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  Jess knew he would, and it didn’t surprise her to know he’d killed before. She had to talk to save her baby. Anyway, she didn’t know who’d thrown David to his death. Probably some other low-life like Paul, so what did it matter if she ratted them out.

  “Okay … okay! I’ll tell you. Let me go … I will tell you … Please.”

  Paul refused to let go. “Fucking talk, bitch!” he screamed at her.

  “I … I was … err … I was walking … err—”

  “TALK!”

  “I … I was walking down Thetford Lane, across the fields behind the flats. I saw two men throw David off … they threw him off.

  “What men?” Paul’s nose touched hers as his spit covered her face.

  “I don’t know … I don’t remember … Please, I don’t know. I think one of them drove off a few hours later in a yellow Cortina. He was too far away to see, but it looked like the bloke on top of the flats as he had the same denim jacket on.” Jess’s eyes watered as he held her hair tight. “Let me go … let go, you bastard.”

  As Paul let go of her hair, Jess stepped away from him. She momentarily considered sticking her knee in his groin but lost her opportunity as he turned and smashed his boot into the cupboard next to the sink. The flimsy plywood door collapsed and splintered as his foot travelled through it, knocking bottles of cleaning fluid which cascaded and scattered as if he’d delivered a strike in ten-pin-bowling.

  Jess’s eyes were wide with terror as he stepped towards her. He smiled and stroked her hair.

  “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He walked to the kitchen door, turned and faced her, “You ain’t seen me today. Say nothing. You talk … I’ll kill you.”

  He grinned and blew her a kiss.

  19

  Lusardi

  We’d only managed to catch a few hours sleep, as we’d spent most of the night talking, so as morning came, we were both exhausted. After leaving Martin last night, we’d both driven into town. St. Stephens Street was cordoned off with dozens of emergency vehicles scattered up and down the hill, their blue spinning lights piercing the low grey fog that hung in the air.

  After settling the kids, we’d managed to catch Gordon Honeycombe presenting the ITN News at Ten. The breaking news item was a report that a bomb had ripped through a town centre pub in the Hertfordshire town of Fairfield. There were no details of casualties, but a call received by the BBC from a fringe Irish Republican terrorist group had claimed responsibility. It was reported the group claimed to have tried to deliver a warning call to the pub minutes before detonation but stated the line was engaged.

  Jenny said that the Bell Pub was run by the O’Briens, a well-known family with strong Loyalist links. This clearly suggested the reason for the pub being targeted. We agonised over the fact that we’d phoned the pub and, whilst on hold, had prevented the terrorists from delivering their warning. Before I’d time-travelled back, had that call got through? Although sixteen people had lost their lives the first time around, would there be more this time because my call blocked the warning call?

  There were only two possible reasons Martin knew the precise moment that the bomb was going to explode. The obvious one was he was somehow involved in the bombing. This was the explanation which Jenny hung onto for most of the night. As tiredness took hold of us both by the early hours and her thankfully strong belief in me, she started to come around to the second ridiculous possibility that Martin and I were, in fact, time-travellers. I was fully aware that sleep deprivation was probably the cause for her softening, and by the end of the day, her head would have taken supremacy over her heart.

  There was only one topic of conversation at school on Thursday, the bombing of the Bell Pub in town. The whole school seemed to have been placed in limbo, as every time a student, teacher, Trish or Roy opened their mouths, it was to discuss the bombing. Every break time, I found myself with my colleagues huddled around the staff-room radio listening to the updated news reports. By mid-afternoon, it became clear the timeline hadn’t changed as sixteen people were confirmed dead – precisely the same number of fatalities the first time around.

  I approached Roy regarding the temporary caretaker role, advising him of an old friend's suitability whom I could vouch for. An old friend was the best description I could muster up. In reality, Martin wasn’t an old friend, but the bloke who used to take the piss out of me at work and screw my ex-wife. However, I needed to secure him in employment, so telling Roy that Martin was some wanker who’d knobbed my ex-misses wouldn’t have worked.

  Securing a capable caretaker who had the necessary skills to change a lightbulb and know which way to hold a screwdriver was way down Roy’s list of essential tasks. So, after he replied, “Yes, yes, fine whatever, Jason,” I knew I’d accomplished my mission. However, the thought of Martin at school with his sixteen-year-old mother as a pupil was bound to be a disaster. But hell, at this stage what choice did I have? For sure, he couldn’t just sit in that house all day long.

  With the school day completed, I zipped up to get Martin prepared for his new role. Primarily to check he had everything he needed and talk through the plan, so we were both on the same wavelength. That plan would consist of a created history which we would need to keep as simple as possible and memorise.

  Parking up on the drive of number eight, I nipped in to see Don. He deserved some explanation to what was going on, albeit more lies. As always, Hawkeye-Nears had spotted my arrival. In fact, he probably spotted me before I even turned up, as his snooping ability was that good. He was there on the doorstep to welcome me, and of course, sporting his tartan slippers.

  “Hello, son. Everything alright?”

  “Yes, Don, just come to check up on you-know-who, but thought I’d come and see you first. I know you’re entitled to some answers.”

  Don ushered me in through the porch. “Sit yourself down, and I’ll get us a drink.”

  I plonked myself down on the sofa whilst Don shuffled off to the kitchen. Christ, I had to get some sleep tonight. I could feel my eyelids drooping and was starting to lose the ability to function.

  Don padded his way back with two glasses and that bottle of whisky. Although I often refused drinking at this hour, I was too tired to argue.

  “Right, son, get that down you.” He passed me what looked like a triple shot.

  Don sunk into the armchair next to the TV, and with a well-practised move, flipped up his legs onto his leatherette pouffe as he sipped his whisky. He stared at me across the top of his glasses but didn’t speak. Where the hell do I start, I thought.

  “Don, I’m not sure where to start …”

  During my five months living forty years in the past, I’d become creative and cute on my ability to lie, well more to the point withhold the truth. It was a necessary skill that I’d had to master. Five months in, there seemed to be no sign of a reverse time-travel procedure to take me back to 2019, nor did I want that to happen. So I had to be sharp and skilled at keeping my real identity under wraps. As I sat on Don’s sofa, nursing a large whisky with drooping eyes, the problem was those skills were not sharp enough to perform as well as I needed them to.

  “Son, take your time. As always, I’m all ears. But remember my boy, nothing you say will be a problem for me. You and your family are the most precious thing in my life. Whatever scrape you may be in, all I’ll do is be here for you.” Don raised his glass and then downed the contents, grimacing as it burned its way down his throat.

  “Obviously, you’ve seen the news last night?”

  “Of course, son. Bloody unbelievable. And here in Fairfield! Don’t tell me that bloke you have holed up next door has anything to do with that!”

  “Oh, no … nothing like that.”

  “Thank God for that. Although I said it didn’t matter what scrape you were in, being involved in a bombing would be a bit of a stretch for me to understand.” Don slopped another generous measure of whisky into his glass and waved the bottle at me. I shook m
y head, declining the offer.

  “So, son, who is he next door? And why is your young lady concerned about him?”

  “He used to work for me, and he’s just turned up out of the blue. There’re some things in my past that I wanted to keep under wraps, not only from Jenny but everyone … nothing dodgy or criminal … just stuff I want to move on from. Martin is part of that past.” I took a sip of the whisky and set it down on the sideboard next to me, realising drinking when tired was not a good idea. “Jenny is pushing for information, which I understand, but as I said, I would rather keep it in the past. I know that’s not possible with him here … so I suppose I’ll have to talk it through with her.”

  Don leant forward and flipped his legs off the pouffe. He held his glass up and pointed at me. “Son, you’re going to have to talk to her. If you say it’s nothing criminal, you’ve nothing to worry about. She loves you, and she’ll take it in her stride. Don’t underestimate that girl. She can cope with your past and move on, far better than you think. You mark my words … d’you hear?”

  I nodded, trying to stay awake. “I do. Don … I do.”

  “Good. Now I'm not nosing in, but can I help in any way?”

  “For the moment, just keep an eye on Martin for me. I’ve got him a job as a caretaker up at the school to start putting his life together.”

  “Right, well, as your Chief Intelligence officer, I can inform you that he had two trips out today. He walked out at about ten this morning and came back about forty minutes later. Had a paper folded under his arm, so I assume he nipped up to the newsagents. Then he went out just after three o’clock in the car for about an hour and didn’t come back with any shopping bags, so not sure where he’d been.”

  Like an adrenalin shot, this news instantly sparked me awake; now concerned that my newly acquired loose cannon was firing large time-travel-cannon-balls all over 1977 Fairfield town. “Right Don, thank you. I need to go and check up on him.”

  “Bring my Yellow Pages when you come back, can you son? You didn’t say what you wanted them for.”

  I stopped at the doorway to the kitchen, grabbed the door frame and glanced back at Don. No plausible lie was entering my brain fast enough.

  “Son, just bring them back, and tell me when you can … alright?”

  “I will, Dad … I will.”

  “Good, I’m always here for you my boy. Now off you go and do what you need to do.”

  I was so blessed to have Don as my honorary father. He and George were the rocks of my existence, and for sure, I knew how lucky I was to have them as part of my life. Although we’d only known each other for the short time I’d been living in this alternate world, the friendship and trust we’d built were priceless to me. For sure, Don would need answers, and soon. Scooting across to number eight and barrelling through the back door, my immediate concern was what had Martin-cannon-ball-Bretton been up to today.

  I found him sat at the kitchen table with his head in The Sun newspaper. His head shot up as I entered the kitchen and he quickly thumbed back to page three, spun the paper around, exclaiming, and I quote, “Look at the tits on that!”

  I rolled my eyes as he waved a topless, almost full-page picture of a very young Linda Lusardi at me. “Christ’s sake, Martin, is that all you’re doing looking at nude pictures all day?”

  “Well, nothing else to do … can’t even load up ‘Pornhub’. Can’t believe there are no mobile phones and no internet. It’s like living in medieval times. Do they still have public hangings in this era?”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Martin, grow up! And I think you can live without ‘Pornhub’. Anyway, with your antics with Lisa, I’d have thought you’ve already had your fair share of gawping at women’s tits!” I seemed to have raised my voice and pulled the conversation back to Lisa. I knew it wasn’t that I cared they’d got it together, more the denting of my male pride.

  Martin flushed and looked highly embarrassed as he folded the paper and plopped it on the table. The front page displayed the headline Fear in Fairfield, with a picture of St. Stephens Street full of emergency vehicles and debris strewn from the collapsed Bell Pub.

  “Yeah, that’s a bit embarrassing really; sorry about that.” Well, it was an apology but not exactly an act of contrition.

  “You’re sorry … is that it?” I flung my arms up in exasperation.

  “How did you know it was me she was seeing?”

  “Remember the day you hid in the wardrobe and revealed your arse?”

  “Yeah. But as I said, how did you know it was me? And when did you know? You never said anything, and it was over a year ago. I can tell you if I caught anyone knobbing my Caroline, I’d have smashed his face in!”

  “Oh, so no bloke can knob your wife, as you put it? But it's okay for you to knob anyone you like! Double standards, mate!”

  Martin nodded and held up his hand.

  “I didn’t know it was you until yesterday when you showed me your snake tattoo. The very same tattoo on the leg of the bloke hiding in the wardrobe that day!”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. Oh, indeed! How the hell did you and Lisa end up having a fling? It was common knowledge that we were finished, and I will be honest it really doesn’t matter now. Also, I was no saint during our marriage, but I can’t understand how you two got together.”

  Martin shrugged.

  I carried on. “I mean, she’s about eight years older than you. Lisa was always fit, but your wife was stunning, and more importantly she’s a really nice girl. Why would you cheat on her?”

  Martin shrugged again.

  I plucked up the back of a kitchen chair and slotted myself down in it. Fishing out my cigarettes, I lit up and dragged across a small blue china plate to use as an ashtray which had the remnants of Martin’s lunch still in residence.

  “Why? It’s like having fillet steak at home and nipping out for a Big Mac.”

  Martin shrugged again. “I did play away a bit. I know it’s wrong, but women just seem to be attracted to me. They always give me the come on, and I can't help myself.”

  “Oh, right, well, lucky you! Mere mortals like me don’t have that problem!”

  “Well, you’ve done alright, mate. Your missus is stunning.”

  “Martin, it’s not about how stunning a woman is or her cup-size! It’s about love. Christ man, you need to grow up!”

  Martin bowed his head, the dynamics of the conversation reminiscent of our time at Waddington Steel. Although he was good at his job, there were occasions in the early days when I’d have to give him a dressing-down regarding his behaviour. As a lad in his mid-twenties at the time, it was to be expected.

  He looked up, appearing teary-eyed again. “I’m sorry, Jason. Lisa and I got together in summer 2018. There was a BBQ at your place, and you were your usual boring self and didn’t join in as you wanted to watch the Wimbledon singles final. After a while, a few joined you, including Caroline. Lisa and I stayed out in the garden and just hit it off.”

  “You mean, Lisa gave you the come-on?”

  “Err … yeah.”

  “Well, no need to get all teary-eyed. Apart from perhaps my dented pride, I really couldn’t give a shit.”

  Martin sniffed and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “Ha, I’m a bit teary as I’m never going to see Caroline again, am I?”

  I huffed and blew out some smoke. “No, mate, I don’t think so. I don’t want to go back and, even if I did, I have no idea how that would work.”

  Martin nodded and looked down at the folded newspaper.

  “So, you went out to get a paper today. Where did you get the money from?”

  “Your missus. I asked her yesterday if I could have a bit of cash. She didn’t mind and gave me a couple of quid. Ha, I thought bloody hell, that’s not going to go far. I felt like a street beggar who’d just been given a penny. I didn’t say anything as that would have been rude, but realised that two quid can go quite far at the newsagents. The Sun was only five-pence
and I bought myself a couple of Cadbury's Rumba bars; unbelievably they were only four-pence each!”

  “Right. Did you say anything strange in the shop?” I asked, concerned that he seemed incapable of understanding anything about this era. I mean, had he not heard of the concept of inflation?

  “No, not really. Just said to the bloke can I have a scratch card as well, but he just looked at me blankly, so I didn’t push it.”

  “Fuck sake, you’re going to have to get a grip. Bloody lottery scratch cards didn’t exist in the ’70s!”

  “Right, that’s why he looked at me a bit odd.”

  “Did you go anywhere else?”

  “Frig sake, Jason, you’re not my dad. You’re treating me like a ten-year-old!”

  “Well, you’re acting like one!”

  Martin huffed and looked back down at the paper, grabbing it and flicking to the back page which had a picture of Brian Clough with the headlines, ‘Forest thrash Rovers – Clough says you don’t want roast beef every night!’

  I glanced at the text that reported Brian Clough thought it was wrong to have so much football on television, like having a Sunday roast every day. Not sure what he would make of the football media coverage in 2019. I stubbed my cigarette out on the plate, not the best idea, but I knew there wasn’t an ashtray in the house. Martin stared at the paper, although clearly not reading it.

  “Martin, have you been anywhere else? I need to know.”

  Martin refolded the paper and tossed it across the table, then looked up at me. “Went for a drive, didn’t I … just a … just a look around.” He shrugged his shoulders, frowned and looked out the kitchen window.

  “Just a drive?”

  “Yep,” emphasising the ‘p.’

  “Nowhere in particular then?”

  “Nope,” again, emphasising the ‘p.’

  “Did you stop anywhere or talk to anyone on your drive?”

  “Nope.”

  This conversation was how I imagined a conversation would go with a stroppy teenager. As with any teenager being interrogated, his one-word answers were clearly covering the truth.