Beyond Broadhall (The '86 Fix Book 2)

by Keith A Pearson

  “A girl.”

  “Really? You’ve only been back in Farndale five minutes.”

  “It’s somebody I knew from my previous life. I worked with her for years and we sort of re-connected, although she doesn’t know that, obviously.”

  “And I’m guessing you’ve developed feelings for her?”

  “I already had feelings for her, just didn’t realise it. She’s perfect, Dad, and we could have the perfect life here.”

  “You’re going to have to fill in the blanks here, son. Why can’t you be with this girl if you go back?”

  “Because I’m married to someone else.”

  “Ahh, yes, my daughter-in-law. Megan isn’t it?”

  I throw him a quizzical look.

  “Your notes. You mentioned her a few times. Something about working in a video store. That’s how you met, right?”

  “I won’t bore you with the details but we married for the wrong reasons. Twenty-five years in a loveless marriage. And for ten of those years, I worked alongside the woman I should have been with.”

  He shakes his head and tuts under his breath.

  “Ever heard of a divorce? People do it all the time I’m led to believe.”

  “Well, yeah, but I was different back then. I don’t think Lucy would have given me a second glance, even if I’d been single.”

  “Different how?”

  “I was a fat, hapless oaf. I think she’s only dating me now because I look and act differently.”

  “Good Lord, you really are an idiot sometimes, son.”

  “What?”

  “This whole mess, it was because you went back in time to change things, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You didn’t have to go back in time to change the course of your life. You could have confronted my counterpart about the DNA test as soon as you knew. And you could have told this Lucy girl how you really felt about her at any point in the years you worked together. But you did neither. Why is that?”

  “Um, I dunno. Fear I suppose. It might have destroyed my friendship with Lucy if I’d said anything. And as poor as our relationship was, I guess it was better than not having a father at all. I thought that if I told you about the DNA test, the secret would be out in the open and our family would fall apart.”

  “So you assumed the worst would happen in both cases? I know, for sure, I would have changed my ways if you’d confronted me. And the fact you’re already serious about the girl suggests there must have been something she saw in you beyond how you look. Besides, if she’s that shallow, why would you want to date her in the first place?”

  “You’re the second person to use the word shallow, this morning.”

  “Who was the first?”

  “Lucy. I made a stupid comment which may have suggested she was shallow. She flipped.”

  “Like I say, you’re an idiot sometimes, son.”

  He gets up and nudges the chair closer to mine before re-taking his seat.

  “Listen, Craig. You wanted to make your life better, I get that. You had this ridiculous opportunity to go back and change all these things that happened in your past, but the one thing that didn’t change was you. If you go back to your previous life, you’ll still have ample opportunity to talk to me, to your wife, and to this girl of yours. It’s never too late.”

  “You make it sound so easy.”

  “I never said that. I’m guessing it was hard for you to confront me in the shed that afternoon?”

  “Bloody hard, but I only had forty-eight hours to do it. Without that time constraint I doubt it would have happened. I only had one chance.”

  “And that, son, is where you’re going wrong in life. None of us know if today is our last chance. Surely you’ve learnt that much from all this? You just need to change your mindset and take your chances the moment they arrive. Live for the moment, grasp the nettle.”

  I am an idiot, but not so much of one I don’t know good advice when I hear it.

  “And besides,” he continues. “Don’t you want to see your mum again?”

  Of course I do, more than anything. I’m also acutely aware that Megan, Marcus, and twelve innocent coach passengers, are currently residing in a cemetery because of my interference in the past. Then there’s Dave. What life did I create for my best friend? I turned him into a paraplegic drunk. I put him in a wheelchair, in a hovel. I took away his future.

  I don’t have a decision to make. Not really. I have to go back.

  It then crosses my mind there will be two women disappointed with my decision when I fail to show up as expected. I can imagine Lucy waiting anxiously for my call later; staring at her watch every five minutes. She’ll assume the worst, that I was simply playing her last night. She’ll feel foolish, angry, maybe even a little heartbroken. And I can see Brenda tutting repeatedly, and calling me every name under the sun when I don’t turn up for work tomorrow.

  It’s pointless concern for both women. Once I hit the button on the keyboard, our time together over the last ten days will be deleted. Lucy will be just my ex-colleague once more, and Brenda will be somebody I never even met.

  Shame. I really like Brenda. I really love Lucy. Maybe it’s slightly more than a shame.

  But however much it pains me, I don’t have a choice. Nor do I have a choice about saying goodbye to the man sat next to me. The man I’m proud to call my dad.

  As I contemplate how hard that goodbye is going to be, the shed door swings open.

  27

  We both twist in our chairs to face the figure stood in the shed doorway. The old man reacts first.

  “Father David,” he splurts. “What are you doing here?”

  The vicar steps into the shed and closes the door behind him. The cheerful, friendly expression he was wearing when I last saw him is no longer present.

  “I could ask you the same question, Colin. And who is your guest? He looks familiar.”

  “Err, this is Craig, my estranged son.”

  The perturbed look on Father David’s face isn’t beyond comprehension. He’s just walked into his tool shed to find two men sat in deckchairs, with a retro computer set up in front of them. I’m glad I’m not the one who has to explain it to him.

  “We were…just, erm,” the old man splutters.

  “Frankly Colin, my primary concern is not what you two are doing in here. What I want to know is why there’s a police car in the car park, and why two officers are currently searching the church grounds?”

  The old man looks at me. I look back.

  “Shit,” we remark in unison.

  For an old man with a once-dodgy hip, he moves at remarkable speed. He’s up and out of his chair in a second, darting across the shed to the door. He pokes his head out, looks left and right, and then ducks back in.

  “Father David, you really need to look at what’s happening in the vegetable plot.”

  Intrigued, the vicar moves towards the doorway as the old man steps back. Once Father David is stood outside, peering down the garden towards the vegetable plot, the old man slams the door shut. A frantic fumbling ensues as he locates the key and locks the door. Realising he’s been duped, or possibly underwhelmed by rows of turnips, the vicar starts pummelling the door with his fist.

  “Colin, open this door. Now.”

  “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” the old man shouts back.

  “Damn you, Colin. Open this door,” Father David retaliates.

  Just for a second it feels like I’m sat in the middle of a Monty Python sketch. The old man quickly brings me back to reality.

  “Son, you really need to hit that button. His yelling is going to attract those policemen pretty quickly. That door is solid but it won’t stop three of them.”

  I jump up from the chair, dash across the floor and stand over the computer. The old man decides to ignore the vicar for a moment and joins me.

  “So much for your theory on mobile tracking, Dad.”

  “Maybe, but they
might have picked my car up on a camera, or they possibly spoke to Miriam next door. She knows I work here and wouldn’t have thought twice about doing her civic duty.”

  “Guess that’s one mystery we’ll never solve.”

  “I don’t think it really matters now, son. Well, it won’t when you hit that button.”

  I shuffle awkwardly on the spot for a moment. I’ve never been one for heartfelt goodbyes. I’m suddenly slapped with a reminder of the old man’s earlier advice. I won’t get this chance again.

  “Thank you, Dad, for everything. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

  “The pleasure was all mine, son. You’ve made an old man very happy, and very proud.”

  More fists thump at the shed door, followed by a series of kicks. It appears Father David has uniformed reinforcements.

  I throw my arms round the old man. “Love you, Dad,” I whisper.

  “Love you too,” he croaks.

  We break apart just as the wood around the door handle begins to splinter.

  “Hit it, son. Now.”

  I take a deep breath and do as I’m told.

  The TV screen fades to a vibrant shade of red, yellow text across the centre…

  Re-setting Path - Please Wait…

  I turn to face the door, my vision already tinged red. Dad casually takes a seat in one of the canvas chairs, his attention on the door. I can imagine the vicar and two policemen on the other side, taking turns to kick, barge and thump.

  It only takes three more attempts before the lock finally gives way and the door crashes open. A policeman stumbles in and stops to survey the scene. The other policeman and Father David stand in the doorway, faces confused.

  I turn back to Dad, now looking up at me. I can only see his face, my peripheral vision clouded red.

  “See you on the other side, son.”

  I think he might have given me a thumbs up. I can’t be sure because a second later, my body starts to pulse and the red canvas engulfs my entire vision.

  The pulsing slowly increases towards a crescendo as the red canvas fades into a calming white. For the third, and I hope, the final time, my body is pulled across time. My only concern is where in time this journey will end. Too late now.

  The kaleidoscope of indeterminate shapes return and I feel myself falling. I don’t focus on the shapes though. I see faces in my minds eye: Mum, Megan, Dave, and finally Lucy. Her face is tear-stained, sad, and my mind dwells on that image. The colourful shapes continue to zip past but they’re a mere backdrop to Lucy’s face.

  It’s the last face I see.

  It’s the last anything I see as everything becomes dark. Everything becomes silent.

  Everything then becomes nothing.

  28

  I think it was a Saturday in 2004 when Dave married Suzy, and we sensibly decided to hold the stag night the Saturday prior. However, Dave was staying at our house the night before the wedding, and we went out for a few beers to toast his last night as a free man.

  We rolled in around 3.00am, some eight hours before Dave was due to walk down the aisle.

  I remember sitting in the church feeling horrendous. Not so much because of the hangover, more the lack of sleep. At some point during the reading of the vows, I must have nodded off. I don’t consciously remember falling asleep but I do remember Megan’s elbow in my ribs. I awoke with a start, momentarily confused, unsure where I was and feeling groggy.

  I have just gained consciousness in a very similar fashion, although I’m fairly sure I wasn’t asleep this time, or elbowed in the ribs. I am sure I’m sat on a chair, and it’s quiet.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and blink several times. The mist clears to reveal text on a blue screen. The screen belongs to a portable TV which is sat on a desk, behind a Commodore 64. I sniff the air and catch the faint smell of a certain brand of fabric conditioner. For a moment I do nothing other than sit motionless, reflecting on the events that have returned me to this chair.

  It couldn’t have been more than a minute that separated my inexplicable journey and an undetermined period of detention back at Broadhall. If it were not for the old man’s quick thinking in locking Father David outside the shed, I wouldn’t have had that precious minute. The finest of margins between success and failure, between hope and despair.

  I inhale a deep breath and slowly exhale, partly to clear my head but mainly to ease the adrenalin still present in my bloodstream. The sense of relief is still palpable. I can only hope that relief isn’t short lived because although I’m know where I am, I’m not yet entirely sure when I am.

  I do know I’m not naked though, which is a huge relief. Nor am I suffering the crippling headache I awoke to after my previous journeys through time. I don’t know why this journey was different. Maybe it’s because this is just a re-set back to how things should be. I can only guess.

  I lean forward and inspect the text on the screen. As I do, I’m suddenly aware of my bloated stomach in the way. I look down at it, and my chunky thighs. I’m a fat man again. I let out a groan and turn my attention back to the text on the screen.

  The word, READY, and a blinking cursor — exactly what I’d expect to see on a run-of-the-mill Commodore 64. No mention of paths: corrupted, restored, or otherwise. I feel something in my pocket digging into my vast gut. I sit back, shove my hand into my pocket and pull out an iPhone. I unlock the screen and check the date — Thursday 14th July 2016. The exact date I began my eleven-month journey. It’s a revelation that summons mixed emotions. A part of me hoped I’d be sent back to 1986, or at least back to the moment I left this bedroom. Still, at least I no longer have to worry about Stephen, or the prospect of being sent back to Broadhall. Stephen Ferguson will never see my name on a case file.

  Although I’ll never be able to tell him, the old man’s theory about the re-setting of the path was correct. It appears I’m back where I started. I am Craig Pelling again. Fat, unemployed, unhappily married. But I’m not quite the same Craig Pelling who was plucked from this chair eleven months ago. Like the teenage kid who was struck by a van in 1986, that version of Craig Pelling is dead, metaphorically.

  I clamber to my feet and receive a sharp reminder of what it’s like to carry six stone of excess blubber. That’s the first item on my to-do list, albeit a long-term task. I take a few seconds to adjust to my ponderous body. It definitely has to go.

  I wander over to the window to get some air and try and clear the residue grogginess. The old man’s garden is a sorry sight. I may be a new man but my horticultural skills almost certainly haven’t improved sufficiently enough to rescue the garden. Minutes pass as I take deep lungfuls of air. A dog starts barking a few doors down, but there’s no reaction in my head, no anxiety. Maybe it’s a consolation prize from my time at Broadhall, or maybe I just have more important things to concern myself with.

  I close the window and return my attention to the to-do list. I sit on the edge of my teenage bed and open the notes app on my phone.

  For the next fifteen minutes I work on my plan of action. Who I need to talk to, what I need to say. Buoyed by the old man’s advice, I’m determined to grasp the nettle and confront every problem I had when I left this room for 1986; the problems still waiting for me beyond the door. They may be the same but I’m not. I don’t need a return visit to the past in order to change my future. I can, and I will do that today.

  The first item on my list is the one I’m relishing the most. I get up from the bed and leave my teenage bedroom.

  I lumber down the stairs, the fog of cigarette smoke no longer a feature in my parent’s home. The door to the lounge is closed and I stand for a moment, clutching the handle. It’s going to be a challenge to keep my emotions in check but as far as my parents are concerned, I’ve been upstairs for less than an hour. As much as I might want to, I can’t steam in there like I’ve just returned from a six-month tour of duty.

  I open the door and step into the sitting room.

  Both parents are
still sat in their wingback chairs. The old man peers at me over the top of his ever-present newspaper but quickly returns his attention to the page. Mum, dreamily gazing out of the window, turns and looks up at me.

  “Everything sorted, sweetheart?”

  As much as I want to dash across the room and scoop my dear old mum into my arms, I don’t. Instead, I slowly pad over to her, plant a kiss on her forehead and kneel down next to her chair. It’s no mean feat, lowering my bulky frame onto knees that creak in complaint.

  “Nearly there, Mum,” I smile.

  I reach across and take her hands in mine. She looks at me, wide-eyed and curious, but doesn’t resist.

  “I was thinking Mum, how would you like to go out for lunch on Sunday, maybe go for a drive in the country afterwards? My treat.”

  Her face lights up. “That would be lovely. Thank you, sweetheart.”

  “Brilliant. I’ll book us a table, somewhere nice.”

  I lean across and kiss her on the cheek, lingering long enough to inhale the familiar and comforting scent of her perfume. She gives my hands a squeeze as I get back to my feet.

  I take a few steps back, and look down on her as she returns her attention to life beyond the window. It’s a sight that fills me with shame. Is this really the life I let her live? Married to a tyrant and blessed with a son who was rarely arsed to call, or just pop round for a cup of tea once or twice a week. As ecstatic as I may be about seeing my mum again, I now know what darkness lies behind those eyes. I also know I haven’t brought much light to her life in recent years.

  I wonder if she considered taking her own life when my grandparents died, as they did twenty-two years ago. Maybe it was just my presence in her life that stopped her falling over the edge. I saved her, or maybe I condemned her to this. What happened to the bubbly mother who served toasted crumpets and homemade Battenburg? I wonder how much of that woman is still in there, and how much I can salvage. I don’t know, but I do know I’m going to try my damnedest to help her enjoy her twilight years.

  One parent down, one more challenging parent to go.