Nostalgia is my second novel, a magical-realism sci-fi drama about memories, family, addiction and the dangers of living in the past.
The story so far: Alone in his bedroom, Paul sifts through the contents of the long-forgotten shoe box, finding remnants of his failed relationship with Meredith, feeling the ghosts of memories of when they met and when they ended.
Back at his Dad’s house, Paul waits for the loft junk to be collected, when he spies two strangers in balaclavas poorly attempting to break into his Dad’s house. Paul catches them in the act, demanding answers. Kirk - an overly-chatty surfer chick - explains that they are seeking a metal canister which Paul’s Dad may have had in his possession.
Kirk’s counterpart, Roger, is reluctant to share any more information. Paul and Roger exchange barbed threats, and Paul issues an ultimatum: for them to explain themselves or go to the police. Roger explains that they’re scientists who were working on an experiment with Paul’s dad. An experiment which could cure Paul’s mother’s Alzheimer’s disease…
The drive to a rundown maze of an industrial estate (which is mostly home to rats and the homeless) is a tense one. Roger’s resentment of his circumstances emanates from every pore, but he’d better get used to it. He’s over a barrel in this situation and he knows it.
On foot, Roger and Kirk lead me down concrete steps to a reinforced door. Roger gestures for me to not get too close, before punching his shielded code into a keypad. The door buzzes crankily.
Inside the decayed building, flicking light switches along the way, Roger leads the way. The corridor slopes downwards before levelling off. We pass chained-up doors to other rooms, and I panic that I’ve fallen for a ruse, never to see sunlight again.
At a set of double doors, Roger taps in another code, holding the door open for me. Kirk flicks the light switches, illuminating a blue room. It’s spotless, the total antithesis of anything outside.
Roger enters a white side room, visible through a row of windows. He powers up an array of control panels with the tap of a few buttons. Kirk removes a protective cover from something large in the centre of the blue room. It resembles an upside-down crash helmet; smooth and convex. I move around the sleek object, enthralled by its appealing design but none the wiser about what it is.
‘We call it The Mind’s Eye,’ proudly announces Roger over the tannoy.
‘He calls it that. I call it The Locus,’ says Kirk.
‘Locus is Latin for “Place”. I studied Latin,’ I state, failing to impress anyone.
‘Yeah? Well have you heard of ‘The Locus of Control’? Your locus is either internal or external. If it’s internal, you believe that you can control your own life. External, it’s all down to fate.’
‘So you either blame yourself or blame everyone else.’ My attempt at humour slips past Kirk’s sincerity.
‘The Locus is a full-submersion experience. Have you seen Muppets Christmas Carol?’ she asks.
‘I’m familiar with Charles Dickens’ book, yes.’ Who am I kidding? I watch The Muppets version every Christmas.
‘So, like Scrooge, when The Ghost of Christmas Past takes him back to those events in his past…’ Kirk gently pats the dome of The Locus.
‘We’re working on the sales pitch,’ booms Roger’s voice once more, evidently listening in on our conversation.
I scoff at the notion. ‘Why would anyone want to do that? Some of us relive the past every day, without something as expensive-looking as this. I mean, it’s bad enough that people post messages on Facebook about what they had for breakfast. Now they get to watch themselves eat it again?’
‘The great Leonard Nimoy once said: “A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory.”’ says Kirk.
‘We must understand ourselves better. Make sense of it all. Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it,’ says Roger, pacing into the blue room with a zest to defend his passion project. Roger continues, revving up the case for his baby. ‘For your information, this machine has far-reaching applications. Therapeutic value. Homeless people addicted to drugs because of unresolved trauma. PTSD sufferers. Severe flashbacks. Emotional overload. Negative memories. Full sequential memory recall for amnesiacs. A resource for those with dementia or cognitive problems.’ Roger pauses for breath. ‘Pictures encourage meaningful communication. Improves the quality of life. This could help the disconnected to engage with their memories without the need for psychological therapy.’
‘Or give them nightmares for the rest of their days,’ I add. ‘This all sounds marvellous but how do I know you’re not off with the fairies?’
Roger’s fuse fizzles down, and his voice lowers as he struggles to keep a lid on his temper. ‘We have kept up our end of the agreement, we’ve shown you asked to see, so if you please. Return the canister.’
‘This doesn’t explain anything. What, I’m supposed to be impressed or convinced by… that?’ I dismissively point to The Locus. ‘You’ve still not explained how, why or what my Dad was doing getting involved with you two. You are not getting a thing from me.’
My arms fold again, my hostile default setting. Roger and Kirk look at each other with uncertain glances, before stepping away for a hushed negotiation. I sit down on the only chair in the room, observing Roger’s reluctance with more than a smidge of self-satisfaction. We all know the conclusion is inevitable, and as they accept their bad hand, their doubtful eyes finally glance in my direction.
Kirk takes some blood samples from me. Hairs are plucked from my head. Swabs are taken from my mouth. Kirk has a subtle smell of bubblegum which seems about right, given the circumstances.
‘You said you’re both doctors. Doctors of what?’ My question falls aside as Roger looms up close to me, flashing a torch in my eyes, dazzling me. He smells of coffee breath and chocolate digestives.
‘Do you suffer from any allergies? Any medication or medical history we should know about?’ asks Roger.
‘Not that I can think of. I get a lot of deja vu.’
‘Is it terminal?’ asks Roger drolly, prompting a false smile from me.
‘On a scale of one to ten, describe how neurotic you are? Your self-esteem levels,’ asks Kirk, reading from a clipboard.
‘Er… No. I’m fine. Normal,’ I say. It’s a miracle I don’t start laughing.
‘A number from one to ten. Ten being amazing. One being awful,’ clarifies Kirk.
‘Uh… seven? Eight? Maybe nine, some days.’
‘Nine, wow,’ says Kirk as she records my answer. ‘And your levels of self-efficacy?’
‘—not sure I’m following—’
‘Someone with a high level tends to possess more optimism for life challenges, strong belief in controlling or mastering, meets life head-on. A person with low levels finds life harder, lacks self-belief, errs towards high-stress levels and depression…’ explains Kirk.
‘Mid-to-high,’ I lie, trying my best not to look like a basket case of neurosis.
‘Do you find yourself replaying memories in your mind? Do you fixate on certain incidents?’ asks Kirk. I’m thankfully distracted as Roger taps a button on The Locus. A slot seamlessly opens from out of nowhere on the dome.
‘What’s that? What are you doing?’ I ask Roger.
‘Inserting your DNA sample into the machine. Get him into position.’
The sample inserts inside the unit with a smooth, satisfying motion. Roger heads to the white control room, donning a headset. He stares at a screen intently, as Kirk turns me to face The Locus. The machine opens up like a blossoming flower, revealing a skeletal framework inside. Kirk guides my arms into position onto the frame, which clamps around me. Then my legs. My anxiety leaps up another ten notches.
‘Think of it like a sensory pod or a flotation tank. You’ll feel like you’re floating, but you’re perfectly safe,’ says Kirk.
I shoot Kirk a look which says otherwise. Kirk gives me a reassuring smile. ‘It’s okay. It will support you. Just relax. Lower your head.’
Kirk secures my head into a brace, which locks with two fizzing, clunking sounds. ‘Y’know, some people believe deja vu is your last saved point. That you died and restarted at that checkpoint,’ says Kirk with a wicked grin.
I look at Kirk as if she must be joking. Her eyes widen along with that broad smile. Kirk advises me not to think of specific events, to let the machine do the work. Work? What work? I now regret my tough-guy act back in my Dad’s kitchen, folding my arms and being so forthright with my demands. I should have just phoned the police.
‘Firing up!’ Roger yells over the tannoy.
‘I don’t like this!’ are my final words before the skeletal frame guides my body into position, and the shell of The Locus encloses me, and I am gone.
My eyes feel open but I can’t see anything. My heart pounds as I struggle to move, and I can only blame myself for being sucked into this scam.
As I beat myself up with accusations of stupidity, the voices are silenced as a cacophony of vibrant oil colours detonates all around me. Swirling images and heavenly sounds simultaneously strike my core with bone-shaking awe and a chasm of fear and dread. It’s beautiful and terrifying all at once. Then an array of blink-and-you’ll-miss-them snippets from all of the cultural influences that prop up who I think I am: Quotes and passages from books, classic one-liners and images from movies, sound-bites from favourite songs. Places, objects, the cracks in the pavement outside my childhood home, the works of art, the sun, the sky…
Blurred faces with flashes of clarity crunch and fail to form. Static interference, frequencies scramble. I detect music amongst the confusion and try to make sense of it. The music echoes, crystalising as the image sharpens. I’m moving. I don’t know how, but I’m following the sound to a room. I feel the touch of something warm all around me, the sensation of your hand resting on the surface of warm bath water. I can’t blink or screw my eyes shut tight, even though I have an overriding desire to do so.
Bars. I see bars. Rows of wooden bars. I look up. The bars stretch upwards for an eternity before their elasticity returns to normal size.
I see a boy. I know him. I know him. It’s my brother, Wayne. He looks about seven years old. He’s driving cars up and down the bars of the cot. I reach out, wanting one of the cars for myself. I reach so hard that I float above the cot. I turn in mid-air, looking down at the baby in the cot, six months old, perhaps… kicking its legs and arms randomly jittering with excitement. It’s me.
As baby-me reaches out for the car (only for Wayne to snatch it away), the image blurs into another room where a muddled figure stands.
The image sharpens on a young woman in her early thirties. Cradled in her arms, she rocks a bundle of joy, singing along with a muffled song. I concentrate on the song, deducing it to Anthony Newley’s “Why”. In a sharp burst, the song becomes clear.
‘I'll never let you go, Why? Because I love you... I'll always love you so, Why? Because you love me...’
My mother is singing to me, as a baby. I step silently to them both, inches away. I want to reach out and touch her hand, scared to destroy the moment if I do.
‘Mum? Mum?’ My Mum is oblivious to my presence.
The edges of the image mist. Random sections of the image flicker and stutter. I imagine The Locus is attempting to fill in the blanks.
A dismayed invisible spectator, I watch the image deteriorate as it shifts to another time and place. The blurry glow of a Christmas tree breaks through into high definition. There’s a pair of legs sticking out from underneath it. I crouch for a better look, recognising the ‘Battle of the Planets’ trainers and hand-me-down jeans with sown-up knees.
I crawl closer for a better look, laying down next to the five-year-old version of me, under the Christmas tree. I study him, his wonder-filled eyes gazing up through the branches, lights and twinkling ornaments and tinsel. I see what he sees, and feel the same awe that only a child can find in such things. A pure, unhindered feeling I’ve not felt for many years. Joy.
There’s a sudden, overwhelming sense of rejection or expulsion, I can’t tell. Light and hissing sounds of compressed air flood around me, and I am birthed from The Locus into the beaming faces of Kirk and Roger. A new-born to proud parents.
‘Welcome back. How are you doing there?’ asks Kirk with a cheery tone. I am back in the blue room of the laboratory.
Kirk guides my head from the machine, unlocking the head brace. I breathe deep and fast, wiping tears from my wet face as soon as my left arm is released from the frame.
‘Whaddya think? Better than popping a few disco biscuits, eh?’ smiles Kirk.
I rotate my shoulder, loosening up my bones as I look at Roger like he’s the second coming of Christ. ‘How did you do this?’
Inside the control room, Roger hands me a cup of clumpy hot chocolate as I sit shivering in a state of a pumped-up adrenalin rush. Kirk runs through a series of follow-up questions: What did I see, How did I feel, How do I feel now… She tells me I’m showing “really freakin’ huge signs of euphoria.”
I feel dreadful. My head hurts as if I’ve had a great night out but I’m now paying for it. I ask how it works, and Kirk says something about software filling in memory blanks, fully-formed 360 images… I can hardly bear to concentrate, as my throbbing head intensifies.
‘Could you see it? Could you see what I did?’ I stammer. ‘Was that real? Did you see it?’ I rattle my words. ‘Tell me what you want. I’ll do it. Won’t breathe a word. Sign any contract. No fame, no glory. I want to be a part of this.’
‘You’ve seen what it can do. Just give us back the canister. It’s vital to us that… I’ve only mapped half of the data which corresponds with those samples. Without it, it’s months of work down the drain. You’re putting us back square one,’ says Roger.
‘I’m not giving it back. It’s not yours,’ I snap.
Concerned disappointment falls across Kirk’s face, and I mutter an apology. Roger leans in, considering his next words. Once ready and sure, he speaks softly and clearly. ‘It’s all you have left of your Dad.’
I growl a childish retort. ‘Why don’t you use it? Experiment on yourselves.’
‘That’s how super-villains are made…’ says Roger, raising a sarcastic eyebrow.
I think out loud as my mind helter-skelters. ‘You need a participant. Someone who can answer your questions… If I return the canister… let me help you.’
The corners of Roger’s mouth downturn. There’s a previously unseen confidence in his eyes as he stares at me straight. He silently nods.
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2023