“Got it, Dad.”
“That was quick. I’ll go thank Miriam and we can get out of here.”
The old man heads out to find our hostess while I put my trainers back on. He returns a minute later and slips his suede loafers back on.
“You went out into the garden without your shoes?” I ask.
“Miriam doesn’t like people wearing shoes on her lawn.”
I don’t need to say a word for him to understand what I’m thinking. We beat a hasty retreat to the old man’s bungalow and the armchairs in his lounge.
“How do you want to play this then, son?”
At no point in my life have I ever considered the correct protocol for telling my best friend I’ve risen from the dead. Clearly this isn’t something we can do over the phone. The only practical option is to pay Dave a visit and hope we can get a foot in the door before he punches me in the face.
“Okay. I think it would be better if you led this,” I say. “We’ll go to his house and you can introduce yourself and then give him the notes. Explain what they are and what happened that night. We can then broach the subject that your companion is actually his dead friend. How hard can it be?”
The old man scratches his chin and considers my excuse for a plan.
“It’s a bit flimsy but I can’t think of any other way to handle it,” he eventually says. “At least your notes should add some credibility to my explanation.”
“Right. We set then?”
We sit and look at one another for a moment, both expecting the other to do something.
“Well,” the old man says. “Hand them over then.”
“What?”
“Your notes.”
“You’ve got them.”
“No, son. I gave them to you at the cemetery.”
My mind quickly replays the minutes of our first meeting in the cemetery. I read the notes and put them down on the bench. And that’s where they stayed after we walked over to Mum’s grave.
“Fuck.”
“What?”
“I left them on the bench.”
“I kept those notes safe for over thirty years and you’ve managed to lose them within thirty seconds?”
“Sorry,” I mumble. “Maybe they’re still there.”
He shakes his head. “I suppose we’d better go and look then.”
Thirty minutes later we’re sat in the church car park — empty handed. I searched high and low around the bench but to no avail. The notes, like the teenager who wrote them, long gone.
“Well, son. That’s your plan well and truly scuppered isn’t it?”
“Somewhat,” I sigh. “Looks like we’ll have to go with plan-B.”
“Plan-A wasn’t great so I dread to think what plan-B might involve. Care to enlighten me?”
“I haven’t the foggiest. Take a slow drive and I’ll work on it.”
I enter Dave’s address into the navigation app on my phone and frown when it informs me our destination is only twelve minutes away.
“Make that a very slow drive.”
With a shake of his head, the old man slips the car into gear and makes his way out of the car park.
17
Despite the old man driving like James May on a Sunday, we reach Conniston Drive within nineteen minutes. He pulls up fifty yards beyond the junction so we can discuss my cunning plan out of sight of Dave’s house. He turns the ignition key and once again, we sit in silence listening to the ticking of the cooling engine.
“Well, son. I’m all ears.”
“Shock and awe.”
“Sorry?”
“Look, if this Dave is anything like the Dave I knew, he won’t invite us in for tea and small talk. He was never a man who appreciated subtlety so I’ll have to get straight to the point and pummel him with information he can’t refute.”
“And if he pummels you back, with his fists?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be away on my toes if I think he’s about to get physical.”
“Good for you. And I’ll stand there and take a beating on your behalf shall I?”
“You’ve got your walking stick to fend him off. You’ll be okay.”
An incredulous scowl falls across his face.
“I’m joking, Dad. I think it might be better if you wait in the car. Without the notes your presence isn’t going to make any difference. He’ll either believe me within the first few minutes, or he’ll lose his shit. If it’s the latter I don’t want you in harm’s way. Dave always had a tendency to punch first and ask questions later.”
I expected the old man to offer some resistance but he bravely agrees to stay in the car. In fairness, I’d rather stay in the car too.
“Just think about the end game, son. We just need the computer back. Anything else is inconsequential.”
He then reaches into his jacket and pulls out a black leather wallet. He extracts a wad of notes and hands them to me.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Plan C.”
“I’m not with you.”
“If all else fails, there’s three hundred quid. If he isn’t gullible enough to believe your story, let’s hope he’s skint enough to sell the computer.”
“I can’t take that, Dad.”
“Shut up and take the money.”
I comply and offer a weak smile in return. There’s no need for further discussion or deferral. I get out of the car and close the door behind me. I stand on the pavement for a second to gain my composure as the old man gives me a thumbs up from behind the windscreen. I nod back, and turn to face the street ahead of me.
“Commodore 64, I’m coming for you,” I whisper to myself.
I slowly amble along Conniston Drive towards number twenty-nine. I take time to assess the neighbourhood for clues about this version of Dave. The houses are all semi-detached or terraced, with ugly, pebble-dashed facades. The lack of architectural merit suggests these homes were built by the local council, probably back in the fifties or sixties. The front gardens are small and unkempt, many littered with discarded children's toys and the occasional kitchen appliance. It doesn’t feel like the kind of street a successful graphic designer would choose to live in.
I scold myself for being judgemental. It’s the people who make a community, not the buildings. Perhaps Dave likes living here and I’m certainly in no position to sneer at those who actually have their own home. I walk on.
I pass number nineteen and the road takes a ninety degree turn to the left. I round the corner and the street view changes from houses to small terraced bungalows. They appear to have been built at the same time as the houses in the street, and probably designed by the same lazy architect. I pass by numbers twenty-one through twenty-seven and stop about ten yards from number twenty-nine.
Even with a determined effort to keep my preconceptions at bay, I have to conclude Dave’s home is an utter shit-hole.
The small from lawn is overgrown, clumps of brambles and other weeds flourishing around the barely distinguishable borders. The paint on the front door and window frames is flaking and blistered, with more wood visible than actual paint. The front gutter is hanging loose at one end and the roof is dotted with mounds of moss. Many of the clay tiles are chipped, and just as many are missing altogether. It’s a forlorn looking structure in desperate need of some urgent maintenance.
Before I think twice and change my mind, I make my way up the weed-ridden path to the front door. I lift my hand to press the doorbell, only to notice the wire trailing from beneath it has been cut. This doesn’t suggest Dave is keen on visitors. I ignore the voice in my head, screaming that this is a bad idea, and rap my knuckles on the frosted glass pane.
A minute passes and there’s no response, no sounds from within the bungalow. I rap the glass again and turn to face the street. There are about a dozen cars lined up at intervals along the kerb. I examine each one to see if I can determine which is Dave’s, but it’s ultimately a pointless exercise. I turn back to the door. Still nothing to indica
te Dave is at home. I’m just about to knock for a third, and final time, when I hear a muffled voice from somewhere inside.
I knock again. This time I definitely hear a voice, muttering a string of expletives. Its owner appears to be nearing the door and the voice is just about distinguishable as Dave’s. I move back a few feet and stand with my legs akimbo, stretching my muscles in preparation to run. Judging by the foul language now clearly audible through the door, it’s safe to say Dave definitely doesn’t welcome unsolicited visitors.
The door suddenly swings open and bangs against the adjacent wall, the glass pane rattling in its frame.
I was half-expecting to be punched by a fist but the first blow is delivered to my senses, primarily my sense of smell. A waft of tepid air engulfs me, carrying the scent of age-old sweat, cigarette smoke, stale alcohol and piss. I fight my gag reflex and stare at the raging face of somebody who might be Dave but looks nothing like the version from my previous timeline.
“The fuck you want?” he grunts.
The voice is Dave’s, without question. Little else is. The man before me has long hair, greasy and lank, and a fierce beard covering most of his face. And then there’s his body — there’s a huge amount of it, probably twenty stones at least, all fat and no muscle.
As damn awful as my friend looks, it pales into insignificance at the sight of his seated position with two large wheels either side of him.
“You’re…in a wheelchair,” I inadvertently vocalise.
“No shit, Sherlock. I didn’t need you banging on my fucking door to tell me that.”
I let my muscles relax a little. Despite the shock of seeing my old friend sat in a wheelchair, I can take comfort that there’s little chance of Dave punching me, let alone chasing me down the street. Nevertheless, I’ll keep my distance as he’s sat at the perfect height to deliver a potent jab to the balls.
“Dave?” I confirm, unsettled by the radically different appearance of the man before me.
“Who’s asking?”
I ignore his question. “I need to talk to you. It’s important.”
A spark of recognition appears to ignite in his head, but not enough to flame his memory.
“Who the fuck are you, and how do you know my name?” he spits.
“Let me come in for five minutes and I’ll explain.”
“Are you shitting me? I don’t make a habit of letting people I know into my home, let alone mystery dickheads who turn up unannounced.”
This isn’t going well. I need to throw him a bone, offer him something to spike his interest.
“Are you a betting man, Dave?”
If this version of Dave is anything like his predecessor, I know he won’t be able to resist a bet.
“Might be. What’s it gotta do with you?”
“I’ve got a bet you can’t lose, well, you can’t lose any money.”
“If there’s no money involved, I’m not interested.”
“No, wait, there is. I said you can’t lose any money.”
“You’re starting to piss me off now. Get to the point will you.”
“I’ll bet you forty quid that I can guess when, where, and who you broke your virginity with. If I’m right, you let me in for five minutes to talk. If I’m wrong, I’ll give you forty quid, cash.”
He eyes me suspiciously. “So let me get this straight. You guess who I popped my cherry with, and where, and if you’re wrong you’ll give me forty quid?”
“Yep. You’ve got nothing to lose apart from five minutes of your time.”
Clearly Dave has nothing else in his diary and considers my bizarre proposition.
“Just so you’re clear, there’s fuck all worth stealing in here so if this is some ruse to rob me, you’re wasting your time. And my carer is due any time so if you try any funny shit, he’ll kick your arse.”
“I just want to talk to you, nothing more.”
“Alright then. I’ll take your stupid bet.”
“Tanya Phelps. Christmas 1985. On a judo mat in a storage room at the Sandy Lane Youth Club disco.”
He doesn’t react but his eyes fail to hide his surprise.
“How the fuck do you know that?” he eventually grunts.
“We had a bet, Dave. I won. Let me in and I’ll answer your question.”
He just stares at me for a few seconds. The temptation to pull the door shut must be at the forefront of his mind. But if I were in his shoes, metaphorically as he isn’t wearing any, my curiosity would probably win out. Surely he wants to know how a complete stranger knows information he only ever shared with two people. Actually, he never shared it with me as such. I happened to be standing guard outside while he did the deed, for the entire six minute duration.
Just when I think he’s about to pull the door shut, he cusses under his breath and spins around in his chair. A quick thrust of his stocky arms and he wheels away. I take it as the politest invite I’m likely to receive and step into a filthy hallway, closing the front door behind me.
What I smelt outside was fairly pleasant compared to the noxious stench beyond the door. The bare walls are a grimy shade of light blue and the laminated flooring not too dissimilar to the bottom of a heavily soiled litter tray.
I cross the hall and through to a square lounge. The curtains are partially drawn but there’s enough light to determine I’ve just entered a pig sty. An unmade, metal-framed bed is wedged against one wall, with some sort of mechanical pulley contraption fixed to the ceiling above — it’s a telling sight. Whatever accident or illness put Dave in the wheelchair, it appears to be permanent.
Besides the bed, there’s a shabby armchair and a flatpack cabinet in the corner with a small TV sat on top. Beyond the path of Dave’s wheelchair, the floor is covered with discarded clothes and general landfill. A half-empty vodka bottle and an overflowing ashtray take pride of place on a small table next to the armchair.
The whole place is as depressing as it is disgusting.
What the hell happened to my best friend?
18
Dave has positioned his wheelchair next to the bed and stares up at me like I’m the strangest of strangers.
“So?” he grunts.
The disturbing reality of the situation dominates my thoughts. What happened to the gym-obsessed Adonis I once knew? How did he end up in a wheelchair and why is he now a fat hobo living in squalor?
“Four minutes left,” he says, lighting a cigarette.
Plan B now seems wholly inappropriate. Whatever happened to Dave, he clearly isn’t in a sufficiently stable state of mind to accept I’ve returned from beyond the grave. God only knows what drove him to this pitiful existence, but I doubt hearing about the life he could have lived is likely to improve this one.
“I’m looking for a computer. A Commodore 64,” I splutter.
“Good for you. Try eBay.”
“Actually, I’m looking for a very specific Commodore 64. One I’ve been told is in your possession.”
He takes a long draw on his cigarette before exhaling a plume of smoke towards the nicotine-stained ceiling.
“This is bullshit. Who the fuck are you?”
For Christs-sake Craig, don’t tell him the truth.
“I’m…um…Jeremy. Jeremy Pelling.”
“That supposed to mean something to me?”
“I’m Craig’s cousin.”
The spark of recognition that failed to ignite outside suddenly bursts into flame. The scowl on his face lifts in an instant.
“Shit. I thought there was something about you that seemed familiar. Why the fuck didn’t you say that in the first place?”
“Dunno,” I laugh nervously. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember Craig.”
“He was my best mate,” he says wistfully. “But we’ve never met before have we? I don’t remember Craig ever mentioning you.”
“Um, we lived in Essex and my dad never got on with his brother, Craig’s dad. I only met Craig a few times before…you know.”
/> “Yeah, I know. Terrible what happened to him, poor bastard.”
A sudden silence falls on the room, maybe as a mark of respect for the teenage version of me who died so young. It’s unreal and unsettling. Dave eventually breaks the silence with a question that threatens to expose my bullshit.
“If you only met Craig a few times, why did he share the specific details of how l lost my virginity? Seems a bit random.”
“Oh, well, he didn’t actually tell me.”
“Eh?”
“He kept a diary. I saw it, a few days ago when I visited his dad. The stuff about you losing your virginity was in the diary and I thought it was funny. That’s why I remembered it.”
“You’re an odd one aren’t you? Not the way I’d choose to introduce myself.”
“Anyway, the computer?”
“What do you want if for?”
I could tell him the truth. We’re all living in a parallel timeline and the Commodore 64 might be able to send me back in time so I can restore the past. Or I could lie.
“It’s a bit of a long story. I’ve just got back in touch with Craig’s dad, Colin, and I’m staying with him for a week or so. Anyway, we were chatting and he told me about a game Craig was working on before he…err, left. I thought it might be a nice touch to finish the game, maybe even convert it to work on a PC. Sort of like an online memorial to him.”
“Nice idea, but seeing as the Commodore didn’t have any internal memory for storing software, you don’t actually need the computer, just whatever he saved the game on? Could have been a floppy disk or a cassette.”
Bugger. His knowledge of retro computers has blown a hole in my concocted story.
“Yeah, right, of course. I sort of assumed that if I found the computer, the game might be stored with it.”
“Afraid not mate. Mrs P just gave me the computer and the cassette recorder. To be honest, I didn’t want the bloody thing as I already had a Commodore 128, but I guess the poor old girl thought I’d like something of Craig’s, you know, to remember him. I took it home and just shoved it in the wardrobe.”
“Right.”
I dig my hands in my pockets and feel the wad of notes the old man gave me.
Beyond Broadhall (The '86 Fix Book 2) Page 14
