Nostalgia is my second novel, a magical-realism sci-fi drama about memories, family, addiction and the dangers of living in the past.
âElliot!â
My little brother (not in size, anyway) perks up, looking around the overcrowded convention hall before locking onto me. He shoots me a look of âWhat are you doing here?â, before raising a hand. Just a sec. He finishes up serving a customer, leaving his memorabilia stall to be manned by someone who is possibly cosplaying as Chewbacca. Itâs hard to tell.
 Heâs a big, daft thing. Forever the baby of the family, heâs never fully matured and holds the envious position as the most doted over, even today. Wayne refers to Elliot as a âretrosexualâ, due to his love of cinema and television from a bygone age. Elliot is the most melancholy person Iâve known. He mourns five minutes ago. Always counting the days and weeks since a particular event, always aware of the passing of time. He would randomly announce âChristmas day was seven weeks ago today⌠it was six months since our holidayâŚâ Elliot would always drift off, not really having a point for mentioning these redundant facts, but still, he looks off into the distance, misty-eyed, as if mourning its loss.
 Wistful euphoria hangs in the air at Elliotâs place of work: A Comic and Sci-Fi convention. Cos-Players as far as the eye can see. Stereotypical nerds wearing their favourite T-Shirts, advertising their specific obsession.
 The arena is lined with cramped stalls selling geek memorabilia. Long queues of people at celebrity signings. I even recognise a few of the âfacesâ, so they must be quite famous. Fans ask celebrities to do their thing, say their punchline, do the pose, sign their catchphrase on a photo.
 Elliot dashes over to give me a bear hug.
âAll those invites you sent me... Thought Iâd come down, and say thanks for the birthday gift. That Patrick Steward Commemorative Plate.â
âOh, yeah. You got it. Canât believe youâre here. Knew Iâd wear you down eventually!â
 Roaming the various stalls, Elliot excitedly shows me around âhis worldâ. I donât share the same levels of wonder and excitement, but his giddiness is endearing. He points to an old man at a table, signing photographs and posing for a selfie with a fan.
âLook! Itâs⌠agh, whatâs his name? Him from âDoctor Who'. He was a baddie. Oh whatâs his name?â asks Elliot, as if a lot is riding on it.
âPatrick Longstreth,â I reply, putting Elliot out of his misery.
âYes! Thank you!â
âCall yourself an expert?â I jest.
âTell me about it. I think Iâm losing my mind,â he says, eyes widening.
âForgetting what year it is, then maybe. Not being able to name the third Cyberman at the back? No,â I say.
 We peruse the numerous stalls crammed with toys from the past, film posters and ridiculously expensive models of spaceships and superheroes.
âWhatâs the point of all this?â I mutter.
Elliot gawks at me as if Iâve blasphemed.
âNo, really. What do you get out of it?â I ask.
âThe point of collecting figures is to collect figures. Because theyâre cool. And whoever owns the most wins the coolest person trophy.â
 I raise an eyebrow at his sarcasm.
 Elliot gazes longingly at a boxed Star Wars figure. âRemember Dad used to take us swimming⌠he used to buy us one of these if we did well.â
 I check the price and puff my contempt. âWhyâs it all so expensive?â
 Elliot points out that a lot of the merch is actually new releases. The boxes are deliberately âdistressedâ to make them appear old and tattered as if theyâve just been discovered in somebodyâs loft.
 I pick up a figure of Captain Kirk. Just holding it in my hand, the feel of the material and the weight of the plastic, it brings a familiar, reassuring recall of when I used to play with such a toy. Realising Iâm staring at it a little too long, I place it back on the table before I fall for the trick. But then I spy something at the back of the stall, perched high up on a shelf. A cardboard playset of the Death Star. âI used to have that,â I say, out loud.
âI know someone who found one of those on a skip! A skip!â exclaims Elliot.
âDad threw it away. Said it was falling apart. It was my favourite thing,â I say.
âWhy donât you buy it?â says Elliot.
âFor that money?â I say, gawking at the price tag.
âYou can afford it.â
âYou donât know enough about my finances to make statements like that. Those days are gone,â I say, in an attempt to close the subject.
 Elliot points at another seated celebrity, signing autographs. âRemember him? He used to be in that show we used to watch when we were kids. They used to show it during the summer holidays, Saturday mornings. Nine thirty. Gotta get his autograph!â
 I feel a tinge of embarrassment, distancing myself from Elliot as he poses for photos with various sci-fi stalwarts. I check my watch. Fake an interest in my surroundings. Anything to speed up the passage of time.
 Somebody brushes shoulders with me. I must have been in the way, and I turn to apologise. I canât be certain, but just from seeing the back of their head, I convince myself itâs Meredith. I know it canât be, but whoever the woman is, sheâs identical. I drift along with the flow of bodies, closing in on her as she passes through a doorway. I push through, dashing for the door before it closes.
 My feet scuff on the sudden change of surface. Gone is the expo flooring, replaced by wooden boards. Thereâs a sudden urge to check my surroundings, as the atmosphere alters instantly from the echo of the indecipherable buzz of cosplayers to the clashing sounds of pier rides, holiday-makers and an ocean breeze.
 The pier is in the distance, framed by a clear blue sky and pebble beach.
âDo you like kids? Would you like a baby one day?â asks a familiar voice. I look to the source: Meredith. Sheâs stood before me in summery clothes and sunglasses, waiting for an answer. âWell?â
I recall this conversation and repeat the answer I gave last time. âCouldnât eat a whole one,â I reply. How droll. âAlright, alright... Yes. One day. Not right now though. I mean, theyâre expensive. We need to be in a much better place, financially. Itâs a lot of responsibility and I wouldnât want to bring a child into this world unless I was certain I could offer it a decent life. Weâd need a much bigger house for starters, and then thereâs paying the mortgage, which will suck up both of our salariesâŚâ
âI didnât say now,â says Meredith, not looking at me.
âWhy... do you ask?â I say, still adjusting to the sudden change of location and the sight of Meredith.
âI wanted to see if your eyes popped out of your head,â she says, walking on with a silence that can only mean something is wrong.
âDo you want children?â I ask, already knowing the answer but more concerned that Iâve upset Meredith with my throwaway response.
âYes,â comes her sombre reply.
 The sound of our feet crunching against the pebbles becomes too much.
âAre you angry?â I ask, carefully.
âNo.â
âSo⌠whatâs wrong?â I ask. Meredith pauses, choosing her words carefully.
âNothing. Just⌠not everything has to be about money. I know itâs not you talking. Itâs your Dad.â
âYou thinkâThatâs my opinion, not my Dadâs. I have my own opinion.â
âAll Iâm saying is⌠donât wait for the perfect day, because there never will be. There wonât be a day when your work is complete when youâve made everyone happy. You need to live for yourself.â
 We walk on whilst I chew over Meredithâs words.
âIs that it then?â I ask. âAre weâŚâ
âYou thought weâd just split up? Paul. Weâre going to have bigger and better fights than that.â
 To prove the point, the walls of the memory pull apart to reveal a different time and place. Meredithâs flat. Meredith is looking directly at me, holding out her hand for mine.
 She can see me, but I instinctively brush her hand away, thrusting clothing and possessions into a sports bag. I look up from the bag to Meredith's pleading face. A different time and place. I pace from room to room of her flat as she follows me around. The images distort as the sound of Meredith pleading draws focus.
âI donât want it to be like this. I want to be your friend, Paul. Talk to me! Do I mean anything to you?â she pleads.
âThis is what you wanted. You said we shouldnât be together. Thatâs fine,â I say.
 The next voice takes me by surprise. My Dadâs voice.
âYou donât really want to be a part of this family, do you?â Itâs not a question, itâs a statement. I realise thereâs a phone in my hand, held to my ear.
âYou donât know me well enough to make such judgements,â I coldly state.
âI know you. I know what youâre like,â says a wry voice behind me. I turn to see my Mum, back when she could hold a conversation. âI know what this is about.â
âWhat is it about? Tell me. If you know me so well, what am I thinking? Iâm all ears. Tell me,â I ask.
 A new voice speaks. âYou want me to tell you what this is all about?â
 Iâm now sitting in a meeting room, opposite Kirk, who is flanked by two red-faced parents. Her father rants at me, jabbing an accusing finger as he yells.
âWe have paid thousands for her education and youâre going to fail her? You might have thousands of pounds to throw away, but we do not. This is our daughterâs future weâre talking about here!â
âBut your daughter very rarely showed up for my lectures. I understand your frustration because I feel the sameââ I explain.
âWeâll sue you for this. Weâll sue the University! You wonât get away with this!â roars the father, now leaning across the table at me.
 I turn away to see the stern face of Roger. Heâs dressed in a cheap 1970âs suit with hair to match. Iâm sitting on the other side of his desk, inside a brown-panelled office.
 Itâs Roger, but itâs not the Roger I know.
âThereâs no way I can account for your expenses. Are you listening to me?â barks Roger.
âThis is what I do. I take clients out. I grease the palms to get their business,â I say. âAlright, Iâll pay the money back. I just donât have it all right nowâŚâ
âItâll be my neck on the block too, and thereâs no point in both of us losing our jobs,â says Roger. âIvor, I canât help you. Youâre finished here. Thereâs no coming back from this.â
A momentâs silence, then an agonized roar.
 My hands uncover my eyes to see a Chewbacca cosplayer roaring as it passes by me. The sudden volume of thousands of people and the nauseating smell of coffee and burgers floods my senses. There are cosplayers all around me as I sit at a small table with a steaming cup of coffee. Elliot slides a plate of food across to me, taking a seat opposite.
 Looking around, weâre in a small cafeteria. I gaze out of a large window overlooking the arena, where the visitors look like swarming ants.
âI know you think all this is about sad, washed-up actors. But lifeâs about being remembered. Thatâs how you live on in immortality. Are you truly dead and gone when nobody thinks about you? Itâs deep, isnât it?â says Elliot.
 I emit an unimpressed âHmmmâ, still adjusting to the real world.
âYou never know the true value of a moment until it becomes a memory. I read that somewhere, been thinking about it a lot recently. Like, when we used to monkey around on the living room carpet. Stacking up the sofa cushions and diving into them⌠I bought a mint condition BBC Microcomputer last month. Remember when we all got one for Christmas?â
 Little does Elliot know Iâve recently revisited that memory and saw it first-hand. The squabbling and arguing over whose turn it was to play Killer Gorilla.
âThat was a good Christmas, yeah,â I say with some sarcasm.
âYeah⌠except I never got to go on the bloody thing. You, Wayne and Bridie were always hogging it,â says Elliot, dryly.
âYou spent a lot of time by yourself. Youâd take ages setting up your toys⌠youâd ask me to play. And Iâd make some excuse not to. Iâm sorry I did that.â
 Elliot looks at me like Iâm the crazy one. âI donât exactly lie awake at night crying over it, Paul.â Elliot laughs at my attempt to level with him. He doesnât seem bothered at all, even though I know it did at the time.
âIâm being serious. I know it wasnât easy being the youngest.â I cough gently before I speak, knowing Iâm about to make a fool of myself. âWhen you used to play in your room alone, did you ever hear anything⌠see anything?â
âWhat, like⌠a ghost?â asks Elliot, with all seriousness.
âPerhaps. Maybe.â
 Elliot puffs his cheeks, trying to recall. âEr⌠No. Canât say I did.â
 I blow on my coffee, wishing Iâd hadnât asked. But then Elliot says more. âNow you mention it, I did sometimes feel⌠a presence⌠like someone was watching me. Didnât think you believed in all that?â
 I sip my drink because burning my mouth is the preferable alternative to telling my kid brother that Iâm losing the plot.
âYou spoke to Brydie? asks Elliot as if I should have. I shake my head, waiting for the swirling sensation to settle. âWeâre all having dinner on Saturday. Family meeting.â
âOh? Oh really? I must have missed my invite,â I say with a raised eyebrow.
âWell, Iâm telling you now,â says Elliot, matter-of-fact. âShe wants to hire a private eye in. Figure out where Dadâs money went.â
 All I can do is sip long and slow on my coffee, wondering how Iâm going to break this news to Roger.
Iâm now at the far end of a table inside a mock Tudor family pub/restaurant. I fixate on minor details of my surroundings: the pattern on the blue and green carpet. The orangey-red tiled flooring in front of the bar. The wicker wall art and chalkboard menus hanging high on the walls. The awful chart music din from tinny speakers. Itâs probably chart music, anyway. Iâve no idea what passes for chart music these days.
 I then become aware of the movement and noise around me, pulling into sharp focus. Elliot, Brydie and her family squabble over the seating arrangement. Brydie lays down the law to her teenage boys. âIf you canât behave, you can sit over there.â
 With everyone seated, Brydie composes herself. âThank you for coming. Evidently, your Uncle Wayne isnât joining us.â
âMum and Dad were never on time for anything-ââ Elliot pauses. His face lights up. âHere he comes!â
 Wayne bowls in, hands in pockets. His peck of a kiss to Brydie is closer to a head-butt. Passive-aggressive as ever, Brydie fake-smiles up at Wayne. âDidnât think you were coming.â
âNeither did I,â shrugs Wayne, taking a seat at the table as the menus are handed out. âSomeone pulled a machete on my bus. I was out the emergency door. Gone like a wig in the wind.â
 I stare enviously to the opposite end of the table, where Brydieâs boys thumb their handheld consoles. Brydie picks up on this and dotes. âAh, look at them. Time moves so fast. They grow so quickly.â I was only looking because I wanted to join in. Being young has its own issues, but at least you get to sit out on matters like a family inheritance.
 A waitress arrives beside Brydie, ready to take our orders. Brydie puts on her polite voice. âIâll have the Filo parcel, thank you. And a glass of Chardonnay.â
âYeah. Iâll have the burger, ta,â says Wayne, without eye contact.
âBurger? Might as well have gone to a drive-thru,â laughs Brydie.
âHave whatever you like,â suggests Elliot, hoping to head off any disagreements.
âYouâd think,â replies Wayne, straightening his back as a signal that heâs not having any of Brydieâs smugness for dinner.
âTell ya what, Brydie. If you donât want me to have the burger, I will have the meat sharing-platter for starters, followed by the 10oz rump steak - rare - with a bottle of that Beaujolais for Elliot. And you can pay for it.â
âFine. If thatâs what you want,â she tartly replies.
 Her husband Clive coughs a polite but deliberate interjection, waggling his index finger. Brydie instantly changes her tune. âHave the damn burger.â
 I donât remember the waitress placing my meal before me, but still, I eat in silence as stilted conversation passes the time.
 The most that comes my way is a line from Wayne: âYou alright there, Bob Todd? Thereâs more life in my steak than you.â
 So nice of Wayne to notice. By the time the drinks arrive, Elliot is deep into misty-eyed reverence.
âItâs just weird to think Iâll never see Dad again. All the places we went together. Hear his jokes, get a hug off himâŚâ
âBe shouted at, be ignoredâŚâ adds Wayne.
âHe wasnât like that,â prickles Elliot.
 Wayne clarifies. âWhat I mean is⌠take off the rose-tinteds for one minute. Nobodyâs perfect.â
 Brydie intervenes. Except it is Brydie, aged thirteen. âOur parents werenât horrible to us. Blimey Wayne, youâre talking like they were monsters.â
 Wayne defends his stance. Well, fifteen-year-old Wayne does, anyway. âI know, of course not. Iâm not saying that. All Iâm saying is, your experience may not be the same as mine.â
 Five-year-old Elliot chimes in. âThey provided for us. Cared for us. We never wanted for anything. A lot of people had it much worse.â
âI know,â says Wayne, now in his early twenties.
âThen why do you sound like such a thankless bastard?â chuckles Elliot. Normal Elliot. The one thatâs in his thirties.
 Wayne raises a threatening finger to Elliot, silencing him. âAll Iâm saying is recollections may vary. Other opinions are available.â
 My heart and mind race each other as the squabbling continues.
âThere will come a time when you have to take responsibility for your own decisions in life, without blaming your Mum and Dad, or the fact it was a Tuesday. Grow up,â says Clive.
âSorry, are you talking to me or The Boy Who Never Grew Up here?â Wayne nods to Elliot, who gives him two middle fingers back.
 The sight of my brothers and sister arguing like they did when we were kids drives me away from the table. I wipe away a thick, cloying layer of sweat from my brow as I stagger through one heavy wooden door after another as if Iâm stuck in a loop. The suffocating stench of hot urine in the menâs toilets informs me of my arrival. And the heat. Itâs too much. I run my hands under a blast of cold water, shaking off the excess before running my damp hands through my hair. Eyes closed, I regulate my breathing until I can hide out no longer.
 As I decide to face my family and explain the truth behind Dadâs missing money, a voice speaks.
âYou canât fix them.â
 I stop, cautiously glimpsing a reflection in the mirror, and itâs not mine. Dad. âThereâs nothing you can do to change them. All you can do is love them.â
 I shake off what is clearly a psychotic episode and return to the table unnoticed; my siblings are now full-blown arguing.
âItâs all politics with you, Brydie. Always wanting to be top dog. But guess what: Dadâs dead and Mumâs in the nuthouse so thereâs no one left to give a shite,â says Wayne.
âAll I want to do is hire a private investigator to find out where Dadâs money went. And if we do that we must share the responsibility of the cost.â
âI donât care. Dad had nothing left. Move on,â says Wayne.
âFine. Weâll pay for the investigator and weâll take whatever Dad left us to pay for it,â says Brydie.
âI preferred it when we used to argue over who gets to be Virgil Tracy,â smirks Elliot, dryly.
âWe were meant to be discussing your fatherâs financial state of affairs,â says Clive.
âYeah, ân we all know why,â says Wayne, rubbing his fingers and thumbs together, addressing Cliveâs penny-pinching reputation.
âThe trash heap has spoken. Yâknow, Dad never stopped marvelling at how you stopped drinking, how you got through your divorce. How he bailed you out when you got in debt. Three times. Talk about deja-vu.â
âIf I could only go ân do it over, Iâd do it differently. But I canât. Life sucks, and it only ever gets worse. All of this... It doesnât mean anything. Amen, Wayne. That was a good point,â concludes   Â
 Wayne, standing to shrug his coat on.
âYou are a very bitter man. Sad,â says Brydie, going in for the kill.
 Elliot attempts to calm things with a âGuys, câmon. Please.â
Wayne lurches over Brydie. âYâknow, I didnât wanted anything from Dad---â
Brydie cuts in. âYeah, right. How many bad debts did Dad bail you out of?â
Wayne talks over her. âAnd I donât want any of whatever Dad had left.â
âGood, because thereâs precious little to get excited about,â says Clive.
âWhat do you need money for? Youâve got everything. The consoles, the branded hoodies, holidays during school weeksâŚâ Wayne continues. âYouâre nothing if youâre not splashing the cash round âere. This is between the three of you.â
âOh, what are you talking about? It was always about you, Wayne. You were always the chosen one,â jeers Elliot.
 Wayne glares at Elliot. âYou can shut up for starters.â
âMe? What did I ever do?â asks Elliot, wounded.
 Wayne points to Elliot, Brydie, Clive... âPeter Pan. Princess. Tight-arse.â Wayne aims an accusing finger at me. âGhost. When was the last time you showed any emotion, Paul? Dad died and you still wear that same look on your face.â
 I look up to Wayne, steely-eyed. By the look on his face, heâs expecting me to hit him.
âI did my grieving years ago.â
Copyright Š Andrew Wright 2023