Beyond Broadhall (The '86 Fix Book 2)

by Keith A Pearson

  I step across the room and stand a few feet in front of the old man.

  “Dad, you mind if we go outside and have a quick chat?”

  He lowers his newspaper and stares up at me, his blue eyes cold and his expression stony. It’s scarcely believable this is the same man I was hugging half-an-hour ago. I swallow down hard as I try to keep my inherent fear of this old man in check.

  “You can ask me a dozen times, my answer won’t change,” he snaps. “I’m not lending you any money, boy,”

  He lifts the paper back to his face. Conversation over.

  “I don’t want your money, Dad. I need to talk to you about something. It’s important.”

  The paper is forcibly returned to his lap, his frustration obvious.

  “Not interested. Shouldn’t you be at the job centre or something, rather than bothering me?”

  It would be so easy to just walk away at this point. Maybe he’s beyond redemption and I just have to accept he’ll never change. I look over at Mum and recall the words of the old man’s counterpart. For Mum’s sake as much as mine, I have to confront him. I go with a different tact.

  “Dad, either you get up and talk to me outside, or I’ll pick you up and carry you out there. Your choice.”

  “Ha,” he scoffs. “I’d like to see you bloody-well try, boy.”

  I take two steps forward and lean over him. “I’d like to see you bloody-well stop me, old man.”

  I keep my expression dead-pan. I don’t want him to see any sign of weakness or doubt. I want him to believe I’ll carry out my threat.

  He mumbles something under his breath and folds his paper away. Perhaps it’s a sign of defiance, or a petty attempt to retain some control, but he moves at a deliberately slow pace as he clambers to his feet. If he’s going to comply, it will be on his terms it seems.

  “You better not be wasting my time, boy.”

  I lead him slowly through the kitchen and out the back door into the garden. He painfully lowers himself into a chair, positioned next to a small bistro table on the patio, and I take a seat opposite. The old man stares blankly at the table, avoiding eye contact. Or maybe it’s because he’s unable to look at the sad garden beyond my shoulder. It must be a constant reminder of his deteriorating mobility.

  “Right. Get on with it, boy,” he barks impatiently.

  “Saturday afternoon,” I calmly declare.

  “What?”

  “Saturday afternoon. Any plans?”

  “What business is it of yours?”

  “Alright, let me put it another way,” I say confidently. “On Saturday afternoon we’re going down to the pub, and we’re going to sit there and drink until we’re able to leave as father and son.”

  “Are you drunk now?” he spits.

  “Nope. Stone cold sober.”

  “I’ve got better things to do than sit and listen to your whinging all afternoon.”

  “I won’t be whinging. It’s just a chance for us to clear the air, get a few things straight between us.”

  He shakes his head and his perma-frown deepens.

  “Have you been reading women’s magazines? I have no interest in supping ale while you get all touchy-feely. Grow up, boy.”

  I was hoping not to use this card but our current conversation is going nowhere.

  “Okay. Maybe we could discuss Gilbert Fripp instead? See if we can work out how his tutelage left such a lasting impression on you.”

  His head snaps back like he’s just caught wind of a foul smell.

  “What did you say, boy?”

  “You heard me. Gilbert Fripp.”

  “Who told you about Fripp?” he rumbles, his voice low.

  “Nobody. I just did a little research to try and understand why you’re such a fucking tyrant. From what I understand, this Fripp character was quite the tyrant too. What was he? Your mentor?”

  The muscles in his sallow cheeks begin to twitch. If he was capable of storming away from the table, I’m pretty sure he’d already be slamming the back door shut at this point. I’ve no idea what’s going through his mind, but it isn’t coming out of his mouth.

  “So, Saturday afternoon?” I casually add. “I’ll come round about two o’clock?”

  He ignores my offer again. “Why did you mention Fripp?” he eventually asks, his voice surprisingly level.

  “My research suggests he was a universally despised individual. Cruel, spiteful, vindictive. Sound about right?”

  He nods but doesn’t expand on my summation.

  “Remind you of anyone?”

  From nowhere, he thumps his clenched fist onto the table. I appear to have pushed him a little too far.

  “Don’t ever compare me to that bastard,” he yells. “I never beat you with a cane. I never locked you in a cupboard for hours. I never dedicated my life to making yours a misery.”

  “Well, you’re innocent on two of those three charges.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Making my life a misery,” I snap back. “You think I derived happiness from being ignored by my own dad? Do you think your complete apathy to my wellbeing didn’t make me miserable?”

  “I did my best,” he retorts.

  “Fuck off, Dad. You did nothing like your best and you know it.”

  He grimaces, as if my words physically stung. After my venting, a heavy silence hangs over the table, both of us plotting where we go next. I decide to keep up the pressure and push him into a corner. I throw him a question I would never have dared ask before.

  “Simple question, Dad. Do you love me?”

  Despite his body being riddled with arthritis, he squirms in his chair like a fidgety toddler.

  “Well?”

  He would rather stare at his sad garden than look me in the eye, but eventually he mumbles a reply.

  “Course I do,” he whispers.

  It’s a breakthrough moment. It’s something to work with.

  “Good. And despite the fact you don’t deserve it, I do love you.”

  His eyes dart around the table as he scratches his head. This is a man used to conflict, to control. Now he’s a man in unchartered territory, way beyond his comfort zone.

  “Make it half-two,” he mumbles.

  “Eh?”

  “Saturday. The pub. Come round about half-two. I’ll be ready.”

  “Alright. Half-two it is.”

  “You’re buying the first round, mind,” he adds.

  The deep lines on his craggy face make it hard to tell, but I think there might be a vague hint of a smile in there somewhere.

  “Deal, as long as you promise not to play Slim Whitman on the jukebox.”

  He snorts a laugh and immediately tries to hide it by forcing his perma-frown back in place. Too late though. I saw a glimpse of the old man who helped me return to 2016. He’s in there somewhere, I just need to coax him out.

  I decide not to push my luck and get up from my seat. The old man gratefully follows suit.

  “Thanks for the chat, Dad.”

  I offer him my hand. Probably too soon for a hug.

  He reaches across and takes my hand. “It’s okay, boy.”

  “Please don’t call me boy. I’m forty-six years of age.”

  “Right, yes.”

  We break our handshake and return to the sitting room. No further words are exchanged between us. Nothing else needs to be said, for now.

  I give Mum a kiss and a long hug. Probably a hug too tight for such a short visit, but a hug that is long overdue. I tell her I love her and give the old man a parting nod, which he returns.

  I close the front door behind me and exhale a long breath. The first box on my to-do list can now be checked.

  Time to move on to the next.

  .

  29

  If you leave a car sat stationary almost a year, you’re likely to return and find the battery flat. That thought crosses my mind as I waddle across the road to where my crappy red Mazda is parked
. It’s going to take a little getting used to — the fact that while I’ve been away for over eleven months, I’ve only been in my parents’ house for a couple of hours. That fact is born-out when I clamber into the Mazda and it spits into life on the first turn of the ignition key.

  I exit their road with all the caution of a learner driver, keenly aware my driving skills are a little rusty through lack of use. If I didn’t have so much to do for the remainder of the day, I’d be tempted to walk.

  After a slow drive, and having twice stalled the car, I reach the outskirts of the town centre and pull into a short-stay car park. I have four tasks to complete; none of which requires a visit to the new shopping centre or its expensive multi-storey car park.

  I park the Mazda and make my way towards the centre of the town. I don’t have a specific destination in mind. I’m actually on the lookout for a specific type of establishment. After half-a-mile of laboured walking, I find three of them, all clustered together in the same road. I don’t know the difference between the three but one of them has a name I vaguely recognise so I decide to offer them my custom.

  I push open a frosted glass door and survey the scene. Three pasty-faced, middle-aged men are sat on stools, staring up at a row of screens that extend along one wall. They pay me no attention as I shuffle past them towards a counter at the rear. There’s one man sat at the counter, protected from customers by a thick sheet of glass, much like a bank teller. He looks bored with his job, bored with his life.

  I approach him. “Hi. Wonder if you can help me?” I ask.

  He lazily turns his head from a digital screen and appears to size me up. I’m sure he can tell I’m a newbie at this.

  “Go on,” he sighs.

  “I’d like to place a bet.”

  He eyes me with contempt, much like a waiter would if you walked into a restaurant and just asked for ‘food’.

  “A bet on what exactly?”

  “Erm, one of those three-in-one bets, you know, where all three things have to happen to win.”

  “It’s called a treble accumulator.”

  “Right, yes. One of those, please.”

  He shakes his head and picks up a pen.

  “What’s the first bet?”

  “Donald Trump to win the US presidential election.”

  I know for sure that Trump will win the US election three months and twenty-six days from now.

  “Right,” he snorts while scribbling on a notepad. “Next one?”

  “Sam Allardyce to be the next England manager.”

  Despite his reign lasting just one game, I know Allardyce will be appointed England manager in eight days’ time.

  “This is a joke, right?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, your loss mate. Last bet?”

  “Angelina Jolie to file for divorce from Brad Pitt within the next three months.”

  I rarely take much notice of celebrity news but in just over two months time, news of Miss Jolie’s divorce petition will, for some inexplicable reason, be big news.

  “You do realise all three of these have to happen for you to win?”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that.”

  “As long as you know. How much do you want to stake?”

  “Three hundred quid.”

  The man starts laughing. I give him the benefit of the doubt and assume it’s shock at my apparent recklessness.

  “Are you absolutely sure about this, mate?”

  “Yes,” I snap back. “Do you want to take the bet or not?”

  “Alright, calm down. I’ll go and check the odds for you. Give me a few minutes.”

  He gets up from his chair and disappears through a door, still shaking his head and chuckling away. He won’t be chuckling when I return in four months time for my winnings. I’m not a gambling man, but it would be amiss of me not to take this opportunity. Maybe if I’d known I’d find myself back where I started, and my final days in 2017 hadn’t been quite so crazy, I might have memorised the lottery numbers or researched football results. Still, I’m hopeful a number of my financial problems will be solved simply as a result of watching the news in my room at Broadhall.

  The man returns and taps the keyboard below his digital screen.

  “The combined odds on a treble accumulator would be 2100 to 1. So, in the event all three bets come in, you’ll win about £630,000 with a £300 stake.”

  I try not to let my excitement show, while also considering if I should invest more of my meagre funds. It quickly dawns on me that I’m actually unemployed and it’s going to be months before this bet pays out. Besides, a shade over six hundred grand is more than enough for me to implement my plans for the future.

  I hand over my debit card and the man processes my payment before returning a betting slip, and a smirk.

  “Good luck.”

  “Thanks. See you in November,” I smile back.

  I tuck the slip and my debit card into my wallet. As I turn to leave, one of the three middle-aged patrons clambers off his stool, swears several times and storms out of the betting shop. Clearly he’s not a happy man and his demeanour reminds me of someone. I turn back to the man behind the counter.

  “Can I make the same bet please?” I ask.

  “You wanna bet another three hundred quid on the same treble accumulator?”

  “No, just twenty-five quid this time.”

  The man shakes his head and takes my debit card again. He returns it with another slip and I leave the betting shop. Another box ticked.

  I make my way further into the town centre and my next destination. I pass an office building with reflective, smoked-glass windows. For the first time in a long while, I get to see the full horror of my fat body reflected back at me. I pause for a moment and stare at the chubby man. I always used to avoid mirrors, preferring to hide from the reality of how I looked. Not now though, because I know this really isn’t me. I know the slim, toned man who I always wanted to be is not so far away. I’m going to keep looking at mirrors until that man looks back at me.

  I take a final glance at my fat doppelgänger and continue on my way.

  Five minutes later I’m stood outside the MISSO charity shop. I push open the door and make straight for the spherical woman behind the counter.

  “Yes, my love? What can I do for you?” Brenda chimes in her thick west country accent.

  “Hi. I was wondering how I go about volunteering to work here?”

  Brenda eyes me suspiciously. “You’re a man.”

  “Well spotted.”

  “We don’t get many men volunteering here. You are aware we’re a miscarriage charity?”

  “Yes, I know. My wife suffered a miscarriage. It was a long time ago now, but I’ve just been made redundant and I thought I could do something worthwhile while I look for another job.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Do you have any experience of working in a shop?”

  “You could say that,” I chuckle. “Up until yesterday I was the manager of an electrical store, over on the retail estate.”

  “Ohh, that’s marvellous,“ she grins. “It’ll make a change to have somebody around the place who actually knows what they’re doing.”

  “Well, I’m keen to help,” I reply with a smile.

  “You need to complete an application form, but I’m sure we can find a space for a fellow with your experience.”

  Brenda ducks down below the counter to locate an application form. Seconds pass as cupboard doors are opened and slammed shut. Red-faced from her excursion, she resurfaces and slaps an application form on the desk.

  “There we go, my love. Fill that in and drop it back to me. I’m Brenda, shop manager.”

  I offer my hand to Brenda and she reaches across the counter. As she stretches, her flabby arm knocks over a mug, spilling cold tea over the counter.

  “Oh, fuckety-bugger,” she yells.

  Fortunately, my application form absorbs most of the liquid.

  “Sorry about that, m
y love,” Brenda says, as she dangles the sodden form by the corner. “I’ll get you another one.”

  She ducks back below the counter in search of another form while I try to suppress my laughter. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to work here but I do know my life will be better for having Brenda in it.

  “Here you go,” she grins as she presents me with a dry form.

  “Thanks, Brenda.”

  “You’re welcome…what’s your name?”

  “Craig. Craig Pelling.”

  “Well, Craig Pelling, I look forward to getting that back, and hopefully working with you.”

  She carefully reaches across the counter and I take her hand in an uneventful handshake.

  “And sorry about my language,” Brenda adds. “I don’t usually swear like that.”

  “Right,” I reply with a wry smile. “I’m sure you don’t.”

  I say goodbye to Brenda and leave the shop with my application form safely folded in my pocket. Another box ticked.

  My third task requires a visit to a place I’ve frequented before, albeit for a relatively brief period. After a five-minute walk I’m stood in the reception area of the aptly named, Winning Losers Gym. I used to hate this place with a passion. I hated the smell, the sounds, and the fact I had to pay good money to endure an hour of hell twice a week. I hated the slim, fit people who pounded the treadmills, curled weights, and contorted shapes with apparent ease.

  But now I realise what I hated more than anything — my naivety.

  The one thing I learnt from my time at Broadhall is that there’s no secret to losing weight. In fact, it’s just number crunching, and the one thing my mind is good at is crunching numbers. I learnt that an average man will burn around 2500 calories a day. Consume more calories than that and you’ll put weight on. Conversely, if you eat slightly less and exercise more, it’s not hard to drop 1000 calories below that daily threshold. My epiphany came when I read that one pound of fat equates to roughly 3500 calories. So, if I had a deficit of 1000 calories a day, I’d lose at least a couple of pounds every week. And so I did, and suddenly it all made sense.

  The problem with my previous experience at Winning Losers Gym is that I had no short-term goals, nor did I understand the numbers. I wanted to lose five or six stone, and I wanted to lose it quickly. Unrealistic and naive. All I really had to do was enter the gym four times a week and burn 400 calories each time. If I’d done that, and made a few changes to my eating habits, I’d have eventually achieved my goal. But when you stand on the scales and see you’ve only lost three pounds from the eighty-odd you want to lose, it’s de-motivating. I gave up and blamed everyone and everything, except myself.