By the time we reach box twelve, I’m about to suggest we simply leave the boxes as they are and move them to the garage. If the old man has lived without the contents for over twenty years, it’s unlikely he really needs any of it.
“Nice idea, but we haven’t got to the personal effects yet. There should be photo albums, your mum’s jewellery, and other things too precious to throw away.”
I’m not sure I’ll ever want to look through those photo albums, but concede the old man’s request. Box twelve is pulled from the pile and dropped to the floor.
I rip open the tape and pull the cardboard flaps open. I’m greeted by a picture of a smiling woman with permed, blonde hair. Her hair is not her most striking feature though. That would be her ample breasts which are on full display.
“More than a handful there, son,” the old man remarks over my shoulder.
I cringe as I stare down at the copy of Escort, sat proudly on top of my teenage collection of porn magazines. As embarrassing as the discovery is, the old man tortures me further by grabbing the magazine and casually thumbing through the tatty pages.
“If I’d have known these were in here,” he laughs.
“Dad, please.”
“Don’t make ‘em like this anymore, eh?” he says as he holds aloft a full-page picture of Julie from Liverpool, sprawled naked across the bonnet of a Ford Capri.
“Christ, Dad. She’s young enough to be your granddaughter.”
“I meant the car,” he replies with a wink.
I snatch the magazine from him and grab the rest from the box. I drop them into a black sack before the old man can peruse the rest. I doubt his heart is up to seeing images of Lars and Sabine from the pages of Blue Climax.
“Looking at pictures of scantily clad ladies has given me quite a thirst,” the old man remarks. “Fancy a brew?”
Clearly box twelve was filled with the contents of my teenage bedroom and it might be better if the old man isn’t present when I empty it.
“Please.”
He leaves the bedroom and pads across the hallway to the kitchen. The sound of cupboard doors being opened and closed is accompanied by whistling. For a moment I stand and listen, an involuntary smile breaking on my face. This is the man I always wanted as a father: kind, good-humoured, wise, and considerate.
“Where have you been, Dad” I whisper to myself as I turn my attention back to unpacking the box at my feet.
It soon becomes obvious that box twelve is full of the tat from my teenage years. I put everything back and stack it with a pile of boxes destined for the tip.
Box thirteen is huge, and fortunately sat at the bottom of the pile. I drag it across the floor and peel back the tape.
“Tea’s up,” the old man calls as he enters the bedroom holding two mugs.
I thank him and take one of the mugs. I decide to take a breather and perch myself on the window ledge, mug in hand.
“Found anything interesting?” he asks.
“Not unless you consider a batch of blank cassettes and some old text books interesting?”
“Not really,” he replies. “What have we got in here then?” he says to himself while pulling open the flaps on box thirteen.
I take a sip of my tea while I watch the old man inspect the contents. The hot tea scalds my top lip and I curse under my breath. I turn and place the mug on the window ledge.
“Well, well, well,” the old man says quietly.
I turn back to face him and can scarcely believe what he’s holding.
“No, it can’t be…”
“Yours, I believe?” he says.
He places the box for my Commodore 64 on the floor and stands back, his hands on his hips. Before he can utter another word I scoot across the floor and kneel down next to the box.
“It can’t be,” I mutter.
“What is it?”
I slowly run my hand over the colourful graphics on the cardboard box. The box which contains the catalyst for my fucked up life. I never thought I’d ever see it again and my heart hammers away in my chest at the very sight of it.
The potential of my discovery starts to blossom in my mind. Dare I consider the possibility that I might be able to undo the damage I’ve caused? My thoughts take on a life of their own and start visualising the blue screen and the commands which sent me back to 1986. All I have to do is set the computer up, enter the same details as before, and I can relive that weekend again. Most crucially though, I can ensure I’m sat in my bedroom when the counter reaches zero. Craig Pelling will not be hit by a van and I can return to the new life I had originally envisaged. Craig Wilson will be just a bad memory.
“This is it. It was the computer…that sent me back,” I stammer excitedly.
The old man’s face contorts, his expression puzzled.
“But, son…”
I almost tear the edges of the box lid open in my haste to get at the contents. With trembling hands I withdraw the polystyrene inner packaging — the empty inner packaging.
I look up at the old man. “Where is it, Dad? Where is the computer?” I gasp.
His shoulders slump and he draws a deep breath.
“Your mum, she gave it to that mate of yours, not long after you left us,” he sighs.
“What mate?”
“I dunno…it was a long time ago.”
“Think,” I plead.
Every passing second increases the frustration for both of us. I want to grab the old man and shake him until the name falls from his mouth.
“Come on, Dad, it’s important,” I bark.
His face is so twisted with concentration it looks like a post-Christmas walnut.
“God, what’s his name…Dan?”
“Dan? I never had a mate called Dan.”
“It was something like that. I can’t recall, sorry.”
“Wait. Was it Dave?”
“Yes! That’s it, Dave.”
“Mum gave the computer to Dave? Are you absolutely sure?”
“Yes. He was your best friend wasn’t he? I think he took your death badly and your mum wanted to give him something of yours, to remember you.”
For one fleeting moment I had the key to a door which might have led to some answers, maybe even to my previous life. I feel like a starving man with a fork hovering over his first meal in weeks, only for the plate to be cruelly pulled away at the last moment.
I kick the empty box across the floor and lean against the wall.
“Why the fuck did they have to pack an empty box? Morons.”
The old man takes a tentative step towards me. “What did you mean when you said it was the computer that sent you back?”
“Exactly that,” I murmur. “Don’t ask me how but it was the computer that connected the past and the future.”
The old man wisely decides against pressing me further on the mechanics of my inexplicable journey.
“You thought it was your chance to go back, didn’t you?” he says quietly.
I nod.
“Is that what you want, to go back and undo the changes you made?”
“It doesn’t matter now does it? Maybe it can’t be undone. Maybe I had my chance and I blew it. All that matters is the computer isn’t here.”
“So, that’s it then? You’re just going to give up at the first hurdle?”
“What?”
His face reddens, and for a moment I catch a glimpse of the old man from my previous life.
“Have your learnt nothing from your past? Are you just going to whine about the situation and stand there feeling sorry for yourself?” he barks. “Or are you going to roll up your sleeves and do something about it?”
The face might be displaying anger but his eyes say something else. They’re almost pleading with me.
“I get what you’re saying, Dad, but what can I do?”
“Find this Dave character and get the bloody computer back.”
“I appreciate your positivity, but come on. Are you suggesting I track
him down, breeze up to his front door and say hello? ‘Hi Dave. Remember me, Craig, your dead mate from school? Oh, and can I have the computer back? You know, the one my mum gave you over thirty years ago?’”
The old man remains silent for a few seconds.
“Why not?” he asks.
“Are you kidding me? For starters, we don’t even know if he’s still got it. And then there’s the small matter of convincing him I’m not actually dead. I assume he went to my funeral?”
“I think so.”
“Right. Can you not see a minor flaw in your plan then?”
“You could, you know, tell him the truth.”
“For crying out loud, Dad,” I groan. “I’ve just spent eleven months in a mental institution for telling the truth. For some strange reason people don’t tend to believe me when I say I’m the reincarnation of a sixteen-year-old kid who died in 1986.”
Seemingly unable to let his ridiculous suggestion go, the old man presses his point.
“But he was your best friend. Surely there are things you know about him that nobody else knows? You could convince him.”
“I couldn’t, Dad, honestly.”
“You could, if I came with you.”
“What?”
“I could come with you. We could take your notes with us and I’m sure that between us, we could convince him. But even if he’s not a hundred percent sure, maybe he’ll be persuaded enough to at least give us the computer back. That’s all we need isn’t it?”
He stares at me expectantly, the utter foolishness of his plan seemingly moot. I return his stare and feel my defences shift a little.
“You’d do that?”
“Of course, if it’s what you want. I owe you, son, more than I’ll ever be able to repay.”
I pause for a moment, my analytical mind instinctively processing the myriad ways this plan could fail. It is as simple as it is ludicrous, and the previous version of me wouldn’t even give it the time of day. But perhaps there is something to be said about going on gut instinct alone. Besides, what do I actually have to lose?
“Do you think he might listen?” I ask cautiously.
“You haven’t changed so much you look like an entirely different person. And some of your mannerisms are still there. I think you could convince him, yes.”
There are plenty of reasons not to entertain this ludicrous plan but the fact the Commodore is out there, maybe only a few miles away from where we’re stood, is a compelling reason to ignore them all. And I don’t think I can I live with the thought there might be a chance of undoing this mess, no matter how small, and doing nothing about it.
“Alright, Dad. You’re on.”
16
For a few minutes the excitement in the bedroom is palpable. We’re like two football players celebrating after a goal is scored, just before we realise the goal has been disallowed by the referee.
The practicalities of our ridiculous quest calm our celebration.
“Where does he live?” the old man asks.
“A few streets away from where we used to live.”
“Even now?”
It’s a good question. We were inseparable as teenagers and did so much together. But without me in his life, is it realistic to assume it would have gone in the exact same direction?
A troubling thought suddenly crosses my mind.
Dave met his future wife, Suzy, during a night out in town. Megan and I were celebrating our fifth wedding anniversary and she invited a few of her colleagues along, including Suzy.
Shit.
In this life I never married Megan so there wouldn’t have been a night out, therefore Dave and Suzy would never have met, never have started dating, and never have married. It therefore seems highly unlikely Dave would have ended up living in their marital home.
“Um, thinking about it, I’m not so sure where he lives now,” I reply, still trying to get my head around the fact I terminated Dave’s marriage before he even met his wife.
The one consolation is that Dave and Suzy had a pretty volatile marriage. They both had affairs and I listened to Dave complain about his relationship enough times. Maybe he’s married somebody a little more suitable this time. I’ll run with that theory and assume I’ve done him a favour. And Suzy. Probably.
“So how do we find him then?” the old man asks.
We need the Internet.
“I’m guessing you don’t have a computer with an Internet connection?”
“No, but the TV has Ceefax, although I haven’t used it in a while. Would that work?”
“Dad, they turned Ceefax off about five years ago and no, it wouldn’t help us even if we could still use it.”
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m a bit behind the times with all this technological nonsense.”
“Yeah, just a bit.”
I pull my phone from my pocket and search for wi-fi networks. There are just two, both of them locked. I try to connect to the mobile network but our semi-rural location has a piss-poor signal, barely adequate for phone calls let alone Internet use.
“Do you know your neighbours well enough they might let us use their Internet connection for an hour?”
“I think Miriam next door has it. She chats to her son in New Zealand all the time on her computer.”
“Right. Let’s go pay Miriam a visit then.”
With a real sense of purpose, we stride out onto the cul-de-sac and across the driveway to number two. We ring the bell and wait for Miriam to answer the door.
A long moment passes before a tweedy looking woman with white hair opens the door.
“Good afternoon Colin,” she blusters with all the warmth of a Dickensian schoolmistress.
“Afternoon Miriam.”
She eyes me up and down before returning her stern gaze to the old man. “And who do we have here?” she asks brusquely.
“This is my son, Craig.”
“Good afternoon Miriam,” I squeak.
“It’s Mrs Johnston to you young man, but good afternoon nonetheless.”
“Sorry Mrs Johnston,” I mumble.
“Miriam, we were wondering if we could perhaps connect to your computer thingamabob for an hour?” the old man asks.
“What?” she snaps.
I interject and expand on the old man’s woeful explanation. “Um, we were hoping we might be able to borrow your wi-fi connection if we could?”
“Borrow my what?”
“Wi-fi. It’s a signal that allows a device to connect to the Internet through a router.”
“Good Lord, speak in plain English will you,” she barks.
I glance across at the old man just in time to see him shake his head.
“Miriam. Can we use your computer for an hour? Please,” he sighs.
“Well, why didn’t you say that in the first place? Come in.”
Miriam spins around and marches back into the hallway. We stand and stare at one another, both hoping the other will enter first. The old man frowns and takes the lead. I follow him in to a hallway identical to the one in the old man’s bungalow, but far more lavishly decorated.
“Shoes. Off.”
We comply without question and kick our shoes into the corner of the hallway.
“In here.”
We follow Miriam into what is to become my bedroom in the old man’s bungalow. In Miriam’s home it’s a scaled-down version of the local library. Rows of oak bookshelves stretch across three of the walls, each one crammed floor-to-ceiling with books. There’s an antique desk positioned next to the window with a leather-bound office chair sat in front. I breathe a sigh of relief when I spot an iMac sat on the desk.
“Help yourselves,” Miriam says as she waves a hand towards the computer. “I’ve got some things to do in the garden so come and find me when you’re done.”
We both smile politely and Miriam heads off to the garden, probably to chastise some errant crocuses.
“She’s a bit…fierce,” I whisper.
; “She’s alright when you get to know her,” the old man replies apologetically.
Getting to know Miriam is not exactly top of my priorities. I pull back the leather office chair and take a seat at the desk.
“What can I do?” the old man asks.
“You could ask our charming hostess to rustle up some tea, and maybe a few sandwiches?”
The old man looks at me, a horrified expression plastered across his face.
“I’m kidding, Dad. Just find a book and keep yourself occupied for the moment.”
“Right. Phew.”
I chuckle away to myself as I open a web browser.
The devil in me is tempted to check Miriam’s browsing history to see if she’s as straight-laced as she appears. My fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment until I decide against it. Whatever floats her boat, in hindsight I really don’t want to know.
I enter Dave’s full name, suffixed by the word ‘Farndale’ into the search box and hit the enter key. The same familiar website which requires payment appears at the top of the results. I could probably use the old man’s credit card but that would mean setting up an account. I’ll leave it for the moment and come back to it if there’s nothing else.
The second and third results both also require payment to view the information. However, the fourth result sparks a virtual face-palm. I click the blue link and shake my head at the information on the screen.
COMPANY: Farndale Graphic Design - DIRECTOR: David Alan Wright
REGISTERED ADDRESS: 29 Conniston Drive, Farndale
Back in the late nineties, Dave was made redundant from his job at a graphic design studio. He decided he’d had enough of being an employee and set up business on his own, working from home. It never dawned on me to search for his company name rather than his actual name.
I pull my phone out, open the notes app and type Dave’s address into a new note. It’s not the marital address he lived at in my previous timeline so the theory about his marriage never happening looks a little more like fact now. Oh well.
Beyond Broadhall (The '86 Fix Book 2) Page 13