confidence drains in an instant as I stare straight at Marcus and his crimson face. He does a brief double-take when he sees me, but quickly finds his angry face again. He steps from the doorway and strides towards me. I instinctively raise my hands, palms outward, in a pathetic show of surrender. With less than six feet between us, my mouth drops open as I try to find some words. I can just about mutter Marcus’s name, but it’s pointless — his eyes are fixed firmly ahead and he brushes straight past me into the cul-de-sac.