I continue working on my notes from today and then go back over both days to check I haven’t missed anything. I mentally relive every moment as I read through my notes, concentrating specifically on the parts where I strayed furthest from my comfort zone and what positives could be taken from each foray. Satisfied I’ve covered everything, I tear the pages from the jotter, fold them up, and tuck them into my pocket. I let out a satisfied sigh and glance at the countdown timer. Twenty-six minutes remain.
My fate is now out of my hands. Decisions made, actions taken. Too late to change anything, too early to know if those decisions and actions were the right ones. I know I’ve achieved an awful lot this weekend, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t feeling apprehensive about what might lie ahead for Craig Pelling. Theories are one thing; it won’t be long before I discover the reality.
8
On our tenth wedding anniversary, Megan decided that we needed to be more grown-up, more civilised. Her first act of this new lifestyle was to purchase tickets for the local theatre production of Antony & Cleopatra. She thought it would be a romantic way to spend the evening of our anniversary. There are many words I could use to describe that evening but ‘romantic’ would not be one of them. Within the first thirty minutes I was bored witless. I spent the remaining hours gazing at my watch, the hands creeping around the dial at such an excruciatingly slow pace it had to be faulty. Shakespeare is not for me, I’m afraid.
I’m reminded of that evening as I watch the digits on the countdown timer pass from fifteen minutes to fourteen minutes. That single minute felt like a lifetime. However, there is one key difference between the tedious minutes of Antony & Cleopatra and the minutes I’m losing now. As I sit on my plastic chair and stare at the screen, every declining minute increases my heart rate as anxiety builds. Every declining minute takes me closer to an unknown future.
To distract myself I try to synchronise the countdown timer on my digital watch with the numbers on the screen. The only reason for doing this is that the timer on the screen doesn’t display seconds, which I suspect is one reason every minute feels so long. After a few attempts I get both timers perfectly synchronised and waste a few more minutes in the process. I get up and pace around the bedroom. I’m tempted to turn the stereo on but it’s nearly midnight and the last thing I want to do is encourage an angry parent into my bedroom to see why I’m playing music at such a late hour. So all I can do is endure a silence so still all I can hear is my own heart pounding away in my chest.
It soon becomes obvious that my frantic pacing around the room is not helping my anxiety levels so I slump back down on the plastic chair and focus on my breathing. The calm satisfaction I was basking in while distracted by my note-taking dissipates with every passing minute. I now feel like a nervous flyer about to board a plane under thunderous skies. I glance up at the screen and my stomach flips as the counter reaches single digits. Nine minutes to go.
Whatever my meddling in 1986 has achieved, I’m now only minutes from discovering the outcome. Surely it has to be better than what I left behind? It dawns on me that my growing anxiety is actually fear of the unknown. I’m going back to a life I never really lived, founded on thousands of decisions I can never change. Thirty years is a long time so even though I may have fixed some of the issues that blighted my teenage years, it’s a drop in the ocean compared to all the subsequent life I would have lived. What if I made worse decisions in my twenties or thirties? I could be in prison, I could be homeless, I could be married to Katie Hopkins. There’s no way of knowing and that thought scares the hell out of me.
The only certainty I have is contained within the next nine minutes. I know who I am. I know where I am. I know what I am. I am sixteen years of age although my mind holds forty-six years of knowledge about what has passed and what is to come. I am a miracle. As an idea barges its way to the front of my mind, I realise I’m also an idiot. I kick the idea around for a moment. Why had I not considered it before? Is it even possible? Suddenly I feel rushed, pressurised. It’s a ludicrous idea, but it has to be worth a try. I’d never consider making such a monumental decision with so little thought, but time is not a luxury I have. It’s now or never.
The timer drops to eight minutes at the exact moment I reach my decision. I don’t want to go back. I want to stay here as a sixteen year-old.
No matter what positive changes I’ve made to my future, I’ll still be going back to a life where my best years are probably behind me. If I’ve had a fulfilling and happy life, I’ll have some great memories but that’s all they’ll ever be; memories. My body, even if I’ve managed to look after it in my new future, will still be past its best. Then there’s the years I spent as a teenager in my former life — job, girlfriend, flat, miscarriage, marriage. I should have spent those years enjoying myself, not tied to one girl, one job and a tenancy agreement. If I changed my life so those things never happened then I want to experience the alternative myself. I want my youth ahead of me, not behind me.
Seven minutes.
And what if I’ve had children? I’ll still miss out on their birth, their first steps, their first words, their first day at school. All those moments that make parenthood so special will be nothing more than hazy memories. At best, I’ll be entering the life of a stroppy teenager whom I don’t know, or possibly like very much. Then there’s that perfect marriage I’ve fashioned for my future self. Our first date, the proposal, our wedding day, our honeymoon, buying our first home — I can never relive any of that.
Six minutes.
From a practical perspective, can I live this life again? School and my impending exams will be a problem as I can’t remember a damn thing about any of my coursework. But with all the knowledge in my head why would I need formal qualifications? I’d be able to set up my own business in any one of a dozen fledgling sectors and make a fortune. I could open a mobile phone store just before the industry explodes in popularity, going from one store to hundreds in just a few years. And when I’m done there, I could get involved in the Internet before most people even know what it is. I could create Facebook before Mark Zuckerberg. I could create Amazon before Jeff Bezos. I could be an Internet billionaire simply by replicating websites that I already know are hugely popular. No, qualifications won’t be a problem, that’s for sure.
Five minutes.
As sure as I am that I want to stay here, can it be done though? How do I escape the return leg of this impossible journey? There isn’t a single clue to guide me, let alone enough time to let my analytical mind research a solution. The most obvious, and only conclusion I can draw is that I must not be sat at the computer when the timer hits zero. I have no idea if that’s even important but I’ve got sod-all else to go on. Or maybe I could just destroy the computer? Would that work? Will the timer stop or will I end up floating between the two timelines forever more? I dismiss the idea. Too risky.
Four minutes.
I force my feet into my trainers with the laces still tied and pull open the bedroom door. I creep down the stairs as quickly as I dare. If I wake my parents or trip over in the dark, it’s game over. I turn the lock, open the door and step outside into the chilly night air. I gently pull the door closed until I hear the lock click before checking my watch. Just over three minutes remain. This might be utterly pointless but as I don’t have any better ideas, I’ve got to try it. All I can do is assume, hope even, that if I’m not sat at the computer when the timer hits zero, I’ll avoid the hallucinogenic episode that triggered my journey here.
So I run.
I don’t know why it should make any difference but I want to put as much distance as possible between myself and the computer before the timer reaches zero. It’s a pretty weak theory but I’ve got nothing else. I run as fast as I can through the dark streets, my thumping heart and vinyl soles slapping tarmac the only sounds to accompany me. I don’t know where I’m going, nor does it matter I suppose, I just need to keep moving. More seconds are lost, my lungs s
ting and lactic acid burns through every muscle in my legs. I push past the pain and focus on nothing but the few yards of tarmac ahead of me. More seconds pass, more tarmac, more pain. I must keep moving.
I glance down at my watch as I pass a street lamp. Fifty-one seconds.
I round a corner onto an unlit road. Every muscle in my body is now screaming at me to stop. I do the opposite and push harder. I can't see more than a few yards in front of me now but it doesn’t matter, I have to keep going. I summon every ounce of resolve I have left to fuel my faltering legs. Another glance at the watch but it’s too dark to see the display now. I can barely catch my breath as my body demands more oxygen than my lungs can process. The pain is now all-encompassing and every single stride is a victory for willpower over biology. Not even the chill night breeze can prevent beads of sweat running from my forehead and stinging my eyes. Every part of me hurts now.
Like a newborn giraffe, there is no rhythm or control in my steps. It’s more stumbling than running. My arms flounder in the air to aid my balance as I eke out whatever is left in me. There’s not much, maybe enough for a few more ungainly strides. Even if I could see my watch, I no longer have the energy to steady my arm long enough to confirm how many seconds remain. It doesn’t matter.
Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep beep.
The forward motion of my left leg is abruptly arrested. All I can do is force it down to the tarmac and adjust my balance so my right leg swings forward and carries my momentum. It doesn’t. A force pushes in the opposite direction, like I’m trying to wade through a swimming pool of syrup. I drop my right leg and try to lift my left. Same result. My upper body should still be moving forward towards a fall but whatever force is preventing my legs from moving, it’s also keeping my body upright. It feels like I’m moving in slow motion but with no reference point in the darkness; I could be wrong.
Just as I come to a juddering halt in the middle of the road, the redness arrives.
I know what it means. The future is coming for me and there isn’t a thing I can do about it. If my heart wasn’t pounding so violently, I’m sure I’d feel it slump to my stomach. The only crumb of comfort I can take is that I’m no longer running and all I can feel in my legs is a deep throbbing sensation. The last traces of adrenalin subside and the throbbing works its way through my body. There is no option other than to succumb.
As the redness closes in around me, it doesn’t bring quite the same level of fear as before. Maybe because it’s so tinged with disappointment. My makeshift plan has failed and I won’t be staying here. I won’t get the chance to relive my life the way I wanted to. Whatever I’m going back to, it seems that it’s an inevitability I could never change. Maybe it’s my new way of thinking, of finding the positive from a negative experience, but I resign myself to my fate. All I can do is hope that I’ve done enough this weekend to make a difference.
I take my last glimpse of 1986 as the redness engulfs my field of vision. The pulsing in my body reaches a crescendo before the redness fades into a calming white canvas. I think I’m ready now. I let the fear go, it’s time to head home. The kaleidoscope of indeterminate shapes return and I feel myself falling. I adjust my perception so I’m not in a terrifying descent. I’m flying now, passing through a cloud of colourful shapes. Faster and faster, but in control, like I’m sat in the cockpit of a supersonic jet. The humming sensation now feels like a massage, purging my body of the pain from my attempted escape. I don’t fight any of it. I let it embrace me, carry me.
Then everything stops. The humming, the shapes, the flying sensation. For a second I’m suspended in a perfectly still darkness. This didn’t happen before, I’m sure of it. I can’t hear anything. I can’t see anything. I can’t feel anything.
Then I feel something. I really feel something. Bright white light burns my eyes and a searing pain racks my entire body. Pain like I have never felt before. It feels like my bones are being crushed, my muscles ripped from their tendons. An agony of medieval torture proportions, like my body is being turned inside-out. It’s a pain that no human could possibly endure for more than a few seconds.
Mercifully my seconds pass and everything fades away until there is nothing.
9
The pain is so intense I’m actually scared to open my eyes. It doesn’t matter though as even when I do, I’m in complete darkness. All I can hear is a ringing in my ears. My head is pounding and I’m beyond nauseous. This is far worse than when I first arrived in 1986. I so badly want to investigate, to establish where and who I am, but it’s impossible. Even the thought of moving hurts. I now know this feeling was never a hangover; it feels far, far worse. Whatever happened on the return journey, this older version of my body is less able to deal with the consequences than its youthful predecessor. I want to die.
I turn my head a fraction and immediately regret it. I move my right leg and a stabbing pain shoots up my thigh and across my groin. If I could scream I would, but it feels like an invisible elephant is sat on my chest. Blue light strobes in the corner of my eyes. I can’t do this. I focus on my breathing and count. Three seconds to inhale, three seconds to exhale. Slow, deliberate breaths that will pull my mind away from the pain and guide me to sleep. I slip away.
Hours pass and I sleep so deeply that no dreams can reach me. Hour after hour of nothing. Then something.
I’m lying on my back in a bed, head on a pillow. I tentatively open my eyes and the darkness has been replaced with muted light. I let my eyes slowly scan from left to right, up and down, trying to convert the shapes into something that might spark a memory. I recognise nothing. This is not a room I’ve been in before. I draw the obvious conclusion that as I’m in a bed, this must be a bedroom but the scale is different to any bedroom I’ve ever occupied. The ceiling is impossibly high and the white walls are an unusual distance from the bed. Directly ahead of me there is a ceramic sink fixed to the far wall, next to a chair and a small table with a jug and stack of paper cups sat on top. The source of the dim lighting in the room is a window to my left, hidden behind dark blue vertical blinds that are closed. There is a door to my right but very little else to give any clue to my whereabouts.
Except the smell.
Difficult to describe but a distinctive enough smell that anyone would recognise it within seconds of their first sniff. It’s the smell of a hospital. Suddenly a cold realisation sweeps across me. I raise a stiff arm and pat my forehead to find too much skin and not enough hair. I let my arm drop down to my chest and towards my stomach. My podgy, bloated stomach. I close my eyes and curse under my breath. Please, this can’t be. My memory scrambles to recall the last two days. Little by little it all comes back, with one stinging memory more vivid than any other. The memory of when I first arrived in my teenage bedroom. I distinctly recall my theory that wherever I was, it wasn’t real, and that I was actually lying in a hospital bed being pumped full of drugs.
That moment seemed just as real as everything else that happened but here I am — a chubby middle-aged man with receding hair, just as I was before my psychotic weekend in 1986 began. Did I really have a nervous breakdown? Maybe I had a heart attack. The latter seems more likely with my high blood pressure and unhealthy cholesterol levels. Either way, I’ve obviously been ill; otherwise why would I be here? The logic is hard to ignore and my analytical mind won’t allow me to.
I feel sick to my stomach. How could those two days have been a figment of my imagination? It was too real. The feel of Tessa’s naked body, the taste of Mum’s Battenburg cake, the smell of my Granddad’s aftershave. How could any imagination conjure up such realistic hallucinations? It’s not possible, it can’t be possible. Yet here I am, as I predicted, in hospital. Everything I did to change my life was just a charade, a cruel and pointless game played out in my own broken mind. There is no reinvented future — I’m still married to Megan, I’m still unemployed, I still have an arsehole for a father and worst of all, my grandparents were still killed.
As t
he stark realisation of my situation dawns it awakens a sense of bereavement. Mourning for a future that died the moment I awoke in this bed. If my memories of the weekend were only a figment of my imagination why does the pain feel so real? Why am I grieving the loss of what was never mine to begin with? I close my eyes and search every corner of my mind for a way out. Every path I want to take leads down a blind alley and the only exit is acceptance of this reality. Jesus fucking Christ.
As my mind tortuously unpicks everything it created over the weekend, I hear a door swing open. I open my eyes as a nurse bustles past the end of the bed towards the window where she makes a slight adjustment to the blinds, letting more mottled light seep into the room. She moves towards the end of the bed and grabs a clipboard before shuffling up alongside me. She shoots a perfunctory smile in my direction before her attention switches to the clipboard in her hands. She remains silent while she studies whatever awful information is contained on the page. I try to work out her age but the light is still too dim and her uniform too shapeless. She then turns to me and finally speaks, voice low, her accent nondescript.
“I’m Nurse Henley. How are you feeling?”
My mouth is dry as sand so the words leave as a whisper.
“I ache everywhere, particularly my head.”
Noticing my difficulty speaking, the nurse trots over to the table and fills a paper cup with water. She returns to my side and holds it out for me. I lift my chubby arm, take the cup and down the tepid water in one gulp.
The '86 Fix: A 1980s Time Travel Novel Page 28
