Beyond Broadhall (The '86 Fix Book 2)

by Keith A Pearson

  “Maybe we should take a seat.”

  It’s more of an instruction than a question. His tone is definitely sympathetic but I detect it’s not towards my impending headache. This does not bode well — being instructed to take a seat is rarely a precursor to good news. My stomach flips and the look in his eyes suggest I’m right to be concerned. My legs tremble and I fall onto one of the chairs lined up against the wall. He takes a seat next to me and shuffles awkwardly.

  “Can I ask your name?” he says in a low voice.

  “Craig,” I reply, my mouth now bone dry.

  “I’m Jim.”

  Judging by his body language, it’s clear that Jim’s training hasn’t covered this particular scenario. It seems he wants to be sat here even less than I do and dives right in.

  “I searched both names but couldn’t find a record for Colin Pelling.”

  “Which means?”

  “He never died in this borough. I can only search our records and you’d need to search the national archive online if you wanted to search other boroughs.”

  “Right. And Janet Pelling?”

  His eyes look everywhere but at me. He eventually fixes his attention to the floor at my feet.

  “There is one record for a Janet Pelling. The date of birth is a year out, but the day and month are the same as those you gave me.”

  I stop breathing momentarily, my brain stunned and incapable of sending instructions to my lungs. A sudden rush of adrenalin-fuelled panic rectifies the situation and I gasp for air. I feel like I’m going to die. Jim looks like he’d take death over being sat with me as I draw loud raggedy breaths.

  “Are you okay?”

  I want to tell my perceptive friend I am obviously far from okay but words are hard to come by. I manage two.

  “When? How?”

  Jim pauses for a moment. “1996,” he eventually says softly.

  Twenty-two years. My poor Mum has been dead for twenty-two years. How can that be?

  “How?” I repeat.

  “Do you want me to call someone, Craig? This is a lot to take in on your own.”

  “How did she die?” I snap.

  He runs a hand across his bald scalp and lets out a resigned sigh.

  “Suicide.”

  The urge to run is so overwhelming I can’t resist. Without any thought I get to my feet and stagger towards the door. Jim’s final word repeats in my head, over and over until I start to question if it’s an actual word. Nothing makes sense, nothing seems real.

  I bypass the lift and crash through a door to a utilitarian stairwell. I stop for a moment to try and calm myself, conscious that a fall down the stairs won’t help my situation. I take deep breaths and slowly descend down the stairs, keeping a firm grip on the handrail. The thick fog in my mind begins to clear, and by the time I reach the door at the bottom I have pulled myself back from the brink of a complete breakdown.

  I stagger across the polished granite floor and out the main doors. I scan the area and spot a bench. I make my way through the expensively landscaped gardens that front the council building. Only when I’m safely sat down do I dare think about what I just learnt — my mother took her own life, twenty-two years ago.

  It doesn’t make any sense.

  In my former life I never understood suicide. I couldn’t comprehend the existence of a place so dark, so void of hope. A place where death is a compelling alternative to living. However, in my early days at Broadhall I skirted past that place once or twice. I somehow found the resolve to push past it, but for some reason it appears my mum couldn’t find that same resolve.

  Beyond trying to make any sense of Mum taking her own life, why 1996? It was ten years after I was killed so surely that couldn’t have been the catalyst. It’s stone-cold comfort. Maybe it was the old man who drove her to it. Did he revert to type after my death? That makes no sense either as without me in their lives, there was nothing keeping her shackled to him. Why kill yourself when you can get a divorce?

  Far from finding closure, I’ve opened Pandora’s box. I get up from the bench and trudge in the vague direction of the flat.

  Half-an-hour later I’m sat in the lounge in complete silence, if you exclude the noise in my head. I had prepared myself for the worst, knowing that one or both of my parents could be dead. I could never have prepared for this eventuality. People die, I get that, but people rarely take their own life. The fact I will never see my mum’s face again is hard enough to take, but the fact she made a conscious decision to kill herself is heartbreaking. I can’t see past it.

  Hours pass and I remain seated on the couch. I cry, I shout and I pummel the upholstery with my fists. More than at any point in my life I need someone to talk to. My need is irrelevant — there’s nobody to tell, much less anyone whom I can unburden the truth to. This fucked-up world and every broken life within it is of my creation. It is now my hell and I must endure it alone.

  I get up and leave the flat. I stride purposely down the street towards my destination.

  The last moments of this day I’ll remember will be a trip to a convenience store and opening a bottle of vodka in the kitchen. Anything beyond that, alcohol will take care of.

  A drunken coma will be my sanctuary for the rest of the day.

  9

  Twilight and early-morning birdsong wake me just after five in the morning. The couch is not as comfortable as it looks and every bit of me aches. I stumble to the kitchen and down two painkillers with a pint of water. I set the alarm on my phone to go off in two hours and climb into bed. Sleep promptly returns.

  The two hours pass in a heartbeat, and before I know it, my phone trills away on my bedside table. I turn it off and lie in silence, my mouth dry and my head thick. Fragments of yesterday start to piece together, regret being the glue holding them in place. Inevitably, I begin to question my actions and conclude the bottle of vodka wasn’t a great idea. I’ve got work today, and I’m due to meet Lucy this evening so a hangover is the last thing I need. I clamber out of bed and head to the kitchen in dire need of strong coffee.

  With coffee made, I return to the couch and the empty vodka bottle sat on the table, next to a pack of cheap disposable razors. Even in my most reckless of moments I still managed to remember my shopping list. It almost raises a wry smile.

  I sip my coffee and stare at the bottle. Did that really help? I could argue that it took me away from the constant heckling of questions I am in no position to answer. They’re still there though. I need to push on, keep wading through the pain until I find all of my questions are answered. I tell myself this is like having toothache and being afraid of the dentist. You can put off the appointment but the pain won’t go away. At some point you’ve got to enter the surgery, sit in that chair and open your mouth. I’ve entered the surgery but there’s still more pain to face before I move on.

  I take a shower, have a long overdue shave, and check the weather forecast on my phone. It’s sods law that after yesterday’s cooler weather, it’s going to hit thirty degrees today. Not ideal if I’m to spend another day languishing in hell’s toilet at the shop. Assuming it’s going to be another dirty, sweaty day, it makes sense to wear the charity clothes that came with me from Broadhall. As cheap and nasty as my new clothes might be, I can’t afford to ruin them.

  I get dressed and watch the morning news while I eat a bowl of muesli. The TV provides a distraction, the food doesn’t. I leave the flat earlier than I really need to but I fancy a slow saunter into town this morning. I’ve got a lot to consider and I’m hoping the blue skies and early morning sunshine will spark some positivity in my thinking.

  Half-an-hour later I’m a little sweaty but devoid of any inspiration. In reality, what can I do with the damning information I learnt yesterday? My mother is dead, and has been for a long time. Notwithstanding the fact I have no idea where he now lives, or even if he’s alive, the old man is the only person who can provide answers. But I suspect he won’t be too forthcoming if his dead so
n turns up to talk about his dead wife. While it’s all well and good having the stomach to find the answers, realistically, where do I find them?

  Pushing the same questions around my head is a fruitless exercise so I try to focus on more positive matters, and my date with Lucy tonight. Thinking about it, is ‘date’ the right word? I’d say our relationship has always been more like that of close friends. Obviously Lucy is an attractive woman but I’ve never felt there was any romantic connection between us, certainly not from Lucy’s perspective anyway. I was married and she was a colleague, a good friend, simple as that.

  I stop dead in my tracks as if I’d walked into a brick wall. What the hell am I thinking?

  I have to remind myself that Lucy and I don’t have a relationship of any kind. Apart from the hour or so we spent together in her office the other day, we’re as good as strangers. If I’m even to class her as a friend, I have to start from scratch, rebuild everything. Tonight won’t be a date in the traditional sense; it will be a chance for me to lay the foundations of our friendship. And with everything else going on in my head at the moment, I need to take things one step at a time.

  I arrive at the MISSO shop twenty minutes before opening time. Brenda is already behind the counter, trying in vain to make a pile of cheap jewellery look enticing. She’s traded in her slacks and blouse for a bright blue dress. She looks a bit like a hot air balloon. After telling me in no uncertain terms that I look like shit, she suggests I grab a cup of tea. I head into the kitchen and do exactly that. As I take my first sip, Brenda joins me.

  “Heavy night was it?” she chirps.

  “That obvious?”

  “You don’t get to my age without experiencing your own fair share of hangovers. Was it purging or pleasure?”

  “Purging. Definitely.”

  “Oh dear. Would I be right in guessing it had something to do with our chat on Thursday?”

  I take another sip of my tea. Brenda eyes me with a look that is probably instinctive, maternal. A woman I barely know is offering me a chance to offload, to talk. It’s a sad indictment of my life that she is really the only person offering me that chance. I take it before I analyse the reasons not to.

  “It’s my mum. I found out she’s dead,” I croak.

  Brenda steps towards me and places her hand on my shoulder. She looks up at me, her expression empathetic.

  “I’m so sorry, my love. Do you want to talk about it?”

  “If I’m honest, I’m struggling to get my head around it. It doesn’t seem real,” I sigh.

  “Something like that can be a shock and the mind tries to block it out I reckon. Probably easier to cope with it that way. I know there’s not much I can say that’ll make it any easier, but I can listen. If you want to get anything off your chest, it’s better than keeping it bottled up, that I promise you.”

  She keeps her hand fixed on my shoulder but doesn’t say anything else, leaving the door open for me to step through should I choose. I feel the muscles in my chest tighten and a lump dances in my throat. I place my cup on the kitchen counter and press my fingers into my temples. I do everything within me to fight the overwhelming urge to cry.

  Brenda takes the initiative.

  “Come here, my love, let’s hug it out. You’ll feel better, I promise.”

  Without waiting for my approval, Brenda wraps her arms around me and gently pats my back. The last time anyone showed me any affection was back in 1986 when Mum hugged me in the kitchen the night I left. She used to say that a hug gave more comfort than a thousand words ever could. Maybe this is as close as I’m ever going to get to that comfort again. I’ll take it.

  A silent moment passes before Brenda breaks away. She takes my hands and grips them tightly.

  “I might not know you very well, but I know that pain too well. Whenever you feel like you need to talk, you come and see me.”

  The kindness of strangers — a simple hug and a few compassionate words but it means so much, almost too much. I feel my eyes misting as I smile back at Brenda.

  “Sorry, that wasn’t very professional and I shouldn’t bring my problems to work,” I sniffle.

  “Oh, bollocks to that. You work here for bugger-all so the least I can do is give you a hug when you need one. I know you might think I’m a daft old cow but I do understand how you must be feeling. Just you remember that.”

  “I will. And I certainly don’t think you’re daft.”

  “Just an old cow then?” she laughs.

  She pats me gently on the arm and waddles out of the kitchen. Just as she gets to the doorway, she turns back to face me.

  “I meant every word of what I just said, my love. You’re only on your own if you want to be.”

  And with that she turns and leaves.

  I pull myself together and finish my tea. I’ve barely known her more than a few days but Brenda has already filled a friend-shaped hole in my life. I could do with a few more Brendas in this barren life.

  I take a moment to pull myself together and head out to the shop to get my instructions for the day. Emily is stood on the opposite side of the counter, trying to de-tangle a nest of cheap jewellery.

  “Morning Emily,” I say as cheerfully as I can.

  “Morning,” she replies curtly. Odd woman.

  Brenda asks if I mind returning to the stockroom for a few hours as the shelves in the shop need replenishing. I was kind of hoping not to be working on my own and Brenda detects my hesitancy.

  “Sally works on Saturdays so I can send her in to give you a hand. She’ll be here in about half-an-hour.”

  I give Brenda a knowing smile and make my way out to the stockroom. The unventilated room still holds a pungent odour but at least it’s fairly cool. I know that won’t last as the sun works its way around the building so I immediately open the shutter. I puff out my cheeks and delve into the first bag of god-only-knows what.

  As nasty as the job is, it’s easy to get lost in it and a mindless half-an-hour passes quickly. I’m so focused I almost soil myself when the stockroom door suddenly swings open. I glance up from a box of kitchen utensils, and do a double-take.

  “Hi, you must be Craig. Nice to meet you. I’m Sally.”

  I know — you were my mother-in-law for twenty-five years.

  I stand, open-mouthed and stare at Megan’s mother. What hideous twist of fate has dropped us into this room together?

  I run through a mental checklist to ensure I’m not mistaken: late sixties, average height, thin frame, long hair dyed blonde, and amber eyes. Even the jeans and checked shirt she’s wearing seem familiar. There’s no mistaking Sally Franklin.

  “Sally?” I splutter.

  The faint lines on her forehead deepen as she squints at me.

  “Sorry, have we met before?”

  Somewhere in my shocked mind, a lever is thrown and I switch from the Craig who knows Sally to the one who has never met her.

  “No…sorry, my mistake.”

  Sally approaches me and holds out a hand.

  “Thought not. I’d definitely remember you,” she purrs.

  I shake her hand while I inwardly cringe at her blatant flirtation.

  “So, where do you want me?” she asks with a slight raise of her left eyebrow.

  “Um, we need to sort through that pile of bags.”

  “Let’s get down to it then shall we?”

  The next hour is beyond excruciating. Notwithstanding Sally’s cougar-like behaviour, questions about Megan burn but can’t be asked. I try several times to swing our conversation around to the subject of children and family, but Sally sweeps my questions aside every time. In the end I just ask her outright if she has kids. Again, she changes the subject without an answer. I can only assume she doesn’t want to admit having a daughter the same age as me.

  One thing I do learn, and Sally emphasises several times, is that she divorced six years ago. It’s a fact that surprises me, not least because Sally and Trevor celebrated their fiftieth wedding
anniversary in my previous life. As Sally chatters away, I barely listen as I try to work out how my actions in 1986 could possibly have caused their divorce. Nothing comes of it.

  As the temperature in the stockroom slowly increases, Sally decides to remove her shirt. She deliberately stands in my line of sight and slowly undoes the buttons. She peels herself out of the sweat-soaked shirt, and for one horrific moment I panic she might not be wearing anything underneath. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see her white vest top. Despite her age, her body isn’t too dissimilar to that of Megan’s in middle-age and that familiarity prompts me to stare for just a few seconds too long. Sally notices.

  “Like what you see?” she says with a wicked grin. “A lot of hours in the beauty salon and the gym.”

  As my face reddens, my mind decides to conjure up the image of me and my former mother-in-law, going at it in the stockroom like sweaty rabbits. So very wrong on so many levels. While I may not have had sex in a long, long time, that’s one line I will not cross. I need an escape plan before I do something monumentally stupid.

  “I need a cold drink. Can I get you one, Sally?”

  “Gin and tonic, with ice. Please,” she replies with a wink.

  “Oh, I think there’s only orange squash.”

  I dart out of the stockroom, wincing at my parting statement.

  As I pass the open door to the office on my way to the kitchen, Brenda calls my name. I backtrack and stand in the doorway.

  Brenda is sat at a desk with a mug of coffee and a laptop computer in front of her. She looks up from the screen, an agitated expression on her face.

  “Twatter,” she says abruptly.

  “Sorry?”

  “Twatter. Do you know anything about it?”

  I glance at the screen where the web browser displays the Twitter home page.

  “You mean Twitter?”

  “Twitter, Twatter, makes no bloody odds. I can’t work this damn thing,” she groans.

  “What are you trying to do?”

  “The idiots at head office say we need to have a page for the shop on social thingamabobs. I don’t have the first clue about this Internet stuff and I’m just about to throw this fecking thing across the room.”