Nostalgia is my second novel, a magical-realism sci-fi drama about memories, family, addiction and the dangers of living in the past.
My arms wildly flap as I struggle to escape from suffocating, kicking my way out of my bed onto the floor. I open my bedroom window wide, leaning out into the street noise of traffic and roadworks, gasping for air and coughing uncontrollably. With my senses under control, I gaze around at the alien sights. Nothing looks familiar, it’s all changed, I tell myself, and my consternation smothers and binds me. I close the window firmly, locking it all out before backing away across the room. I catch my reflection in the mirror on the wall, and it shocks me to my core. I have a beard. My hair looks like it hasn’t been washed or combed in months. I’m pale, my face is drawn and my eyes hollow.
The sounds of footsteps pitter-pattering in the hallway downstairs is hard to ignore after a while. At the top of the stairs, I peer down. Not knowing if he is still living here or long gone, I call out to Mick.
Something dashes from the living room, towards the kitchen. Those fleeting footsteps again.
I step down, one creak at a time, leaning down to scowl down the corridor. I turn the corner of the bannister, stepping onto carpet. The unexpected sensation of comfort unnerves me.
I hobble onward with the dawning realisation of pain shooting randomly through my body. My back aches incredibly as if I’ve been beaten with an iron bar.
A halt at the sight of a small boy jumping out into the corridor from the kitchen.
‘BOO!’
The startled look on my face is not a fake surprise. The boy scurries full-pelt at me, grabbing hold of my leg. I look down at his sun-beaming face as he giggles up at me. Delicate arms slide around my neck, pulling me in tight. He looks exactly as I did at that age, five or six maybe. A head rests on my shoulder, and I feel soft hair against my cheek.
‘Morning, Daddy. Did you sleep well?’
I reach up the length of my chest, and my hand is clasped by another. Scared to turn around, I find my answer on the painted walls where numerous family photos hang. Meredith, me, and our son.
The doorbell rings, and I’m back on bare boards, surrounded by flaking paint on the walls. All of the warmth is gone.
I zip up my hoody, trundling down to the front door. I’m greeted on the other side by a surprised ‘Oh!’ of Colin from work. He looks genuinely taken aback, nay, troubled at my appearance. He says something about ‘being in the area’, which we both know is nonsense. He lives on the outskirts of London. Colin wants to know if I’m ever coming back to work.
‘You look like death warmed up,’ says Colin. Of that, I am very aware. Nothing a shave and a shower couldn’t fix, I say.
‘What’s going on with you? People are worried.’
‘Who? H.R.?’
‘Well, and me,’ says Colin, looking affronted for having to clarify. ‘You’re the only friend I have at work. It’s not the same without you.’
Strange. I hadn’t considered Colin to be a friend, more of an annoying buzz around my ears. But his moment of openness isn’t lost on me.
‘Oh,’ Is all I can muster, but it’s a mild exclamation of thanks and acknowledgement.
Before I can bluff my way out of it, the sight of Colin elongates, projecting layer upon layer of the same image, curling into infinity. The elasticated screen capture of Colin from work, standing on my doorstep with a blank expression snaps away, dragging me with it.
I crash land onto a dirty mattress.
My limbs twitch as I deal with the sudden change of location. I’m now at the clinic. The punky nurse stands over me, holding the wired pads and goggles.
‘Money up.’
She tosses the goggles to me as I rummage in my trouser pocket for my wallet. I’ve made several trips to the clinic on the industrial estate over the week, and several trips to the cash point. I repeat to myself that it’s all worth it.
‘What can I do for ya today?’ asks the nurse.
Feeling a lump in my back pocket, I rummage in my flat position, producing a vial. I hold it up, studying it briefly before the nurse snatches it away. I don’t have time to figure out how it got there.
Hooked up to the rust-box machine on wheels, I descend into the browned mattress. The rusty springs pop as the dirty edges of the stained mattress curl up and around, enveloping me.
I hear footsteps on loose stones. I’m trudging across a wintry beach to the sounds of Brian Eno’s ‘Always Returning’. Except it doesn’t sound right. A distorted echo, slowing down to a low growl. I clutch my ears, feeling headphones which I didn’t know were there.
Removing them, I hear nothing. The waves have stopped crashing. The wind doesn’t chill me to the bone anymore. The pebbles no longer crunch and my feet don’t sink and slide. The people in the distance aren’t moving. A creeping sensation of confused panic seeps into my skin, and I run towards the closest people - a happy couple, frozen in time. I stop before them, waving my arms to be seen. Something’s gone wrong with the memory trip.
What if I’m stuck here? What if I can’t get out? I sprint to the shore, almost tripping over in the rush. I pause at the edge of the water, carefully placing a foot forward. It rests firmly atop the waves. I take another step, then another. I’m now sprinting across the top of the ocean as fast as I can. I’ve no idea how long I’ve been running, but the coast is now a haze on the horizon.
There’s nothing but an icy grey void in all directions. I’m exhausted and double over as the back of my throat clams up. Stranded, all I can do is scream, bellow and rail against the situation.
But nobody hears. My voice in my head repeatedly affirms that I’m alone; that nobody is coming to the rescue. No-one cares.
It’s then that the water underfoot, previously solid, returns to its natural form. I drop like a stone into the ocean, barely emitting a yelp before I’m under the surface. The instant shocking pain of the freezing water numbs me. I can’t even fight to keep my head above water.
I wake face down on wet concrete, feeling like I’ve been hauled from the sea. My drenched clothes cling to my skin. Propping my chest up with my elbows, I look ahead. I’m on the pavement, surrounded by dilapidated warehouses. The sensation of tiny daggers on the back of my neck which I recall as rain.
It didn’t work. Incensed at how much the memory trip had cost me - especially financially - I trudge back to the clinic, formulating my argument for a refund, and what would happen should they refuse. My anger is barely contained as my clenched fist slams the door open to the waiting room. I barge through the queue of misery, the bodies clearing to an unexpected sight: Wayne, sat at a table in a pub. He looks like he’s in his twenties when he was drinking far too much, sometimes vanishing for days on a booze binge. I feel the same sensation of dread that my parents must have felt, constantly worrying whether their son would ever return.
The trip must be working because I know this isn’t right.
Wayne sips his beer, watching a football match on the wall-mounted television. He lights a cigarette, as a group of similar-aged men on a table behind him jeer.
‘That could have been you, couldn’t it? If you were on the team, maybe we wouldn’t be three goals down!’ This is highly amusing to the louts, who begin to throw peanuts at Wayne’s back, repeatedly calling to him. ‘Wayne. Wayne. Oi. Maradonna. Why did you hang up yer boots? Weren’t you any good?’
Wayne stands, turning to face the men, who take their cue and stand in unison. It’s all about to kick off.
Wayne grabs his chair, ready to do some damage. Before Wayne can swing it at the nearest lout, I’m compelled to step in. My arm stretches out, and my hand clamps around the throat of one of the bald, beer-gutted men. Everyone looks at me, clueless as to where I came from. Face twitching, teeth gritted, my rage crushes the lump of flesh in my hand, and the body lowers slowly to the ground. I turn to the rest of his gang, who are still wide-eyed at their fallen companion.
In one swift move, my sweeping leg makes contact with all their faces, sending bodies flying into tables and crashing through windows. Impressed at my newfound flexibility and fighting prowess, I glance back to Wayne, only to wake on the mattress in the clinic.
My desire to fight rages on, as the orderlies unhook me from the machine and carry me out by my hands and feet. Once more I’m ejected onto the puddle-ridden pavement as torrential rain lashes my body.
With little money left in my account, I have nothing to do but sit in my house, haunted by Wayne’s humiliation and pain. How I could feel the skin, flesh and the strain of muscles and tendons in my hand. Above all, how I had stopped Wayne from fighting his own battle. And being arrested. I had changed history for the better. Armed with the knowledge that I can fix things, make things right, the possibilities feel endless.
The urge to go back to the clinic nags and I will myself to fight the feeling. I keep telling myself I can’t afford it, I’ve got to stop, it’s too much… The only way I can deal with Wayne’s sadness is to talk to him, but we’ve never had a real conversation ever. Nothing serious or particularly meaningful. I know more about people on television than I do about my brother.
I enter the lounge of The Happy Goldfish pub - the small, poky side - and I’m greeted by a host of unfriendly faces who view me as an interloper. I spot Wayne behind the bar, restocking peanuts next to a saucy calendar. The locals watch me as I arrive at the bar. Feeling their eyes on me, I speak quietly, hoping they won’t hear me.
‘Wayne,’ I call again, a little louder.
Wayne turns, frowning at me. ‘Bloody hell, what are you doing here? What’s with the beard? You look like Bigfoot and The Hendersons.’
‘No…’ I glance to the watchers, who don’t take the hint. ‘Just thought I’d drop by. Say hello.’
Wayne asks a barmaid to take charge, and he invites me upstairs to his flat for a cup of tea.
‘You like it strong, don’t ya?’ asks Wayne, straining a teabag to death.
I don’t, but I accept it with a smile all the same. I can’t help by notice a row of birthday cards on the mantle shelf.
‘Is it your birthday today?’
‘Yesterday.’
I check my watch for the date in a fluster. ‘What day is it? Sorry. I’m useless…’
‘No worries. I’m not bothered. A few days older, so what. Only matters when you’re a banana, right?’ Wayne cuts himself off, barking at the slothful old dog sprawled on a hairy sofa. ‘Free Willy! Off! C’mon, down! Move yer arse.’
‘Your dog’s called Free Willy?’
‘Look at the size of him, the massive bloater. Also makes life fun when I take him down the park.’
The dog eventually makes way, lumbering off the couch. Wayne nods to take a seat, which I do; perching on the edge so’s not to get too hairy.
‘S’pose you wanna talk about tonight?’ says Wayne, slurping his tea. Wayne’s next slurp is elongated as he processes my baffled expression. ‘Ah. Brydie didn’t phone you. We’re all going over to hers tonight. She wants to talk.’
‘Nobody told me.’
‘Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. I dunno, alright? Don’t moan to me about it.’
A long silence as my boiled heart stews. Wayne tries to diffuse the situation by speaking first.
‘So what are you doing ‘ere?’
‘Nothing. I was thinking about how we used to stay up late a Christmas, watching Carry-On films. You laughing. Y’know, spending time together. That stuff’s important. Doesn’t all have to be deep ‘n meaningful, does it?
‘I do love a good heart to heart and the odd earth-shattering revelation, mind,’ smirks Wayne.
Then I say: ‘Got any money you can lend me?’
Wayne baulks at my request. ‘I should be coming to you for a loan. Why’d you need money?’
‘Uh… just trying to get the house done up. I had plans for it… could’ve been a forever home, but no such thing as forever, right? Just need to get shot of it.’
‘Rent it out, you’ll make a killing. To be honest, mate you were bloody daft to buy it in the first place.’
‘Thank you for your candour.’
‘You alright? You look like shoyt,’ says Wayne, over-doing his bad fake-Irish accent. ‘Saw that girl of yours, the one that got away. Or ran away…’
‘Meredith. Her name’s Meredith.’
‘Must’ve been a couple of months ago. Didn’t say anything to her. Don’t think she could’ve picked me out of a line-up.’ My eyes light up at the thought of seeing Meredith again. Wayne’s head droops with droll judgement. ‘I was gonna say you’re better off out of it, but by the look on your face you don’t agree.’
I cloud over, unable to offer a defence. Guilty as charged. ‘“He possessed neither the courage nor the optimism…” I would have done things differently, yeah.’
‘Mmm, and if me Auntie had bollocks she’d be me Uncle. Mate, we all look back at the past. Just don’t stare. Be here now, baby,’ winks Wayne, raising his cup of tea as a way of saluting.
Brydie’s living room is cramped, as my brothers, sister and her husband sit at the dining table in frosty silence. The walls are covered with framed photos of the good times. Trips to Disneyland. Some of Mum and Dad with Brydie in happier times. Elliot’s in a few. I count Wayne in two. I’m not in any. As I run that fact for outrage Wayne breaks the ice. ‘Shall we all hold hands, see if we can contact Dad to sort this out?’
‘If we can discuss the matter of our father’s lack of inheritance without snide jokes, that would be a positive start,’ says Brydie, glancing at me as if she has just realised I’m sitting at the table. ‘Are you ill? No, seriously.’
‘Sick of this, that’s for sure,’ I say, without raising my eyes from the table.
Clive takes charge. ‘A lot of things have been said, but it’s important to focus on the matter at hand. Your father died with precious little to his name. I took the liberty to go through your Dad’s accounts and private letters. It transpires that he knew he was dying. He sold almost everything he owned because he didn’t want to be a burden.’
‘What? He wasn’t dying. Dying of what?’ blurts Wayne, eyes screwed tight.
Elliot attempts to keep things on track. ‘So where did the money go?’
‘Your Mum’s care. A donation to charity, after which there wasn’t much left. C’mon, he was hardly Mister Moneybags. The most he owned was the house, and once we sell it we can split the money four ways.’
‘We’re not selling the house. That’s the house we grew up in,’ says Elliot, alarmed and indignant.
‘Fine. I’ll have my old room back,’ laughs Wayne.
‘At least you’re being adult about—Oh hang on!’ yelps Brydie, wild-eyed at her older brother.
‘Once you’ve agreed on the rent with the rest of us, sure,’ counters Clive to Wayne.
‘Paul, are you able to break your vow of silence and contribute?’ goads Brydie.
Fighting not to rise to her bait, I gesture a silent response.
‘And what does that mean? You do have a tongue in your head?’ jeers Clive.
‘You’re all talking about inheritance... We could all do with money, some more than others. But not one of you has said a thing about whether we deserve a penny of Dad’s money. Before I quit working at the bank, I offered Dad money. For Mum’s care. He refused to take it,’ I say.
‘You’re a saint, Paul,’ says Brydie.
‘Dad didn’t want anything from me. So I don’t think it would be right if I took a share of what was his,’ I say.
‘Great. One less person to argue with,’ says Clive, before his wife talks over him. ‘Save us the poor misunderstood me, alright. If you felt ostracised by Mum and Dad it’s because you alienated yourself. Sometimes it is your own damn fault, Paul.’
Elliot jumps in before I can react. I can’t be sure if he’s doing his usual peacekeeping thing or is genuinely confused. ‘So are we all moving back in together or what’s happening here?’
‘Shut up, Elliot. Wayne, if you have no interest in helping, then…’ Before Brydie can continue, Wayne cuts in. ‘Number one child. Whoop-de-doo. Still that little girl, obsessed with The Railway Children. Well, I never had that ‘daddy, my daddy’ moment. All I had was the urge to prove myself and feeling like I was constantly letting Dad down.’
‘You were,’ says Brydie, which causes Wayne to recoil in his chair.
I slam my hands on the table, silencing the bickering as I exclaim. ‘Why can’t you respect my wishes?’
At least I have everyone’s attention. Even I’m aghast at my outburst, possessed by our Dad’s vexation. I reel in Dad’s emotional hangover, speaking firmly but quietly.
‘If Dad was here, he’d want us to know how much he loved us. Our parents didn’t always recognise their mistakes. They did their best, gave what they could, but they weren’t perfect and neither are we. Elliot. He knew your pain. Forever the baby of the family. Treated like you never had anything to contribute. Wayne. The football superstar. Your hopes were dashed and you’ve lived with that moment forever. It’s why you got into that fight in the pub. Why you drank too much and why your marriage fell apart. All because the bloody car wouldn’t start.’
Wayne’s watery eyes lower, as I turn to Brydie. ‘All little girls are Princesses. But you didn’t marry Prince Charming. You married a tight-arse who only lets you use one square of toilet paper when you visit the bathroom.’
Brydie explodes into tears, dashing from the room. Elliot follows her, shooting me a glance of ‘look what you‘ve done!’
Clive stands to confront me, but the possessive grip my Dad has on my thoughts and words is ready to deal with him. I just need to give in to it.
‘She’s your wife. The mother of your children. And what are you to her? The holder of the purse strings. The final word. Marriage is an equal partnership so if you don’t buck your ideas up I’ll throw you out myself. Got it?’
Clive’s cheek quivers as if he wants to thump me in the face.
With my Dad’s rage in my veins, I tell him straight. ‘Think about what you have and what you stand to lose because there aren’t many women out there who’d put up with you.’
Clive backs down and leaves the room without a word.
Wayne shudders from his shoulders to the tips of his fingers, as if a ghost has passed through him. ‘Like Dad was in the room,’ says Wayne, before looking up at me.
‘How did you know about the car? We never told anyone. Not even Mum.’
‘It wasn’t fair what happened to you,’ I say.
Wayne toys with his lighter, sparking it to life. He stares into the flame, not raising his eyes. ‘Yeah. I was good, but I wasn’t that good. I might have got on the team… the thing is, I was never first division material. I knew it, Dad knew. What hurt was Dad telling me to lie to anyone who asked. Cover it up, me the embarrassment. You’d’ve thought I’d ruined his dreams.’ Wayne clicks the lighter, extinguishing the flame. ‘But, what can you do about any of it? Forgive 'n forget. That's me.’
I grab my coat off the back of the chair. ‘Dad didn’t forget,’ I say on my way to the door. Wayne speaks, gaining my attention. ‘He had us all pegged. Apart from you. He never really got you, did he?’
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2023