I clamber into the car and carefully place the holdall in the footwell.
“Well?” the old man asks impatiently.
I turn to him. “I got it, Dad. I can’t quite believe it but I actually got it.”
His face is a picture of genuine delight, and he then does something that takes me completely by surprise. He reaches across and clamps his hands around my cheeks.
“I knew you could do it, son. Well done.”
I’m glad his hands are currently covering my cheeks because I feel them flush red. Twice now he’s spontaneously shown physical affection towards me, and that’s twice more than throughout the entirety of my previous life. Coupled with his positive words, it triggers a warm glow.
“Thanks, Dad, but it was your plan C that came good though,” I reply with a broad grin.
“Doesn’t matter. You were the one who went in there and came out with the goods. Smashing job.”
He releases his grip on my face and starts the car, his excitement obvious. The guilt I felt about Dave drifts away as I bask in the old man’s positivity. I feel like an eight-year-old who’s just won the egg-and-spoon race at the school sports day. The sad irony is that the old man never attended any of my school sports days. What wouldn’t I give to relive my life with the father sat next to me. I’ve seemingly not learnt my lesson about wishing for a different life.
We head back to Hale in good spirits, and at a less ponderous pace than the outbound journey.
As we pull into the cul-de-sac my thoughts turn to the reality of the next fifteen minutes. Assuming the old man’s TV is archaic enough, I should be able to connect the computer to it. But what will happen when I finally switch it on? It could be excitement, trepidation, fear, or a mix of all three, but the question actually makes me feel a little queasy. What if my journey was a miraculous one-off, and the computer is now just a useless box of electronics? What do I do if I’m actually able to return to 1986? What if the computer doesn’t work at all?
My nerves are already frayed by the time we walk in the front door.
“You fancy a cuppa or do you want to get on with setting that thing up?” he asks, pointing to the holdall.
“I think I’ll just get on with it, Dad.”
We head into the lounge and I pull the TV away from the wall so I can access the sockets at the back. I unzip the holdall and extract the nest of cables. I put them aside and lift the towel cocoons out, carefully unwrapping them on the floor.
“Anything I can do?” the old man asks.
“Start praying this thing still works.”
I pick the computer up and place it on top of the bulky TV. I return to the nest of cables and extract the lead that runs from the computer to the TV. The correct sockets are present and I plug the leads in. Next, I need power for the computer.
I return to the floor, and tug at the thirteen-amp plug to pull the power cable from the tangled nest. It’s at that exact moment a devastating realisation hits me — the power transformer isn’t here. Without the chunky beige box there is no way to power the computer.
I grab the holdall and check every pocket, but I already know it’s empty. I cast my mind back to Dave’s loft and re-run the process of checking the storage crate. No, it definitely wasn’t in there, I’m sure of it.
“Problem?” the old man asks.
“You could say that,” I groan. “The power transformer is missing.”
“What does it look like?”
“It’s a beige-coloured block, about half the size of a house brick.”
“Could it still be at Dave’s place?”
“I dunno, I wasn’t really looking for it. I know it definitely wasn’t in the same place as the computer.”
“And you definitely need it?”
“Yes,” I snap.
I immediately regret taking my frustration out on the old man.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.”
It doesn’t make sense that Dave would have stored the transformer in a different place from everything else I found in the crate. Notwithstanding the fact he probably wouldn’t welcome another visit, I’d bet good money the transformer isn’t in his loft. If Mum never gave the transformer to Dave when she handed over my computer, surely it must have stayed in my room. And if it stayed in my room, it must have been packed into one of the boxes now sat in the other room.
“You want the good news?” I ask. “Or the bad news?”
“Let’s go with the good news.”
“I think it might be in one of the boxes in the bedroom.”
“The boxes we spent hours sifting through this morning?”
“Afraid so. That’s the bad news.”
“I think I’ll make that cup of tea now.”
We spend another two hours checking every one of the boxes we originally sorted through, and then all of the remaining boxes. One particular box set my pulse racing as I unearthed my old Ferguson portable TV. It did make sense that the transformer would be stored in the same box as the TV but no luck. While I doubt using the original TV will have much bearing on whether the computer does what I hope, or not, at least I now have all the key components — minus the transformer.
The afternoon ends with the two of us sat on the bedroom floor, leant against the wall, defeated and deflated.
“Which plan are we on now?” the old man asks.
“D. Or it could be E.”
“And that plan is?”
By the time we’d sifted through all of the boxes from my former bedroom, I’d already resigned myself to the fact we wouldn’t find the transformer. We kept looking but I started thinking about what I’d do if our search proved fruitless.
“You can still buy Commodore transformers online but it’s going to take a couple of days to arrive I’d imagine.”
“Online? The Internet?” he asks.
“Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll do it when I get back to the flat. I don’t think I could face Miriam again either.”
“Good,” he chuckles. “Tell you what, why don’t we go and grab some dinner? There’s a lovely pub a mile down the road. And I don’t know about you, but I could murder a pint.”
“That, all things considered, is a very sensible suggestion.”
We pack everything away and safely store the computer, the portable TV and all the other components in a cupboard.
Barely ten minutes later, we’re stood at the bar of The Wheatsheaf. We grab our pints and find a table in the beer garden. We only have to share the garden with a handful of other customers and the late afternoon sun is still sat high enough in the sky to warm the air. It’s just about the perfect setting for a quiet pint.
A waitress arrives and takes our food order. We then sit in silence, supping our drinks and reflecting on the craziness of the last thirty-odd hours. Half-a-pint later, the old man poses a question.
“Have you thought about what you’ll do, if you’re able to go back again?”
“Not beyond the last ten minutes. I’m not planning to run through the streets this time.”
“But you’ll do everything else the same as before?”
“I guess so. I haven’t had time to really consider anything. Besides, I didn’t want to tempt fate and get ahead of myself.”
“Right,” he says quietly. “I was just wondering about our chat, the one we had in my shed.”
“What about it?”
“I want you to promise me it still happens.”
I think back to that conversation, and how nervous I was stood in the garden preparing to challenge my ogre of a father. It’s not something I can honestly say I’m relishing.
“I don’t want to be that man again, son. I wasted sixteen years of my life being angry and I need you to ensure I don’t waste the rest of it,” he adds.
Of all the lives I screwed up, one saving grace is the difference between the old man I left behind, and the man sat with me. For purely selfish reasons I’m happy to oblige, no matter how daunting it may be to revisit tha
t shed.
“I promise, Dad.”
“Good lad.”
“Besides,” I smile. “This is the first beer you’ve ever bought me. Can’t have that again.”
We laugh, and finish our drinks chatting idly about nothing in particular. Our food arrives and the conversation continues over steak and chips, and another pint. It’s the tastiest, and most unhealthy meal I’ve had in nearly a year. Then, just as I assume the old man is about to offer me a lift home, he suggests leaving the car at the pub and having a few more pints.
“I’ll pay for you to get a cab home,” he offers. “I don’t know how much longer I’ve got you for, so I’d like to make the most of whatever time we have.”
I vowed to lay off alcohol for at least one day, but the look of expectation on his face melts my defences.
“Yeah, I’d like that, Dad”
“Excellent. It’ll give me a chance to whip you at darts,” he chuckles before heading back to the bar.
All too soon I’m sat in a cab on my way back to Farndale. A little drunk, a lot happy. No matter what happens to me in the future, the four hours I’ve just spent with the old man will remain a treasured memory. The alcohol helped to take the edge of any residual awkwardness and we talked openly, we laughed, and we drank, a lot. We played darts, and I lost. We played pool, and I lost. We even found some common ground in our choice of music on the jukebox. That common ground didn’t quite extend as far as country and western music though — no amount of alcohol could fix that.
It’s well after eleven o’clock by the time I clamber into bed. I set the alarm on my phone to go off at eight. My first priority in the morning is to locate a transformer for the Commodore. But for now, I’m happy to drift away in a drunken stupor, Slim Whitman’s awful yodelling still ringing in my ears.
20
I’m definitely too old for this shit.
If it’s true what they say, and hangovers increase in potency with age, the old man must be clinically dead this morning. I clamber out of bed and begin the now-familiar routine of making strong coffee and necking painkillers. I return to the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed. With my trusty free wi-fi connection, and furnished with a debit card the old man generously lent me, I begin the search for a transformer.
I find plenty of websites that sell modern copies but I’m paranoid about it being original. I can only imagine the horror of plugging in a generic transformer and being greeted with the scent of burning circuitry. Thankfully, I find an online retailer who specialises in retro computer components and they have an original Commodore transformer in stock. I complete the order form, and pay extra for guaranteed overnight delivery.
I call the old man and give him the good news. Judging by his muted reaction I suspect he’s also dealing with an epic hangover. At least he’s still alive. I tell him I’ll call tomorrow once the transformer has arrived. I don’t think either of us is disappointed to end the conversation within a few minutes.
With my primary objective successfully completed before nine o’clock, I decide to escape my hangover and return to bed. I’ve got a whole ten hours to kill before I’m due at Lucy’s house and a few extra hours sleep should ensure I arrive feeling vaguely human.
I manage three hours of fitful sleep, much of it spent tossing and turning as my mind swings back and forth like an emotional pendulum. Excited, fearful. Optimistic, nervous. Contented, unsettled. It feels like being back in 1990 when I was trying to find a decent job, away from Video City. On a few occasions, I got as far as being interviewed and then I’d endure days of anxiety, waiting for a letter to land on the mat. The content of those letters could only ever be binary; really good news or really bad news, nothing in between. My current situation doesn’t feel too different.
By one o’clock I’m climbing the walls. I’ve eaten, I showered, I’ve watched TV, I’ve had my precautionary wank ahead of tonight. I’m full of nervous energy and need to direct it into something productive. I return to the couch and switch the TV on again.
Ten minutes into a mind-numbing property show and an advert for Morrison’s Supermarket prods an unanswered question towards the front of my mind — the whereabouts of one Marcus Morrison. He is the last remaining piece of my 1986 jigsaw. Truth be told, I couldn’t really give a shit where his life went after our altercation in the skate park, but boredom is motivation enough for me to try and find out.
I head back to the bedroom and grab my phone. I check all the major social media platforms to see if Marcus has an account, but find nothing conclusive. A Google search proves equally fruitless. Ten minutes into my online research and I’m already thwarted. Time for a little lateral thinking.
The one connection I still have with Marcus is the school we attended — Heathland Secondary School. I assume the reunion went ahead last year, and I’d bet my bottom dollar Marcus would have been there. Maybe I can get in contact with somebody who attended and see if they spoke to him, or know of his whereabouts. The question is, who?
I open the Facebook app on my phone and search for the most obvious candidate — Helen Robinson, the reunion organiser.
After almost a minute of scrolling past scores of women with the same name, a profile matches the Helen I’m looking for…
Helen Robinson
Works at St Joseph’s Day Nursery, Farndale
Went to Heathland Secondary School
I jab the screen to open the profile. I’m greeted by a picture of Helen, gurning a duck-lipped selfie pose. I shudder, and quickly scroll past the picture to her news feed. It soon becomes clear Helen likes to post about every tedious moment of her day. There’s a picture of her breakfast, of her morning latte, of the new air-freshener in her car. Does she really think her friends and family have any interest in this shit? Deluded woman.
On the plus side, Helen’s propensity to share every part of her life with the world also extends to her contact details.
Furnished with her mobile phone number, I now have to determine my approach. I need to come up with a convincing reason why I’m interested in Marcus, and who I am. Helen probably knows the name of everyone from our year, so I can’t pretend to be a former pupil. But if I never attended Heathland, in what capacity did I know Marcus, and why have I lost touch with him? A dull ache creeps up from the base of my skull, bringing with it some regret I’ve created this problem for no good reason.
I get up from the bed and stare out of the window as I try to concoct a plausible back story. I need to think of something that connects me and Marcus but has nothing to do with school. As we had so little in common and mixed in completely different circles, it’s a very short shortlist of possibilities.
I remind myself this doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things, and dial Helen’s number. She picks up almost immediately.
“Hellooo,” she shrieks.
“Erm, hello. Is that the Helen Robinson who organised the Heathland school reunion last year?”
“The very one.”
“Great. I was hoping you might be able to help me. I’m trying to organise a reunion of my own, for kids who used to attend Sandy Lane Youth Club in the mid-80s.”
“How lovely,” she interrupts. “But I’m afraid my parents never let me go to youth club. They were concerned about some of the undesirables who frequented the place.”
Dave, probably.
“I don’t think I can help you,” she adds.
“No, sorry. That’s not why I was calling you. I’m trying to track down a few elusive people and I can’t find them on Facebook. One of them definitely attended Heathland so I was wondering if he was at your reunion. If he was, I was hoping you might know how to get in touch with him?”
“Oh, I see,” she chortles. “Who is it you’re trying to find?”
“Marcus Morrison.”
Silence.
“Hello? Helen?”
“Sorry. I’m still here,” she says quietly.
“Did you hear what I said?”
> “Yes. Yes I did.”
“So, do you know where I might find Marcus?”
More silence.
“My apologies. I didn’t catch your name,” she eventually says.
“Craig.”
“I hate to be the one to tell you Craig, but I’m afraid Marcus passed away, sometime in the early nineties.”
The sudden tightness in my chest renders me speechless for a second. While I may not have cared about what happened to Marcus, I never imagined for one moment he would no longer be alive.
“God, that’s awful,” I croak. “Do you know what happened?”
Helen sighs, perhaps reluctant to be the bearer of not-so-glad tidings. Seconds pass before she finally decides to furnish me with more details.
“Most of what I know is just gossip from the reunion, but apparently he died of an AIDS-related illness. From what I gather, he left home just after we finished school and he ended up living in a squat, somewhere in London. Apparently he led quite a hedonistic lifestyle for a few years. Unfortunately, the 1980s wasn’t the ideal time for a young gay man to be sowing his wild oats.”
“No, guess it wasn’t.”
Neither of us knows how to fill the silence that follows. I stare out of the bedroom window at the cloudless blue sky — a lovely afternoon, in most respects.
“Sorry, Helen. I’m a bit shell-shocked. I’ll leave it there. Thanks.”
I end the call and sit back down on the bed.
It takes just a few seconds for my mind to pose the question. Was Marcus’s premature death my fault?
I cast my mind back to our conversation in the skate park. He must have taken on-board something I said that morning. Did he confront his homophobic father and end up being kicked out of the family home? Did he decide to live in London so he could embrace his sexuality in a more liberal-minded environment?
I’ll never know.
Beyond the shock and the guilt and the unanswered questions, frustration begins to mount. Why didn’t I just leave this alone? Like a kid with a scabby knee, I had to keep picking at the wounds of my previous life. My mind will never heal as long as I keep poking around in things that should be left well alone. I’m such an idiot.
Beyond Broadhall (The '86 Fix Book 2) Page 16
