Beyond Broadhall (The '86 Fix Book 2)

by Keith A Pearson

  We sit in silence while we try to think of a suitable venue. I draw a blank but the old man suddenly starts the car.

  “You thought of somewhere?”

  “There’s a large tool shed at the vicarage. It’s got a workbench and power.”

  “What about Father David?”

  “He won’t be around till this lunchtime. He makes his school visits on a Wednesday morning.”

  I give the old man a thumbs up and slouch back in my seat.

  In less than twenty minutes we should know whether my future lies in the past, or in Broadhall.

  25

  The old man appears to have been taken by the spirit of Lewis Hamilton, the car’s feeble, one-litre engine screaming as we tear through Farndale towards the church.

  “Dad, if you’re trying to appear inconspicuous, you’re doing a bloody awful job.”

  “Sorry, son, I’ll slow it down a tad. I don’t get much excitement in my life these days.”

  “I’m glad you find this exciting. Not the word I’d use to describe it.”

  He eases off the accelerator and we pootle along at a pace less likely to attract passing police cars.

  “Are you not excited then son, about going back?”

  “If I were a gambling man, I’d wager a fair sum it won’t be an option.”

  “Really? You don’t think you’ll be able to go back?”

  There’s something in the tone of his voice. The slightest intonation of optimism.

  “Your question almost suggests you don’t want me to go back.”

  “No, don’t be silly, course I do.”

  “But?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Dad?”

  He doesn’t answer and points out of the window at the church spire, sitting above the rooftops maybe half-a-mile away.

  “Nearly there, son.”

  We cover the half-mile in less than a minute, with the old man steadfastly ignoring my question. We pull into the church car park and rendezvous at the boot. The old man takes the box containing the computer, while I struggle with the less-than-portable TV and the transformer box. We make our way through a gate into the vicarage garden, just as the clouds release a misty drizzle.

  I follow the old man beyond a hedge and up a path past a vegetable plot and greenhouse. We pass another hedge to find a robust-looking shed, about fifteen-feet square with a small window designed to let in light rather than offer a view. He places the computer box on the floor and withdraws a bunch of keys from his jacket pocket. My heightened heart rate isn’t eased as the old man takes an age to find the correct key.

  Finally, he opens the door, picks up the box and steps inside the shed. I follow him in and kick the door shut behind me.

  The inside of the shed is a far cry from the potting shed in the garden of our former home. The internal walls are boarded and painted white, and the floorboards are covered by heavy-duty lino. It appears the church spared no expense kitting it out with an expanse of fitted storage units along one wall, and a sturdy workbench opposite. Dozens of hand tools are bracketed to the wall above, with a row of plastic containers sat on a long shelf. The place is tidier, and more organised than a chef’s kitchen.

  As I place the TV on the workbench, two fluorescent tubes above my head flicker into life, banishing the gloominess beyond the window.

  “Shall we do this then, son?”

  I return a nod and a nervous smile.

  I unpack the transformer, hoping to God they sent the right one. With some relief, I extract the beige block from the packaging and place it on the workbench. I sit the Commodore 64 in front of the TV, and pull all the cables from their tangled ball in the box. Slowly, methodically, I connect everything together, the fear I might still be missing a vital component haunting the entire procedure.

  Finished, I triple-check every connection and stand back. My nerves are now shredded and I have to make a conscious effort to keep my breathing in check.

  “Right. That’s everything connected.”

  “What now?”

  “We turn it on.”

  This is it. My entire future will be determined by what happens once I’ve pressed all of the four switches: two for the TV, one for the transformer, and finally, the power switch on the Commodore 64. Four switches, less than six seconds to activate them all. I feel queasy.

  I move back to the bench and hit the power switch on the wall socket, the one housing the plug for the TV. If the TV was damaged in the move from my teenage bedroom, this is over before it’s begun. I take a step to the side and press the power button on the TV set.

  Two of the longest seconds of my life pass before I hear the quiet hiss of electricity coursing through the ancient circuitry. The reassuring smell of burning dust fills my nostrils before the screen finally splutters into life. I have never been so pleased to see a screen full of static. But just as my panicked breathing eases a little, my pocket vibrates. Someone is calling me.

  “Who’s that?” the old man asks.

  As I don’t possess x-ray vision, I shoot him a frown, and struggle to pull the phone from my pocket of my damp jeans. It’s not Lucy, and aside the man currently stood next to me, nobody else has my number.

  “Dunno, but it’s not a number I recognise.”

  “You going to answer it then?”

  “No.”

  It buzzes four more times before the caller gives up. It could be a cold-caller for all I know, and for once, I’m happy to make that assumption. I regain my focus and return to the task in hand. Like a diver stood at the top of a ten-metre board, I take three deep breaths and prepare to switch the transformer on.

  My phone buzzes again. A message. Who the hell is hassling me? I pull my phone out again and read the message.

  Craig, call me back within the next 5 mins. I’ve informed the police you’ve absconded. You can’t hide from this. Stephen.

  “Fuck.”

  “What is it, son?”

  “Stephen. I’m guessing he’s been nosing around the flat and found the paperwork for my phone, and my number.”

  “Just ignore him. He’ll give up if you don’t answer his calls, surely?”

  “But he says he’s contacted the police.”

  “So what? There’s no way they’ll be able to work out where you are.”

  “Oh shit.”

  “What?”

  I fumble with the phone and it falls to the floor, disappearing under the workbench. I scrabble around frantically before I’m able to grasp the phone and turn it off.

  “They can trace these bloody things,” I yell. “I don’t know how it works, or if they can determine my location from the message I just read, but we have to assume it’s a possibility. They’re on to me, Dad.”

  “Calm down,” the old man chuckles. “I think you’re being a bit premature. There’s no need to panic.”

  “With respect Dad, your knowledge of modern technology does nothing to ease my panic.”

  He steps forward and places a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

  “Do you remember that old police drama on TV, The Bill?” he asks.

  “What? Err, yeah, think so.”

  “I’m assuming it was a fairly accurate representation of police procedure and what they used to track mobile phones. Judging by that, it isn’t a five minute job. First Stephen has to physically visit the police station to report your disappearance. That will probably involve an hour or two of questions and paperwork. Then they have to submit a request to a specialist department, and they have to get around to actually tracking the message. And that’s assuming they even consider you a viable threat to the public, which I doubt they will. I’d estimate we’ve got at least three or four hours before we need to worry, if at all.”

  “Yeah, of course, you’re right. Sorry, this is a bit stressful.”

  “It’s alright. Take a deep breath and let’s get this done.”

  Calmed slightly by the old man’s words, I lean across the workbench and hit the
power switch for the transformer. There is nothing to indicate if it works or not, and the real test will be when I hit the power switch on the computer.

  I move across to the computer and rest my finger on the switch, offering a silent prayer. If the transformer is faulty, or the computer took a knock during its journey to Dave’s house, any of the sensitive circuits could burn out within seconds. There would be no comeback from that, least not one I could practically implement before Stephen tracks me down.

  I close my eyes and hit the switch.

  There’s no crackling, no hissing, and no scent of burning circuitry. I cautiously open my eyes and stare down at the tiny red LED light, shining brightly above the keyboard.

  “Does it work?”

  “Don’t know yet. It hasn’t exploded, and everything appears normal so far, but I won’t know until I tune the TV in.”

  I glance across to the line of buttons that determine which channel is selected. Of the eight buttons, the second one is pressed in, hence the static on the screen. I cast my mind back to the day I sat in my teenage bedroom, before this whole episode began. I’m sure the fifth button was tuned to the computer.

  I raise my hand and press the button.

  26

  The static disappears, replaced with a vibrant blue screen. It works. I cannot believe my trusty Commodore 64 actually still works. My eyes scan the pale blue text on the screen...

  **** COMMODORE 64 BASIC V2 ****

  64K RAM SYSTEM 38911 BASIC BYTES FREE

  The sense of relief is like nothing I have ever experienced before. I could almost cry as I turn to face the old man.

  “It’s working, Dad. It’s only bloody working.”

  “Thank Christ for that,” he beams.

  I turn back to the screen, and the moment of truth. It takes a split second to realise it’s not the truth I’d been wishing for.

  It’s not the text I see on the screen that causes my heart to slump, more the text I can’t see. Unlike when I first reactivated the computer, there is no line of text about a path corruption error. Nor is there anything about a date or a duration. There is just one line of unfamiliar text…

  PATH RESTORED. RE-SET? Y/N

  What the fuck does that mean?

  I take a second to shake the frustration from my head. This is not the worst outcome — at least there is some reference to the path. I’ve got something to work with and that in itself is a damn sight more encouraging than a generic screen with no sign of the computer’s previous mischief. Whatever unimaginable trickery this plastic box once held, it’s clearly still present. It’s not quite what I hoped for, but a lot better than I feared.

  “What is it, son?”

  “It seems to be still running the program that sent me back to 1986, but it’s now giving me an option I didn’t see before.”

  The old man shuffles up and stands beside me, leaning forward and squinting at the text on the screen.

  “What’s a path?”

  I give him a quick explanation of the game I was working on, and how a character I created was able to go back in time and change the path of his life.

  “That’s what I did. I restored my path by going back to that weekend so I could revert a few decisions. If I hadn’t been hit by that van, I guess I’d have woken up to a new version of my life, updated to reflect the changes I made to my path.”

  “Not sure I get it.”

  “You’re a good example. You are different now because I altered the path when we had that chat in your shed. If I hadn’t altered the path by having that chat, you’d still be a miserable old bastard.”

  “Right. Thanks for that example, son.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “But it says re-set, not restore. What’s the difference?”

  That is one question I’m unable to answer.

  “You know as much as I do now, Dad. I can only guess.”

  “And that guess would be?”

  “Restore implies going back to a previous point, like on a PC. If you get a virus or a bug, you can restore the PC to a point before the problem occurred. All your data and settings are saved. But a re-set, I think, completely re-sets the PC back to the factory settings, like a new machine. Everything is deleted apart from the core operating system.”

  We stand for a moment in silence, both trying to get our heads around the implications of those five letters and a hyphen. The old man is the first to offer a theory.

  “Do you think a re-set would send you right back to the beginning, before anything happened?”

  “You mean back to the point before I went back in time?”

  “Yes. That’s the way I read it. Make sense?”

  It does, but that still leaves another question to be answered.

  “But what if I hit the ‘no’ option?”

  He shrugs his shoulders, understandably. While selecting ‘yes’ might re-set everything back to the day when I first turned the computer on as a fat, middle-aged man, what happens if I select ‘no’? Will it allow me the option to restore the path like before, so I can go back to that weekend in 1986 and ensure I don’t place my teenage self in front of a van? That would be the ideal solution as opposed to simply going back to my drab life. But what if it simply ends the program and the computer returns to its normal operation? That would be catastrophic.

  I don’t know what to do.

  “I think you’re right about choosing the ‘yes’ option, Dad, but that would mean returning to the life I had before.”

  “That’s what you wanted wasn’t it?”

  It’s a question I’ve been avoiding asking myself.

  “If you’d asked me three days ago, I was absolutely certain I wanted to go back, no matter what. But if you’d asked me at eight o’clock this morning, I might have answered differently. If I could relive that weekend again I’d have already hit the button. But going back to my previous life, which was a mess, I’m not so sure. And there’s the added complication of Stephen and his desire to send me back to Broadhall. I really don’t know what to do.”

  “I think we need to talk this through, son. Act in haste, repent at leisure, as they say.”

  He walks over to the wall of storage units and opens up a cupboard. He pulls out two foldaway canvas chairs and sets them up in the middle of the floor.

  “Sit down, son.”

  I do as instructed and the old man settles into his chair opposite me. The irony of all ironies — the two of us, once again in a shed, about to have a chat that will have a huge bearing on my future.

  “Ignoring this Stephen fellow for a moment, what’s changed in the last three days for you to consider staying here?” he asks.

  “For starters, there’s you,” I sigh.

  He breaks eye contact as his head drops a little.

  “Monday evening in the pub, and everything before and after,” I add. “That’s the dad I always wanted in my life, but it won’t be the dad I’ll be going back to.”

  He fiddles with a loose thread on the sleeve of his jacket. I can only imagine how difficult this subject must be for him.

  “I appreciate your honesty, son,” he says in a low voice. “But you do realise there is no version of me that’s a bad man? There might be a version of me that hasn’t seen the light. That day in the shed, I saw the light.”

  “What are you saying? I go back and tell you, err…him, that he’s not my father?”

  He winces at my question.

  “No,” he says quietly. “I wouldn’t want to put anyone through that.”

  “Why not? It worked before.”

  “You think I never loved you when you were growing up? You think it didn’t break my heart when you said you knew, that I wasn’t your biological father? Well, I did love you, and your mum, more than anything. And I know I never showed it, but what you said that afternoon in the shed, those words tore right through me.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t realise.”

  “I’m not blaming you son, I deserved
it. My problem was I couldn’t let the love rise above my resentment and my anger. I was a stupid man, but a stupid man who loved you both, despite my behaviour. The man you’re going back to, he does love you, he just hasn’t seen the light yet.”

  “But you only changed after I threatened to tell Mum I knew.”

  “You scared the hell out of me, and that’s all that changed. You made me realise what I had, and what I risked losing. You can’t force somebody to love you, son, it has to be there in the first place. I changed because I wanted to, had to, not because you threatened me.”

  We both take a moment to quietly reflect on that revelation. I can scarcely believe how candid this version of my father is, and it takes some getting used to. I try to steer the conversation back to more practical matters.

  “So what would you say to him then, to get him to change his ways?”

  He looks up to the ceiling for a moment, considering my question, I assume.

  “Gilbert Fripp,” he eventually says.

  “Who?”

  “Gilbert Fripp, my old schoolmaster. Remember that name. I’ll never forget it, that’s for damn sure.”

  “Why?”

  “He was a bully. A vindictive, cruel, spiteful man who took pleasure in making my life a misery. He took a cane to my backside more times than I care to remember, for even the most innocuous of reasons. I’ve never hated anyone as much as I hated Fripp. I had nightmares about the man for years after I left school.”

  “He sounds horrendous, but why would saying his name prompt a sudden change of attitude in your counterpart?”

  “If you compare him to Fripp, he’ll understand the true measure of his behaviour. If anyone, even now, said I reminded them of Gilbert Fripp, I’d change my ways in a heartbeat. I’d rather be dead than suffer the knowledge I was continuing that man’s legacy.”

  I nod, as the old man tries to send his memories of Gilbert Fripp back to the recesses of his mind.

  “What else has changed then?” he puffs, apparently keen to change the subject. “Surely it can’t just be me?”

  My turn to look to the ceiling.