Ahead of his Time Page 16

  “I don’t think he will be. Even if they throw the book at him, he won’t serve the full sentence and could easily be out in less than ten.”

  “Hmmm, no, you’re right. I’m going to have to find a way of working out which one of the three is responsible. Even if I do … what then?”

  “No idea, lad. Look, I better get going. Are you still okay to have Stephen tomorrow? Remember, Ivy and I need to visit Eva in Aylesbury?”

  “Yes of course, George. He’s no trouble, and it’s great for Christopher to have a playmate around.”

  “Must be odd to have your older brother in the house when he’s only five years old,” he chuckled.

  “Ha, yes, it is, but at least now I can tell him off when he’s naughty without getting beaten up!”

  21

  Candid Camera

  I zipped up to the Bowthorpe estate to check Martin was okay before returning home. With the cash I’d given him last Thursday, he now had some independence. Based on his previous shopping experience at the local newsagent, I was right to be worried he may have caused all sorts of chaos. I’d given him strict instructions on what he could and couldn’t do. However, I was concerned who he’d interacted with, and if he didn’t sort his head out quickly, I feared he’d cause all sorts of time-travel cock-ups.

  I didn’t stop at the house as the Cortina wasn’t on the drive. Heading home, I prayed he was behaving himself, wherever he was. Requiring some cigarettes but more importantly, urgently feeling the need to see what my loose-cannon was up to, I stopped at the Lipton’s Supermarket at the edge of the estate as I’d spotted Martin’s car parked out front.

  I grabbed a wire basket and skulked around the aisle ends, peering around to see if I could spot him. I received a couple of odd stares from other customers who thought my behaviour was strange. Fair enough, I thought, it probably was. One lady wearing a pink headscarf, which was pushed up by the curlers entangled in her hair, asked me if I was from the Candid Camera film crew and was something funny going to happen. I think she had her eye on a tall pyramid stack of Carnation Milk tins which she expected at any moment to tumble. Choosing not to answer and leaving her mesmerised by the stack of condensed milk, I discovered Martin up by the small freezer section.

  “Martin, you alright?”

  Martin swivelled around, holding a small frozen cheese and tomato pizza. “Oh, it’s you. Following me now, are you?”

  “Err… no mate. Just nipped in to get some cigarettes and noticed you up the aisle.”

  “Oh, right. Long way to come for a packet of fags, but if you say so. Look at this shit.” He waved the unappetising pizza in the air, then flicked it back into the freezer as if throwing a Frisbee. “I asked one of the shop assistants where the fresh pizza counter was, and she didn’t know what I was talking about. I gave up when she didn’t know what oven chips were either!”

  I rolled my eyes as he carried on.

  “Also, what’s the half-pence thing? This bottle of Vosene shampoo has a sticky label saying it’s twenty-nine and a half pence. Do I have to buy two things that are a halfpenny so it rounds up?”

  “Martin, you’re making a dick of yourself.” I fished out a halfpenny and gave it to him, which he studied as if he’d discovered a first-century Roman coin.

  “Martin, this is 1977. I don’t know how many times I’m going to have to tell you to get a grip, but it’s over forty years in the past. Things were different!”

  “That’s ’im. That’s the strange bloke I was telling you about. He said he was from Candid Camera. I reckon he’s lying.”

  I swivelled around to find the pink-headscarf-curler lady pointing as she stood next to a middle-aged man in a shirt and tie. His badge, printed on Dymo tape, stated Mr Wilkinson, Branch Manager.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen, can I ask what you’re doing?” he asked very politely in a pompous manner, with his hands behind his back as he rocked up and down on the balls of his feet.

  Now a few other interested shoppers joined the melee, all looking at what the excitement was on a drab late Saturday afternoon. The pink-headscarf-curler lady was joined by her friend who sported the same outfit of an overcoat, slippers and those curlers poking out from under a headscarf. Also, a shop assistant, dressed in a long green smock-over-jacket, moved towards us. He stood there holding his pricing gun after expertly thrashing out labels on a tray of canned food at lightning speed, now holding the said gun as if ready to shoot us.

  “Sorry, what’s the problem? My friend and I were just doing some shopping,” I replied.

  Pink-scarf lady nudged her friend with her elbow and winked. “Couple of nancy boys, I reckon. Poofters like that Jeremy Thorpe bloke.” Her friend shot her hand to her mouth and giggled.

  “Mr Wilkinson, he’s the odd-fellow who wanted to know if we sold meat-free sausages,” stated the assistant waving the pricing gun around.

  Martin stood with his mouth open, gawping at the scene as if frozen in time by a witch’s spell. The Manager rocked up and down on his toes, arching his eyebrows, awaiting an answer.

  “Look, I didn’t say anything about Candid Camera. Can we just continue our shopping please?”

  “Yes you did, nancy boy. You were down there hiding behind the end of the aisle, waiting for someone to walk past those tins,” said Pink-scarf-lady, as she turned and pointed to the front of the shop. The pricing-gun-slinger raised his head to follow where she was pointing. Mr Wilkinson didn’t move but continued to rock up and down on the balls of his feet.

  “Shall I get them to turn out their pockets, Mr Wilkinson? They're probably stealing.”

  “Yeah, I think I saw that one stick a packet of Spangles in his pocket,” announced the Pink-scarf lady pointing at Martin.

  “Err … sorry, but this is ridiculous. We’ve done nothing of the sort! We were just shopping,” I threw back. Martin was still catching flies.

  “Two grown men shopping … nancy boys … mark my words, that’s what they are.”

  “No, Mr Bennett. There won't be any need for that. Gentlemen, I suggest you leave the store, please,” stated Mr Wilkinson, as he raised his head and pursed his lips, still rocking on the balls of his feet.

  This was out of control and, although the accusations were outrageous, I knew it was time to go. Martin-the-hand-grenade had pulled the pin and caused mayhem. I grabbed Martin’s jacket sleeve, dragged the fly-catcher out of the shop, and marched him towards his car.

  “Martin, I can’t believe the chaos you’re causing! What’s the matter with you? I said on Thursday, you’re going to have to get your head around this era. Why on earth were you asking for meat-free sausages?”

  “I’m a vegetarian. I like meat-free sausages.”

  “Well, they didn’t exist in this era! For fuck sake, I thought you had some intelligence. You’re like a loose cannon … you're worrying me.”

  Martin stood with his hands in his pockets, shuffling his feet. Although he was thirty-one, he seemed to have stolen Kevin’s brain and attitude from the Harry Enfield shows.

  “Those women, did you hear what they said? They called us poofters! You can’t say that … I mean, there’re laws against it!”

  “Not in this era, mate. I know the words they used are offensive, but that’s what people said in these times.”

  The two headscarf ladies exited the shop as the manager held the door open for them, then he slid the closed sign across the door, whilst he kept a watchful eye on us. The ladies nudged each other as they walked past, nodding in our direction. We both watched them walk on as they turned and sniggered again. I was used to this era’s language, but it still shocked me when I heard offensive racial or sexual comments.

  “Did you go clothes shopping as I asked? That t-shirt looks new, although you’re still attached to my old denim jacket, I see.”

  “Yep, all done. Went up town yesterday and spend most of the day there. Gotta say the town is pretty crap without the new Mall Shopping Centre. Did you know there’s a Wi
mpy on Elm Hill?”

  “Did you behave yourself? No cock-ups, I hope?” After the last half hour’s events, I genuinely regretted letting him loose on Fairfield town centre.

  “I’m not a total dick you know!”

  I shook my head. “Hmmm. Well mate, you're doing a good impression of one at the moment.”

  “Thanks!”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Most of the town was closed off. You couldn’t get up St. Stephens Street at all. Anyway, I suppose you want the change from the two-hundred you gave me?”

  “No, you keep it. You’ll have a couple of weeks before you’ll get paid. Let me know if you need any more before then. Sorry, but I’m going to have to get going. I suggest you nip in the chip shop and get yourself some fish and chips. I’d bring you back to my place, but Jen and I are trying to work through some stuff at the moment, as I’m sure you can understand.”

  “How’s that going? Is she any closer to believing?”

  “Oh, Martin, I don’t know. Although the bomb was terrible, I think it has shifted her thinking to maybe believe we are from the future. I tried to think about what I’d do in her shoes. To be honest, I really don’t think I’d believe it.”

  “I still can’t, and we’re bloody here. Right, do you reckon they sell veggie burgers in that Chippy?”

  “Oh, Martin, for fuck sake!”

  He grinned. “There … got you! Only joking, mate. I know, nothing veggie in this era.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m sure they’ll do a battered Mars-Bar, though.”

  22

  23rd January 1977

  Hot Wheels

  Sunday was our first opportunity for Jenny and I to properly talk. Stephen and Christopher entertained themselves with a Hot Wheels racing car track that they’d rigged up from Christopher's headboard, which supplied enough gravity to send their cars through two loop the loops. After pleading for my assistance to connect the track, I was surplus to requirement, and the boys were enjoying themselves by the sounds of their cheerful shouts.

  Beth slept soundly in her pram. She looked contented after her feed, and I wondered what she was dreaming about – perhaps a new pair of Jimmy Choo shoes or a Prada handbag – if she was still the same Beth.

  The weather had improved, although still a dreary January. All the snow had vanished apart from Christopher’s snowman, which had now shrunk, with its head listing to the right. Its carrot nose now lying on the ground and appeared to have been nibbled at by some passing rodent. I stood by the open back door holding a mug of coffee and smoking a cigarette. Jenny joined me at the door and lit a cigarette, both of us gazing out into the garden.

  “Martin said you were his boss at that steel company, and all of your team hated you, is that right?” She looked up at me but didn’t touch me. Since that bloody doorbell chimed last Sunday, the point at which my perfect life started swirling down the plughole into the sewers, we hadn’t enjoyed any physical contact.

  I nodded as I blew the smoke out into the garden. It hung in the air for a brief moment before wisping away in the gentle breeze. “I wasn’t aware they all hated me. But I do know I was miserable back then, so I guess it’s not surprising.” I turned and stared at her, scanning those beautiful green eyes, so desperate to know what was happening in her head.

  “You said in this kitchen when you were talking to George that Elvis Presley dies this year … is that true?”

  “Yes. Yeah, he does. Heart attack whilst sitting on the loo if I remember.”

  “You can't remember when exactly?”

  “No. I have absolutely no idea.”

  “When you were talking to Beth, you said something about dealing with her abuser. What was that about? I’d forgotten it until today, but now it’s worrying me.”

  “You’re talking like you’ve come around to the idea, and you might believe my story that Martin and I have time-travelled. Do you believe me now?” I turned away to gaze back into the garden for fear of seeing the mistrust in her face.

  Jenny laid her left hand on my chest and looked up at me. “I want to … but it’s … it’s so hard to believe it.”

  I leant around her, stubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray then pulled her close to me. She rested her head on my chest. “Beth was abused as a child by a guy called David Colney. David was a sixteen-year-old boy at my school last year, and he’s the boy that fell to his death up at the Broxworth Estate last September.”

  Jenny pulled her head away from my chest and looked up. “And you killed him?”

  “No. But I could’ve saved him, and I chose not to because I knew his future. Not only did he abuse Beth in the ’80s … he also murdered women in the next century.”

  Jenny rested her head on my chest again. I closed the back door, but we stayed where we were and held each other close.

  “I want you to tell me everything. I’m going to try and believe you. But I want you to tell me everything about your previous life, plus everything George said this week.”

  I babbled on for ages with a run-through of my first forty-two years and then in much more detail about the last five months. I left out two reasonably significant bits of information. Firstly, the Jess bit, and I don’t know why. Something in my head told me to avoid that particular part of my ridiculous adventure. Secondly, the belief that one of the Colney Brothers was Martin’s father, as I needed to keep the lid down on that one for the moment.

  Christopher and Stephen were contented with their toy cars, Beth slept soundly, and Jenny stayed quiet as I talked. Jenny looked up at me a minute after I had fallen silent, with tears filling her eyes.

  God, I hated what I was putting her through. Why did Martin have to follow me back to 1977? Everything would have been perfect if he’d just bloody well stayed where he was.

  “What d’you think happened to Jason? The one who was here in your life before you? You know the other Jason as you call him.”

  “Jen, I don’t know.”

  “But, Jason, people just don’t disappear.”

  “People don’t time-travel either.”

  “No, they don’t. But you believe you have.”

  “And you don’t? Do you still think this is some elaborate story?”

  Jen pulled away and grabbed her handbag from the kitchen table. She rummaged through it, tutting to herself as she searched what seemed to me to be a bottomless pit. The bag’s contents were now being flung out onto the table, producing a heap of stuff that seemed too large to be able to fit inside in the first place, as if her bag was a Tardis.

  I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d performed one of those magic tricks and pulled out a never-ending coloured scarf, probably with Tom Baker attached. Watching Doctor Who on a Saturday evening had become a ritual. Christopher loved it, but Jenny thought some of it was too scary for him to watch, and I thought the special effects were anything but special.

  Plucking up a cotton handkerchief, she dabbed the corner of her eyes. I moved towards her, but she held her palm out and shook her head at me. She puffed out her cheeks, returned to where I was standing and took hold of my hands.

  “In your racing car notebook, you’ve written that Carlos Reutemann wins the Grand Prix in Brazil today.” Jenny looked up at me. “You’ve written that he takes the lead from James Hunt halfway through the race with a question mark at the end. Is that what happens?”

  “Yes, I think so. I’m right that Reutemann wins, but I’m a little shaky when he takes the lead. As you know, I'm obsessed with motor racing, but there are many races every year and over fifty years trying to remember the details of all races is nigh on impossible.”

  “Will it be on TV? Shall we watch it?”

  “Yeah, highlights will be on later tonight. But Jen, what about everything I’ve said? Hasn’t it blown your mind?”

  “Yes it has. But it’s also quite exciting if I’m honest.” Jenny leant up and kissed me. “What I do know is our little boy and baby girl have a wonderful loving father, who I love
with all my heart.”

  Perhaps my life’s excursion down that plug hole on its way to the sewers had halted and had now started a reverse journey. I tapped my coffee cup four times to ensure that it would be the outcome – oh, no, I thought, don’t start all that again!

  Part 2

  23

  Mister Byrite

  Shirley’s cold fingers started to ache, and now she’d begun to shiver. She was able to see her breath as the sun sunk low in the sky, and the temperature started to drop again. The worn, dark-brown leather seats in her husband’s Rover P6 seemed to radiate cold air through her body. Pulling off her gloves, she restarted the car engine and slid the heater control to maximum.

  It hadn’t been too difficult to find their address as she had the contacts. Although she could’ve instructed anyone to do her snooping, this was personal. This was her granddaughter.

  Hitchin Road is the main road running east to west through Fairfield. This particular stretch of the tree-lined road has a parade of small shops nestled between large residential properties on one side, and the main entrance to Wardown Park opposite.

  Parked near the park entrance, Shirley had now sat for over an hour – freezing her butt off. It was a regular occurrence to see cars parked here, either visiting the shops on weekdays or, as many were today, visiting the park, so she hadn’t attracted any attention from any snooping resident.

  But Shirley wasn’t here to look at the kids playing on the roundabout, swings or climbing frame. Nor was it to look at the teenage girls on their roller-skates giggling as they held onto each other whilst negotiating the icy paths around the park perimeter.

  She did glance at two boys pushing model sailing boats in the small boating lake. She studied the older boy as he carefully kept an eye on whom she presumed was his younger brother. He was thick-set, broad shoulders, and with his shoulder-length hair styled with a centre-parting, he reminded her of her precious son.