The '86 Fix: A 1980s Time Travel Novel

by Keith A Pearson

  “Yes...yes, I am,” I splutter.

  Megan smiles at me, the same smile she gave me when we first met in the office at the back of the store. I feel an overwhelming yet irrational urge to jump over the counter and pull her into my arms. Considering she hasn’t a clue who I am, it’s not a good idea. She’s wearing her trademark baggy orange t-shirt and her blonde hair is as tightly permed as I remember it. This is the girl who will eventually confess her love for me. But because of my meddling in this timeline, she’ll never fall in, or out of love with me.

  A torrent of conflicted feelings rain down on me. This is what I wanted, isn’t it, to remove my time at Video City and therefore Megan from my life? I wanted to pass my exams, to go to college, to university. I wanted a proper career and a wife who loved me as much as I loved her. And yes, I probably wanted to be a father. But fate had decreed that none of those things were possible for Megan and me together. To be happy, we had to have different paths, different lives. Until this point I’ve convinced myself that my motivations weren’t purely selfish and changing our future was in Megan’s best interests too. If we don’t get together, she won’t become the girl burdened with the loss of an unborn baby or have the chance of motherhood stolen because of the miscarriage. She’ll remain untainted by my presence in her life, ready to start college and embark upon a bright future, without me. Surely that has to be better for both of us than wasting twenty-five years in a sham of a marriage?

  But as I stand here, I can’t pretend that this doesn’t feel like I’ve just signed my divorce papers. No matter how bad a marriage is, that act is surely always tinged with some level of regret, isn’t it? It’s not what I expected but a feeling of lament for the life I’ve now lost rises to the surface. While Megan is currently looking at me in a state of blissful ignorance, I’m trying desperately to keep myself together; to act like our twenty-five years of marriage never happened. I try to focus on just how bad our marriage became in the end but my mind will only let me remember the good times. It doesn’t matter now; my actions have ensured that there will be no shared times between Megan and me, good or bad.

  Noticing my dazed expression, Megan steps from behind the counter.

  “Are you okay? You look like you’re going to faint.”

  “I’m okay...just had a dizzy spell, sorry,” I stammer.

  She tilts her head and a look of concern spreads across her face.

  “Are you sure? Can I get you a glass of water, or a chair?”

  I don’t want her to be nice to me. I want to remember the moody, contemptuous version of Megan who might be having an affair. I want to see the spite and the bitterness that bolstered my decision to change my future. I don’t want to see a cute, thoughtful girl with a smiley face and caring eyes. I definitely don’t want a glass of water or a chair, I want to get out of there and as far away from Megan as possible.

  “No, thanks. I’ve got to go. Sorry.”

  Avoiding any further eye contact I keep my head low, spin around and bolt out of the store. I sprint along the street and in the vague direction of the estate until the burning in my lungs becomes unbearable. I stop and lean against a wall while I catch my breath. The burning in my lungs subsides but the regret at deciding to visit Video City remains resolute. What was I thinking? Idiot. No matter what challenges I’ve overcome this weekend, no matter how I may have shaped my future for the better, seeing Megan would never end well. Was it really worth the risk just so Malcolm could be sent on a different path and inevitably find another way to fuck up his life? Now all I have is a head full of doubts.

  I wait until my breathing returns to normal and push myself off the wall. With my hands buried deep in my jean pockets, I slope homewards, all the while trying to banish thoughts of the teenage Megan.

  7

  By the time I arrive back home, Mum and Dad have finished their tea and are sat in the lounge listening to some god-awful Country & Western album on our antiquated music centre. Mum offers to make me a sandwich but I’ve lost my appetite so I decline her offer and head up to my bedroom. I kick my trainers off and slump down on the bed, exhausted both mentally and physically. I’d forgotten what life was like before I could drive and had to walk everywhere. On the plus side, at least I got plenty of exercise, unlike my future where I clamber into my crappy Mazda every time I need something from the local shop. Laziness again.

  Beyond my exhaustion, I’m still annoyed with myself for visiting Video City. I need to find a distraction from my thoughts of Megan so I clamber off the bed and turn the stereo on. Another check of the clock on the computer — five hours and fourteen minutes remaining. As I lie back down on the bed, the voice of Bruno Brookes chirps from the speakers as he introduces ‘Lessons in Love’ by Level 42 as a non-mover in this week’s charts. I close my eyes and immerse myself in the deep notes thumping from Mark King’s bass guitar.

  Before I can make a conscious decision not to, I fall fast asleep.

  Considering what I’ve been through over the last few days, it’s no surprise that my sleep is disturbed by a vexing dream. It’s so vivid that I wake with a start and spend a few seconds trying to separate aspects of the dream from reality.

  I was being chased through the streets, slowly it must be said, by a milk float. John Williamson was at the wheel, sat next to Harold Duffy who was laughing maniacally. I escaped their plodding pursuit and found sanctuary back at my parents’ house. For some inexplicable reason I was completely indifferent to the fact that Tessa and Megan were operating a topless car wash on the driveway. I nonchalantly entered the house without a second glance at their soapy exploits. I walked into the lounge where two coffins were sat on the floor. I distinctly recall the terror of that sight and I ran straight into the garden only to find the old man pushing Marcus around the garden in a wheelbarrow. They were both naked, and singing ‘It’s Raining Men’, badly.

  However, the most troubling aspect of the dream is that at some point, I appear to have ejaculated into my underwear. Wet dreams were a common occurrence throughout my adolescent years and resulted in many a covert trip to the bathroom to rinse my jizz-stained underwear in the sink. However, it’s been close to thirty years since I last awoke to sticky pants and it’s not an aspect of my youth I would have chosen to relive.

  I gingerly get up from the bed and pad across the landing to the bathroom, double-checking I’ve locked the door behind me. I hop in the bath and use the shower attachment to rinse both my genitals and the soiled pants. This is not a task any self-respecting middle-aged man should have to endure.

  Feeling a little sheepish, I wrap a towel around my waist before darting back to my bedroom, holding the pair of sodden underpants in front of me like a trophy of shame. I get dressed and hide the pants on the window ledge behind a curtain, where I’m hoping they’ll dry before the next washing cycle is due.

  I get dressed and glance at my watch. 8.53pm. Shit, two hours lost. I suppose I should be grateful my ejaculation woke me when it did. I head downstairs and into the kitchen where Mum is just finishing her weekly baking marathon. The aroma drifting around the kitchen is beyond mouth-watering. Every Sunday evening she bakes bread, cakes and pies for consumption over the following seven days. Some baked goods are destined for the dinner table and some destined for lunchboxes, mine specifically.

  “I wondered when you'd make an appearance. Did you hear me scraping the bowl?” Mum smiles.

  I assume she’s referring to my childhood penchant for licking remnants of raw cake mix or icing from the bowl. I’m not sure when I grew out of the habit but it’s not something that particularly appeals at this precise moment.

  “I’m okay thanks, Mum.”

  She looks at me with a raised eyebrow.

  “Well, that’s a first.”

  Trying to change the subject I ask her if she wants a cup of tea. My motivations are purely selfish as my post-nap mouth feels like the bottom of a sewer. She accepts my offer, and I put the kettle on while Mum clears up
the kitchen.

  “Where’s Dad?” I ask.

  “Oh, I told him to go down the Legion for a few hours while I do the weekly bake. He can’t be trusted to keep his hands off my muffins while I’m busy in the kitchen,” she says innocently.

  It takes a superhuman effort not to snigger. I tell myself to grow up, which I’m certainly going to do in about three hours’ time.

  I pour the tea as Mum takes on the bowl licking duties herself. Using a plastic spatula, she scrapes icing from one of the bowls and then licks it clean before repeating the process.

  “This is lovely. Sure you don’t want some?”

  I shake my head, a little perturbed at the amount of icing she’s consuming with scant regard for the huge amounts of sugar it contains. Each laden spatula must contain the maximum daily sugar allowance on its own, and she’s already returned to the bowl with her spatula three times. I know my mum has a sweet tooth but I also know where that will eventually lead her.

  “Have you ever heard of type-2 diabetes?” I casually ask her.

  “I think so. Isn’t that where somebody has to inject themselves every day?”

  “That’s type-1 diabetes and can’t be prevented. Type-2 usually happens to people when they reach middle-age and have high cholesterol or high blood pressure due to a poor diet.”

  “It’s not a serious condition though, is it? I’m sure it’s not much fun having to inject yourself every day, but it won't kill you.”

  “No Mum, that’s not how it works with type-2 diabetes. And I think it can kill you, or at least it can do some serious damage to your body. Did you know it can cause blindness and in some cases, sufferers have limbs amputated? It’s a nasty condition.”

  The ever-present smile on Mum’s face fades, and she subconsciously drops the spatula into the bowl.

  “You seem to know an awful lot about it,” she says grimly.

  “We’ve been studying it in biology.”

  “So how do you avoid getting it then?”

  “I think it’s mainly down to diet. If you eat too much sugar, salt, and fat over a prolonged period, that sort of thing.”

  She forces the smile back on her face.

  “Well, I feel absolutely fine, sweetheart, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

  I think she’s missed the point. I brought the subject up because I want her to be worried, or at least to think about the consequences of her eating habits.

  “I’m sure you’re right, Mum. Might be worth keeping it in mind though. I think you’ll have trouble working in the cafe after having a foot amputated.”

  She glares at me for a second. Perhaps I've offended her but sometimes you have to use a little tough love to get your point across. I hope this brief conversation will stick in her mind and her ignorance of the condition won’t become her downfall. Maybe it’s advice I should consider myself but it’s always easier to preach than to practise.

  I down the dregs of my tea as Mum finishes the washing-up. There isn’t much in the way of conversation and I think it would be a good idea to retreat to my bedroom.

  “Think I might get an early night, got a long day tomorrow.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you in the morning,” she replies with a little frostiness in her voice.

  Sadly I won’t be seeing her in the morning. The next time I see her she’ll be an old woman but hopefully not the same old woman I left behind. I hope she takes on board my warning about the diabetes, and if the old man manages to maintain his personality change, she won’t have to suffer a further thirty years of marriage to a cantankerous bastard. If my tinkering with their lives has the desired results, I should return to find both my parents have enjoyed a long, happy marriage.

  With little thought to keeping up the pretence of being a teenager, I step towards her.

  "Don't suppose I could have a hug?"

  Mum isn't the sort of woman who can let negative feelings stew and her frown falls away. If she's still annoyed with me it’s well hidden as she delivers the sort of reassuring hug only a mother can.

  I give her a final kiss on the forehead and turn to leave, but not before one final thought crosses my mind.

  “Do you mind if I make a quick phone call?”

  “Who are you calling this time of night?”

  “Just an old friend. It’ll only take a minute, promise.”

  “Okay, just a minute, mind. You know what your dad is like checking the phone bills.”

  Indeed I do.

  I wander through to the hallway and take a seat on the telephone bench. I pull the phone directory from a shelf below and flick through the pages until I reach the one I’m looking for. I run my finger down the column of surnames and spot who I’m after...

  WADDOCK G, MR.

  There is only one other Waddock listed, and that’s a Mrs, so the first entry must be my former RolpheTech colleague Geoff. I pick up the receiver and dial the number using the tediously slow rotational dialler on our phone. I glance at my watch; it’s now 9.28pm. Maybe a little late for an unsolicited call but I’m doing Geoff a favour so I’m sure he won’t mind in the long run.

  “Hello,” a male voice grunts.

  “Hi, is that Geoff?”

  “Yeah, who’s this?”

  “I’m, err, Steve, I got your number from a friend of a friend.”

  “What friend? And you know it’s late?” he snaps.

  “Look Geoff, I’m on a pay phone and I haven’t got any more coins so I don’t have time to explain. Just listen to what I say and when I hang up, it’s up to you if you act on my advice or not. There’s nothing in it for me, I’m just doing a favour for a friend of a friend. Okay?”

  “All right, go on,” he grumbles.

  “I’ve heard a whisper you’re considering buying shares in the banking sector. Don’t.”

  “What? I dunno where you got your information from but I’m not thinking of buying any shares.”

  “Maybe not soon but you might do in a few years’ time. All I want to stress is that if you decide to buy shares, don’t invest in the banking sector. Again, hypothetical, but if you buy any shares, buy into a company called Apple.”

  “The record company?”

  “No, the computer company.”

  “Can’t say I’ve heard of them.”

  “You will, and you’ll be glad you brought their shares. I guarantee it.”

  “Right, thanks, I guess. What did you say your name was?”

  “My money is running out Geoff, I’ve got to go.”

  “But you haven’t told me...”

  I hang up before Geoff can ask more questions I can’t answer. I could have warned him about how his company will collapse or that he really shouldn’t offer personal guarantees on company loans, but there is no way I could make that conversation plausible. I’ve given him a helping hand so hopefully he might have something left over for his retirement. It won't stop him losing his business, his home or his wife but it’s the best I can do.

  Satisfied that I’ve ended the day on a high after the incident with Megan, I clamber up the stairs and close the door of my teenage bedroom behind me for the last time. I lean back against the door and exhale a deep breath. What a fucking day that was. I shuffle over to the computer and note the countdown timer — two hours and twenty-one minutes remaining. I sit down on the plastic chair and ponder what I’m going to do to fill the time. My immediate and obvious thoughts turn to another spell of ‘duvet time’ with Lars and Sabine, but my wet dream earlier has somewhat sated my appetite. I think I should probably do something constructive, anyway.

  After ten minutes of considering several impractical or risky options, I open the desk drawer, pull out the jotter pad I originally used for my ‘Afterpath’ project notes, and find a blank page at the back of the pad. I scour the drawer for a pen and find a biro with barely any ink remaining. I put my feet up on the desk and rest the jotter pad on my legs, pen poised. I’ve decided I’m going to write down everything I’ve done o
ver the last two days so it sticks in my head. It would be a reckless waste of an impossible opportunity to let any part of this experience slip from my mind. In the last two days I’ve learnt more about myself, and what I’m capable of, than I managed in my previous forty-six years. It needs to be written down, to be implanted in my mind for future reference.

  I start at the moment I sat down for breakfast yesterday and go through the day hour by hour. Every word I said, every response, every action. I think about how I handled situations, what went well and why, and what mistakes I made. The fact I did anything at all is remarkable, such is my usual reluctance to stray anywhere beyond my comfort zone. It’s both a constructive and therapeutic exercise. I have no idea if I’ll remember any of it or what will happen when the timer reaches zero, but it's better than sitting here fretting about every negative aspect of what has taken place and what is to come. Even if I do wake up in a hospital bed to discover this has all been a hallucinogenic episode from the depths of a comatose mind, I hope some of this experience sticks, real or otherwise.

  As I flip to a new page to make notes from the start of today, there’s a rap on my bedroom door and it slowly creaks open. I turn in my chair to see the old man’s head poking around the door. He decides against coming into the room, possibly because it smells like a teenage boy’s bedroom although I no longer notice it.

  “Just wanted to say good night.”

  “Night Dad,” I smile.

  He hesitates for a few seconds, his awkwardness with the new dynamic in our relationship still obvious.

  “Everything all right?” he asks.

  “Everything is fine, Dad. And you?”

  “I'm getting there.”

  “Good to hear. Night then.”

  We swap reassuring nods and he closes the door behind him.

  I suspect he’ll struggle to maintain such a dramatic change in his character in the long term. In time he’ll probably settle on some middle ground where he’s more comfortable. That’s fine by me. I don’t expect him to be perfect, just better. It’s too late to undo the damage to my childhood but for Mum’s sake I hope he truly has turned over a new leaf so her future won’t be blighted by his tyrannical ways. And maybe he’ll be more receptive if I ever need to borrow money. We’ll see, but I hope I’m never in that position again.