The '86 Fix: A 1980s Time Travel Novel

by Keith A Pearson

  Not today it would seem.

  It’s clear within a few minutes of sitting down for lunch that Granddad is ready to commence battle. He stabs a whole roast potato with his fork and waves it around while delivering his opening salvo about the strong Labour results in last month’s local elections. I look across at the old man and it’s clear he’s trying desperately not to retaliate, to keep up his good behaviour. He smiles politely through gritted teeth while Granddad continues to push his agenda. I do feel for the old man and decide to interject.

  “Granddad, what do you think of this new M25 motorway opening?”

  While trying to ignore Keith Harris on the TV yesterday, I read an article in the paper about the M25. It's due to be officially opened later this year, and the article contained a timeline of the project history, together with some useful facts I could use to steer the conversation away from politics.

  “A white elephant if you ask me. What’s wrong with the current inner ring road? It’s just another example of this Tory government wasting taxpayers’ money.”

  “But wasn’t the project first endorsed back in the 1960s by the Greater London Council, under Labour leadership?”

  I didn’t mean to undermine him but I couldn’t help myself. He fumbles for an answer while a mile-wide grin spreads across the old man’s face. For a second I catch his eye. He shoots me a look I can honestly say I’ve never seen before; a look of pride. As pleasing as it is to gain the old man’s approval, I need to put Granddad out of his misery so I move the conversation along.

  “Anyway, you don’t think it’s a worthwhile project then, Granddad?”

  “No I don’t. Mark my words lad, twenty years’ time and they’ll be ripping it up. No bugger will use it.”

  I offer a sage nod as if to agree with him. He couldn’t be more wrong but I let him have the final word.

  With Granddad seemingly not keen to engage in any further political discussion, we finish our lunch with nothing more than banal small talk. The roast is followed by a homemade trifle for pudding, which we annihilate with gusto. Mum and Gran then chat away about cake recipes while they do the dishes. Granddad and the old man retire to the garden to bore one another witless on the subject of perennial plants. I offer to make the tea as it’s preferable to joining in with either conversation.

  Mum and Gran make light work of the untidy kitchen while I fill the teapot with boiling water and assemble the cups and saucers on a tray. Once the kitchen is shipshape, and the tea is brewing, the three of us head out to the garden. I place the tray down on a small patio table and everyone takes a seat while I pour the stewed tea. It’s been a long time since I made tea in a pot with proper leaves and I’ve clearly underestimated the water to leaf ratio. Keen not to dampen my enthusiasm for helping out with such chores, nobody complains.

  We spend the next few hours sat in the garden chatting away. I’d usually avoid this part of my grandparents’ visit and retreat to my bedroom, but that’s not going to happen today. I want to make the most of every minute of their company. My only frustration is that I have to play the part of my sixteen year-old self. There are moments of my life I desperately want to share with them, and several times throughout the afternoon I almost blurt out something yet to happen. There is so much to say, to catch up on, but so little I can actually talk about. In the end, I spend most of our time together sat quietly listening to my grandparents chatter away. But it’s more than enough for me, and no matter what comes of this weekend, it’s a few hours I will savour for the rest of my days.

  Before I know it, four o’clock rolls around and it’s time for them to depart. Granddad plays bowls every Sunday and kick-off, or whatever it is they do to start a bowls match, is in an hour's time. The five of us stand on the driveway next to the old man’s Cavalier. Parked across the road is a silver, nearly new Ford Orion — destined to carry my grandparents on their final journey when they leave this life for the next. I’m surprised I never spotted it when I arrived home earlier, but it’s such a common, unremarkable car, it’s easy to miss — particularly if you happen to be driving a thirty-two ton truck.

  Mum and Dad say their goodbyes before Gran steps forward and gives me a hug. The last hug I’ll ever receive from her. This is the goodbye I never got to say before, and I struggle to keep my emotions in check. Tears begin to well and I draw in huge gulps of air to quell the convulsions brewing in my stomach. I summon just enough composure to whisper a few words.

  “Love you Gran.”

  “And I love you too sweetie, so very much,” she whispers back, as she tightens her grip on me.

  I bite down hard on my bottom lip, the pain a distraction from the hollow ache in my chest. I reluctantly break our embrace, which has already passed the point of being socially acceptable. As Gran steps away, Granddad moves in and puts his arms around me, his hand on the back of my head. I rest my chin on his shoulder and breath in the subtle traces of patchouli and sandalwood from his favoured aftershave.

  “Don’t worry about us lad, it was just a silly dream. We’ll see you as usual in a few weeks’ time, I promise you that.”

  He’s right that he will see me, just not this version of me. In a few weeks’ time, I’ll be thirty years away and I doubt he’ll be there. He pats me on the back and we break apart. With a final goodbye, they set off across the street to their car. Mum and Dad give them a wave and head back inside. I stand and watch their silver Ford Orion make its way down our road until they’re out of sight. I head straight up to my bedroom and collapse on the bed. I’m glad my parents are in the garden and can’t hear me crying.

  It takes me almost thirty minutes to pull myself together and focus on what I’ve got to do in the next seven hours and twenty-five minutes. My plans for the afternoon have been completely shot due to my grandparents’ unexpected visit. Couple that with the additional task I’ve now got to complete and I need to get my backside in gear. The time I have left is precious, and I can’t afford to waste any more of it on self-pity. I dash to the bathroom, take a leak, and wash my tear-stained face. I hurry downstairs and poke my head around the door to the garden, where my parents are still sat.

  “I’ve got to sort out some homework with Dave. Do you mind if I skip tea?”

  “That’s all right love, we were thinking about going out for a drive, anyway. Come back whenever you’re ready and I’ll make you a sandwich,” Mum replies.

  I skip the kiss this time and leave them to it.

  I break into a slight jog as I make my way through the estate. It’s such a liberating experience travelling in a fit young body, yet to be wrecked by excessive alcohol and fast food consumption. When it’s this easy, I can almost see why people enjoy jogging. From the one-and-only attempt I’ve made to get fit in recent years, I can vouch that it’s not so much fun when you’re an overweight, uncoordinated, wheezing lump. Such is the irony of exercise — those who need it the most are the least capable of performing it.

  I lie to myself that maybe I’ll try again when I return to the future.

  I reach the edge of the estate in just a few minutes, and dart across the main road towards the shops. My destination is a small terraced house situated in a back street not far from the Rendezvous Cafe. It was in the cafe nine years ago that my mum first met Aunt Judy, although she was just plain Judy back then. I was about seven years old when Judy received her 'aunt’ status. She had all the hallmarks of becoming a spinster, so Mum thought that being allocated a nephew by proxy would make her feel better about her childless existence. I’ve always thought she was a bit of a loon, but for the purposes of my plan to save my grandparents, she’s the perfect stooge.

  Two minutes later, I’m stood outside Aunt Judy’s tatty terraced house and knock on the weather-beaten front door. A wind-chime above my head catches a breeze and clangs random metallic notes as if to signal my arrival. As I wait for the door to be opened, I run through my plan one more time to ensure I’ve got every base covered. I have to admit, it’
s a long shot and not without its risks, but with no other options open to me, I’ve got little other choice than to try.

  The door opens, no going back now.

  “Hello darling, what a lovely surprise,” Aunt Judy beams.

  She’s dressed in a style best described as Bohemian bag lady. Today’s outfit is a psychedelic patterned skirt, and sage-green blouse layered beneath a crocheted pink cardigan. Although she’s only a few years older than my mum, Aunt Judy’s fondness for cigarettes and stubborn refusal to use skincare products have jointly taken their toll on her face. It would better fit a woman ten years her senior. Her long hair, once jet black, is now the colour of clouds, and her blue eyes have long-since lost their youthful lustre.

  Such is the extent of Aunt Judy’s oddball nature, she developed Alzheimer's disease in 2007 and nobody noticed for almost a year. At this moment in time, if I recall, she would best be described as mildly eccentric. In fairness, she has never shown me anything other than kindness but as I got older, I realised her eccentricities were a symptom of some fairly delusional beliefs. I guess if you live your life with a completely open mind, at some point it becomes a little overcrowded, a little noisy.

  “Hi Aunt Judy. Sorry to drop by unannounced, but I was wondering if I could have a chat with you about something?”

  “Of course you can, come on in.”

  She leads me through a cramped, dingy hallway to her front room. The air is thick with the smell of spiced incense and possibly marijuana although I don’t see any physical evidence to suggest Aunt Judy is a pot head. It might explain a lot though. Her taste for interior design is as disjointed as her fashion sense. The walls of the room are painted in a deep shade of purple and the ceiling duck-egg blue. A huge Matisse print dominates the space above the tiled fireplace while the other walls hold shelves laden with books, and pieces of low-budget art. Hippy-chic meets Victorian brothel.

  We sit down on a threadbare sofa and I decline Aunt Judy’s offer of herbal tea. The springs below the thin cushion jab at my buttocks as I twist to face her. She asks me a few polite questions about how things are going at school before getting to the point.

  “So what is it you wanted to chat about?”

  “Well, it’s a little awkward, really. It’s not something I can talk to Mum or Dad about, but I know you’ve got more of an open mind.”

  “This isn’t about…you know, bedroom stuff, is it Craig?” she asks with a concerned frown.

  “God, no. It’s about a dream I had.”

  “That’s a relief. I’m the last person you want to discuss that sort of thing with.”

  “Right...well, err, about this dream.”

  “Sorry darling, go on.”

  “You might think I’m crazy, but I had this dream last night, and I saw my grandparents die in a road accident. It was so real and so detailed that I think it was more than just a dream. Is that possible?”

  It’s a leading question. Aunt Judy is a true believer, which is why I’m here. She is obsessed with tarot cards, ouija boards, fortune telling, astrology, clairvoyance and just about anything you could label as otherworldly. She is so passionate about such things that sometimes her views seem almost plausible. My hope is that I can convince her my dream was real and she’ll then deliver that information to my mother. Mum has always been fairly open-minded to Aunt Judy’s views and I think she’ll believe her. She is far more likely to heed a prophetic warning from Aunt Judy than me that’s for sure.

  She casually replies to my question.

  “Sure, it’s possible for some gifted people to see future events in their dreams, but it’s very rare Craig, very rare indeed. What those people see is more of a prophecy than a dream. I suspect that what you experienced was nothing more than a vivid nightmare. I’d just forget about it if I were you. I’m positive your grandparents will be just fine.”

  Aunt Judy smiles at me, seemingly happy she’s allayed my fears. Fuck, she didn’t take the bait. I thought she’d jump on this and my plan would drop into place with very little effort on my part. I now have to revert to a strategy I really didn’t want to adopt, but she’s left me with no other choice.

  “Actually, the bit about my grandparents, it’s only half the dream.”

  She drapes an arm across the back of the sofa and moves a fraction closer to me.

  “Okay, I’m intrigued. What was the other half of your dream about?”

  “That was about you. You were in my dream too.”

  “Oh, really? And what was I doing in this dream of yours?”

  “You were running away.”

  “And what was I running away from, darling?”

  Judging by her sympathetic smile and the breezy nature of her questioning, I get the feeling she’s humouring me. She isn’t making the connection I want her to make. I need to be a little more blatant.

  “A man in dirty green overalls was chasing you.”

  The smile disappears from her face almost as quickly as the colour in her cheeks. She gulps down hard and stares at me with wide-eyed horror.

  “What did you say?” she says slowly.

  “In my dream, you were running. A man in green overalls was chasing you. I think you locked yourself in a room, a dark room, to hide from him.”

  I hate myself for doing this, but there is no other way.

  5

  Aunt Judy gets up from the sofa and stumbles across the room to the fireplace. Her hands reach for the mantelpiece and she slides a metal tin from behind a picture frame and opens it. She takes out a hand-rolled cigarette and lifts it to her lips with a shaky hand. The same shaky hand then takes a match and strikes it against a matchbox. She lifts it towards the tip of the cigarette and pulls a large drag. A plume of smoke spreads across the room and judging by the smell, I suspect there’s more than tobacco wrapped in that cigarette paper. Whatever she’s smoking, it has the desired calming effect, and she turns back to me.

  “Do you remember anything else, Craig? It’s important.”

  What I remember is that in the mid-90s, a scandal involving the local girls' school was uncovered. For almost two decades between 1950 and 1969, the caretaker, a piece of work called Harold Duffy, was accused of systematically abusing girls in the school. The abuse was only brought to light when a former pupil died and her husband read her childhood diaries. Extracts from those diaries made it to the national papers and before long, dozens of other women came forward to share their horrific tales of abuse at the hands of Duffy. One of those women was my Aunt Judy.

  Like many predatory paedophiles, Harold Duffy was calculating and controlling when it came to hiding his abuse. Girls were threatened with all manner of unpalatable consequences if they told a soul about what he’d done to them. He made it clear he would watch them forever, long beyond their schooldays, to ensure they kept their silence. Duffy was a truly evil piece of shit.

  Fortunately for Duffy but not so for the justice system, he died in 1992, a few years before his vile crimes hit the headlines. However, anyone and everyone who had any association with the school during his years of paedophilia was brought to account. Teachers, governors, support staff; everyone who was still alive was tarnished by association, just because they worked in the school at the same time as Duffy. Such was the frustration at the inability to punish the perpetrator, the whole thing descended into a witch-hunt in the national media and within the education system. How could he have conducted his vile acts for so long without anyone knowing? Did he have any accomplices? Were allegations made at the time but swept under the carpet? The sordid, accusatory dialogue continued in the newspapers for months, impossible to forget for those of us looking on, let alone the poor souls who had their wounds reopened.

  And this is my shameful last resort. As I sit here in 1986, Harold Duffy is still very much alive and the only people aware of his dirty secret are his victims, and me. It’s an odious hand to play but the only feasible way I can convince Aunt Judy that my dream was really prophetic and not
just the vivid imagination of a teenage boy.

  “I remember there were other girls in the room with you, I think. It’s difficult to remember clearly. The man in the green overalls, he was balding and had a small moustache. I can still see his chubby face and round glasses, like John Lennon wore.”

  Duffy’s distinctive face wasn’t easy to forget. Like the bearded face of The Yorkshire Ripper in the 70s, it was everywhere in the media and they always used a photo of Duffy from the period when his crimes were committed, rather than an image of him in later years. I guess it was considered more emotive to view the face of a man in the midst of his abominable crimes rather than a sad old man who could pass for someone’s grandfather.

  Aunt Judy takes another deep drag on her cigarette and sits back down on the edge of the sofa.

  “Listen to me carefully, Craig, I don’t think it was a dream. I think you may have some insight into things that not even I understand. I don’t want you to be scared but we need to get as much detail about your dream as we can. Can you do that for me?”

  I spend the next twenty minutes telling her about my grandparents’ accident, trying not to dwell too much about what happened at the school.

  “You see why I couldn’t discuss this with my parents? There is no way they’d believe me.”

  “I see that now. You did the right thing coming to see me but I need you to do something. I need you to promise you will never discuss the part of your dream about the man in overalls with anyone...ever. Make that promise for me and I promise I’ll convince your mum she needs to keep her parents off the road on that date.”

  “How will you do that?”

  Aunt Judy looks towards the ceiling and closes her eyes as if trying to calm whatever turmoil I’ve unleashed. She takes deep, deliberate breaths before opening her eyes and turning to face me.