Beyond Broadhall (The '86 Fix Book 2)

by Keith A Pearson

  This, of course, is all hypothetical. I’ve let my imagination live out decisions that may never need to be made. I have the computer but that is all. In all likelihood, when I turn it on it will be just a run-of-the-mill Commodore 64. That’s even if it still works. I’m still a long way from even having to contemplate going back. As is stands, I don’t have any decisions to make. One step at a time.

  I down the last mouthful of coffee and get up to make another one. Just as I reach the kitchen area, the intercom buzzes. I have a visitor it would seem, hopefully carrying a box containing the transformer.

  I dart into the hallway and lift the intercom handset.

  “Hello.”

  “Parcel,” grunts a voice.

  “Okay. I’m coming down.”

  I scurry down the stairs and open the door to an impatient-looking courier.

  “Sign here,” he mumbles as he hands me a device like a mobile phone.

  I scribble my name on the screen and he hands me a nondescript box. He’s already heading back down the path before I can offer my thanks.

  It’s then I spot something which immediately pours cold water on my excitement — a pea-green Citroen 2CV.

  “For fucks sake,” I mutter under my breath.

  “Morning, Craig.”

  A man appears at the end of the path, a wide smile on his milky white face and a leather document pouch tucked under his arm.

  “Morning, Stephen.”

  Crap. My case officer from Broadhall. What does he want?

  “Can I come up for a chat?”

  As much as I don’t want to, I have little choice but to let him in. I plod back up the stairs with Stephen at my heels. He tries to engage me in small talk but I have no interest and offer only single-syllable replies. As we enter the flat I drop the parcel on the floor in the hallway and Stephen follows me into the lounge. Without invitation, he takes a seat on the couch. I sit on the arm, as far away from him as possible.

  “So, how are you doing?” he asks.

  “Good. Everything is really good.”

  “Glad to hear it, but you were supposed to call me on Monday. What happened?”

  Fuck. In all the excitement of locating the computer, I totally forgot I was supposed to call Stephen with an update.

  “I’m really sorry. I meant to call but it just slipped my mind.”

  “Right. I don’t want to come across as a jobsworth, but it is imperative you stick to the agreed release program.”

  “Fair enough. It won’t happen again.”

  “Let’s hope not.”

  Just as I hope he’s ticked whatever boxes he needs to tick, he unzips the document pouch and pulls out a buff-coloured folder.

  “Shall we have a coffee while I bring your assessment paperwork up-to-date?”

  I reluctantly get up and trudge over to the kitchen. I switch the kettle on and grab another mug from the cupboard. While I wait for the kettle to boil, I take a few steps towards the lounge area.

  “Will this take long, Stephen?”

  “Why? Got somewhere to be?”

  “Kind of. I’ve got a computer booked at the library. I’m researching potential careers.”

  From previous experience, I know this is the sort of positive nonsense Stephen likes to hear.

  “Excellent. I’ll get through this as quickly as I can. Promise.”

  I’m about to return to coffee making duties when my phone vibrates on the small table in front of the couch. I take a few steps towards it as Stephen leans forward to examine the phone. I get within four feet when my heart drops to my stomach. The caller’s name is emblazoned across the screen — DAD.

  I glance at Stephen to see if he’s noticed. As I do, he turns his head and stares back at me. His expression suggests he has. Before I can do anything, he snatches the phone from the table and accepts the call.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  “Hello. Craig’s phone,” he chimes in his Scottish accent.

  A few seconds pass before he speaks again.

  “No. He’s busy at the moment. Can I take a message?”

  I look on in horror. Helpless.

  “Sure, I’ll tell him. Who shall I say called?”

  No Dad, please don’t say it.

  “Right. Colin Pelling, his dad. Got it.”

  He hangs up and places the phone back on the table.

  “That was your dad. Apparently the furniture for your bedroom is being delivered at four o’clock this afternoon.”

  As agile as my mind is at resolving problems, I can’t think of any plausible explanation for the call Stephen just took. I’m screwed.

  “You had no right to answer my phone,” I bark.

  “I wouldn’t have answered your phone if I hadn’t seen the call was from your dad. As you apparently have no recollection of your life before you were admitted to Broadhall, I was curious how you managed to contact a man you couldn’t even remember ten days ago.”

  He stares at me, waiting for a reaction or an explanation.

  “And considering you were released because we thought you’d got past this obsession with Craig Pelling, I’d say I was right to take that call, wouldn’t you?”

  My beautiful day that started so perfectly, has turned into a complete and unimaginable car crash.

  “Clearly you don’t have anything to say so I’ll ask the questions and you just answer.”

  I nod.

  “For the moment let’s overlook the fact you’re referring to him as Dad, and he’s taking delivery of furniture for you. Can you explain why you’re in contact with Craig Pelling’s father at all?”

  This is bad. This is really bad. Of course I can’t explain, least not in a way he would believe.

  With nothing to offer, I shrug my shoulders.

  “This is serious, Craig. I knew it was a bad idea to locate you in Farndale.”

  He pulls out a form from the buff-coloured folder and clicks his pen. Seconds pass as he furiously scribbles notes on the form.

  “What are you doing?” I gulp.

  He doesn’t answer immediately and completes his notes. Long seconds pass before he looks up at me.

  “In my professional opinion we got this wrong. Either you were released too soon or we put you in the wrong place. Either way, we need to get you re-assessed as soon as possible.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry, but I think we need to recall you to Broadhall.”

  24

  I stand, frozen. This cannot be happening. What the fuck have I done to anger the Gods so much they’d inflict this on me?

  Stephen gets up from the couch and moves towards the door, as if blocking my exit.

  “Listen, Craig,” he says, his voice calm. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. Hopefully this is just a blip and we can get you back on track within a week or so. There’s no need to worry.”

  A blip? A week? They kept me in that place for eleven fucking months last time. Now Stephen has evidence I’ve been in contact with the old man, Craig Pelling’s old man, there is every chance my return visit to Broadhall could be permanent. I can’t take that risk.

  “I’m not going back, Stephen. If you need to reassess me, you can do it here.”

  “It doesn’t work like that. We need to ensure you’re in a safe environment, for your protection as much as anything.”

  “I’m perfectly safe here, thanks. I’m not going back, no way. You can’t make me.”

  He sighs and folds his arms.

  “Try and look at it from my point of view. This fixation with the Pelling kid is the reason you were admitted to Broadhall in the first place. Now, I don’t know what you’re up to with his father but it’s not something I can ignore. You convinced us this whole delusion about Craig Pelling had been put to bed, but clearly it’s still in your head and we need to establish why.”

  We reach an impasse as Stephen quietly ponders his next move. He’s not alone in that.

  “You’ve got two options here, Craig. You c
an come with me now and we can deal with this together, quietly and calmly.”

  “Not interested.”

  “Or if you’re not willing to do that,” he continues, ignoring my protestation. “I’ll have no option but to call in support. If it comes to it, we can forcibly return you to Broadhall. Please don’t take that option.”

  Stephen has revealed his hand. He wants me back at Broadhall one way or another. Now it’s time to play my hand.

  “Okay, Stephen” I relent. “Looks like I don’t have a choice.”

  He visibly breathes a sigh of relief. “Good man. Shall we get going then?”

  “Sure. Can I take my phone?”

  “Um, if you like.”

  I step across to the table, pick up the phone and drop it into my pocket. I turn back and take a few steps towards Stephen with my hand held out, inviting a handshake.

  “Sorry about the dramatics, Stephen. No hard feelings?”

  He takes my hand and I inwardly cringe at his feeble handshake.

  “No hard feelings, Craig. As long as we get you sorted, I’m happy.”

  “Good. Do you mind if he comes with us?”

  I nod towards the kitchen and Stephen instinctively turns to see who I’m referring to. Obviously there’s nobody there but it buys me an invaluable second.

  With his sweaty hand still locked in a handshake with mine, and his attention elsewhere, I step backwards and yank at his arm. He stumbles forward just as I turn and stretch my right leg out. As I hoped, he trips over my outstretched leg and sprawls headfirst across the laminate floor. It’s not the most sophisticated of moves but it does do the job.

  As tempting as it is, I dismiss the idea of offering a witty departing quip and dart through the door. I grab the parcel from the hallway floor and slam the front door shut behind me.

  I’m conscious I’ve only bought myself a few seconds breathing space. I need to get clean away from here, and quickly, before Stephen calls in reinforcements. I don’t know what protocols are enacted when a patient is unwilling to return for treatment, but I doubt they’ll sit on their hands and do nothing. There have been too many high profile cases of mental health patients harming members of the public for them not to take my abscondence seriously.

  Technically, I’m now a fugitive.

  Unequivocally, my new life is now fucked.

  With the precious parcel tucked under my arm, I sprint through random streets with no route in mind. My objective, such as it is, is solely to put as much distance between myself and Stephen as possible. As my trainers slap the pavement, an overwhelming sense of deja-vu descends upon me. This is not the first time I’ve run through the streets of Farndale with no destination in mind. I can only hope for a better ending this time.

  Five minutes of sprinting and my lungs are on fire. I jog to a stop and take a seat on a bench at a bus stop to catch my breath. Between paranoid glances up and down the road, I try desperately to get my thoughts in order. This is not good. This is not good at all. I’ve actually made some real progress in the last ten days but if I’m sent back to Broadhall it will have all been for nothing. There is no way they’d let me see the old man, my fledgling relationship with Lucy would be over, and any prospect of testing the Commodore 64 would be snuffed out.

  One missed phone call has developed into one catastrophic situation. I need a plan and I need one now.

  I pull my phone from my pocket and frantically jab at the screen. Six rings before the old man picks up.

  “Dad, it’s me. Listen carefully. I’m in trouble and I need you to do something for me.”

  “Now? I was about to weed the borders,” he groans.

  “Sod the borders. They want to send me back to Broadhall.”

  “Oh, that’s not good.”

  “No, it bloody isn’t. I need you to grab some things and meet me at the skate park on the estate. You remember where it is?”

  “I think so. Yes.”

  “Good. I need you to bring the computer, the portable TV and the pile of cables we put in the cupboard. You got that?”

  “Computer, TV, cables. Got it.”

  “And Dad, don’t hang around. I’ve got an awful feeling you might receive a visit from the police pretty soon.”

  “The police? Why are they involved.”

  “I can’t explain now. Just get those things together and get over to the skate park as quickly as you can.”

  “Alright, son. I’m on it.”

  I end the call and get up from the bench. The skate park is almost two miles away but it’s the only place I could think of that’s likely to be quiet on a Wednesday morning. I can’t imagine the Farndale police department have instigated a full-scale manhunt just yet, but with so much at risk I don’t want to take any chances. I bow my head and walk briskly towards the estate, keeping to the back roads and public footpaths wherever possible.

  The walk gives me the chance to consider the full implications of this morning’s events. There is no getting away from the fact Stephen wants me back at Broadhall. And not for one moment do I believe it will only be for a week or so. Unlike the judicial system where you’re innocent until proven guilty, at Broadhall the opposite is true. Unless they’re convinced I am of sound mind, and pose no threat to society, my stay will be indefinite. The fact I’m taking calls from the father of a dead teenager, who I once claimed to be, does not strengthen my case.

  But while going back to Broadhall is not an option, there aren’t too many others on the table. In fact, there’s only one glimmer of hope — the Commodore 64. All I can do is get it switched on and hope, pray even, that it offers me a way out of this mess. It’s a far-fetched, ludicrous hope at best, but it’s all I have. If I discover it’s now nothing more than a bog-standard computer from the 1980s, it’s game over.

  Twenty minutes later, I turn the corner from MacDonald Drive and the skate park is directly ahead of me.

  When I had my altercation with Marcus, the park was less than a year old and in pristine condition. Now it looks more like a backdrop to a low-budget rap video. The chainlink fencing that once encircled the park is no more, and every concrete surface is daubed with crude graffiti.

  I make my way up the grass embankment, now overgrown with long grass and weeds. Of the three benches that once sat on top, only one remains. I plod over to it and sit down, crouching forward with one eye on the perimeter road. With all the kids in school and most of the estate residents at work, it’s eerily quiet. Much like my current mood, the sky is grey and foreboding. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if it started pissing down, such is my misfortune in the last hour.

  The vibrating of my phone catches me by surprise. A text message, and only two people have my number.

  Sat here feeling stupid. I really over-reacted and hope u can accept my humble apology. Buy u a drink later 2 say sorry? L xxxx

  In all the arguments I had with Megan over the years, I can’t recall her ever accepting blame, let alone apologising. If I didn’t already think Lucy was the perfect woman, this text seals it.

  I smile to myself, but just for a moment. The reality of my situation quickly snuffs-out the brief moment of joy. I don’t know how to reply. By the time she finishes work I could be over three decades away, or locked up in Broadhall — the latter being far more likely. I start, and quickly delete four messages before I finally send something.

  No need to say sorry. I’m an idiot and you were right. Will call you late afternoon about meeting for that drink. xxxx

  It only postpones the inevitable, but what choice do I have?

  A reply quickly arrives.

  Bless u. And what you said last night, about really liking me, the feeling is mutual u know. L xxxx

  In any other circumstance, those words would have me dancing in the street. Now, they just provoke more regret, more frustration, and more annoyance at how unfair this all is. I reply with five smiley faces and four kisses. Lame, but what else can I say?

  A car horn blares from b
ehind me.

  I spin around and breathe a sigh of relief at seeing the old man’s car. I scoot down the embankment and jump in.

  “Thanks for this, Dad.”

  “It’s okay, although I’d like to know what’s going on. Who was that Scottish chap who answered your phone this morning?”

  “Stephen. My case officer from Broadhall.”

  It takes a few seconds for the old man to connect the dots.

  “Oh, crikey. I gave him my name.”

  “Yes, you did. And now he thinks I’m trying to rekindle my life as Craig Pelling.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “No, Dad, it’s not good. He wants me to go back to Broadhall. Actually, he was quite insistent about it, up until he flew across my lounge floor and I ran off.”

  “Are they looking for you?”

  “No idea, but I have to assume they are, hence the urgency. I can’t go back there, Dad.”

  “What was he doing at your flat, anyway?”

  “I was supposed to call him and check in on Monday. I forgot.”

  “Well, that was a bit silly,” he sighs. “This could have all been avoided.”

  “You probably don’t remember, Dad, but after our visit to Dave’s place, we spent much of Monday evening in the pub.”

  “Ohh, yes. We did, didn’t we. Sorry.”

  He slowly shakes his head and peers out of the window towards the skate park.

  “This is a right pickle. What are you going to do, son?”

  “I’ve got one option. I need to get the computer set up. Did you bring everything?”

  “All boxed up in the boot.”

  “Good. Now we just need to work out where we can set it up. Any ideas?”

  “Assuming my place isn’t a sensible option, we could book a hotel room?”

  “Too early. Most don’t allow check-in until the afternoon.”