Nostalgia is my second novel, a magical-realism sci-fi drama about memories, family, addiction and the dangers of living in the past.
A tarpaulin lifts. Roger turns, beckoning me inside. He looks dreadful; hunched and unkempt. He smells worse.
‘Come in and know me better, man!’ he bellowed, roaring with crazed eyes.
 I creep inside, uncertain that I should. There are too many questions, and I’ve had enough of the confusion.
‘What’s going on? What are you doing here?’
 Roger sits in the corner of his shelter, and as he talks I study him. He looks worse than first impressions.
‘We’re narcissists. Building shrines to our own lives. We like things to be how we remember them. Filing away each moment because it’s so damn important.’
 I hear Roger’s words but don’t understand his point.
‘All we wanted was answers. Were your friends really ever friends? Did your parents like you? Did your girlfriend ever love you?’
 An overwhelming desire to lay down wins the day. I curl up on the layers of cardboard flooring, covering my eyes with my forearm to block out the pounding headache.
‘You alright down there? Elevated temperature, increased pulse rate? Fever. Homesickness.’
‘Where’s The Locus?’ I mumble through my arm.
‘The Locus… Ah yes, who could forget… I always said it needed to be catchier…’
Aggravated by Roger’s wittering on, I scuttle towards him, intent on beating something useful out of him.
‘Where’s Kirk?’
‘Kirk... That’s a tough one to swallow. Allow me.’
 Roger flicks clip-on rose-tinted lenses over his glasses, and instantly we’re stood at the back of a large auditorium. Roger flicks up his lenses, pointing over the heads of the packed audience who are hanging on every word from a TED-style talk on the stage. From the back, I can see the focus of attention: A man in a black suit and a camo-coloured t-shirt, speaking with a confident Welsh accent.
‘He sold the patent. Stole The Locus from under my nose. Cut me out completely. ’ muses Roger, jittery fingers dancing across his wild beard.
‘Who is he?’ I ask.
‘May I present the man behind it all, the man who funded his dream machine with your father’s life savings… Mark Mywoods.’
 Hostility flushes through my body, as I now have a face to the name. Possessed by the notion of grabbing Mywoods by the throat, I step forwards, only to be restrained by Roger, who urges me to wait. Now is not the time. That I should trust him. ‘This is some real ‘Ghost of Future Yet-To-Come’ all up in yer grill. Ssshh. This bit’s good. Listen to this.’
 Mywoods strolls the stage with the audience in the palm of his hand. ‘Life isn’t about the past. It’s not about the future. It is about being alive. Experiencing life. You’ve seen what ‘out there’ has to offer. It’s time for introspection. This is a world where you spend five grand on a camera that takes the sharpest photographs ever, and then you use some smartphone app to fabricate the photo into appearing old and degraded. Our memories die with us. Is there anything more tragic?’
  Mywood lets those words hang in the air for a moment, before continuing.
‘So I give you the answer. The answer to all your questions: Mem:Review. The past is no longer a foreign, undiscovered country... Each of us is a time machine. I have looked back over my life, tried to remember those special moments... Some of them lost to a remote part of my mind. Until now. I have stood in the places and watched with my own eyes... My life. As it happened, unedited, unaltered. With our new trans-mod application, we present you with the opportunity of timeline exploration. Venture back to the special moments in your life. Over and over again. A living photo album recalling precious times. Revisit loved ones, births, weddings, pets, holidays... Your memories are your destination. With a DNA sample, researchers can return to long-forgotten eras; conduct eye-witness reports, and bring clarification to a legion of historical uncertainties. With Mem:Review you can upload your memories for future generations to enjoy. Future-proof your existence. Nobody will ever forget you now that memories live forever.’
 A voice from somewhere off-stage interrupts Mywood’s flow. The audience breakdown into mumbling their confusion and mild awkwardness as another person strides onto the stage, closely pursued by security. Mywood gestures to them to stand down, as the protester - Kirk - confronts Mywoods.
‘This man is a liar. He’s not interested in what you want. He only cares about how to exploit it. To steal your sacred moments and market them as viral Tik-Tok videos! He doesn’t want to help us. He wants to create trauma tourists. Is that how you want to get your kicks? Revisiting the horrors of other people’s lives?’
 Kirk turns to the audience, stepping closer as she softens her voice. ‘I don’t know about you, but I had an awful childhood. I was abused, verbally and physically. I want to get away from the past, not revisit it. The Golden Years might not be what you think you remember. I’d completely blanked out whole chunks of my childhood to survive. My first and only experience with that machine sent my life unravelling. Do not fuel the lament. Think. Our past doesn’t make us who we are, and we certainly don’t need people like him to give us our identity.’
 Some of the audience express their likewise sentiments through clapping and yelling support. Mywood nods to security, and Kirk is immediately removed from the stage as Mywoods picks up the gauntlet.
‘What is truth? Knowing it? Seeing it? Saying it? Is it even knowable? We’re all unreliable narrators…’ says Mywood with an incredulous grin.
 Kirk waves her hands as if conducting an invisible orchestra. ‘Get ready for the emotional blackmail...’
 Mywood continues. ‘Want to know if a suspect mugged an old lady or where the serial killer buried the bodies? This is the key to secrets. Injustice will be seen.’
 At the back of the auditorium, Roger fakes a spooky gasp. ‘I think we’ve seen enough here.’
Roger flicks the rose-tinteds down, and in that instant, we are transported to a seafront promenade, close to a pier and amusement park. All aglow, but missing their most vital element: People. No whirling rides or excited screams. Nothing.
‘Where is everybody?’ I ask.
‘The lights are on, but nobody’s home.’
 Roger clicks his fingers and all along the promenade, the lights go out. In the nothingness, Roger speaks. ‘Y’know, it’s only now that I get it. Why people turn their homes into shrines for those who have passed.’
 A glow in the dark increases, illuminating a scene. I see Brydie, slumped in an armchair, sipping wine in silence. She has a dejected aura as if nothing matters anymore. Her usual well-maintained appearance now slovenly. Her boys, now a few years older, are still sitting on the sofa, but the video games have been replaced with Nostalgia: sleek tablets projecting a green beam into the foreheads. Now and then their faces twitch with brief emotion, and they emit grunts of either pleasure or pain. It’s hard to tell the difference.
 The front door opens and closes. A person wearing a plastic protective suit enters. They remove the helmet section, gasping in the moderately fresher air.
‘What a day… had to wait an hour for the tube. Two on the way home. At least it was mostly empty. Barely anyone in the office…’
‘Dunno why you bother,’ slurs Brydie.
‘Bother… going to work?’ says Clive.
‘Bother going out dressed like that. You never see anyone.’
‘This is for our benefit, Brydie. I told you what happened to Jack at the office. He got mind-jacked on the street by a gang of ten-year-olds. They found out all of his bank login details, passwords. They emptied his account before he had time to report it. All from his DNA.’ Clive pauses to gaze at the state of their home. ‘Are you ever going to tidy this place up?’
 Brydie takes another sip of wine. ‘Children. They’re the future. Let them sort it out.’
‘I’m sensing hostility,’ says Clive, and I begin to wonder if he’s been replaced by an android, or if this is normal.
‘Oh, what with your special hostility sensors, yeah?’ jeers Brydie, before standing unexpectedly.   She thrusts a handful of papers at Clive’s folded arms. Before he can question them, Brydie’s eyes widen, going in for the kill.
‘Secret. Bank. Accounts.’
‘How... You’re spying on me?’
‘What’s all the money for, Clive?’
‘That’s... For rainy days. Retirement fund and such...’
‘Not anymore.’
 Brydie collects a suitcase previously hidden at the side of her armchair.
‘I’m going on holiday. An extremely expensive resort on a private island, somewhere in Jamaica. Have fun with the boys.’
 Brydie knocks back the dregs of her wine, leaving Clive to it. ‘Make sure the boys take toilet breaks or they will pee over the sofa.’
 I cover my mouth, amused by this tragic scene. I glance at Roger, eyebrows raised with pleasure.
‘Alright. Maybe that was an improvement. But then there’s Elliot. Ttt Ttt Ttt... You should see what becomes of him.’
 Led Zeppelin bang out a deafening rendition of Black Dog, with John Bonham driving the drums into oblivion. Jimmy Page pouts, weaving his guitar as if conducting the lightning. And I’m watching it all happen from the wings with Roger. The audience holler and cheers in devoted worship. It takes a minute or two to realise that Elliot is standing beside me, enraptured.
 I elbow Roger gently, commenting on Elliot. ‘He seems pretty happy.’
‘Well, yes, maybe... but:’
 The music and cheers are silenced, and the severity of the silence is enough to make me wince.
We’re now in a mansion, and the clicking of latches draws my attention. A protective case opens on a table, revealing its contents: Vials of DNA. The case swivels to Elliot, now dressed in a loose cotton suit. Using a handheld device, Elliot inspects the DNA. Opposite him, the front man for a group of dangerous faces speaks.
‘Whaddya take us for? It’s legit.’
‘Why is Elliot dressed like Tony Montana?’ I ask Roger.
‘Your little brother is the CEO of something called ‘Fanbase Alpha’, providing memory trips for geeks. Mostly Star Trek ‘n 70’s rock idols. He trades on the DNA black market. Our little experiment made a lot of people very rich. The gutter press has made billions by exposing scandal after scandal. Invasion of privacy lost out to society’s addiction to secrets,’ explains Roger.
 Elliot continues his examination without glancing up. ‘One hears many reports of cat DNA being substituted for the genuine article.’
 A rush of noise and bodies fill the room: Armed police. The mobsters have nowhere to run. Elliot is pinned to the table as the cuffs are snapped around his wrists.
‘Elliot Angest, you are under arrest for illegal handling of stolen DNA…’
 As the police officer continues their cautioning, Elliot smiles his warning to them.
‘You have just arrested a very dangerous man. Do you realise how many subscribers I have? A lot of people will want to know who shut down the most popular mind trip!’
 I can hardly bear to look. Now I’m standing in a dank alley that smells of rotting vegetables. Roger points to Wayne, who is enticing a wild cat into a small cage. All I can do is gesture an arm; baffled at the sight.
‘Your older brother sells cat DNA to tourists. Tells the buyers it’s Kirk Douglas, Madonna, Bing Crosby. You oughta see the looks on their faces when all they can see is a cat licking its butt. You can’t stop progress,’ says Roger.
‘This isn’t going to happen… This isn’t real. Is it?’ I ask in vain. ‘I’m not crazy.’
 Our surroundings crackle with interference; pixelating as the image struggles to hold.
‘Their reality is not your reality… Nostalgia speaks louder than all.’
 Roger’s image deteriorates like a fading ghost, speaking his final words. Ones that I recall from a long time ago.
‘The truth, as they say, sets us free.’
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2023