By the fourth week of my incarceration here, I was mentally stable enough to self-diagnose my condition and determine if I really was suffering a delusional breakdown. It wasn't difficult. We have a small library which contains four archaic computers. Although we can access the Internet, our usage is monitored and extremely limited in terms of the websites we're permitted to visit. We're not allowed to create social media or email accounts — we can look out on the world but we can't engage with it. It doesn't matter as there’s nobody for me to communicate with. Besides, all I needed to test my sanity was Google Street View.
It took less than fifteen minutes for me to determine I wasn't suffering a mental illness. The first address I searched was my marital home. I dropped the marker right outside our home and zoomed-in on the boxy, terraced house as close as I could. So much was different. The front door was dark blue, not red. The wooden windows had been replaced with those horrible plastic PVC frames, and the tiny front garden was paved, now a parking space. Then I searched the name of a small retail park on the edge of town. I dropped the marker on the boundary road so I could clearly see the RolpheTech store. It was still a RolpheTech store and appeared to be still trading. Finally, and with some trepidation, I searched for my parents’ address.
The differences were subtle. There were no net curtains and the small decorative plate on the front of the house which once displayed the house number, was gone. There were weeds sprouting around the edge of the driveway; something my old man would never have tolerated. Most telling though, were two small pairs of wellington boots sat by the front door, one pair pink, one pair red — children's wellington boots. It was no longer my parents’ home, but I had no way of telling how long it had been since they moved away, or even if they were still alive. Perhaps they moved, as they planned, to the retirement flat. Maybe they couldn't live in that house after my death and sold up years ago. I can't access any website that might tell me where they went.
When I'm not thinking about my parents, or Megan, or Lucy, or Dave, or anyone else who was once in my life, I keep myself busy. Actually, I keep myself busy so I don't think about them. To my parents, Craig Pelling is now a distant memory; a long-dead son. To Megan and Lucy, Craig Pelling is nobody; I was never part of their lives. I only use that name in my head now as I was told I couldn't use it when I arrived here because it was considered inappropriate. I chose the surname 'Wilson', my mother’s maiden name. Craig Pelling doesn't exist. He's not on any database, anywhere. He's never worked, never paid taxes, never passed a driving test, never married, never had children, never registered on the electoral roll. So now I am Craig Wilson although I only exist in this place. Besides a short journey here in an ambulance, Craig Wilson has never stepped foot in the real world.
I forget, keeping busy. I read, a lot, sometimes five books a week. I love the escape, my mind drifting beyond these walls as I lose myself in a fictional world for hours on end. When I'm not reading, I'm exercising in the modest gym we have here. It was a promise I made to myself, well, to Lucy really. She'll never see the results but I think she'd be proud of me. I started on a treadmill, walking a few mindless miles as I stared at the blank wall ahead of me. Then I discovered 'happy pain'. I pushed my body, and it hurt, but the pain served as a distraction from my reality and the boredom. The more I pushed myself, the more I became addicted to the rush of endorphins. As the months passed, and coupled with my inability to consume fast food or alcohol, my weight plummeted. I now weigh seventy pounds less than I did when I was Craig Pelling and my body is unrecognisable. It's not like Dave's muscled physique; I'm lean, toned, my muscles defined but not bulging. It's the body I always wanted but I'm not able to share my success with anyone who really cares.
My case officer tells me I'll be able to leave soon, maybe next month. They're waiting for accommodation to become available. When I leave here, it will be for a small flat in a block managed by social services. That will be my home for up to a year, while I rebuild my life and reintegrate with society. Then I'm on my own. As part of the reintegration process, they've organised a part-time job in a charity shop for me, if I want it. They say it will help to prove that I'm not a danger to myself and I can function as a normal human being. I'm going to try. Craig Wilson's CV is looking a little sparse so it will be a start.
The hardest part of my transition will be living a life as sparse as my CV. I'll be starting from scratch with no real home, no real job, no family, no wife, and no friends — a clean slate. In some ways, I've got what I wanted. I'm fit, healthy, and I'm no longer stuck in a dead-end job or a loveless marriage. It's what I wanted, but not this way. I miss too many people, particularly my mum and Lucy. I feel alone, scared if I'm honest. I have to decide if I can live with that, or if I need to find answers. I honestly don't know. Can I forge a new life knowing there might be a chance, no matter how improbable, to undo the damage I caused?
It’s a good question.
THE END (or is it?)
Want to know what happens next?
Well, that was ‘The ‘86 Fix’ — I really hope you enjoyed it. If you did, you might want to read the follow-up, ‘The ’86 Fix – Beyond Broadhall’, which is now available on Amazon.
I promise you there is an awful lot more in store for Craig Pelling, and a definitive ending to his story.
Now, can I beg a favour?
Writing a book is hard, especially the first one. And once it’s written, getting people to actually read it is even harder. I don’t have an agent or a publisher so I’m reliant on good people like you to help me share the word.
If you enjoyed reading this book and have a few minutes spare, I would be eternally grateful if you could leave a review on Amazon. I know it’s a pain, but for fledgling authors like myself, it’s the only way we can gain traction for our books (which allows us to write more books).
You’d make this budding author very happy indeed if you’re able to say something nice in the Amazon reviews.
Just before you go…
For more information about me and to sign-up for emails on new releases, pop-over to my website...
www.keithapearson.co.uk
I’d like to thank Simon Brooks, Keith Randall and Julia Perry for their kind help reviewing, and providing honest feedback. And finally, a dedication if I may — for Jean Pearson, my mum. Always in my heart.
The '86 Fix: A 1980s Time Travel Novel Page 30
