Beyond Broadhall (The '86 Fix Book 2) Read online

  I eat quickly and leave the canteen before anyone can try to engage me in conversation. I have avoided meaningful conversation with other patients throughout my stay, and I have no desire to change that now. I hurry back to my room to find Stephen waiting for me.

  “Morning, Craig. Thought this might come in handy.”

  He hands me a battered black holdall. “It’s not exactly Louis Vuitton but it’ll do the job,” he adds apologetically.

  I take the holdall and try to ignore the radiating whiff of sweaty trainers.

  “Thanks, Stephen, appreciated.”

  “So, how are you feeling?” he asks, for possibly the thousandth time since we first met.

  “Excited,” I reply with a smile.

  I know the game now, and how to play it. Even the slightest sign that I’m anything less than deliriously happy and Stephen will jump on it.

  “Good, I’ll leave you to pack,” he says as he takes a glance at his watch. “I’ll meet you at my office in, shall we say, half an hour?”

  “To be honest Stephen, I really want to get out of here. Any chance we can leave sooner? I’ll be packed in a few minutes.”

  “Um, okay,” he agrees, obliging as ever. “Give me five minutes to get your release paperwork ready.”

  I thank him, and he darts off to reschedule his morning, closing the door behind him. I drop the holdall in the corner of the room and take a seat on the edge of the bed. This chapter of my life is nearly over. I consider Stephen’s question and how I’m really feeling. Nervous, a little apprehensive maybe. Above all though, my analytical mind wants to deal with the questions that have been haunting me for the last eleven months. I know I’ll never be able to ignore them. I could try to move forward and forget my life as Craig Pelling but what life would that be? Realistically I can’t plan for any sort of future if I’m still tethered to the past.

  I have no option but to put my mind at rest, get the answers I seek, and the closure I need. Only then can Craig Wilson begin to live his life.

  I get up from the bed and grab the holdall. A quick spray of deodorant to mask the smell before I stuff the contents of the wardrobe into it. There’s no thought to the haphazard packing process as I tuck the four notepads down the side and lay the brown envelope on top of the balled clothes. I then grab my limited collection of toiletries and zip them into a pocket on the side of the holdall. Packing completed within forty-five seconds.

  I stand in the middle of the room and slowly survey my temporary home for the last time. I’m not sure why, it’s not as though there is any sentimental attachment to it. Sometimes I forget it was never my decision to call this place home. It’s a prison for broken souls and a hospital for broken minds. It has served its purpose. Time for me to move on.

  I grab the holdall and leave without a backward glance.

  Fifteen minutes later and I’m strolling across the staff car park, legally a free man. Stephen is at my side, fiddling with a bunch of keys as we approach a row of cars parked in front of an imposing brick wall. Another reminder of what this place really is.

  Stephen points towards a pea-green Citroen 2CV parked at the end of the row.

  “That’s me,” he says proudly.

  It’s an embarrassing excuse for a car but as long as it gets me out of this place, I’ll take the ride.

  Stephen unlocks the driver’s door and drops into his seat, the thin body panels creaking their objection. He reaches across and unlocks my door. I throw my holdall onto the back seat and clamber in. We exit the car park and crawl noisily in second gear towards the main gates. A uniformed jobsworth checks Stephen’s paperwork and slowly walks around the car, inspecting each side with feigned diligence. Satisfied there are no escapees clinging to the bodywork, the guard waves us on as the barrier in front of us slowly raises. All that stands between life at Broadhall Hospital and the real world is twenty yards of tarmac. I smile to myself as we swing left onto the main road. Freedom.

  Our destination is my former home town of Farndale, about fifteen miles north of Broadhall. I was given the option of where to start my new life and my decision prompted an awkward conversation with Stephen. He questioned why I wanted to live in Craig Pelling’s home town — my original claim that I was the deceased teenager being the primary reason for my incarceration. I told him I had vague memories of living in the town at some point in my former life and he eventually conceded that perhaps the familiar surroundings might help me to settle.

  As we navigate through the rural roads away from Broadhall, I get the opportunity to determine if my hyperacusis really has been cured. Notwithstanding Stephen cheerfully wittering away about nothing in particular, the car provides an assortment of random metallic sounds. Mile after mile of squeaking, rattling, and grinding, accompanied by the weedy engine incessantly screeching in protest at its workload. I spend most of the journey grimacing while I reminisce about the quiet interior of my shitty Mazda.

  We eventually reach the outskirts of Farndale and turn into a quiet residential street that just about falls within the town’s southern boundary. After a few hundred yards Stephen eases off the accelerator and the engine lowers its tone to a waspish rattle, low enough we can actually hear one another.

  “It’s just up here on the left,” he says as he helpfully raises his hand and points towards the houses on my left.

  “That’s left, eh?”

  “Sorry,” he says as his milky-white cheeks blossom pink.

  He swings the car towards the kerb and turns off the engine. The brief moment of silence is exquisite.

  “Right, ready?”

  “Yep.”

  I’m out of the car before he has the chance to analyse my three-letter reply.

  I grab my holdall from the back seat and Stephen joins me on the tree-lined pavement. We stand side-by-side and look at the charmless brick building in front of us. A matching pair of detached 1930s houses stand either side; one rendered pale blue and the other a buttery yellow. My new home is the proverbial sore thumb.

  “It’s much nicer inside,” Stephen chirps, as if he’d read my mind.

  We make our way down the path towards the communal front door. Stephen informs me there are six flats in the block and my home, for the next few months at least, will be number five on the second floor. He points out the entryphone system as he unlocks the door and holds it open for me. We make our way through the drab entrance hall and up two flights of stairs to an equally drab landing, the doors to flats five and six opposite each other.

  Stephen opens the door to flat five and I follow him into a tiny hallway. I release my hold on the heavy front door and it slams shut behind me, casting us into darkness. Panic ensues as we both blindly pat the walls looking for a light switch. Stephen gets lucky and a weak bulb coughs into life above our heads. We’re standing uncomfortably close to one another.

  “The lounge is through here, I think,” Stephen stammers as he grabs the nearest door handle. It’s the bathroom.

  “Must be this one.”

  We make our escape into a room about twenty feet long by about twelve feet wide. A modern fitted kitchen with built-in appliances occupies a third of the room to my left and the rest of the space is designated as the lounge, dominated by a rust-coloured couch and armchair. It’s all very clean, bright, and functional. The few sticks of furniture are the same beechwood veneer as those in my room at Broadhall. I’m disappointed to see the floor is covered with laminated wood rather than carpet.

  “What do you think?” Stephen asks.

  “Yeah, really nice. I like it.”

  It’s not exactly homely but it’s a step up from my previous accommodation. Stephen invites me to take a look around the rest of the flat: a small double bedroom, a bathroom, and a storage cupboard. Even taking into account the fifteen seconds I waste needlessly staring into a cupboard, it’s a brief tour. I return to the lounge where Stephen has seated himself in the armchair.

  “Let’s just go through the house rules an
d then I can leave you in peace.”

  I grit my teeth and smile. Nearly there Craig, keep calm.

  “I need to stress that the property is owned and managed by Social Services so if you break any of the rules, they do have the power to evict you. Understood?”

  I nod and he hands me a sheet of paper containing the rules which I’m expected to abide by.

  “Have a read through at your leisure, but the main rule they’re really strict on is that you’re not allowed guests in the property between the hours of 11.00pm and 8.00am.”

  Seeing as I don’t know a soul, let alone anyone I’d invite for a sleepover, I can’t see that being a problem for me.

  “And they’re also strict on anti-social behaviour, noise in particular. It’s a fairly quiet street and they don’t want any of the tenants upsetting the neighbours.”

  Also not a problem for me.

  Stephen hands me a folder containing instruction manuals for the appliances and heating, a list of contact numbers, and a map of local amenities.

  “There is a telephone in the bedroom but it only accepts incoming calls. You’ll have to sort yourself out with a cheap mobile phone if you want to make calls.”

  “Great. I think I’m good to go then,” I reply as I stand up, hoping Stephen gets the hint.

  He does, and he gets up from the armchair and hands me the keys to the flat. I see him out the door with a handshake and a promise to call on Thursday with an update.

  Once the door is closed I stand in the tiny hallway for a moment to appreciate the complete silence. How I’ve missed it. Even at night, Broadhall was never totally quiet as an after-hours soundtrack of closing doors, hushed voices, and footfall played on a constant loop.

  I return to the couch and unzip the holdall. I pull out the most recent notepad and a pen, sit back, and take a deep breath. My new life begins with a to-do list. My new bank account has a balance of £200 which has to last until I receive my first job-seeker’s allowance. I’ve never claimed any benefits in my life but it looks like I’m going to need some state assistance for a while. I’ll nip into the job centre tomorrow. In the meantime I need to get some food in, and sort out a mobile phone.

  I make another list of the basic provisions I’ll need and tuck it into my pocket, along with the bank card and pin number. I consult the map for the nearest convenience store and determine it’s only a half-mile walk. Then another marker on the map catches my attention — the library.

  It’s been a good few years since I last set foot in a library but I’m fairly sure they provide computers with free, and more importantly, unrestricted Internet access. And access to the Internet is what I need to begin my quest for answers.

  I drop the notepad on the couch and clasp my hands together. I need to think about this as once I open the lid on my past, there’s no putting it back. Stick or twist? Every thought and every plan I had for this moment is now a reality, and a far cry from the theoretical.

  Notwithstanding the fact I’m almost certainly stuck with this life, do I really want to begin it by discovering how my actions in 1986 affected those around me? Thirty-one long years have passed since that weekend. If those actions created positive outcomes then that’s great, and I can move forward with that fact as a consolation. But what if I made things worse for anyone? Can I cope with an already weighty burden of guilt?

  Push forward or take a glance behind me? What to do.

  If it were not for two particular people, I think, on balance, I might have chosen to remain ignorant. While I might be keen to learn the fate of Lucy, Megan, Aunt Judy, et al., I can probably live without knowing. But the need to discover how my parents fared is too strong.

  I get up, reassure myself I’m doing the right thing, and leave the flat.

  3

  As I stroll along the road away from the flat, I keep a close eye out for anomalies in my surroundings. Call me paranoid but when you’ve been institutionalised for eleven months, it’s hard not to let your imagination run wild. I’ve seen enough time-travel films to understand the potential consequences when you mess with the past. In one of the Terminator movies, mankind is almost obliterated by computers, simply because one guy developed a dubious program called Skynet. I doubt my dabbling with the timeline will have such grave consequences, but you never know.

  Half a mile later, I see nothing to suggest mankind is at war with our Microsoft Overlords.

  My other paranoid concern is that somebody will recognise me as Craig Pelling. I assure myself it’s a ludicrous concern. It’s been almost thirty-one years since the teenage version of me walked these streets. I doubt even my own mother would be able to spot any obvious similarities between that gawky kid and the man I am today. And what reason would anyone else have to remember Craig Pelling? I silently chide myself and accept the chances of being recognised are virtually nil.

  The library is a good twenty minute walk from the flat and once my paranoia subsides, I savour every step. To feel the slight summer breeze and warm sun on my skin, without being hemmed-in by chainlink fencing, is a simple but sweet pleasure. I should have done this more often, and seeing as I no longer have a driving licence, I will be doing this more often. Craig Wilson has never passed a driving test — something else I have to put on my to-do list.

  When I reach the front door of the library, it’s almost with disappointment that I have to swap the sun-bathed street for the gloomy interior. Maybe my reluctance to enter is also because I’m minutes from potentially unearthing some bitter truths.

  I push open the door and head through a lobby into the main library. A quick scan and I spot the enquiry desk off to the right, a diminutive women with pearl-coloured hair sat behind. I approach the desk and offer a smile to the tiny woman. She looks up at me over the thick frame of her glasses.

  “What can I do for you?” she asks, her voice crisp but friendly.

  “I need to use a computer to check some stuff on the Internet. Is that possible?”

  Despite lying to people in authority for the last eleven months, my voice says “stuff” but I’m sure my face says “porn”.

  “I assume you’ve not booked a computer with us before?” she replies.

  “Err, no. I’ve just moved here.”

  “Okay, that would explain why you don’t know the system. You need to book a computer in advance.”

  “Right. How do I do that?”

  “You can do it online,” she replies without a drop of irony in her voice.

  “So if I want to use a library computer to access the Internet, I need to use a computer with Internet access to book it?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Or you can phone in.”

  I puff my cheeks and count to ten in my head.

  “To avoid having to go outside, find a phone box and call you, can I book one now please?”

  She turns to her left and grabs a yellow folder which she opens and studies intently.

  “We’ve got slots available every day this week. When were you thinking of booking?”

  “Now maybe?”

  “No problem. If you’re not a member, we just need you to complete a form and provide some ID.”

  I want to throttle her for taking me around the houses, but I offer a pained smile and comply with her request. A few minutes later I take a seat in front of an archaic computer monitor with an hour of web browsing booked. This is it.

  I’m about to conduct my first search, fingers hovering over the keyboard as my heart beats a little faster. Do I really want to do this? I spin the question around in my mind for the thousandth time. There is no right or wrong answer, only instinct. But can I really trust my instinct again? My mind flashes back to the time I was sat in front of the Commodore 64 in my teenage bedroom. I trusted my instinct then and look what happened. Different keyboard, same idiot calling the shots.

  My fingers grow impatient and take control of the situation, almost of their own volition they type…

  Farndale Borough electoral role on
line

  Before I can make a conscious decision not to, I hit the enter key and click the first link for the council website. My eyes scan the page looking for an obvious way to search the electoral roll to determine if my parents are still living in Farndale. The page only tells me how to add my own details, remove them, or edit them. There doesn’t appear to be any way to search for local residents online. However, the final line on the page informs me that I can check a physical copy of the electoral roll at my local library. That’s handy, assuming I don’t have to book an appointment.

  I go back to the Google home page and search both my parents’ names. I suffer several false-dawns as I click links to pages that either require payment to view the information or are clearly for different people with the same name. My basic bank card is only good for cash machine withdrawals so I have no way to make an online payment. It was always going to be a long shot as my parents were technophobes so I can’t see them having social media accounts. Couple that with the old man’s obsession about his personal information falling into the hands of marketing companies, it’s no surprise there’s little sign of them online.

  I decide not to waste too much time searching for my parents. I’ll go and take a look at the electoral roll once I’ve finished at the computer. Beyond my parents, there are a few other names I want to search for, before my hour expires.

  I go to the Facebook home page and groan when it prompts me to join before I can do anything. My frustration mounts when I realise I don’t have the necessary email address to open a Facebook account. Another five minutes are wasted as I try to set up a Gmail account with my new name, only to be repeatedly informed that virtually every suffixed version of ‘Craig Wilson’ is already registered. I lose patience and settle on [email protected].

  With my new email address in hand, I set up my Facebook account. Finally, and with almost half my time already used, I’m able to start searching for people.