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  “I better get going … it’s been one hell-of-a-day. You going to be okay?”

  “Me, son? Sure, you know me. Not much gets under my skin. Just be careful in the morning and let me know how you get on.”

  I laid my hand on his shoulder as I got up from my chair and smiled. I was so lucky to have Don. He really was my father figure.

  “Son, it will all work out right in the end. And as they say, if it doesn’t, then it’s not the end.”

  35

  29th January 1977

  New Dawn

  Jenny slept soundly beside me as I awoke early. I guess the thoughts whirring around my mind had forced their way to some spot in my brain and banged on the wake-up- door. I gently eased my way out of bed and laid the covers back so as not to disturb her. Her bright red hair was a mass of tangles sticking out in every direction. A wisp lay across her eyelids as she slept – she’s beautiful, I thought. “I love you, Jenny Apsley,” I whispered, as I grabbed my dressing gown from the hook on the back of the door and sneaked out of the bedroom. I poked my head in on Christopher and Beth, who, like Jenny, were sound asleep. Dawn had just started to break, but the closed curtains kept the house cloaked in darkness.

  I stood in the back garden with a cup of coffee and cigarette in hand, thinking about the last two-week’s events and what was to come. Up until two weeks ago, my life had become very simplistic, easy to manage and happy. Okay, the lying was an issue. But as I was the only time-traveller, that was a necessary evil which I had to accept. Now it had become complicated again, with different strands of events that each precious person in my life knew to be the truth, but only I knew the whole story.

  Sure, it had to be a step forward that Jenny now knew where I’d come from, so I had her and George in that camp. My next move would be to tell her about Jess. I couldn’t work out why I hadn’t come clean about her earlier. Perhaps fear of her reaction, but that was unfair on Jenny as she’d proved her love for me. I felt sure Don was right, and the news of Jess’s existence wouldn't change the way Jenny felt.

  Don not knowing the truth about Martin and me was a problem. With Martin encamped next door, it would only be a matter of time until something happened. I’d then have to explain, and would the four of us be enough for Don to believe?

  The biggest issue now was someone else’s knowledge of David’s death. Only I and Don knew that information. Jenny had an inkling, Martin knew some details, and George had no idea. But yesterday had landed my worst fear since last September as someone else had seen what happened and that someone had told Paul Colney. Unless I could conjure up some amazing plan, this could only end badly.

  To add to this entangled mess – what was I going to do about Jess? Okay, not technically my responsibility. But I’d made that decision to help her, and I had to stick by it. As far as Don was concerned Jess was my daughter – not other Jason’s daughter – and quite rightly, he’d expect me to help her.

  “You bloody well should. You have a responsibility,” I muttered. Yes, I will get Jess out of the Broxworth and far away from Paul Colney.

  Of course, what about the rapist? From the old newspaper reports and what happened to Jess, there was a rapist on the loose. Is that Paul Colney? Well, yes, he’s certainly evil enough. If he’s Martin’s father, which he probably was, then he committed rape in 1987. So, is he raping women now and on at least a ten-year campaign of terror and rape? Is this even possible? Surely, he would’ve been caught at some point in those years?

  Martin. What was I going to do about him? He was a loose cannon, and as much as I could manage my existence, I couldn’t handle him as well. The other problem was he had no back story, so issues about his presence in this world would bubble up to the surface sooner rather than later. When that happened, it could erupt like a volcano, throwing not only my life in the air but also Jenny’s, Christopher’s, and Beth’s. Had he taken the place of his father? Was his father now missing in America, and Martin should be there doing his job at BP? What a mess – again.

  Today, I had to get up to Coreys Mill Motors and warn Mr Thacker about Paul Colney. What the hell I’ll tell him, and what he’ll then do, I had no idea. More to the point, what will Paul Colney do? Any police involvement was an absolute no no, because that would accelerate the unravelling. If Paul did cause problems with Mr Thacker, he’d call the police. There was no way I could stop that from happening.

  Then the police would be knocking on my door. I just had to hope Don was right, and whoever saw me on that roof that day would never talk to the police.

  The day had arrived, literally, as the grey skies pushed the dark night around the curvature of the earth. Also, metaphorically, as I had a feeling today would be a watershed moment in my life.

  Part 3

  36

  12th August 1976

  Guillotine

  “Come on, Chris, stop your dawdling.” Carol grabbed the back of his t-shirt and hauled him up the last few steps to the top landing of Dublin House, his black plimsols scraping up the last step. She stopped and held onto the metal railing that was presumably in place to stop you from leaning too far over the edge of the balcony.

  “Shit!” Carol pulled her hand away as the steel rail was burning hot. Today was a scorcher as it had been every day for weeks. In this heat, she was panting and out of breath. Carol leant against the wall and took a moment to collect herself. Chris stood with his arms loose by his side, staring down at the concrete landing.

  She knew she was a shit mother and had let Chris down. She also knew she’d be a shit mother to her new baby. She rubbed her tummy through her blouse which was stretched to the limit, buttons ready to ping off at any moment. She couldn’t afford any maternity clothes, so the ones she had would have to do.

  “I wanna go home,” Christopher said to the floor.

  “Oh, shut the fuck up. You’re always whining.”

  Christopher wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, sniffed and snivelled, as he continued to gaze at the concrete floor. Carol took another deep breath to calm her breathing and her nerves. She knew this wasn’t going to be an easy chat. However, she was skint, and someone had to help. The landing smelt of stale urine, and now Carol felt sick again as she gulped in piss-ridden air as she prepared to walk along to the most frightening door on the estate.

  Carol banged on the door and took an involuntary step backwards, perhaps knowing what was on the other side and the danger it represented. She looked down at Christopher as he sat with his back against the wall, his arms tightly wrapped around his knees and his head buried in between them. He looked like a hedgehog curling up to avoid danger.

  “Don’t you fucking cause a scene. I want none of your fucking antics today. You just keep your mouth shut, d’you ’ear?”

  Christopher didn’t reply. He just gave a slight flinch as he probably expected a smack was coming, which it often did.

  The door flung open, and there she stood. Up close, she looked younger than Carol thought she was, or it could’ve been the heavy make-up disguising the monster which lay beneath. Carol gulped and froze. Now she was here she didn’t know what to say.

  Shirley folded her arms and inspected the piece of trash who’d knocked on her door. She looked it up and down from the greasy unkept mouse-coloured hair down to her dirty blouse which stretched over her protruding belly. Shirley noticed a little boy scrunched up by the wall who peaked at her and then quickly buried his head in his knees.

  “Well?” Shirley asked the trash.

  Carol couldn’t look Shirley Colney in the eye. This was a mistake and a dangerous one. She started to feel light-headed again caused by a combination of heat, being pregnant, the smell of piss on the landing and pure fear. “Can I talk to you?”

  “Can’t hear you, girl. You’re mumbling. What d’you want?”

  Carol blew out her cheeks and looked up into Shirley’s eyes. Now terrified, she could feel herself starting to shake.

  Shirley grabbed the door frame
preparing to slam the door. “I’ll ask you one more time. What d’you want?”

  “I wanted to talk to you, please,” she delivered slightly louder this time and with a tone that suggested almost begging.

  “Shirley refolded her arms and arched her eyebrows as an indication for her to continue. She expected the girl was terrified, and she should be. No one in their right mind knocked on the Colney’s door without an invitation.

  Carol rubbed her tummy. “Your son … your son is … is the father.” She looked away, down the corridor. There she’d done it. Although now shitting herself about what would happen next.

  Shirley laughed, or more of a cackle as if she was a Tricoteuse, knitting and cackling as the guillotine severed the head of another poor soul. “Patrick or Paul wouldn’t go near disgusting trash like you!” Shirley curled up her lip at the hideous sight in front of her. “Now, piss off before I make your life hell.” She grabbed the door and flung it shut.

  “Not Patrick or Paul,” Carol blurted out before the door slammed.

  Shirley grabbed the door to stop its flight into the frame and yanked it back open. “Well, it’s not the other two, you stupid cow; they’re just boys!”

  Carol steeled herself. Now she’d got this far, she had to carry on. “David … David is the father.”

  Shirley stepped forward as Carol stepped back. This continued until Carol’s back hit the wall on the other side of the landing. “You’ve got a fucking cheek, coming up here and talking shit like that.” She raised her hand to slap the trash girl across the face.

  Carol looked at the hand hovering in the air, then closed her eyes. Shirley smacked her hard, causing Carol’s cheek to burn red, leaving three white finger-striped marks on her cheek.

  Carol opened her eyes. To her left, she could see Christopher looking up. He was probably confused that his mother had been slapped, as he was the one who got beaten, not her. Shirley had closed to within inches of her face, fury and hate radiating from her.

  “David … David is the father.” Carol closed her eyes again, expecting another slap.

  “You stupid cow, he’s only sixteen. He’s a boy! He wouldn’t go sniffing around the likes of you … you’re just scum!”

  She’d come this far, so she might as well carry on. Although it wouldn't surprise her if Shirley lifted her up and tipped her over the railing. Then it would be a flight of five storeys down to her death.

  “I owed Paul. I owed him and couldn’t pay … I couldn’t pay. He … he said if I made a man of David, that would pay off the debt.”

  Shirley narrowed her eyes and pointed at Carol. “You’re taking a risk, you slag. If you’re lying, you know what will happen.”

  Carol nodded. “Yes … but I’m not.”

  Shirley placed her arms on either side of Carol, leaning her hands against the balcony wall and pinning her in place. “Anyway, slags like you put it about. I bet that bastard in there could belong to any number of men.”

  Carol shook as shivers terrorised her body. “It’s David’s.” She looked down and patted the bump. “This is your grandchild.”

  37

  29th January 1977

  All Mod Cons

  “Mr Apsley, good to see you. I presume you’ve come about the Hunter. Knew you’d be back. It’s a great car, and I’ve had lots of interest in it. Mr Thacker stood in his double-breasted pin-striped suit, puffing on his cigar and a smirk on his face. He again looked and sounded like ‘Boycie’ as he delivered that familiar machine-gun laugh.

  I’d parked up a few minutes before the sales lot opened and scanned around out of the windows, looking to see if I could spot Paul Colney. It was very reminiscent of that day last September when I’d parked up on the Broxworth – the day David died. And here I was again in a very similar situation, repeating the same actions caused by the events that day. I hadn’t seen Paul Colney and prayed he wasn’t a morning person.

  “Morning, Charles. Good to see you again.” We shook hands enthusiastically. Although yesterday evening’s events had negated the need to hide the Cortina, as ‘the cat was already out of the bag,’ I still wanted to replace Jenny’s Viva.

  “Malcolm, grab the keys for the Hunter, please,” Charles called over to the young salesman I’d seen two weeks ago. “Let me show you around. It’s got some great features on this model.”

  “Okay, Charles, but I'm short of time. I’m sure it's all very self-explanatory.” Cars built in the ’70s weren’t complicated machines. I thought even a chimpanzee could understand the finer points of the car without a detailed run through.

  Charles took the keys from Malcolm, unlocked the door and offered for me to take a seat. I obliged in order to get through this charade quickly and move on to the more difficult conversation regarding Paul Colney.

  Charles bent forward, so his head was at the same height as mine. “So, some fantastic features on this model. It has the 1725cc engine with a four-speed transmission and overdrive. All of that will get you from nought to sixty in less than fifteen seconds! Careful motoring, and you’ll get over twenty-five miles to the gallon … pretty impressive, wouldn’t you say? Also, you’ll see that it has many new electrical features for modern driving, such as an electrically operated screen washer, and a heated rear windscreen.”

  “Yes, Charles, all very impressive.” No, it's not! It's horrific, I thought. Although, I couldn’t care less if it took two hundred seconds to get to sixty miles per hour.

  “And this car is for your wife, I believe?”

  “Yes, that’s right. An upgrade on her old Viva.”

  “Well, that’s perfect as it has the Servo Brake System; that’s one for the ladies.”

  I turned and looked at him, confused at his odd comment. “Oh,” I replied.

  “Servo Vacuum brakes means you don’t have to push on the pedal so hard. Just right for a nice shapely leg in a court shoe. Ladies need all these new features to help them to be able to drive cars properly,” he replied with a smile.

  I know Charles meant nothing derogatory or sexist by his comment. Of course, it was, but it wasn’t for the era I was living in. If I wasn’t shitting myself that Paul Colney was about to show his face, so a need to quickly conclude the deal, I would have burst out laughing. I momentarily thought of what Beth would have said or done to Mr Thacker if he’d offered that comment in 2019 – I think she would have flattened him.

  I’d enjoyed the trawl around the opulent car showrooms with Beth when she bought her new sports car. I’d marvelled at the amazing machines and loved being able to sit in those brand-new supercars. Whilst I jumped in and out of the cars and feeling somewhat jealous, Beth had cause to verbally maul one of the salesmen. I remember him almost shaking when she’d put him straight on a few points.

  He was a lad in his late twenties with flawlessly trimmed designer stubble, a fake sun-tan and perfectly barbered hair. He wore a designer suit over what looked like a spray-on shirt. Extra slim fit, or muscle fit, I think they call the cut. His winkle-picker patent-black boots must have extended about six inches past the end of his toes, and I was sure would pierce steel with one quick kick.

  Beth had delivered the verbal mauling when he continued to only offer her flirtatious comments and focussed on me to explain the flashy car’s features on offer. He’d made the grave mistake of assuming the car was for me and not Beth. As always in these situations, Beth employed her sharp tongue to rip him apart – similar to a Great White shredding a wayward swimmer. Once the verbal mauling was over, what was left of him shrunk about six inches. He’d met his match, as most men did when confronted with a disgruntled Beth – the flirting instantly stopped. I wondered if Beth would be the same second time around, or would her new life showered with love from Jenny and me soften her edges.

  “Yes, Charles, I’d like to buy the car.”

  “Good man – you know it makes sense.” A statement that sounded as if delivered by Del Boy. I wondered if I was now the plonker for buying the Hillman Hunte
r and half expected Charles to rub his hands together and utter ‘Lovely Jubbly’. The last time I was here, the other salesman stated the car had only one lady owner – a statement they probably said about all their motors.

  “Come inside, and we can talk business.” Charles held out his arm, inviting me into the Portakabin sales office.

  “Take a seat, Mr Apsley.”

  “Jason.”

  “Good. Can I offer you a cigar?” Charles said, as he opened an ornate wooden box full of large cigars, which sat on his desk amongst paperwork and car brochures.

  “No thanks.”

  “So the Hillman Hunter,” he said to himself, as he sifted through a pile of buff-coloured files on the steel filing cabinet next to his desk. “As I said, Jason, great car, with all the mod-cons.”

  What I knew for certain, he didn’t mean the album by The Jam, as that was released a year from now and was on my list of records to buy as soon as it was. I had a note pad with all the albums I wanted and the year of release – some even had the actual month.

  ‘All Mod Cons,’ by The Jam was one such record I had all the details of as they were one of my favourite bands. Jenny had reviewed the list but didn’t see any band that interested her. She’d asked when the Bee Gees released a new album, but I had no idea. However, she sounded excited about the film ‘Saturday Night Fever’ and pestered me to remember the year. I’d said it was very soon but couldn’t be totally sure if it was this year or next. I’d also said she would probably really enjoy the film ‘Grease’. When I’d described that it was about two high school kids falling in love in the ’50s, she said it didn’t sound very good and was surprised a storyline like that would be a success. I guess my description was lost in translation.

  “Ah, actually before we strike that deal, how did you get on investigating what happened with that Cortina? I must say I forgot all about it. But now you’re back, it’s reminded me. Bloody strange affair that was!”