“Apparently you took a bang on the head, which is why you were unconscious when you came in, but it’s nothing serious. A few aspirins should sort that out. Do you have any significant pain anywhere else?”
“No, I just ache.”
“Any problems with your vision? Nausea?”
“I felt sick earlier but my vision is okay.”
“We’ll keep an eye on that but there’s nothing broken or any obvious problems it seems. The doctor will be doing his rounds shortly so he’ll pop in and check you over.”
“How long have I been here?”
She scans the clipboard and checks her watch.
“About six hours.”
As she turns to leave, I still have one fundamental question that needs answering.
“What’s wrong with me?”
She hooks the clipboard back on the bed and stares at me.
“In medical terms, it’s a condition we refer to as ‘hung over’. Apart from that, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you.”
Her blunt answer hangs in the air for a few seconds after she leaves the room.
Alone again, the stillness is a stark contrast to the commotion in my head as I try to piece together the little information I have into something that makes any sense. How could I have been drunk? I don’t recall having anything to drink since the reunion, let alone being so paralytic I required an overnight stay in hospital. Another memory crashes in. When I first awoke in my hallucinogenic weekend, I was convinced I was suffering a hangover. Is that connected to my current predicament? I press my balled fists into my temples, trying to force my thoughts into order. But nothing fits. The answers found only spawn more questions.
I close my eyes and try to clear my mind. There is nothing to be gained by going over and over the same questions. There simply isn't enough information to draw any conclusions. My only option is to wait for the doctor and hope he can fill in the blanks. I focus on my breathing but I doubt sleep will come. All I can do is doze sufficiently to find respite from the barrage of questions pummelling my bruised mind.
I drift on the cusp of consciousness for some time. I'm not sure how long, but I’m dragged back to reality as the door opens again. I open my eyes to find a man stood at my bedside. Mid-thirties, average height and build. He’s wearing a cheap blue suit, white shirt with no tie. Untidy blonde hair and tired eyes. He doesn’t fit my mental image of a doctor.
He speaks with a South London accent.
“How you doing?”
I shuffle into a more upright position and cough to encourage moisture back to my dry mouth.
“Okay, I think.”
The man nods and slides his hand inside his jacket, pulling out a black wallet. He flicks it open to reveal a badge and an ID card I can’t read.
“Detective Constable Evans. Mind if I take a seat?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer as he strides over to the far side of the room and drags a chair across to my bedside. He slumps down on the chair and returns a hand to his jacket pocket, pulling out a notebook and pen.
“If you’re up to it, I’d like to ask a few questions. Can we start with your name?”
“Craig Pelling.”
“Right, Mr Pelling. That’s more than we knew when you arrived here so it’s a good start.”
He scribbles in his notebook and looks up again.
“Address and date of birth?”
I quote my details as he returns to his scribbling before he closes the notebook. He tucks it back inside his jacket and sits forward on the chair.
“Do you mind if I call you Craig?”
I shrug my shoulders which he takes as a yes.
“Craig, do you want to tell me about last night? What was it? A stag-night prank that went wrong?”
I don’t have the first clue what he’s on about.
“Sorry, you’ve lost me.”
“You don’t remember?”
I shake my head and hope his detection skills are honed enough to see I’m not lying.
“Okay, let me fill in a few blanks for you, see if we can nudge a few memories. That all right?”
I doubt I have much choice but nod, anyway.
“At 12.11am we received reports of a man lying in the middle of Alexander Road. A unit was dispatched and our officers found the man unconscious, and naked. Despite the efforts of our officers to revive him, the man remained in a state similar to somebody heavily intoxicated. As they couldn't question him and were concerned for his safety, he was brought here for examination, still unconscious. I’m sure you can guess who that man is?”
I stare back at the detective with a mixture of confusion and horror.
“Me?”
“We’re getting somewhere. Now we know the details, care to explain how you ended up in such a state?”
My mind is now approaching a cataclysmic meltdown. I have no memories, no answers. I want to curl up in a ball and hide from the world, pretend none of this is happening. Such is my need to find stability, safety, a few involuntary words leave my mouth.
“I need to see my wife.”
The detective lets out a deep sigh and rummages in his jacket pocket. Judging by his expression I suspect he wants to be here even less than I do. An open-and-shut case of a pissed, middle-aged idiot found naked after a stag do. Not worth the ink on the paperwork.
“Fine. I’ll make a few calls and we’ll fetch your wife. What’s her name?”
“Megan.”
“Once your wife is here, we need to get some answers so I can close the file. I can assure you I’ve got better things to do than investigate your drunken pranks. Jesus, you’re old enough to know better. Are we clear?”
I nod and he mutters something before stomping out of the room.
I wait for maybe twenty minutes and decide I can’t lie in the bed any longer. I’m past caring if there is anything physically wrong with me. I drag the heavy blanket off my body and look down on the faded gown I was somehow dressed in when I arrived here. I swing my legs around and place my feet in the floor. With so little energy at my disposal, it takes a monumental effort. I catch my breath and wait for the dizziness to fade. I steady myself by planting my hands on the bed and then I push myself up. It’s a mistake. I lurch forward, my legs buckle and I collapse in a heap. This just gets worse. I pause for a moment and check nothing more than my dignity is damaged. With a strained effort, I reach across to the chair still sat by the bed and pull it towards me. After a few attempts, I manage to hoist myself up, twist my plump body around and fall onto the chair.
The only consolation of my tumble is that my thoughts are temporarily dragged away from the myriad of questions buzzing around my head. I take a few deep breaths and try to work out my next move. It seems anything beyond sitting down is impossible. I need to get my energy levels back, I need food. The thought actually makes me want to heave. I have no appetite, least not for hospital food, but I can’t do a thing until my body is properly fuelled.
I turn and press the button beside the bed to hail the nurse. While I wait for her to arrive, I sit and stare at my plump body which I’m now able to view in its full glory. I’m not sure why it would be any different to how it was before my psychotic episode but it feels twice the size now, like one of those inflatable fat suits people wear to fancy dress parties. I hate it more than I ever thought possible.
The door opens and Nurse Henley marches in.
“You’re up I see. What do you want?”
“Can I have some food please?”
She eyes my partially clothed body with disdain. It’s clear I’m not going to die of malnutrition any time soon.
“They’ll be around with breakfast shortly,” she snaps.
She spins on her heels and leaves before I can ask how long ‘shortly’ is.
I wonder if the detective told her about my alleged drunken antics? It would explain why she seems so unsympathetic, and who could blame her? Why should I be taking up a valuable bed when there
are people with genuine health issues waiting for it?
Minutes pass but without a watch or clock anywhere I can only guess how many. Thirty? Forty? Maybe longer? I’ve got no idea. All I can do is sit in my uncomfortable chair and stare at the walls. Just to add to my depressed thoughts, the room sparks memories of the one Megan was in after she lost the baby. A million years ago but hard to forget. Is it fair to drag Megan back to a room that might remind her of the worst moment of her life? Maybe not, but for the first time in decades I need her support right now. And if I’m honest, I have little choice.
I continue to stare at the walls, lost in my thoughts, when the door crashes open and Detective Constable Evans storms in. He stands a few feet in front of me and judging by his expression, he’s not a happy man. His words are delivered with obvious frustration.
“I don’t have the patience for your antics. I'll ask you one more time and I want the truth — what's your name?”
10
I stare at the detective for a moment. I heard what he said but I'm not sure I understand why he said it.
“What? I told you. It’s Craig Pelling.”
He pulls his notebook from his pocket and studies the page. He then holds it out, a foot from my face.
“And that is definitely your correct address?”
I squint at his atrocious handwriting and convert the scribbles into letters that form my correct address.
“Yes, definitely.”
He puts his notepad back in his pocket and stares at the ceiling for a moment.
“Right. The problem we have is that Craig Pelling doesn’t live at that address.”
“Eh? That’s not right. I’ve lived there for over twenty years.”
“I’ve checked the electoral roll for the last twenty years and no Craig Pelling has ever lived at that address.”
Before I can say anything in reply, he squats down and lowers his voice.
“In fact, there is no record of a Craig Pelling having lived anywhere in this town within the last twenty years.”
This guy is starting to rile me. I know any computer system is only as good as the person who inputs the data and somebody has clearly made an error.
“Did you find my wife? I want to see her,” I snap.
“Well, that might be possible — if she existed. But unsurprisingly, there’s no record of a Megan Pelling at that address either. Or anywhere else for that matter.”
“This has to be a computer error. We’ve lived at that house for over twenty years, I’m telling you straight.”
“Could have been a computer error, but I’m a diligent detective so I called the current occupants of the address you gave me. Turned out to be a very helpful couple called Mr & Mrs Emberson, who've lived there for twenty-two years. They bought the house from a Mr Curtis who purchased it from new. Two owners, neither of them you, or your mystery wife.”
The detective stands back up and folds his arms. His eyes burn into me and his brow creases.
“Whatever trouble you think you’re in, it’s gonna get a lot worse if you keep lying to me.”
I bow my head.
“I’m telling you the truth.”
It appears that the detective’s patience is at breaking point.
“You know what? I think you’re involved in some sort of stupid prank and for reasons only known to you, even now you’re keeping it up.”
“It’s not a prank,” I protest.
“I don’t believe you. And I’m telling you, it ends here and now.”
“My name is Craig Pelling and my wife’s name is Megan.”
Detective Evans considers his next move. He pauses for a moment before pulling a mobile phone from his pocket. He swipes the screen a few times and hands it to me.
“If this isn’t a twisted prank, explain that.”
I take hold of the phone. After my apparent sabbatical from mobile phones it almost feels strange holding one again. I stare at the screen, which displays a website. It looks like the front page of our local newspaper and I can just about read the tiny headline text...
“TEENAGER KILLED IN TRAGIC HIT & RUN"
I double-tap the screen so that the story text is large enough to read...
“Police are seeking witnesses to a tragic hit-and-run incident that occurred around midnight on Sunday. The teenage victim, so far unnamed, was struck by a white van and fatally injured at the junction of Alexander Road and Eton Drive. Emergency services arrived within minutes but the victim was pronounced dead at the scene. According to a witness, the victim was standing motionless in the middle of Alexander Road as a van rounded the corner from Eton Drive. The van then struck the victim at speed before driving off. In a police statement, Detective Inspector Mark Perry asked the public for any information regarding the whereabouts of the vehicle which is thought to have suffered significant damage to the front end.”
I drop the phone to my lap.
“That’s awful, but what has it got to do with me?”
“The junction of Alexander Road and Eton Drive. Ring any bells?”
“No, why should it?”
“It’s where my colleagues found you last night, around midnight ironically.”
“Sorry, I don’t understand where you’re going with this. Shouldn’t you be trying to find my wife?”
He rolls his eyes and presses his hand to his temple, seemingly now at the end of his tether. He steps towards the bed and perches himself on the edge, only a few feet from my position on the chair.
“Your date of birth makes you forty-six years of age. Correct?”
I nod, unsure why my age is relevant to anything.
“I pegged you for at least fifty, no offence. I don’t suppose you’re lying about your age as well as your name?”
“No, no. I gave you my correct date of birth.”
He drums his fingers on his chin for a moment.
“They never found him, you know.”
“Found who?”
“The van driver. Somebody killed that kid and just drove away, like nothing happened. Terrible really.”
He doesn't add anything else, content to let me endure the silence and absorb his words. Maybe he thinks I’ll feel pressurised to say something. I know to keep quiet.
“Do you know how I found that newspaper article?”
“No I don't,” I sigh, wishing he would just fuck off and leave me alone.
“When I couldn’t find the name, 'Craig Pelling' on the electoral roll, I searched on the Internet. That’s where I found the article you just read. There were several other articles about the incident too. A couple of them included the kid’s name once it was released to the public.”
I look at him with a vacant expression.
“That poor kid hit by the van — his name was Craig Pelling."
Both my stomach and mind simultaneously churn. The detective presses on.
"He died over thirty years ago, which is why his name didn’t appear in our original search. That website page was from the local newspaper archive for May 1986."
He leans towards me, his eyes narrow.
"So, whoever you are, why are you using the name of a kid who was killed thirty years ago? Is there something you want to get off your chest?”
My analytical mind had already finished its work before the detective finished his sentence. Just as well because it then collapses into a ball of impenetrable fear. Pure, unadulterated fear. The only time I can recall such terror is when my body was wracked with pain — a moment I was beginning to think never happened. But it did, and the memories cascade. The countdown timer, running through the streets, burning lungs, the dark road, the redness, my legs seizing. And then that pain.
Sweet Jesus. What have I done?
I can barely say the words but if I’m to believe them, I have to. They eventually fall from my mouth.
“It’s…my…fault.”
The obvious, devastating conclusion is finally drawn. I ran from my bedroom and put my teenage self in fr
ont of that van. I killed him and the universe has corrected itself by dumping my fat carcass back where it belongs in the here and now. And that’s all I am now, a carcass, an empty shell of a human being. Craig Pelling died in 1986 because I left him in the middle of the road. Far from fixing anything, I've broken everything. I've deleted my own existence — I’m now a John Doe, the prime suspect behind my own demise.
The detective gets to his feet and moves closer to me, barely a few feet away. I stare into space, numb now. Too much emotion for any human to endure. My mind shuts down. The words he utters next are meaningless. I hear them but it’s too late for them to be processed.
“I am arresting you on suspicion of causing death by dangerous driving. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you say may be given in evidence.”
The blackness returns and I welcome it. The room spins and the last thing I hear is a muffled voice. I feel like I'm falling.
Then I’m gone.
TEN MONTHS LATER...
19th May
It may not be a prison but I’m not allowed to leave until they say I'm well enough. It's not that bad though. I have my own room, and after ten months and sixteen days, I've almost come to think of it as home. I like the routine here, it's comforting. It was probably the routine that saved my fragile mind when I first arrived here. I remember little about those first few weeks. I think my mind just shut down, unable to determine what was real any more. I do remember the conversation with Detective Evans, and his suspicion I killed Craig Pelling back in 1986. I am guilty, but not in any way the detective could prove, which is why I'm currently residing in a secure hospital rather than a prison.
I wanted to tell them the truth, I really did, but they would have thrown away the key. What happened to me was so implausible that I barely believe it myself some days. Without the truth, they’re struggling to work out what's wrong with me. I've undergone so many tests I gave up counting a long time ago. At first they thought I was suffering from acute amnesia until I underwent a few sessions of cognitive hypnotherapy. I dread to think what they dredged from my fucked mind but whatever it was, they quickly decided that a lost memory wasn't the problem. They've narrowed down my condition to some form of delusional schizophrenia although I know they're wrong. Still, I have to play the game.
The '86 Fix: A 1980s Time Travel Novel Page 29
