The '86 Fix: A 1980s Time Travel Novel

by Keith A Pearson

  “Whether they want to hear it or not, it’s a fact, Marcus, and ignoring it won’t make it go away,” I offer in defence.

  Marcus places his mug on the desk and sits forward.

  “Your branch is bringing down the figures for the whole region and it’s unacceptable. Things are in the offing at head office, so I need this branch back on target or there will be consequences.”

  I sit forward in my chair.

  “What exactly do you mean by consequences?”

  Marcus drums his fingers on the desk. He appears to be contemplating whether to expand on his threat. The urge to demonstrate his authority is too much, and he eventually decides to unveil his thoughts.

  “Given the fact that this branch is an embarrassment to the company, my view is that it should be shut down.”

  I feel the blood drain from my face. Of all the things I could have predicted when I left the house this morning, this would not have been one of them.

  “What? Why would you think that when we’re still making a profit? It doesn’t make sense,” I splutter.

  “Your profits are minimal, and let’s face it, this branch is an utter shit hole. It’s situated in a poor location and needs a fortune spending on it to bring it up to standard. If, as you say, competition has increased, then it makes little sense to invest in improvements. It’s had its day, so I think it would be better if we cut our losses and close it.”

  Crap. My defence has only given him more ammunition. I need to try another tactic, a more human approach.

  “What about the staff? Some of them have worked here for years.”

  “There might be a few positions in other branches, but your prospects aren’t looking so good. How long is it you’ve been with the company? Twenty-odd years, isn’t it?”

  “Twenty-six,” I mumble.

  “Look on the bright side, Pelling, you’ll receive a decent redundancy package. You’ll be out of a job, but you won’t be skint, least not for a few months anyway.”

  His last blow is delivered with a smile I’d love to punch from his face.

  Marcus puts the paperwork back in his briefcase before he takes a final sip of his coffee and stands to leave. It appears our meeting is now over. For once in my pitiful life, I need to do something, say something, anything.

  “You’re unbelievable, Marcus. Six bloody weeks you’ve been here. You’re deluded if you think the board of directors are going to close our branch on your say-so.”

  “Oh Pelling, if only you knew the truth,” he laughs.

  “What truth? What are you on about?” I bark.

  “You’ll find out in time, but I can assure you that the board will take my recommendations seriously. We’ve got a meeting planned for next week and I’ll submit my recommendations then. I’m confident I’ll get my way, Pelling.”

  My aggressive approach has clearly failed. All I can do is revert to type.

  “Please Marcus, don’t do this, I’m begging you.”

  “You always were a whiney little shit, Pelling. Truth be told, I never liked you at school, and I like you even less now. Maybe fate has brought us back together so you can reassess your pathetic excuse for a career, and I can put a few things to bed once and for all.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Consequences, Pelling. What goes around, comes around.”

  Without offering me a chance to respond to his cryptic statement, Marcus waltzes out of the office. Twenty-six years of employment — all but wiped away in a five-minute conversation.

  I remain seated on the wrong side of my desk although it doesn’t look like it’ll be my desk much longer. I slap my cheeks, hoping that this is a bad dream and I can wake myself up. It’s not and I can’t. Contrasting thoughts run through my mind. As mundane and unfulfilling as this job is, I don’t want to lose it, possibly because I’m too comfortable and too set in my ways now. It’s a habit that fits me. While this wouldn’t be my career of choice, the thought of starting again fills me with dread.

  Geoff raps his knuckles on the office door, waking me from my trance.

  “You coming down to the shop floor at some point this morning?” he asks.

  I gaze up at the clock on the wall. It’s 9.15am. I realise that I’ve been staring at nothing for the last fifteen minutes, drowning in a pool of morose thoughts.

  “Give me a minute,” I sigh.

  “It’s dead down there, so I wouldn’t be in too much of a rush,” he adds before waddling off.

  I need to get my head together, but then I think about what Megan will say, and my parents who have enough problems of their own to deal with. I tell myself it’s just a job. Nobody has died, and at least I’m not Geoff. Suddenly a wave of guilt crashes over me. While I’ve been wallowing in self-pity, I’ve overlooked the fact my colleagues will be out of work too if Marcus gets his way. I think about Geoff, who is blissfully unaware that his perception of rock-bottom is just about to shift again. I think about Lucy, my assistant manager, a single parent bringing up a teenage daughter. I think about Alan, our young stockroom assistant, who was out of work for over a year before we hired him. None of them deserve this.

  Now carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders, I reluctantly rise from the chair and try to regain my composure. As I mentally prepare myself to go downstairs to the shop floor, my phone rings in my pocket. I pull it out to see the name ‘Dave Wright’ on the screen. Dave and I have known one another since infant school and he’s the nearest thing I have to a best friend.

  I swipe the screen to accept his call and lift the phone to my ear.

  “Morning chubs,” he says playfully.

  “Dave, it’s not a good time, mate. Can I call you back later?”

  “No worries, I was only calling to remind you about Saturday.”

  “I’ve told you, I’m not going,” I snap.

  “Somebody piss on your cornflakes this morning? Look, meet me at the Fox & Hounds later and we’ll talk about it. I know something that might change your mind.”

  I’m still reeling from Marcus’s bombshell and in no mood to argue with Dave.

  “Fine. I’ll see you there at six,” I sigh.

  “Nice one, see you then.”

  With his mission accomplished, Dave ends the call.

  This year is the 30th anniversary of the year we left Heathland Secondary School, and somebody with too much time on their hands has decided that we should mark the occasion with a reunion. Saturday is the date for the reunion, and I can’t be arsed to attend. The prospect of spending an evening in the company of random strangers who I have nothing in common with, other than we shared a few years in the same dreary school, is not my idea of fun. Whatever Dave thinks will change my mind, I think he’s underestimated my resolve.

  I take a deep breath and head downstairs to the shop floor. I wander across to the customer service desk where Lucy is having an animated conversation with an elderly man. Between them sits an antiquated toaster which I assume is the subject of that conversation. I take a seat at the other end of the desk and gaze at the security monitor which displays monotone views from the six cameras dotted around the shop floor. Besides the elderly man there are only half-a-dozen customers milling around. I wonder how many of them are killing time until the furniture store next door opens.

  I look up from the low resolution view and stare across the real world space that has become my second home. It’s funny how you stop noticing things when you see them every day. The grubby carpet peppered with dark spots of dried chewing gum. The once-white walls that are now mottled grey and splintered with veiny cracks. The polystyrene ceiling tiles which bear the scars of numerous water leaks and no longer snugly sit in their frame. There's no doubt that our branch is looking tired, but like an old pair of fraying underpants, the aesthetics are less important than the comfort born from familiarity. I hate Marcus for threatening to take this away from me.

  Freed from her encounter with the elderly gentleman, Lucy wheels
her office chair across the space between us. Noticing the vacant expression on my face, she goes straight into concerned mode.

  “Geoff told me you had a meeting with our new sales director. Is there a problem?” she asks, perceptive as ever.

  Lucy and I have worked together for almost ten years and in that time, she’s learnt how to read every one of my expressions. I have to admit I initially gave her a job because I fancied her. But over the years we’ve developed a genuine friendship. That’s not to say she isn’t still an attractive woman, with her auburn hair, lightly freckled complexion and opal-green eyes, but beyond the aesthetics she’s a decent human being. Telling Lucy about Marcus’s plan would be the conversation I’d dread the most. It would wait.

  “Nothing serious, Lucy, just going over the sales targets,” I reply.

  “Did you tell him about the supermarket?” she asks, her expression troubled.

  “I did, and the board are aware of it,” I reply, trying to offer reassurance.

  Lucy isn’t an idiot though, and she knows our branch has been struggling.

  “So you think everything will be okay, Craig?”

  I’ve never been a good liar, but this wasn’t the time to share anything with anyone. I had no idea if Marcus’s threat had any credibility. I offer her a smile, and with something approaching a passable look of sincerity, I tell her that everything will be fine. Lucy returns the smile, and seemingly satisfied with my answer, she wheels herself back to the other end of the desk where another customer has appeared.

  The rest of the day passes in the same banal manner that most days at RolpheTech do. Pensioners asking for help with technology nobody has the patience to explain. Parents allowing their unruly offspring to charge around the store unsupervised. Middle-aged couples wanting to discuss the merits of overpriced coffee machines they’ll buy and use only once. Everyone gets on with their job just the way they usually do. I can almost pretend this is a normal day, so in my usual head-burying manner, that’s exactly what I do.

  Closing time eventually arrives and we go through the end-of-day routine. One by one my colleagues say their goodbyes and leave for the day. I’m left alone in an empty store with just the faint hum of the fluorescent lights for company. I head for my office, grab my car keys from my desk, and switch off all the lights. The alarm is set and I go through a reversal of the padlock routine on the back door. Another day, done.

  The Fox & Hounds is only a five-minute drive away so there is no doubt I’ll be at the bar before the perpetually late Dave arrives. My round first I guess. My resolve to skip the reunion remains steadfast, but I have to admit I’m a little intrigued how Dave thinks he’ll change my mind.

  3

  I pull into the car park at the Fox & Hounds a few minutes before six o’clock. The only other parked vehicles are a battered van and the landlord’s car. I make my way through the small beer garden which is cluttered with rickety picnic tables, all weathered to a stony shade of grey.

  I push open a door which grants access to a dated saloon bar. The sun has moved to the rear of the building, heating the air in the room to an oppressive level. The smell of stale beer and fried food hangs heavy in the air. A solitary guy in dark red overalls is sat at the far end of the bar, looking lost in his thoughts as he nurtures a half-empty pint glass. I approach the bar and perch myself on a stool.

  I sit for a minute in an uncomfortable, sweaty silence. Sean, the landlord, eventually wanders in from the other bar.

  “Sorry Craig, you been waiting long?” he asks.

  “Two days,” I reply, for no particular reason other than I’m hot, bothered and in need of a pint.

  Sean offers me a forced smile as he reaches up to grab a pint glass from the shelf above the bar.

  “Usual?”

  I nod, pull out my wallet, and drop a tenner on the bar while Sean pulls my pint. As he tops the glass with a frothy head, the door swings open and Dave strides in. He’s wearing shorts and a tight-fitting black t-shirt which perfectly displays his muscular physique. Inspired by a midlife crisis, Dave has become a regular in the gym for the last few years, transforming his once-plump body. While I’m deeply envious of Dave’s physique, I’m not so envious of the countless hours he spends in the gym maintaining it.

  Sean looks up and greets Dave with a nod.

  “Usual Dave?”

  “Please. Your round is it, Craig?” Dave asks as he notices the tenner on the bar.

  “It looks that way, doesn’t it?”

  Sean grabs another pint glass from the shelf and starts filling it. I pay for our beers and we leave the heat of the saloon bar for the garden. We select a table that looks least likely to collapse and sit across from one another, both taking welcome gulps of our cold beer.

  Thirst sated, Dave opens the conversation.

  “I assume from our brief conversation earlier you’ve had a shit day?”

  I spend the next ten minutes explaining the day’s events and what Marcus has in plan for our store. Dave frowns and delivers his considered analysis of the situation.

  “I think you’re fucked, mate. Marcus might be a complete arsehole, but you know he always gets his own way. Always has, always will.”

  “Thanks for the positive words of encouragement, Dave. I feel so much better now.”

  “Just telling it as it is, mate.”

  He takes another large gulp of beer before continuing to depress me.

  “Do you remember in primary school we were allowed to bring a toy in on the last day of term?”

  I nod, unsure where Dave is going with this random question.

  “Well, I must have been about seven or eight years of age, and I took my Big Trak in. Do you remember it?”

  “The programmable truck?”

  “That’s the one. Anyway, loads of kids wanted to play with it, and eventually Marcus asked if he could have a go. In my naivety, I said yes. You know what the little bastard did? He took the batteries out and hid them. He said I couldn’t have them back until the end of the day because too many kids wanted to play with me and not with him.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Nope, and it sounds like he hasn’t changed one bit. Perhaps you’re better off out of it, mate. I’d take the money and run.”

  Maybe he’s right but that would mean letting Marcus have his way again. Thirty years on and I’m still his bitch.

  “More beer will make things better,” Dave says, and heads back to the bar.

  As the early evening sunshine warms my back, I can sense the alcohol taking effect, my mood softening to a more wistful state. I haven’t eaten anything since lunchtime, which is a bad idea when meeting up with Dave. Saying that, eating anything cooked in the Fox & Hounds kitchen is an even worse idea, so I vow to fill up on crisps when it’s my round.

  Dave returns holding two fresh pints and places them on the rickety table.

  “So, the reunion on Saturday,” he begins.

  “I’ve got three words that will convince you to come along,” he adds.

  “Marcus. Stabbed. Repeatedly?”

  “Better than that mate. Tessa. Lawrence. Coming,” he says smugly.

  I almost choke on my beer.

  “How do you know?” I ask with some scepticism.

  “Remember Wayne Russell from geography class?”

  “Vaguely.”

  I don’t.

  “Wayne’s younger brother, Stuart, works for the same company as Tessa. She told Stuart she was coming along. I spoke to Wayne at football yesterday, and he told me.”

  I’m not sure I quite follow the series of events that led to this revelation, but if true, it does put an entirely new complexion on my possible attendance.

  “Okay, I might be persuaded,” I say.

  “I thought you might have a change of heart when you heard about Tessa.”

  “Almost. Do you know if Marcus is going?”

  “No idea, mate,” Dave shrugs.

  The prospect of spending
an evening in the same room as Marcus was one of the main reasons I didn’t want to attend in the first place. There is no way he'd miss the opportunity to lord it over his former schoolmates one more time. School reunions were a dream for people like Marcus. People who'd actually achieved something in life and wanted to gloat. However, the prospect of seeing Tessa again was far too compelling. Fuck Marcus.

  Tessa Lawrence was my first love. I was sixteen when she stole my virginity, and with it, my dreams.

  We were in the same form group throughout secondary school and I had lusted after her from day one. By the time we’d reached our final year, my mild crush had developed into a full blown obsession as Tessa flowered into a stunning young woman. She was petite, but curvaceous, with a bob of shiny black hair and caramel eyes. Coupled with her playful, flirtatious character, Tessa was everything that boys my age desired, and she knew it. But I was so far down her list of potential boyfriends that I might as well have been invisible.

  That was until one Friday afternoon in May, 1986.

  ______________________________

  I was walking home from school and stopped outside Patels’ Newsagent, in two minds if I fancied a can of Coke or not. The shop was always packed with schoolkids, which inevitably meant a queue for those who had chosen to pay for, rather than shoplift, their post-school refreshments. I gazed at the queue through the window and considered whether I could be bothered to wait in line. I decided I was thirsty enough, so I entered the shop, grabbed a can of Coke from the fridge, and plodded up the aisle. As I approached the back of the queue, my heart skipped a beat as Tessa stepped out of nowhere and joined the line in front of me.

  I shuffled up and stood a few feet behind her. Apart from the fleeting moments our paths had crossed in the form room, it was as close as I had ever physically been to Tessa. I stood so close I could smell her perfume, which reminded me of strawberry-flavoured Opal Fruits. I could just make out the straps of her bra below her white polyester blouse. I could see the tight curves of her perfect bottom, framed in her navy skirt. As I stood mesmerised, I prayed the moment would never end.