1986?

The shopping centre was alive with activity, the uncharacteristically warm weather acting as a lure, enticing the residents of Stourhampton from their homes en masse, each in search of life enrichment in the form of cheap electronic goods or even cheaper, low quality pastry offerings. 

Here, a young boy in a pair of shorts that, were they to be any tighter, would likely tear him asunder in ways that would simultaneously delight the depraved and elevate the pitch of his voice by an octave or two.

There, a mother, lone, struggling with a double buggy, one of the wheels apparently possessing a life all its own, counteracting her every wrist-based command so that, as she bid to turn left the recalcitrant object insisted she and her twins head right.  I watched for a moment, and was about to offer assistance when the wheel had a change of heart and began cooperating with his three other comrades, pointing in the correct direction now so that, before my help was necessary, the woman was away, shopping bags, clones and all.

I got up from the bench and found a bin for my empty Coke can, the sugar-laced fluid still coating my teeth so, as I walked, I popped a stick of gum into my mouth, an attempt to nullify the corrosive damage I had self-inflicted, or at the very least minimise it.  Thatcher may have taken away our free school milk, but that was no reason for us to turn into a nation of toothless peasants, surely, I mused idly, ambling in the general direction of Woolworths, my destination for the day, a one-stop shop for all your basic household needs.  A plentiful paradise of domestic desires, all could be found within the hallowed walls: CD’s, mops, clothes, even food and, on this day, the object of my particular quest: toys.  Danny was growing up so fast, it was hard to know what to get him but, one thing was certain, every twelve year old boy likes a gadget, and I had my eye on one gadget in particular, advertised during the commercial break of a repeat of Minder.  The Power Tronic 30044, billed as the most popular walkie-talkie communicator in America, had recently arrived on these shores and, by God, Danny was going to be the proud owner of a pair of the hi-tech beauties.  Well, one at the very least.  I would keep the other one, else what was he expected to do, hold conversations with himself?

No, Danny my son, before this day is done, the Power Tronic 30044 shall be yours and with it, let us seek happiness and joy.  Let us form the bond that can only exist between father and son.  Let us use this technology, gifted to us by our American cousins, and use it for good.

Power Tronic 30044, we salute you, and all that you stand for.

I entered Woolworths, smiling wryly at the ridiculousness of my internal monologue. 

Even with my eyes shut, I would have known I had entered Woolworths, the curious olfactory blend of must, old woman’s lavender perfume and almost out of date pick and mix a potent combination, and one specific to these hallowed aisles.  I nodded a cursory greeting to a blue haired lady stocking up the Maltesers  on a gondola-end, the special promotional price of 20p a pack trumpeted in garish blue against the standard colour branding of bright red.  I walked by the array of terrible clothes and uselessly impractical Tupperware, past some cheap and nasty pieces of plastic tat that were mysterious both in design and purpose, but which an elderly woman sporting quite the moustache was perusing with great interest, and finally found myself amongst the toys and gadgets.  Transformers, Care Bears and skateboards were the dominant items for sale, but I ignored these, knowing they held little interest for Danny.  Transformers scared him, Care Bears were too girly, and, after watching Back to the Future last Christmas at the local cinema, he already owned a skateboard, though the last time he had used it was hard to recall.  I ignored the undesirables, marching to the furthest end of the aisle where, yes, thank the Gods of imported communication devices, there sat a small display of Power Tronic 30044’s, six small grey boxes in all, though I had only need of one.  I picked up my prize, studying the packaging intently, delighted by my find.

·                   Volume control

·                   Flexible antenna

·                   Morse code key

·                   Belt clip

Belt clip!  How cool were we going to look, father and son, walking side by side, tooled up with our walkie-talkies clipped to our belts like freakin’ Batman and Robin.

Man, sometimes it just feels good to be alive.

‘Is it my birthday again?’ Danny asked, grinning up at me from the sofa as I handed him the carrier bag.

‘Do you want it to be?’

‘How old am I?’

‘Erm, judging by the number of gifts I buy for you, I’d say you’re approximately…’ I held my hands out and counted dramatically, ’37?’

’38.  But close enough.’

He rifled inside the plastic bag and pulled out the box of walkie-talkies, eyes widening in delight as he processed precisely what he held in his hands.

‘You kidding?’ he asked.

‘Does my face josh?’

‘No, but your wallet might not be laughing when he realises what you’ve done.’

‘Tell you what, we just won’t tell him.  He’ll never figure it out.  He’s made of leather.  He’s an idiot.’

‘What did you call me?’

‘Shut up and open it,’ I chided, ruffling his thick, brown hair.

He did as commanded, smiling up at me as he slid the first of the units out of the packaging, pausing for just a second.

‘Thanks, Dad.’

‘It’s for me as much as you,’ I told him and, in that, there was much truth.  Not just the devices themselves, of course, but the gift that money could not buy: time spent with my son.

Now they were both unsheathed and, squinting a little, Danny struggled with the battery flap, finally managing to prise it off, jabbing the four requisite size D power cells into position with fingers that appeared to be trembling with excitement.  Battery flap back in position, he handed it to me and set to work on unit number two.

‘Tony’s gonna shit a brick,’ he told me cordially, before realising what he had said, the anticipation getting the better of him.

‘Sorry, Dad.’

‘You can have that one.  No more though.  Right?’

‘Right.’

Unit two’s battery flap snapped into place, and Danny took a second to inspect the face of the device, reaching out to turn the volume knob, a slight click and a small red light indicating that the gadget was active.

‘Do yours, do yours’ he instructed, barely able to breath, such was his level of eagerness.  I did as I was bid.

‘Don’t move,’ Danny commanded, jumping up and dashing through to the kitchen next door.  Seconds later, his muffled voice could be heard through the walls, but not from the walkie-talkie itself.

‘Dad, turn it up,’ Danny yelled through, so I twisted the volume knob.

‘Breaker, breaker, this is Villa Victory, do you read me?  Over.’

I laughed out loud, amused on multiple levels.  The name, the vocabulary, the enthusiasm in the voice.  Money well spent, I thought.

‘Villa Victory, this is Baggies Blitzkrieg, I read you.  Over.’

‘Baggies Blitzkrieg, I’ll see you in the woods in ten minutes.  Bring your imagination.  Over and out.’

And, with that, he was gone, the sound of the back door slamming confirmation that, in the house, I was all alone.

‘Warm.  Warm.  Warmer.  Over,’ I said into the handset, spying on Danny from my position behind a large tree as he searched the woods for me.  For fifteen minutes I had eluded him simply by moving around the great, arboreal obstruction, always keeping him in sight though my position, to him, remained a mystery. 

‘You better not be lying to me, Blitzkrieg,’ he threatened.  ‘Over.’

‘I tell nothing but the truth.  Over’

He continued his search and, feeling guilty, I decided to hold my position, this time, to allow him to find me.  I pressed the ‘talk’ button.  ‘Warmer.  Warmer.  Hot.  Hot.  Hotter.  Scorching.  Over,’ and, as he approached, my voce carried to him, revealing my position.  He rounded the tree, the smile on his face reason enough to justify the mud on my shoes.

‘You been here all along?’ he asked, suspiciously.

‘Like Rip van Winkle, I did not move,’ I assure him.

‘Rip Van who?’

‘How old are you again?’

‘Not as old as you!’

I cuffed him lightly round the back of the head.

‘Villa Victory?  Cheeky beggar, more like.’

And, such was the joy that danced in his eyes I felt near sure my heart was set to burst.

‘Night, Dad.’

‘Night, son,’ I replied, intrigued to see him lay his walkie-talkie on the sofa next to me before he headed for the door.

‘Don’t you want this?’ I asked.

‘Tomorrow.  If I take it up, you’re just going to mess with me.’

‘Smart kid,’ I approved, knowing that he was right.  How hard would it be to resist pressing the button on my handset and screaming obscenities at half past one in the morning? Too hard, that’s how!

‘I learnt from the best.’

He closed the door, and I listened as his feet tapped out their familiar rhythm between bathroom and bedroom, waiting for him to settle, eyes drawn intermittently to the gadgets by my side. I listened as his bedroom door creaked shut, then as he made his way from doorway to bed, even recognising his movements as he clambered in, the volume of the springs and floorboards surprisingly loud in the otherwise silent house.

I looked at the walkie-talkies.

I listened some more, this time to silence.
               I looked at the walkie-talkies.

Still no sound from upstairs.

I picked up my device – I knew it was mine as I had stuck a small piece of Sellotape to the front – and examined the controls.  Nothing too complicated.  A volume knob.  A button to click out Morse code.  A transmit button.  No more.  No frequency selector.  No FM radio input.  No way to record anything that was said.  Just press.  And talk. 

So I did.

I pressed the button.

‘Hello world,’ I said, the sound of my own crackly voice blaring from the other handset startling me in the stillness of the house, so I reached forward and turned it off, leaving mine as the solitary active unit.

Remembering the words of Danny from earlier in the day, I parodied him.

‘Breaker, breaker, 159.  Are you receiving me?  Over.’

I released the transmit button and listened, receiving no reply, of course.  How could I?  The paired unit was beside me.

Inactive. 

Useless.

‘Breaker, breaker 159, this is Baggies Blitz transmitting to anyone who can hear.  Come in, please.  Over.’

I felt like Burt Reynolds in Smokey and the Bandit, a thrill coursing through me as my voice was beamed to the locality, despite the fact that no-one would or could reply.  What had Tony down the pub called it the other day?  Pissing in the wind?  Doing something that no-one will pay attention to.  In his case advertising his new window-washing service, in mine broadcasting to the Stourhampton airwaves.

‘Baddy Brits?’

The voice was so quiet, at first I barely registered it, instead blinking a few times, confusion my master.

‘Baddy Brits, are you there?’

No mistaking it this time, the slight crackle-crackle of the speakers distorting the voice, but no doubt as to its source.

I pressed the transmit button.

‘This is Baggies Blitz.  Who am I speaking to?  Over.’

A few seconds silence, then, ‘He’ll be here soon.  The bad man.’

A child’s voice, clearly.

Saying menacing words.

The last words I heard that night. 

We sat on the sofa, waiting patiently, me pressing the transmit button every minute or so, saying hello, no more, hoping for any kind of a response.

‘You sure, Dad?’ Danny asked for maybe the fiftieth time.

‘Clear as day it was.  No doubt.’

‘You know you sound like a nutter?’

I chuckled.  ‘You know you sound like a young man who’s going to bed any second.’

Danny smiled.  ‘Just saying.’

‘And I’m just saying…’

‘Are you there?’

The voice was tiny, distorted, an electronic plea for company that froze us both, blood and bodies.

 ‘I’m here,’ I said, recovering my composure, finding my voice at last, a little disturbed by the clear tremble in my words.  Why was I so frightened?

‘He’ll be here soon,’ the voice told us softly; matter of fact.

‘Who’s he?’

No response but, quietly, we could just make out the sound of breathing.

‘Where are you?’ I asked, glancing at Danny whose face was riven by stress.

‘Nowhere safe,’ came the awful response.

‘I want to help you.’

‘You can’t help me.  No-one can.’

All the colour had drained from Danny’s face and I realised that, were I to glance into a mirror, a similarly pallid visage would greet me.  ‘You OK?’ I mouthed at him and his response surprised me, a short, sharp shake of the head and he was on his feet, heading for the door.

‘I can’t listen, Dad.  I’m scared.’

He left the room, leaving me alone, clutching the walkie-talkie, torn as to whether to follow, but the tiny voice made the decision for me.

‘He comes into my room most nights,’ the voice told me – even now I did not know if the speaker were a boy or a girl, so faint were the words – ‘and he does bad things.  Things he should not do.’

‘What kind of things?’ I asked, my voice almost as frail and weak as that of the unidentified speaker, certain of the answer even before it came, needing to hear it anyway, uncertain as to why.

‘He touches me.  He makes me touch him.’ Then a pause before, ‘I want to kill him.’

‘I can understand that.  Tell me where you are.  I can call the police.’

‘No police.  It will just make things worse.’

‘My name’s Tom,’ I told the child, bereft of other ideas.  Perhaps making a personal connection would help the youngster open up, even reveal their location for, after all, they couldn’t be far.  What was the range on these blasted things?  A few hundred metres?  A mile at most, surely.  Certainly enough to narrow the search area down, either for myself or for the police. 

‘What’s your name?’

‘He’s coming.  The bad man’s coming,’ the youngster told me, and the last thing I heard was the sound of a door opening and closing, then the soft whimpering of a helpless, frightened child.

Then nothing at all.

‘They won’t help,’ I told Danny as I entered the kitchen.

‘What did they say?’

I had told him my plan to visit the local police station before leaving.

‘They said it was probably a prank.’

‘Some prank.’

I ruffled his hair affectionately.

‘They tested the kit,’ I told him, dumping the plastic bag with the walkie-talkies onto the kitchen table.  ‘They said it was impossible.’

‘So they didn’t really believe you?’

‘Looks that way.’

‘Shit.’

‘Language, Timothy.’

‘Sorry, Dad.’

For three nights we sat on the sofa, walkie-talkies clutched in our hands, taking it in turns to call, to speak, to hope for a response. 

For three nights we hovered our hands over the Binatone cassette player’s record button, hoping to capture any conversation on tape, perhaps to be used as evidence to help convince the police, and certainly to reassure the pair of us that we were not stark raving mad.

For three nights there was silence.

On night number four, the child spoke.

‘He’ll be here soon.’

‘Where are you?’ I demanded urgently, as Danny jabbed down hard on the record button, the twin spools of the cassette player humming reassuringly. 

‘I’m where you were.’

The answer was mystifying, but at least it was an answer, confirmation that my voice could be heard, so I pressed on.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked, just as before and, just as before, the question went unanswered.

‘Five minutes.  No more.  That’s when he’ll come.’

‘Ok.  Ok.’  My mind was racing, then a plan began to form.

‘Do you have some matches?’

‘What?’

‘Matches.  Matches!’  I heard the fire in my voice, and forced myself to take a couple of deep breaths.  The last thing I wanted was to scare the poor kid away.  ‘Sorry.  I need you to jam something into the gap between the transmit button of your walkie-talkie and the casing.  Something to hold it in place.’

Danny looked at me quizzically.  I leaned in to him and cupped his ear, whispered ‘If we can get something bad happening on tape, the police will have to do something.’

He just nodded, grim-faced.

‘No.  No matches,’ came the response from the tiny disembodied voice.  ‘And I don’t know what a walkie-talkie is.’

‘The thing you’re speaking into.  Come on, think.  Anything you can stuff into it will work.  Coins?  Small bits of fabric….’

I ran out of ideas pretty quickly.

‘I’ve got a couple of beer mats I use as coasters.  I could rip them up.’

‘Yeah.  Do that.’

And then we heard the sound of movement as the child retrieved them from his sideboard.  His sideboard.  HIS sideboard.  Suddenly I was certain.  The child was a boy.  I knew it with absolute certainty.  And the beer mats.  The beer mats.  The beer mats bought from a souvenir shop in Blackpool, one of the few holidays he – I? – could remember enjoying.

‘What do the beermats say on them?’ I asked suddenly, my voice shaking, not through adrenaline or anxiety, this time through abject fear for, of course, I already knew the answer.

‘Blackpool,’ he told me, as I mouthed the same word, a fact not lost on Danny who stared at me curiously.

‘And what do they say on the back?’ I asked, my whole body shaking, now, making it difficult to hold the walkie-talkie and, as the child spoke, again I mouthed along, confirmation of the dread-impossible-crazy reality of the situation.

‘Where adults feel like children.’

My head was spinning and, suddenly, I felt sick, the memories flooding back, memories I had managed to suppress for twenty three years.   The stepdad, coming into my room, night after long, lonely night, doing ‘Bad things.  Things he should not do.’  Then the voice, speaking to me through the record player in my room when I pressed the on button, a phantom, of course, figment of an overactive and traumatised imagination, and one that was suppressed along with the rest of the darkness.

But now I understood.

Now I knew who had been speaking.

It was me, speaking to myself, in the past, though the method and mechanics of the communication was mysterious beyond belief and, surely, beyond the understanding of rational science.

‘Are you there?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he replied.

‘It gets better,’ I assured him.

‘Thank you.’

Silence.

© Ian Stevens (2016)
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