“Next,” she calls above my head.
I stare at the pile of clothes and then at the woman.
“Am I supposed to wear them out of the store? Is that how you do things here?”
“You wanna carrier bag?”
“Pur—lease.”
My clothes are unceremoniously stuffed into a carrier bag which I’m required to pay an additional five pence for. I leave the store promising myself I’ll never return.
With no other pressing tasks on my agenda for the day, I decide to head back to the flat and see if I can get online via a neighbour’s unsecured wi-fi.
I step onto an escalator just behind a young couple who selfishly block my progress by standing next to one another, holding hands. With no other option, I stand and survey the open concourse on the ground floor from my elevated position four floors above. As I casually scan the scores of bodies moving across the floor, I catch a glimpse of a figure at the far end, bustling towards an open lift door — an elderly man with a bald dome, carrying a walking stick. I do a double-take and squint intently at the figure as I try to eek-out the full scope of my forty-something vision.
Is that…? Was that…?
The figure disappears into the lift and the door closes.
With my heart in my mouth, I barge past the young couple. They protest in vain as I charge down the escalator. I leap the final four steps and sprint past shops and bewildered onlookers. I cover the seventy yards in seconds and thump the lift call button. I look up to the panel above the door. Including the car park levels, there are twelve floors in the shopping centre. I’m now on the third floor and the lift is currently a floor below me. And it’s not moving. I thump the button again, and again. The light behind the number two remains steadfastly lit.
Then it goes out.
Five or six long seconds pass until the lift eventually chimes its arrival. The door slowly opens. Empty.
I step inside and furiously press the button to send the lift back down a floor. No matter how hard, or how many times I press the button, the door stays open. Frustration mixes with anger and I’m just about to smash my forearm across the panel of buttons when the door finally closes. More seconds pass before the lift begins its tortuously slow descent. I step across the lift so I’m inches from the door. It chimes again, and slowly the door slides open. When a foot of open space is available, I squeeze myself through, stumbling past the small crowd waiting on the other side.
I scan left, then right. So many people but none of them recognisable. I break into a slight jog and circumnavigate the perimeter of the floor. Nothing. I do it again, slower this time, and glance into every shop window as I pass. Nothing. A third and more methodical loop brings greater desperation but the same result. In a final act of desperation I spend the next hour searching every floor, every store. Hopeless.
Beaten, I slump down on a bench and ask myself the question my search was unable to answer — could that old man really have been my old man?
6
Baked potato with tuna; nutritionally balanced and cheap. I pick at my evening meal for half-an-hour but my appetite isn’t there. I get up from the couch and cross the lounge into the kitchen area. I place the plate on an empty shelf in the fridge and slam the door shut. I’m too skint to throw good food away. A few hours on from my possible sighting of the old man and it feels like I’m mentally back to square one.
The ghosts of my parents haunted me all the way home and now, within the quiet confines of my new home, their spirits continue to invade my every thought. Notwithstanding the fact the old man I saw might not have been my old man, what could I have done about it? It’s not as though I could have bowled up to him and said hello. It would have been proof he was still alive I guess, but nothing more.
Whether the elderly man I saw was the old man or not, the thought alone prods an already raw wound. I need to deal with this, one way or another. I can’t spend the rest of my life chasing down every elderly resident in Farndale who bears a passing resemblance to either of my parents. I can cope without knowing a lot of things but I have to accept that the fate of my parents isn’t one of them. It’s going to hurt whatever I learn, but I’ve got to do it. Short-term pain, long-term sane — a mantra I repeat to myself as I slump back down on the couch.
I try to distract myself with thoughts of spending Saturday evening with Lucy but even that isn’t enough to kick my negative thoughts into touch. I need to find something positive to balance me out; one of the many coping mechanisms I was taught at Broadhall.
I grab my phone and search for wi-fi networks.
Within a few seconds the phone locates eight signals. I scan the list one by one, each of them displaying a small padlock icon next to the signal indicator. I’m good with a computer but not skilled enough to hack a password-protected wi-fi network. The sixth signal on the list has no padlock — bingo. I move around the flat to enhance the single-bar signal and secure two further bars while stood near the bedroom window. One tap of the screen and I’m online.
For the next twenty minutes I sit on the edge of my bed and scour a national newspaper archive for articles about Harold Duffy. I have to go back to September 1988 to find what I’m looking for. The front page displays a police mugshot of Duffy next to the headline, ‘TAKE HIM DOWN: PAEDOPHILE CARETAKER GETS LIFE’. I squint at the tiny text which continues inside the virtual paper with a double-page spread. There is a graphic in the centre of the page, showing the timeline of events from Duffy’s earliest crimes through to his initial arrest in January 1987. With twenty-nine victims eventually coming forward over many months, all of whom took to the witness stand, the thirteen jurors delivered a swift and unanimous verdict — guilty on all charges. Delivering his sentence, the judge made it clear that Harold Duffy would spend the rest of his days in prison.
The article ends with a photo of the first victim to come forward, and the woman heralded as the bravest — Judy Sullivan. The photo appears to have been taken on the steps outside the court and even with the low quality reproduction, there is no mistaking Aunt Judy wearing a lurid orange headscarf and mustard-yellow jacket. She looks as world-weary as I remember but the fear has gone, replaced with a defiant expression. It appears the demons I awoke on that afternoon in 1986 have finally been put to rest once and for all.
I allow myself to bask in a self-satisfied glow. Now all I need to do is check if Aunt Judy kept her end of our deal.
John Williamson’s error of judgement hit the national headlines back in 1994. While there were the seeds of an Internet service in the UK back then, it was far from mainstream and there were very few news websites. However, I can’t imagine that the devastating crash which killed both my grandparents and claimed three other victims isn’t referenced anywhere online. If Aunt Judy did as she promised and somehow convinced my mum to keep my grandparents off the road that day, there should have only been three victims.
I google ‘John Williamson lorry crash’. The search engine does its job and spits out a blog article from a road safety charity at the top of the search results. The title reads, ‘Death by Distraction: The Legacy of John Williamson’.
I let my finger hover over the link. I think about the twenty-nine victims of Harold Duffy who found justice because I convinced Aunt Judy to face her fears. Twenty-nine women who, had it not been for my interference in 1986, would never have found peace. Surely their victory is worth more than whatever lies beyond the single line of blue text I’m about to press. I should take that victory and savour the fact I did something worthwhile for all those women. Why push my luck? I don’t need to know if my grandparents avoided the accident, do I?
I nervously tap my finger on the side of the phone. Seconds pass and the tapping becomes more intense. The whole point of this exercise was to balance the spiralling negativity surrounding my parents. I’ve achieved that, so why dig deeper? I feel like a gambling addict; one more hand, one last bet. Why walk away from the table at break-even when I can leave with a win
? Stick or twist?
I can’t help myself and press the link.
I read the first two paragraphs of the article. As the words sink in, bile rises in my throat and suddenly the few mouthfuls of baked potato I consumed earlier try to make the return journey. I swallow hard to keep the contents of my stomach in situ but the bile continues to burn my throat. Scarcely able to believe my own eyes, I read the article again. Some words drift through my mind, others smash their way through. The second paragraph in particular sets the room into a spin…
“The lorry ploughed into the rear of the coach at almost forty miles-per-hour, instantly killing thirteen of the passengers. The driver of the lorry, John Williamson, was also killed in the crash. Four further passengers later died in hospital as a result of their injuries. In total, the crash claimed the lives of eighteen people including four children.”
I read the article over and over again but the details are just background noise compared to the five words which continue to scream from the page — eighteen people, four children, killed. I drop the phone onto the bed and pace up and down the twelve feet of space at the end of the bed, like a zoo tiger in a pen too small.
My mind analyses the damning results of my handywork.
Without my grandparents’ Ford Orion to act as a buffer, the rear of the coach would have taken the full impact from the lorry. I may have afforded my grandparents a few more years of life, but the absence of their car caused the death of far more people on the coach than the three who died in the original timeline. Almost subconsciously my brain does the maths. Notwithstanding the demise of John Williamson, who I couldn’t give a shit about, and taking my grandparents out of the equation, the net death toll was an additional twelve people. And four of them were just kids.
My actions inadvertently caused the death of twelve people who should still be alive today. I’ve just traded almost five hundred years of combined life so my grandparents could enjoy what? Another ten years between them maybe?
What the fuck have I done?
I inexplicably yearn for my room at Broadhall. I want to hear Stephen’s soft Scottish voice, telling me it wasn’t really my fault. I wasn’t the one driving the lorry that careered into the back of the coach so how can I take the blame? How could I have known what would happen? All I wanted to do was keep my grandparents safe, and who wouldn’t do the same thing given the chance? Every question is rhetorical because nobody is ever going to give me an answer. Nobody has, or is ever likely to have answers to such improbable questions.
Both the bedroom and my mind become increasingly claustrophobic. I need to get outside to clear my head, to regain some control. Much like the time I first arrived at Broadhall, I can feel myself sliding down a mountain of questions towards an abyss. I can’t go there again.
I leave the flat and trudge through the streets of Farndale. No plan, no route, and no real purpose other than to quieten my mind. I put one foot in front of another, staring blankly at the few feet of pavement in front of me and focusing on nothing other than the next step. I stop once, outside an off licence. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol in almost a year and haven’t missed it as much as I would have once expected. But now? Can a ten quid bottle of vodka wash away the guilt? Will I feel any better tomorrow?
I walk on.
I have no idea how far or for how long I walk but when I eventually return to the flat, evening has become night. I clamber up the stairs, physically and emotionally exhausted. I head straight to the bedroom and without undressing, crash onto the bed. As I lie in the dark waiting for sleep to come, I repeat my new found mantra — short-term pain, long-term sane. I can dissect the results of my actions in 1986 a million ways but the conclusions will remain the same. No matter how I have changed things, for the better or worse, there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it now even if I wanted to.
The final face I see before I fall asleep is Aunt Judy’s. Twelve people dead, twenty-nine able to live again. I need to cling to the latter.
7
I awake to a pounding head and stomach cramps. Coupled with tiredness after a fitful night’s sleep, I feel lousy. My mind immediately starts to replay the events of last night but I don’t give it the chance to gain traction. Still wearing the ill-fitting charity clothes I wore yesterday, I crawl from my bed to the bathroom. I stand and empty my bladder, grateful there is no mirror above the toilet. I suspect my headache is down to dehydration and my stomach cramps because I’ve barely eaten anything in the last twenty-four hours.
I strip off and stand under the shower for ten minutes, nudging the temperature higher and higher until my skin tingles and glows pink.
With a towel around my waist, I pad back to the bedroom and grab the bag of budget clothes from inside the wardrobe. I slip into a pair of jeans and a black polo shirt. I return to the bathroom and stand in front of the mirror, cursing under my breath. With so many thoughts pinging around my head yesterday, I forgot to buy a razor. This isn’t good because today I start my new job and I was hoping to make a positive impression. Four days worth of stubble does not convey ‘reliable and upstanding citizen’.
I check the time on my phone while I brush my teeth; just past eight. Out of habit, I’m about to check my email inbox and Facebook page before I remind myself that no friends will be emailing unfunny jokes or posting pictures of their breakfast. On reflection, my previous life was no better for either. I head into the kitchen. I force myself to eat a bowl of muesli and down a mug of strong coffee. Both prove to be a remedy and I leave the flat just before eight-thirty, feeling vaguely human again.
The timing of my first day at the charity shop couldn’t have been better planned. I need something to act as a distraction from the past, and to add some semblance of normality to my life. Granted, two days work a week in a charity shop wouldn’t be my first career choice but it’s better than moping around the flat and tormenting myself. And if nothing else, at least it will prove to Stephen I can function back in society.
I arrive outside the local branch of MISSO just before nine. It’s an acronym that makes it sound like a Thai restaurant but apparently it stands for Miscarriage Support Organisation. I was offered the choice of working here or at another shop run by a charity that re-homes dogs. Too many memories of wishing ill-will on barking dogs quickly discounted that option. Besides, I’ve experienced the trauma of a miscarriage first hand. Megan might be a stranger in this life but the pain we endured together as teenagers will always stay with me.
I push open the door to the shop and step inside. There is a counter sat centrally against the rear wall with a closed door behind. Every inch of wall space is shelved and laden with random items of junk that I can’t imagine anyone ever buying. Four freestanding rails occupy the floor space and are jammed with items of clothing. Statistically speaking, at least a dozen of the garments were probably worn when their occupant died.
I cautiously move through the shop towards the counter. I get half way across the floor when I hear laughter and the door behind the counter swings open. A rotund woman with white hair fills the doorway and abruptly gasps when she spots me. Startled by her reaction, I instinctively raise my hands in surrender. We reach a stand-off. She eyes me with panic while frantically waving her flabby right arm to beckon whoever is on the other side of the door. It dawns on me that I probably look like a vagrant or shoplifter, although why anyone would want to steal a ceramic shire horse or a Barry Manilow CD isn’t clear. I try to calm the situation.
“I’m Craig. I’m supposed to start work here today. Aren’t you expecting me?”
The rotund woman eyes me suspiciously as another aged face appears behind her shoulder. The second face belongs to a thin woman with a pronounced nose and silver hair tied into a bun. Now I have two sets of eyes assessing me but no reply to my question.
“I don’t know anything about a man working here,” the thin woman at the rear whispers.
Her rotund colleague concurs with a nod.
“We don’t know anything about a man working here,” she parrots in a thick west country accent, clearly the spokeswoman of the two.
“Okay, there’s obviously been some miscommunication here. You’re not expecting somebody to start work today?”
The two women confer in hushed whispers. The spokeswoman eventually shares their prognosis of the situation.
“We’re expecting a woman, Carol Wilson.”
“Ahh, my surname is Wilson, first name Craig. Perhaps there’s been a mix-up with the names? I can show you some identification if you like.”
More hushed whispers.
“Wait here. We’ll check with head office.”
Both women disappear, closing the door behind them. With little else to do I browse the inventory of tat on the shelves, most of which should be in a skip. I spend five minutes sifting through boxes of worn shoes, mismatched china, obscure cooking utensils, dog-eared books, and a ridiculous amount of VHS cassettes. It’s a depressing journey through the lofts and garages of people too lazy to go to the local tip. Just as I toy with the idea of withdrawing my offer of unpaid labour, the door behind the counter opens and the rotund women waddles towards me.
“I’m sorry my love, there was indeed a mix up. We don’t get many men volunteering here so I was a bit taken aback when I saw you. I’m Brenda by the way, branch manager” she says, her accent and demeanour conjuring up images of a Cornish farmer’s wife.
I offer Brenda a smile while trying to hide my shock that she is almost spherical. There must be a raised platform behind the counter as Brenda looks barely five foot tall stood in front of me. A puff of white hair covers the top of her head like a cumulus cloud. Her grey slacks and peach-coloured blouse make no attempt to hide her odd shape. Still, she appears friendly enough, almost maternal.
“No problem, Brenda,” I reply.
“Shall we start off with a cup of tea, then I’ll show you around?”
Beyond Broadhall (The '86 Fix Book 2) Page 5
