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: Inside The Locus, Paul experiences a clip-show of negative memories of alienation. The rejection, loneliness and feelings of unlove fill Paul with a physical pain, but it’s a pain worth feeling when he can also unlock happy memories of his time with Meredith.
After discovering that their recently-deceased father’s bank account is empty, Brydie demands a family meeting to find out what is going on. Paul informs Roger about this, putting pressure on him for answers. Roger threatens to pull the plug on the experiment, but with Brydie’s words still ringing in his ears - “What was Dad thinking?” - Paul suggests using his Dad’s DNA sample in The Locus.
Whilst inside his Dad’s memories, Paul sees the side of his Dad’s life that he never knew: The hardships and struggles. The memories end with a faltering image of his Dad, Ivor, talking to himself in a mirror - or rather, leaving a message from beyond for whoever may be watching. Ivor talks of a man who said he could cure his wife’s disease, but just as he is about to name the man, the image fails…
Kirk checks my pulse, as Roger chews a pen intently, waiting for me to detail the experience of my Dad’s memories.
‘It was... I can’t describe it.’
‘For the benefit of science, please try,’ suggests Roger, dryly.
‘Beautiful. Everything that was good and wonderful about my Dad, I saw it. I felt it. I could feel what he was feeling. Like... His heart was my heart.’
‘And how would you say your Father appeared in the vision?’ asks Kirk.
‘I’d never seen him so happy.’
‘I’ve never seen you so happy,’ says Roger.
Kirk raises a finger to speak. ‘He’s experiencing emotional transference. Your feelings are-—’
‘Put the kettle on, Kirk. And boil your head while you’re at it,’ snaps Roger. Taking the hint, Kirk shuffles out of the room.
‘Am I... okay?’ I ask.
Roger supposes so. I know by now to be concerned whenever he does this.
Ten minutes later, I’m back in The Locus, back in Dad’s memories. But for some reason, it’s not forthcoming with riches. No re-discovered golden years. Just me, my five-year-old self and my Dad at the cinema, watching ‘Flash Gordon’. Both versions of me are loving, my Dad less so. That was our thing, what we did together the most. Watch movies in the eighties. None of this impresses
Roger when I resurface from the machine. ‘Yeah this is all interesting, but I was hoping for more than film reviews from you dead Dad.’
We call it quits for the day.
My senses have an imperative demand to feel the sun on my skin, the sweet smell of the breeze in the air, and the sounds of birdsong at the close of day. Strolling back past the ruins of the industrial estate, I feel energised. Alive. The sight of the crumbling industrial estate even feels remarkable, as if I can feel the ghosts of labourers who toiled over long days to lay every brick and felted the rooftops and all the workers who once filled the now-defunct factories.
The sound of an approaching car with a dodgy exhaust catches my ear. The car slows down, adjacent to me. Kirk calls out, offering me a lift to the station. I accept.
Sat in the front passenger seat, my leg shakes as if I’m playing a kick drum. Kirk places her hand on my leg to stop me. ‘That’s kinda annoying.’ I cease my jittering.
‘So… do you fancy getting a drink somewhere?’ asks Kirk. I glance at her with uncertainty. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not gonna propose or anything. We need to talk.’
‘About?’
‘Roger’s asked me to ask you for the rest of the test samples. Could you do that for him?’
‘Why does he want it back? He knows The Locus works…’
‘He doesn’t tell me everything. But he’s been pretty flexible with you. Give ‘n take, y’know…’
‘I dunno… I don’t know if I trust him.’
‘Do you trust me?’ she asks.
‘Yeah. I think so. You seem… a decent sort of person,’ I reply.
‘I think we could all do with trusting each other more. Roger’s uptight on the best of days, and you’re…’
I look to Kirk, anticipating the rest of that sentence.
‘You can be edgy. I just think you’re both coming at it from cross purposes when actually you’re two similar guys who want to do the right thing.’
‘My Mum used to say that about me and my Dad… So what do you think I should do?’
‘Not for me to say. I don’t know Roger that well either. I mean, this is my job. We’re not best friends. We don’t hang out.’
I think it over, and an idea dawns on me.
‘There is a way to know for sure. If I can trust Roger.’
By the look on her face, Kirk isn’t sure she likes where I’m going with this.
‘All you need is one hair from him. You load it into The Locus. I’ll do the hard part.’
‘Do you trust me enough not to tell Roger what you just said?’ asks Kirk.
‘Will you?’ I ask.
Kirk struggles to answer. ‘I… I’m not… I don’t want to be stuck in the middle, playing off you and Roger all day long.’
‘I just want to make an informed decision,’ I say, in an attempt to justify my proposed snooping on Roger’s intimate moments. I know how it sounds, and I’m quick to apologise. ‘You’re right. Forget what I said. Stupid thing to say. I’m… not very good when it comes to trusting people not to screw me over.’
Kirk pulls up in the station car park. ‘Forget it. All in the past,’ she nods, reassuring me as I get out of the car. I thank Kirk for the lift and send her off with a friendly wave.
On the train, I’m free to jitter as the carriage is mostly empty. Pulling into a station, the doors open, snapping me out of my brain fog. A woman struggles on board with a child in a buggy, and they take a seat nearby. The woman turns the buggy around so she can see the wide eyes of her daughter. By the expression on her face, it must be her first train ride. She beams at me with uncertain, disbelieving joy, as do I.
A video monitor displays an assault on the senses that is Mick Nicholson’s lifestyle. Endless posing and mugging to the camera whilst flaunting his bare-naked ego. What story it’s telling, I’ve no idea. It’s just a random bunch of clips forming a line. The movement in the images clashes with a startling lack of synchronicity and meaning. No deep level of wit or subtext.
In his edit suite, Mick smiles up at me from his swivel chair. ‘It’s a film about me. My life. Are you not entertained?’ bellows Mick jokingly, although judging by the smudged look on my face, he can probably tell I am not.
‘I met an Aussie named Dickon. He’s doing all the heavy fingerwork on the computer. I’m just telling him if he’s right or not. We’re in talks, thinking about making a story idea of mine into a film: “A Zombie in Provence”. We’re going out on a recce next month. Eat some amazing food, drink some quality wine…’
My head wobbles on my neck, the only form of expression I’m capable of. If I open my mouth to speak it would crush the poor deluded sod.
‘I wanted to create something of the now. A snapshot of life happening.’
Gaining control of my racing thoughts, I finally speak. ‘It’s brilliant, Mick. Amazing. I love it! You’ve really captured what it’s like to be you. Your zest for life. Always reaching out and grabbing at the low-hanging fruit of joy.’
Mick stares up at me. ‘Were you visited by three ghosts last night?’
‘I want to live the life of Mick Nicholson, not watch it on some screen. Let’s go out, seize life, touch, taste, feel, eat lobster… find some female company, go to a club… I wanna dance!’
Minutes later, we’re racing down country lanes in Mick’s E-type Jag. I’m holding Mick’s phone vertically. He adjusts my grip, making the phone horizontal.
‘I need you to film me driving. The wind in my hair. Try not to get too weird or arty-farty. Just make me look like a right dude.’
I struggle not to lose my grip on his phone as I record his enormous beard and wavy hair, which resembles a bear in a twister.
My guts churn as he takes the bends far too recklessly. ‘Will you slow down? Slow down!’
‘Ha! This is what it is to be me! Look at ya! You’re loving it!’
My palpitating heart competes with the speed of Mick’s car. We leave the lanes for wider A-roads, but now there are other cars in the death race equation. I close my eyes and grit my teeth, feeling the swerve and jerk of Mick’s manoeuvres.
‘Brace for impact! Release the parachute!
The car brakes at a red light, just in time. The seat belt chokes me, and I drop his phone somewhere down by my feet. Opening my eyes, I see we are now in town, on a busy high street.
‘Did you see on the news about Team GB coming second at Monaco? Have a guess who came first?’ asks Mick.
‘You?’ I snap, still gripping my seat.
As Mick witters on about horsepower or something, my attention turns to an elderly woman on the pavement. I watch her with surreal detachment as she peers into a waste bin on the corner of the street. Caught in a trance, I step from the car; following her as she totters into an alleyway. Mick calls out, but it’s just noise.
‘Paul? C’mon! Don’t be such a doily! I promise I’ll drive under seventy!’
Mick blurs into the background hiss of traffic and street life, as I follow after the old woman. The long blue skirt and white knitted cardigan looks out of place in such a buzzy side of town, but the slippers on her feet are the tell-tale sign that all might not be well with her. In the alley behind a row of shops, I keep a watchful distance as she struggles to lift the lid of a plastic dumpster. She lightly pokes through the contents, but it mostly seems to be cardboard. She moves onto the next wheelie bin, rifling through the rubbish. The sight is enough to provoke me to check my wallet. There’s not much of value inside, but anything has to be better than what I’m witnessing.
What would I even say to her? What is there to say? I run the scenario through my mind and decide to just give her all I have and say nothing of it. I look down the alley, ready to approach, except she is not there anymore. I quicken my stride, checking behind the bins as I pass them. My pace becomes a jog then a run, as the urgency to save her increases. I reach the end of the alley, carelessly colliding with somebody. Staggering up from the broken concrete track, I steady myself against a crumbling, graffitied brick wall. The flat of someone’s hand shoves my shoulder from behind.
‘Watch it!’
I turn to face three rough-looking young men. Faces concealed by hoods, they resemble some kind of Shakespearian coven. Spectres of doom.
‘What are you looking at? You wanna buy or not?’
Startled, I say nothing for fear of provoking a smackdown. I slowly back away, breaking into an ungainly run once at a safe distance.
I’ve no idea how I got home, or why it’s two days later. The more I think about my deteriorating mind, the more the dread sets in. All I can do is stay in my room. Kirk calls to ask if I’m okay. Roger calls to ask when I’m coming back to the lab. Colin from work calls to find out if I’m dead or not. I don’t answer any of them. Thankfully Mick is tied up with his “documentary”, so I’m able to avoid them all. I know I’m not right in the head, but there’s no one to talk to. If Roger finds out I’m hallucinating, he’ll bounce me, and I can’t risk being cut off from The Locus. I’m climbing the walls thinking about when I can get back to it. And yet I can’t tell anyone about it.
I manage to book the last phone appointment slot with my doctor, and I slowly, carefully explain that I may be seeing things without resorting to blurting out “Am I losing my mind?”
‘You’re worried that you’ve got early-onset dementia. Because of your Mother,’ asks the Doctor. I detect weariness in her reply. We have indeed spoken about this subject many times, and she reassures me that my previous cognitive assessments were normal. I ask for a CT scan like I know what I’m talking about. Maybe it’s not dementia. Maybe I’ve got a brain tumour. As I list off endless possibilities, I hear how paranoid I sound and stop talking; exasperated at myself.
‘Would it help if you found someone you could talk to?’
I presume she means family. The people I once shared a house with. They’ve all got their lives, and rarely is there a two-way conversation.
‘I meant someone in a professional capacity. A support group.’
Just the thought of sitting in a circle with strangers expressing our emotions is enough to produce the necessary positive sounds to wrap up the conversation. Before I can rush the doctor off the phone, she asks an unexpected question. ‘What did you love when you were little? What did you enjoy doing?’
‘Uh… I… I’ve no idea…’ I reply, in a feeble attempt to dodge the question. The doctor persists, and I blurt out ‘drawing’ in the hope of getting the doctor off my back.
As the doctor suggests I reconnect with passions from my past, I remember what I enjoyed the most as a child. Making lists. Lists of things to do. Things I wanted to do. But I never ticked anything off. All those things I want to do, always a reason not to.
So I sit in my room, in a distractive-yet-protective bubble of 80’s movies, books from my twenties and music from my teens. Safe until I sleep.
That’s when I dream about David Oldman, my friend from junior school. Pacing feet crunching on playground gravel. Fist clenched. David laughing. I raise my fist to strike, realising it’s an adult hand. I am wearing my old junior school uniform, made for a forty-something. David and his new friend laugh and point at how ridiculous I look; a giant man-child. Unable to bear the taunting and ridicule, I swing my fist into David’s howling face.
Awake and my haunting dream swarming my mind like flies to a carcass, I have to take action. I trawl the usual social media sites, but with such an average name, David Oldman is a name that comes in all ages and sizes. I wouldn’t even know what he looks like nowadays. I search the ex-pupils group, finding a few names I recognise from my time at school.
Searching their friends list, I soon track down David. I pause at his profile photo. He’s lost his hair and looks chunkier, but I can still see some of the old David in his face. He still lives in the Romford area. Married, three kids, works at a bar in the town centre.
The burden of an owed apology weighs heavy. I run through scenarios where I apologise and David forgives, but catch myself in this ridiculous daydream and close my laptop shut.
Naturally, the next day, I go to the bar mentioned in David’s profile. I buy a drink and hang around for an hour, convincing myself this is a bad idea. It’s probably David’s day off, anyway. And then I see him.
I finish my pint quickly, using it as an excuse to order another. David says he’ll be with me in a minute, before asking what he can get me.
I pretend-frown at him. ‘David, right?’
‘Yeah?’
‘You probably don’t remember me. We went to the same school when we were kids.’
‘Who are you, then?’ asks David.
‘Paul. Paul Angest.’
David thinks it over as he pulls a pint, pursing his lips before shaking his head. ‘Sorry mate.’ David places the drink on the bar, asking for three pounds fifty.
‘We were friends, for a time. We fell out over something stupid, as kids do. You really don’t remember?’
‘No. ‘Scuse me,’ says David, dealing with another customer. And yet I keep talking.
‘I just wanted to apologise. I was, well, I wasn’t a mean kid. It was out of character…’
David serves the customer, passing by me with a glare. ‘I told ya. I’ve no idea who you are.’
‘I hit you. I didn’t mean to. It was wrong and I’m sorry.’
David stops what he’s doing and stares at me for ten seconds, but it feels much longer. ‘It was you?’
I nod, apologetically. David steps closer, sliding my drink away from me. ‘Get out. Do not come back.’
‘Look, I’m sorry—’
‘So? So what?’ says David, now leaning across the bar, his face inches from mine.
‘Sorry. This was a stupid idea—’
The sudden lurch of David’s head and the unexpected contact made with mine sends me stumbling backwards. Unbalanced, I clutch at my eye, tripping over my own feet.
Now all the customers are looking at me flailing on the floor, and I see some step up, evidently good friends with David. I clamber to my feet and get out of there as fast as my trembling legs will move, my one unbloodied eye glancing back at David’s unforgiving glare.
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2023