Beyond Broadhall (The '86 Fix Book 2)
Page 15
“Still, it would be quite something to show the computer to Colin.”
“I doubt it. He was a miserable fucker. I don’t think he showed much interest in anything Craig did.”
Foiled again, and I’ve already exhausted my list of spurious reasons why I need the computer. This chase needs cutting.
“Do you actually still have the computer?”
“I think it’s in the loft.”
“You think?”
“Do I look like I spend a lot of time in the fucking loft?”
“Sorry, course not. But if it is, would you sell it to me?”
“Why are you so keen to get your hands on it?”
I ball my fists and consider the morality of punching a wheelchair-bound invalid.
“I collect vintage home computers and I thought it would be nice to include my late cousin’s Commodore. That’s it. Do you want to sell it or not?”
He stubs out his cigarette and immediately lights another one.
“There’s quite a bit of sentimental value attached to it you know. It’d kill me to see it go, it really would.”
Strange how only a moment ago he said he never wanted the bloody thing.
“I’ll give you two hundred quid for it. Cash,” I offer, leaving myself some room for negotiation.
“Two fifty,” he fires back.
“Two twenty. Final offer.”
“Deal.”
It appears even sentimentality has a price.
“Great. If you point me in the direction of the loft hatch, I’ll check it’s up there. If it is, I’ll give you the cash.”
“The hatch is in the hall and there’s a step ladder in the bathroom. The bath hoist keeps jamming so the carer left it in there.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
I leave Dave to plan how he’ll spend his windfall and head back into the hallway. It doesn’t require much investigation to establish where the bathroom is as the acrid stench of stale piss drifts from behind a partially open door. I nudge it open with my foot, step inside and grab the stepladder. I pull the bathroom door firmly shut behind me and breathe again.
The loft hatch is located in the middle of the hallway ceiling so I set the stepladder up directly below and tentatively climb the first few rungs. When I get close enough to reach the hatch, I nudge it with my hand and it lifts a few inches. No hinges. I move up another rung and place both palms on the hatch and press upwards so it topples into the loft. A cloud of stale, roasted air escapes through the opening and adds to the already unpleasant ambience of Dave’s hallway. Undaunted, I climb the final two rungs and hoist myself into the black hole.
I position myself so I’m sat on the inner ledge of the hatch opening, my legs dangling into the hallway. Unsurprisingly, I can’t see a damn thing. I pull my phone from my pocket and use the light of the screen to aid my search for a light switch. Two minutes of scrabbling around in the dark and I find it, fixed to a beam above my head. I flick the switch and pull my legs up, planting my feet either side of the hatch opening so I can stand. The forty-watt bulb provides enough luminescence to establish the loft floor is boarded, and that there isn’t much up here.
Three sides of the loft are empty but there’s a pile of bags, boxes, and suitcases neatly stacked into the eaves of the fourth wall; possibly forgotten remnants of the life Dave once had. I shuffle a few feet across the creaking boards and take a closer look. The front of the pile contains a stack of square boxes that look too small to house the computer. I move them one-by-one and rebuild the stack a few feet away. The oppressive heat prickles my skin and I can already feel sweat building across my forehead.
With the stack of boxes moved, I inspect the remaining pile of possessions. I pull several bags, more boxes, and a few suitcases from the pile, checking the content of each as I go. None of them contain what I’m looking for and my frustration mounts. I’m about to sift through another box when Dave calls up from the hallway.
“Found it?”
“Yeah, but I thought your loft would benefit from a little feng shui so I’m reorganising everything for the sheer hell of it.”
“What?”
“No, I haven’t found it.”
Dave grumbles something and I watch the top of his head disappear from view beyond the stepladder. I’m too hot and bothered for niceties.
I return my attention to the last few remaining items: a suitcase, three boxes, and an opaque plastic storage crate that looks like it’s full of towels and bed linen. I inspect the boxes but only find general household tat. The sweat continues to build and trickles down my face, dust sticking to my clammy skin. I yearn for a long shower more than I ever thought possible.
By the time I unclasp the catches on the suitcase, I’ve all but given up. Dave obviously sent me up here on a fishing expedition — I doubt he has the first clue where the bloody computer is. I flip the lid of the suitcase to find it full of women’s shoes. Under any other circumstance I might be intrigued why Dave owns a suitcase full of stilettos and sling-backs, but my disappointment is too overwhelming to really care. I slam the lid shut and shove the case across the floor with my foot. This must be some sort of punishment. Fate dangling a carrot for me to chase, only to repeatedly pull it away when I get close.
As if to validate my theory that fate hates me, a droplet of dust-laden sweat runs into my right eye. It stings like hell and I try to blink it away but it feels like the inside of my eyelid is coated with sandpaper. I wipe it against my forearm but that only exasperates the problem. I find temporary respite by clenching my right eye shut. Now I’m hot, sweaty, angry and partially blind. This day just gets better and better.
In desperate need of something to wipe my eye with, I stumble over to the crate of linen in hope I’ll find a towel or cloth that isn’t encrusted with sweat and dust. I crouch down into the dark eaves, pull the plastic lid off and snatch a pillow case from the top. It’s not ideal but absorbent enough to wipe the worst of the crud from my eye. I squeeze a few blinks out to confirm I can safely open my eye again. It’s then I spot it — a thirteen amp plug, nestled between two fluffy pink towels.
It could be a plug for anything: a kettle, a hi-fi, a sandwich toaster. It seems an odd place to keep an electrical lead though. Intrigued, I lean over the crate and lift one of the towels away. The light is so poor I can’t determine exactly what’s beneath but it looks like a folded bed sheet. It might be cream or beige but it’s difficult to tell. With my vision compromised I decide to investigate further with my hand. It touches the bed sheet but rather than the soft feel of fabric, the surface is hard, plasticky.
I snatch the other towel away to reveal more of the plastic material, and a silver sticker about an inch-and-a-half square. I move my head closer and squint at the faded black lettering. Nine letters tell me all I need to know — Commodore.
I can barely catch my breath. It could be the heat, or the dust, or the noxious cloud of filth rising up from Dave’s living accommodation. It’s more likely because I’m actually staring at the bottom of my Commodore 64. The machine that threw me back in time. The machine responsible for creating this broken future. Most importantly though, the machine that could unlock the door back to my previous life.
I delicately extract the rest of the linen, half-expecting fate to inflict another cruel twist. It would be my luck to unearth the bottom half of an empty carcase.
With the top part of the crate empty, and the entire bottom section of the computer exposed, I clasp both ends and gently lift. The weight feels about right. I twist it over and shuffle backwards into the light. Everything is where it should be and there’s no obvious damage. I place it on top of a box and scurry back to the crate. I pull a few more towels away to reveal the cassette player and a tangled nest of cables. Clearly the computer was stored amongst all this linen to protect it. Whoever put it here will never know the true significance of that decision.
After a final inspection of the crate to check there’s nothing else in there, my next challenge is to
get the precious cargo out of the loft without damaging it. I nervously wrap the computer and the cassette player in towels and scour the loft for a suitable means to carry them down the stepladder. A bright pink holdall shoved inside one of the suitcases offers the best option. I place the towel cocoons into the holdall and lay the nest of wires on top before zipping it shut. I switch the light off, ignoring the mess I’ve left behind. It’s not like Dave is going to check I’ve tidied up after myself.
I place the holdall on the edge of the loft opening and lower myself down onto the top rung of the stepladder. I carefully pull the holdall after me and drape the strap across my shoulder before reinstating the loft hatch. My mind conjures up an array of ways my precious cargo could be damaged so every movement is precise, considered. I finally work down the rungs, one step at a time with a double-check to ensure my footing is sound.
Only when I finally step on to the filthy laminate floor in the hallway do I dare breathe again. And with that final step, the enormity of what I’ve just accomplished hits me. A little over twenty-four hours ago I walked into a churchyard, weighed down with guilt and despondency. I had reluctantly accepted my new life and the shitstorm of crushing revelations it brought. The chance of finding the computer, of escaping this nightmare, too ridiculous to even consider.
But against all hope, against all the odds, the computer is now in my possession. Only time will tell if this is just fate inflicting another cruel hoax on me, or if this really is the miracle I prayed for.
19
I return the stepladder to the bathroom and head back into the lounge. Dave has extracted himself from the wheelchair and is sat in the armchair. The TV is on and he’s staring blankly at the screen while sipping from the vodka bottle. I cough to attract his attention, although the smog of cigarette smoke is reason enough.
“Found it.”
“Cash,” he grunts.
I peel eleven twenty-pound notes from the wad and hold them towards him. He snatches the cash without moving his eyes from the TV.
“Nice doing business with you, Jezza.”
For a second I wonder why he called me ‘Jezza’, before I realise it’s an abbreviation of my fictitious name.
“Close the door on your way out,” he adds.
Every part of me wants to follow Dave’s advice and run back to the old man like Charlie Bucket with his golden ticket. Every part except my conscience. How can I leave my friend here like this? Whatever dragged his life down to this level, it was because of my meddling. I can’t not say something.
“Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“Not as though I can stop you.”
“The wheelchair. Can I ask how it happened?”
He takes a glug of vodka and lights up yet another cigarette, all the time avoiding eye contact. I don’t know if he’s pondering the right way to answer my question or simply ignoring me in the hope I’ll go away. Turns out to be the former.
“Why is that any of your business?”
“It’s not. I just didn’t recognise you as the kid Craig wrote about in his diary. What happened to him, that kid?”
He takes another glug of vodka and pulls a deep draw on his cigarette.
“Maxine Green,” he spits.
“Sorry?”
“Maxine Green. That’s what happened to that kid, or an older version of him, anyway.”
“Who’s Maxine Green?”
“Ex-girlfriend and the reason I’m stuck in a fucking wheelchair, in this hovel.”
I move from his side and using my foot, I clear some space on the floor next to the TV. I sit down and lean against the wall. Dave looks ghostly from this angle, the light from the TV casting a grey hue and dark shadows across his pale face.
“Make yourself at home,” he mumbles.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
“Not really.”
“Okay.”
Dave was never the sort to wear his heart on his sleeve. He was what you might call a man’s man, and would gleefully mock if I ever expressed even a modicum of emotion. I doubt he’ll pour his heart out to a complete stranger, even if that stranger happens to be the cousin of his former best friend. I need to try a different angle.
“Bit of a bitch was she, this Maxine?”
“The worst.”
“Worse than Tanya Phelps?”
“You really did read Craig’s diary,” he snorts.
“Some of it. Tanya cheated on you a few weeks after than night at the disco, didn’t she?”
“Shit man, that was just kids stuff. Maxine was a whole different ballgame.”
“How so?”
Dave looks straight at me. He tilts his head a fraction, perhaps weighing me up.
“Anyone ever told you, you’re a lot like Craig?”
“No, they haven’t.”
“Your features. The way you say certain things. It’s a bit of a head fuck.”
I feel uncomfortable. It feels like Dave can see inside my head, see my lies.
“We have the same grandparents. Must be something in the genes we share.”
“Shared,” he says flatly, correcting my use of current tense.
“Um, yeah. Shared.”
I know I’m pushing my luck here and probably should have left when I had the chance. But I can’t ignore the burning question about how Dave ended up like this.
“Anyway. Are you going to tell me why Maxine Green was such a bitch?”
“Skiing.”
“Eh?”
He exhales a deep breath and scratches at his thick beard.
“Met her about five years ago. Usual shit. We dated, got engaged, moved in together.”
“Okay.”
“She’d been banging on about going skiing. She used to go every winter with her family and wanted us to go together. Never fucking skied in my life and didn’t want to start. Maxine always got her own way though, so we booked a skiing holiday two years ago.”
It doesn’t take any huge leap of deduction to work out the rest, but I let Dave fill in the gaps.
“Fourth day I thought I had the hang of it, so she suggested we move off the nursery slopes. I remember standing at the top of this fucking huge slope and shitting myself. Couldn’t let her see I was scared though, so I just went for it.”
“What happened?”
“Man, it was so fucking fast. Too fast. I couldn’t control myself, couldn’t stop. I just stared down at my skis and tried to keep them pointing in the right direction. Didn’t work though and I strayed from the piste. I remember looking up for a second and seeing a wall of rock about fifty yards ahead. I tried to turn but lost it and the world just kept spinning. Don’t remember anything after that.”
“Shit.”
“Apparently I span out and hit the rocks at nearly thirty miles an hour. I was airlifted to hospital and came round two days later.”
“I’m guessing that’s the reason for the wheelchair.”
He inadvertently glances across at it, his disdain obvious.
“I spent six weeks in some stinking French hospital before they moved me back to England. I had four operations and spent five months in hospital here.”
“And Maxine?”
“The bitch got her brother to deliver a letter to me. Must have been about three days after they transferred me back to England. Said she couldn’t face life living with a paraplegic, and she was sorry but we were finished. Can you fucking believe that? I was only in a wheelchair because I agreed to go on that bastard holiday with her.”
“Christ. That’s bad.”
“That’s not the half of it. By the time they let me out of hospital I’d lost my flat and my business. I used to be a graphic designer.”
“I know. That’s how I found your address.”
“Social Services put me in this place. I thought I could rebuild the business, and my social worker even set up my Mac in the bedroom like a proper office.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“Nerve damage from the accident. I can cope with it for most things but can’t use a mouse for shit. I tried for a few weeks but it was fucking hopeless.”
I now know what drove Dave to this life. My curiosity has been sated, but I’ve given precious little thought to what happens next. I look down at the holdall next to me. Is the answer contained within the vivid pink canvas? Maybe there is a chance to restore Dave’s previous life, the one where he married Suzy and therefore never stepped foot on that ski slope. Now, more than ever, I need to get the Commodore set up, and I need to know if I can go back.
The sound of the front door opening drags my attention back to the room.
A huge man steps into the lounge doorway, his bald head almost touching the top of the door frame. His light grey trousers and polo shirt are an ill fit for his imposing frame. The embroidered logo on his vast chest is stretched to the point where it’s barely readable.
Dave turns and looks up at the giant. “Alright, Bartek.”
“Yah, good. Who’s your guest?” the giant named Bartek replies, his accent eastern European.
“He’s just leaving,” Dave replies.
I’m guessing Bartek is Dave’s Social Services appointed carer rather than a casual guest. It makes sense as Dave must need a man of Bartek’s size to help him in and out of the bath. His arrival is a convenient excuse for me to get out of here, my conscience absolved a little.
I clamber to my feet and grab the holdall. “Yeah, better be going. Good to meet you, Dave.”
I take a few steps towards Bartek and offer a feeble smile. He begrudgingly steps aside and I dart past him into the hallway.
As I close the front door, a wave of relief washes over me. The fresh air is welcome, but the relief at leaving with the computer is palpable, verging on euphoric. I can scarcely believe I’ve actually done it. I allow myself a satisfied smile until the guilt about Dave’s situation quickly quashes my elation. I grasp the holdall tightly, and walk back to the car.
As I turn the corner, I’m relieved to see the old man hasn’t bailed on me, and his car is still parked up at the end of the road. I check my phone to see my task took well over an hour. I jog the remaining distance.