I stop and ponder who I should start with. Maybe it would be better to begin with somebody I have the least concern for. I decide on Marcus and type his name into the search box. A list of results appears and there are scores of users with the same name. Most have profile pictures that look nothing like the Marcus Morrison I remember from RolpheTech, so I scan past them. A few cause me to stop and double-check, and there are plenty of profiles with no image at all. As the results peter out, I have to assume he’s not on Facebook.
My next search bares more success and I click on the smiling profile picture of Geoff Waddock. As I’m not one of his Facebook friends, I can only access a limited amount of information on his page, but I do smile to myself when I see he’s retired to Cornwall. There are several pictures of Geoff, or at least a slimmer, happier version of him compared to the miserable sod from RolpheTech. In a number of the images he’s stood with an attractive middle-aged woman I assume is his wife or partner. Perhaps he did listen to my investment advice. Whatever story unfolded after my call, Geoff appears to have lived a happy ending.
The next search returns a bittersweet result — Tessa. The profile picture is of her and I assume, her new husband, taken on their wedding day. Her location is cited as London and her job role creative director at some ridiculously-named marketing agency. I am pleased her life appears to have panned-out exactly as before, and it’s a welcome surprise I don’t feel the disappointment I would have once felt. Perhaps the emotional turmoil I’ve been through has finally broken her spell, and I’m now over my obsession with Tessa. In the grand scheme of things, I’ve got more to worry about than my teenage crush on Tessa Lawrence. That much I do know.
With the three least consequential people on my list now checked, I sit back in the chair for a moment to reflect. Notwithstanding Marcus’s absence from Facebook, I’m buoyed by what I’ve discovered about Geoff and Tessa. It gives me some hope that the next names I search for will return equally positive results.
I type the name ‘Dave Wright’ and strike the enter key. I don’t see any reason why his life should have been changed as I never interacted with my best friend during my trip to 1986, but it would be comforting to confirm that. I check the first dozen profiles with no luck and then scroll down the page to see the magnitude of my task. It scrolls on, and on, and on — there are hundreds of results. With barely fifteen minutes of my session left, I decide to abandon my search for Dave for the time-being and move on.
Those fifteen minutes pass and my initial positivity is spent. There doesn’t appear to be an account for either Megan or Lucy. It then dawns on me that either or both could well be married in this version of my reinvented future, and using their marital surname. If that is the case, I have no hope of finding them, least not without some serious research beyond my current resources.
I’m just about to google Harold Duffy’s name, to see if the paedophile scumbag was brought to justice before his death, when a pop up appears on the screen…
SESSION EXPIRED - PLEASE BOOK A FURTHER SESSION AT RECEPTION
My curiosity for Aunt Judy’s justice is greater than my contempt for the woman at the reception desk so I get up from the computer and plod back across the library.
“Hi, me again. I don’t suppose I can book another session on the computer?”
She tilts her head slightly, her blank expression suggesting she’s already forgotten the conversation we had only an hour ago.
“We do ask library users to go online or telephone when they want to book a computer.”
Just as I’m about to lose it with her, she continues.
“But seeing as you’re already here, I’m sure we can book you in. When would you like to book a session for?”
“Now?” I sigh.
She consults the yellow folder again. “I’m sorry but all six computers are booked for the rest of the afternoon. How about tomorrow?”
I’m fairly sure I could plead insanity if I kill her here and now. With my history I think I’d maybe get away with ten to fifteen years.
“Just forget it,” I grumble. “Can you tell me where I can find a copy of the electoral roll?”
“It’s in the reference section upstairs.”
“Thank you. I assume I don’t have to book online or phone in to look at it?”
“No, that would be a bit silly,” she scorns.
I roll my eyes and head for the stairs without another word.
The upper floor of the library is deathly quiet, and besides an anoraked pensioner browsing the shelves, I’ve got the floor to myself. I wander up and down the aisles until I find the local resources section which houses the electoral roll records, alphabetically arranged in coloured binders. I pull out a blue binder marked on the spine with a large letter ‘P’ and carry it across to a table and chairs in the centre of the room.
I take a seat and open up the binder. I flick through the pages past Patterson, Pearson, and Pelkowski, until I reach a page with the name Pellham at the top. I slowly run my finger down the column of names and addresses, passing Pelligrini and Pellish — the name Pelling isn’t even listed. Shit. There can only be one of three reasons why my parents aren’t listed. Either they no longer live in the town, have chosen to have their details excluded from the records, or…
I gulp hard as panic grips me. I try to reassure myself that they could just as easily moved or decided not to be on the electoral roll. Just because their names don’t appear, it doesn’t mean they’re dead. I can’t accept that.
I get up and dart down the stairs, leaving the binder open on the table. I crash through the door back onto the street and draw deep breaths to calm the sickening feeling rising from the pit of my stomach. I bend over, my hands on my thighs as deep breaths develop into gasps. People pass by and stare, mild concern painted on their faces but nobody stops to check if I’m okay. I don’t want them to. I want to return to the sanctuary of the quiet flat to think, maybe even to grieve — my pernicious imagination again. Is it pessimism or negativity? I don’t know what to call it but my mind will only let me dwell on the most damning reason my parents aren’t listed on the electoral roll. I regain my composure and try to leave the negative thoughts outside the library.
The walk provides some relief. By the time I reach the convenience store I’ve almost convinced myself that it’s just as likely my parents moved away. If they have, the chances of tracking them down are remote, but perhaps that’s no bad thing. What is to be gained from knowing where they are? Even the thought of knowing they might be dead almost broke me. It would be reckless to investigate further; I can’t fix the past so why open the door to it?
I withdraw forty quid from a cash machine within the store. I fill a basket with basic provisions, pay, and head back to the flat.
Once I’ve unpacked my meagre assortment of groceries, I make myself a coffee and toast a couple of slices of wholemeal bread. I’ve grown used to dull but nutritionally balanced food and the thought of regaining my previous bulk is a strong motivation to keep eating it. However, that doesn’t stop me hankering for bacon rolls, and when I do, I think of Lucy and her lectures about my eating habits. On reflection, my inability to track her down at the library is perhaps the biggest disappointment. Wherever she is in this life, I hope she’s happy.
And as for Dave and Megan, I can only hope the same. Perhaps in time I might find out but I think it might be better to leave the past behind. I tried, and came close to tipping myself over the edge once already. I take a bite of cold toast and come to the conclusion that for my new life to begin, I must draw a line under the old one. Here and now, I’m drawing that line.
Tomorrow, Craig Wilson starts his new life.
4
I forgot to set the cheap alarm clock beside the bed and wake up just before nine; an hour later than I had intended. I slept well though, and feel refreshed, invigorated. I take a shower and sit down in front of the TV in the lounge to eat a bowl of muesli. The novelty of being able to have a cup
of coffee whenever I fancy is exploited and I down two more cups before heading back into the bathroom to brush my teeth.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror and frown at the t-shirt I threw on this morning. The blue fabric is faded and it’s too small for me. In my former body this would have been a major issue and my bloated gut would have peeked from beneath the hem. But in this body it extenuates my broad shoulders, toned chest, and slim torso. I’m immensely proud of my new form but not so much I want to wear such a figure-hugging t-shirt. And while it didn’t matter in the hospital, I’m acutely conscious I’m about to wear someone’s cast-offs in public. I desperately need new clothes, and for that I need more money. That’s the first thing on my agenda this morning — the job centre.
I grab the brown envelope containing all the documents that prove I am now Craig Wilson, and leave the flat.
The job centre is quite a schlep and it takes me almost half-an-hour to cross town. Even though I’m in familiar surroundings, the paranoia I put to bed yesterday re-awakens. A few times I inadvertently make eye contact with the odd person as our paths cross. I drop my head every time, hoping they don’t recognise me.
I know it’s illogical and I guess the feeling will wear off in time. It’s disconcerting nonetheless.
With a final glance over my shoulder, I step through the front door of the job centre just before eleven. I’m slightly taken-aback to see the burly figure of a security guard stood just inside the door. He looks right through me, apparently bored or not concerned I pose any threat. I guess his function is to remove those who kick up a fuss when they don’t get the handout they feel they’re entitled to. I have no intention of making any fuss.
As I scan the room looking for a reception desk, a gaunt, monochrome woman approaches me.
“Morning sir. Do you have an appointment?”
Here we go again.
“No, I’ve never signed on before. I was hoping somebody could point me in the right direction,” I reply, trying to give my best impression of a helpless child.
The woman sizes me up for a moment. I’m guessing she probably isn’t much older than me and her black hair is scraped back from her forehead, tied into a ponytail. The edges of her mouth take a slight turn and a weak smile breaks on her tired face.
“Come with me,” she says.
I follow her past countless desks, sombre faces sat both sides, and into a windowless office at the rear. She gestures for me to take a seat in front of a desk and she wearily falls onto the chair opposite. I squirm uncomfortably as she sifts through a drawer, eventually pulling out a form which she places on the desk. The small office is too warm, too claustrophobic.
She sits bolt upright, hands clasped on the desk. “I’m Miss Bennett. And you are?”
“Craig Pell…Wilson.”
“Okay Craig, you don’t mind if I call you Craig?”
Apparently I don’t mind.
“You can call me Sheila.”
Now on first name terms, Sheila’s body language appears a little more relaxed as she sits back in her chair.
“Technically, I’m supposed to book you an appointment which would be in a few days time at the earliest.”
“Oh, okay,” I reply dejectedly.
“However, I might be able to squeeze you in now.”
She tries to force a smile on a face that looks unaccustomed to displaying happiness.
“Thank you. That’s very kind.”
Sheila unclasps her hands and splays her fingers across the form on the desk. Silence hangs and my eyes dart around the room.
“Shall we get down to it then?” she says.
I nod and Sheila picks up a pen. The awkward interview commences. We go through a series of questions that I struggle to answer. Previous address? A secure hospital for the mentally ill. Work experience? A few decades of retail management in a parallel universe. Academic qualifications? Don’t even go there.
Fifteen minutes in and I detect that Sheila is trying hard to mask her frustration. In the end I reluctantly pull the doctor’s letter from the brown envelope and hand it to her.
“I hope you don’t think I’m being difficult. If you read that, it might explain my situation a little better.”
Sheila sits back in her chair and reads the letter. Essentially it says that I’ve been undergoing treatment for the last eleven months but I’m now fit for work. Oh, and the minor detail that I have no recollection of my life before Broadhall.
A minute passes and Sheila carefully places the letter on the desk. Her expression changes slightly, almost sympathetic.
“It sounds like you’re a bit of a lost soul, Craig. You don’t have any family?”
I shake my head.
“Friends?”
More shaking of the head.
“Wife? Girlfriend?”
Her final two words are delivered with a little more intonation than the first.
“No. There’s nobody.”
She sits forward and rests her elbows on the desk, her face cupped in her hands. She drums her fingers across her cheeks. No rings. A penny drops. Ohh, fuck — is Sheila flirting with me? I feel my cheeks redden and the already warm office gains a few more degrees of heat. It then dawns on me that many of the people staring at me outside were actually female, and their expressions weren’t too dissimilar to Sheila’s. Maybe they weren't seeing the reincarnated Craig Pelling as I first thought. Maybe they were checking me out.
“Are you okay, Craig?”
For most of my adult life, women have never looked at me with anything but pity or disgust. Now I’m sat in front of a woman who is dreamily staring at me. I rub my chin and the three days worth of stubble scratches under my fingernails. I forgot to buy a razor at the shop yesterday. Taking my silence as her cue to carry on, Sheila eyes me much like a vet would a nervous Labrador.
“Don’t worry, I’m going to look after you,” she says with a sympathetic smile.
I force a smile back at her and nod. She opens the desk drawer again and pulls out a compliment slip.
“This goes against the rules, but I’m going to give you my mobile number. You can call me any time if you need any help or just want somebody to talk to.”
She hands me the slip of paper. I tentatively grasp the end between my thumb and forefinger to take it, but she keeps a grip on the other end.
“I do mean any time,” she stresses before finally letting go of the slip.
“Thank you,” I gulp.
Desperate to bring the subject back to more formal matters, I ask her when I’ll get my first payment, emphasising my dwindling funds.
“We are able to grant emergency payments and I think your circumstances qualify. Leave it with me and I’ll ensure a payment hits your bank account in the next twenty-four hours.”
Keen not to dampen Sheila’s helpful attitude, I stand and offer her my hand. She grasps it tightly and I allow the handshake to go on a little longer than is really necessary.
“Thank you Sheila, you’ve been very kind. I appreciate it.”
“I hope you do. Don’t lose my number.”
I give her a parting smile and dart from the office. The security guard eyes me quizzically as I physically shudder my way across the room and out the door. Back on the street, I tuck the compliment slip into the pocket of my jeans and pray I never have to dial the number scrawled on it.
With my bank account about to be boosted, I meander aimlessly through the streets and turn my attention to the next task of the day. After yesterday’s painstaking trip to the library, I need a more accessible method of getting online. I need a mobile phone, and I know where I can buy one, but visiting that particular store summons some seriously conflicted thoughts.
Curiosity wins, and prods me in the direction of RolpheTech.
I withdraw fifty quid from a cash machine and make my way back across town. After my encounter with Sheila, I test my theory that I’m not attracting attention for any other reason than the way I look. It’s qu
ite an epiphany. I catch the eye of several women and offer a slight smile which is reciprocated every time. For a man who has never received the admiring glance of a stranger, it feels like I’ve been gifted some sort of superpower. By the time I reach the edge of the retail park where RolpheTech is situated, there’s a bounce in my step and a permanent grin etched on my face.
Both are gone when I turn the corner and I’m greeted with the familiar, and still depressing, concrete facade — my workplace for all those years. Is this really such a good idea? I know that neither Geoff or Lucy will be beyond those walls but there must be other members of staff I used to work with. Or will there? I was never manager of this store and logic would suggest my replacement in this timeline wouldn’t have made the same recruitment decisions. Maybe he, or she, looked for something completely different when conducting interviews for new staff.
There’s only one way to find out. I steel myself, push open the front door and tentatively enter the building.
For a few seconds I stand, gobsmacked. An expanse of polished wooden floor stretches out in front of me, the gum-spotted carpet no more. I look up, expecting to see the water-stained ceiling tiles and fluorescent lights. Now there’s a smooth artexed ceiling dotted with warm spotlights. Everything else has changed, from the displays to the customer service desk, which isn’t even in the original location. Clearly the branch has received the makeover it so desperately needed when I was manager. If I couple that with the fact the branch is actually still open, it raises a question about Marcus. Was he ever appointed Sales Director in this timeline?
Conscious I’ve been standing in the same place for at least a minute, I wander towards the first aisle and soak up the now unfamiliar surroundings. It soon becomes clear this is not my branch; there is nothing left of the tired store I once managed and I might as well be in a different store altogether. I scan for familiar faces but the four members of staff I spot never worked here in my original timeline.
I slowly meander through the aisles until I stumble upon a wall of mobile phones. With my limited budget I only have the choice of four phones and I spend five minutes deliberating which is the least terrible. My procrastination is interrupted when a twenty-something sales assistant approaches me. She enthusiastically asks if I need any help. I resist the urge to tell her I’ve probably forgotten more about the products in this store than she has ever known.
Beyond Broadhall (The '86 Fix Book 2) Page 3