Ahead of his Time Page 3

  He did know Jason’s ex-wife, Lisa Apsley, and probably too well, he thought. She lived a couple of miles away, so perhaps his next stop would be her house. Although after this morning’s events he doubted there was much hope of her actually living there and, if she did, he wondered what sort of reception he’d get. Pointless to attempt to find Jason as, since splitting up with Lisa, he had no idea where he was living.

  As he expected, Homebrook Avenue was all wrong. Just like every other road in this weird and wacky world he seemed to have landed in. The house was there as he remembered it. However, on the driveway were two old-style cars which Martin believed wouldn’t belong to Lisa.

  He rang the doorbell of number twenty-two and stood back, waiting for a reply. After pushing the bell for a second time, a slim, attractive, thirty-something woman with long auburn hair and striking green eyes opened the door and smiled at him. Martin presumed she must be on her way out, or her house was freezing, as she stood at the door wearing a camel-coloured coat.

  “Hello, can I help you?” she asked.

  “Does Lisa live here?” he mumbled. Clearly not, as the answer was staring him in the face.

  “No, sorry. This house belongs to Jason Apsley. I’m Jenny, his wife.”

  “Sorry, Jason, who?”

  “Apsley, this is the home of Mr and Mrs Apsley. Are you alright? You look a little peaky if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “I know Jason! Is he in? I know him! We work together … we work at Waddington’s Steel,” he blurted. Now feeling hopeful as the energy pumped back into him as if he’d just received an adrenaline shot.

  “Oh, how odd. Very odd. Yes, he’s in the garden. Could you hang on a moment, and I’ll go and get him.”

  Now she was the one looking confused as she closed the door. Jason was here? Was it him? This was his old house, but who was the green-eyed woman? He wasn’t married – he’d only just got divorced.

  The door swung open, and there in front of Martin was his boss. Okay, with a beard and longer hair, but yes, this was him, Jason Twat Apsley. Well, that’s what the staff called him behind his back – he wore that gormless look he often had – which many of the office staff would imitate when he wasn’t looking.

  “Oh, God, Jason, it’s you! What’s going on? The world’s gone fucking mad. I thought I’d lost my fucking marbles, but thank God you’re here. Who the fuck was that woman who answered the door, and where the fuck is Lisa? Anyway, what you doing here?”

  “Martin, is that you?”

  “Yes, of course it fucking well is. Who do you think I fucking am? It’s me, Martin! Jason, what the fucking hell is going on? Where is everyone else? And why has every fucking nutter I’ve met today told me it’s 19 fucking 77?”

  “Oh, bollocks!”

  4

  Scotty, Beam Us Up.

  “Jason, I don’t understand what the hell is going on, and who the bloody hell is he?” Jenny stood in the kitchen doorway with her hands on her hips.

  Martin had blurted out my previous life’s history in the future 2019, as he stood on the doorstep whilst I sported my well-versed gormless expression. Jenny had stood in the hallway, copying me. Leaving Jenny transfixed, I’d ferried Martin into the lounge and shovelled him onto the sofa. I’d told him to sit quietly, and I would be back in a minute – delivered as if instructing one of my pupils. Fortunately, after his outburst he complied and was now nestled on our sofa, staring into space. I’d returned to the hallway gripping the lounge door handle as if barring the way through, thus protecting my family from some highly contaminated object shaped to look like one of my old work colleagues.

  “Jen, I know this is a bit odd, but I used to work with Martin some years ago. I think he’s a little confused, and I’m not sure what he’s doing here. I’ll sort it, don’t worry.”

  ‘You’re screwed, Apsley!’

  That ever so annoying voice in my head taunted me. It had been waiting months for an opportunity, and now it had it. Escaped from its cranial cage, it now scurried around my brain causing havoc.

  “Don’t worry … what do you mean, don’t worry! The bloke is a total nutter, and he’s sitting in our lounge right now!” screamed Jenny. She rarely became animated, but now her kryptonite eyes burned green as her hands flailed everywhere, which almost simultaneously stopped as she planted one on the wall and the other on the stair bannister. As far as she was concerned, I’d just let some nutter in the house and her worry was for the children.

  “Look, can you sort the kids out? I’ll deal with this. Please, Jen, let me deal with it.”

  “Jason, you better. I’m not happy that we’ve some weirdo in the house who thinks he’s been teleported into this world like Captain Kirk from Star Trek! I can't wait to hear what he comes out with next! Probably ‘Scotty, beam us up,’ and we’ll watch him disappear in front of our eyes! I can’t believe you’re not as shocked as I am. The bloke is completely barmy!”

  “Okay, Jen, okay. Go and sort the kids out, and I’ll see what I can do with him.”

  “Why don’t you find it odd that this bloke turns up claiming he knows you and some ex-wife of yours from 2019? Christ Jason, just get him out of our house!” Jen delivered her ultimatum and stormed past me, off to bathe the kids.

  “Oh, bollocks,” I muttered under my breath. This was the nightmare I’d hoped would never come true. But now it had, and I needed to think fast before this new wonderful life I’d carved out for myself started to unravel. I checked Jen had disappeared upstairs and stepped into the lounge, quietly closing the door.

  “Look, mate, this isn’t going to be easy for you. But we’ve a lot to talk about, and I can’t do it here.”

  “What the hell is going on? And who the hell is that woman? More to the point, why does everyone I’ve met today reckon it’s 1977? Jesus Christ, even the car radio in that yellow piece of shit was playing an interview from some politician from the fucking seventies!”

  “Keep your bloody voice down. For Christ’s sake, keep it down,” I hissed, as I gestured my hands up and down, frantically trying to calm him. “Look, mate, I’ve somewhere you can stay tonight. Let’s go there now and we can talk as I can’t talk here … alright?” I was just desperate to get him out of the house. Fortunately, one of the houses I’d purchased on the Bowthorpe Estate I hadn’t rented out, so my quickly formulated plan was to squirrel him away in there until I could work out what the hell I was going to do.

  “Right.” Martin huffed. He looked exhausted. I remember that exact feeling five months ago when I’d made that journey back from 2019.

  Shovelling Martin out the front door, I turned and bellowed up the stairs. “Jen, I’m just going to follow Martin home and make sure he’s okay. I’ll be about an hour or so.” I hovered on the doorstep, waiting for her reply.

  “Jen?”

  “Okay!” she shouted down the stairs.

  Clearly, she was really put out by what had happened, and I knew I had some tricky and difficult explaining to do when I returned home. So, I had to think fast; otherwise, everything was going to turn to shit.

  “Right, mate. Follow me, and we’ll talk when we get there. You’re just going to have to trust me, and I know that’s a real stretch at the moment. I was where you are now five months ago. I’ve done it, eaten the pie and got the t-shirt.”

  I walked up to my new car, a Red Triumph Stag. I’d traded in the Cortina yesterday, and the Stag was my dream classic car. One of the perks of time-travel was purchasing an old classic car that was brand new and just off the production line. Martin trudged to the car he was driving and unlocked the door.

  “Martin, wait, Martin,” I called out and jogged towards him.

  “What?” He replied sharply.

  “Where the hell did you get this car from?” I glared at my yellow Cortina, which I’d sold only twenty-four hours ago to Coreys Mill Motors, a second-hand car dealership not far from the Bowthorpe estate.

  “Well, hell, I don’t bloody know!
I just found myself in it this morning, didn’t I! For Christ’s sake, are you listening to me or what?” his aggressive reply flowed into a full-on rant. “That’s just typical you, Jason. You don’t listen, and you’re never interested in anyone else but yourself. It’s always been the bloody same with you. Do you know that no one, and I mean no one, on your team likes you! You should hear the talk behind your back in the office. Every day all of us moan about you. You’re a right tosser with no people skills whatsoever!” He took a step closer and pointed in my face. “Yes, look shocked if you like. I bet you thought we were friends, drinks at Christmas and all that. Although Caroline likes Lisa, she thinks you are a right tosser and feels sorry for me that I have to work for you!”

  I stepped back, nodding my head. Five months ago, his description of me was reasonably accurate – but I’d changed. Of course, he wouldn’t know that as 12th of August 2019 was only a few hours ago in his world. I glanced up to the front bedroom window where Jen was standing glaring at us – understandably, she looked concerned. Although unable to hear our conversation, she could see the yellow Cortina. If she spotted the license plate when Martin drove off, that would be impossible to explain.

  ‘You’re screwed, Apsley!’

  Sunday afternoon traffic was light; the journey across town was quick, and I was thankful for it. As he’d stood and bellowed at me before leaving my house, I’d noticed a scar all the way down the side of Martin’s face. It wasn’t there the last time I saw him on the 12th of August 2019, seconds before I ploughed the Beemer into the white van which killed me. Well, I think it did, and then transported me to 1976. I’d often wondered what happened to Martin in my passenger seat, and now I knew. But where the hell had he been for five months?

  I thought about his rant. Yes, okay, I knew I was a bit of a dick back then but did all my staff hate me? Christmas 2017 I’d decided uncharacteristically to have a department Christmas night out and booked at a pretentious, over-priced brasserie. Sales had been way above budget that year, resulting in receiving a hefty bonus which had nicely swelled my pay packet. I intended to foot the bill for all twenty-five of my team as a gesture of thanks for delivering outstanding results and, of course, my bonus. At the time, I believed it was an inspired idea. Although I was miffed when Lisa said it was stupid because I wasn’t particularly liked and she suspected not many would turn up. This sparked another barney that bolted onto the previous festering arguments, on the glide path to the end of our pointless marriage.

  The long table was all decked out in festive cheer, bottles of wine liberally dotted about, and a champagne reception planned. Only three of my team turned up, and two of them were twenty minutes late. The young waitress standing with the tray of champagne flutes stood with a smirk on her face as it became apparent the vast majority of my guests had snubbed the evening – it was a total embarrassment. My team were probably all down the local pub laughing their heads off.

  The young, clean-cut restaurant manager dressed in a sharp Savile Row suit conducted himself with great professionalism but still delighted in presenting me the bill for all twenty-five guests. He explained there’s no allowance for reducing the bill for non-attending guests. It was in the small print apparently – which he calmly highlighted with a yellow marker-pen on my bill – as I recalled accusing him of being a member of the Hitler Youth.

  At the time I was furious and, every day for two weeks before the Christmas holidays, I proceeded to make their working lives a living hell. But they weren’t ungrateful as I’d thought at the time. No, they just hated me, and looking back I winced at the memory. My team were right. Back then, I was a complete tosser.

  I pulled up outside the partially furnished semi that I’d purchased a couple of months ago. Something had told me not to rent it out, as I felt I might need it someday – that day had arrived. I checked my mirror as Martin pulled up close behind. I jumped out and hopped in the passenger seat of his car, the exact car I’d woken up in five months ago.

  “Martin, you need to listen. I own these two houses. The one on the left, number eight, has some furniture so you will be okay in there. The one on the right is a tenant of mine. He’s a good friend, so he can support you as well. Do you understand?”

  Martin nodded as he bowed his head and started picking his fingernails.

  “Martin, do you understand?”

  He shot his head up. “Oh yes, I fricking understand, of course I do! Everything’s so normal … what’s not to understand? Bloody hell, Jason, do I understand? No, of course I don’t bloody understand!” Verbal tirade delivered, he stared back down into his lap.

  I leant back in my seat and stared at the roof. Jesus, this was a disaster. I lowered my head and turned to face him. “Martin, sorry mate, but this bit is hugely important. Look at me … Martin … look at me.”

  He slowly brought his head up and delivered that vacant, empty stare he’d developed.

  “Don, who lives in number ten, knows nothing about where we’ve come from. Only one person knows, and I’ll call him later as we’re going to need his help. But for now, you say nothing. No one can know what we’ve gone through … no one.”

  “What have we gone through, Jason? I’m so confused. I … just, I just …” Martin huffed and rubbed his hands up and down the side of his face. “This is nuts.” He shook his head, dropping his eyes and resumed his lap staring and fingernail picking routine.

  “Look, mate, we’ve both time-travelled from 2019 to now. Well, I arrived here the day we had the crash. I know that’s ridiculous, but I’ve been living here for five months. It’s very real, mate … very real.”

  Martin whipped his head up and glared at me again, slowly shaking his head from side to side. “Fuck off, Jason.”

  “Martin, you need me! And I need you to hold your shit together. You can tell me to fuck off as much as you like, but the plain fact is you’re going to have to believe me … that’s it. Right, we need to go into the house and put the fire on as it’ll be freezing in there. First job though … we need to say hello to Don, so no fuck-ups from you. You’re an old friend who needs a place to stay for a while. That’s your story, nice and simple. No more details … you got it?”

  “Oh, God. Okay. I must be dreaming. Christ, either that or I’ve gone nuts,” he replied.

  His comment made me smile as I hauled my way out of the car. I’d said those very same words over and over five months ago. Don answered the door immediately, as I guessed he would. His snooping skills were second to none, and he would have spotted us as soon as we pulled up.

  “Evening, Don. You okay?”

  “Yes, son. Who you got ’ere then?”

  “Don, this is Martin, Martin, Don.” I gestured my hands back and forth as a way of introduction. Don nodded whilst Martin remained motionless.

  “Martin will be staying next door for a while. He’s an old friend in a bit of a jam at the moment.”

  “You can say that again,” Martin interjected. His hands shoved in his old parka coat and doing his new usual – staring at the floor.

  I shot Martin a look, concerned that he’d forgotten my instruction to keep schtum. “As I was saying, he is in a bit of a jam. It’s all on the Q.T. if you know what I mean?” I tapped the side of my nose to convey this was classified and metaphorically stamped top secret. “Can you keep an eye out and make sure he’s okay? Just to give me a bit of time to get some stuff sorted.”

  “Of course, son, no problem.” Don saluted and, for a brief second, he stood to attention. “Look, you coming in? It’s a bit nippy on the doorstep.”

  We followed Don in through to the kitchen. Don shuffled his way there, wearing his tartan slippers which seemed never to be removed from the end of his feet.

  “I need to borrow a bit of food from you … just to get Martin through tonight, and then I’ll set him up properly tomorrow. Will that be okay?”

  “Yes, son, ’elp yourself. Sit yourself down, Martin, we don’t stand on ceremony round ’ere. I
’ll stick the kettle on if you wanna drink?”

  “Okay, we’ll have a quick coffee, then we need to get on.” I rummaged through the pantry and plucked out some essentials which would get Martin through the next day. Don and I chatted about football and my new car whilst Martin sipped his tea which he held like a tramp at a soup kitchen, all the time staring at the tabletop.

  “Son, I see you sold your old car to this chap.”

  “Err … yes,” I replied.

  Martin just shook his head and tutted.

  “Don, we’d better go. I’ll be back in a few minutes when I’ve got Martin settled in.”

  I nudged Martin as he looked to be sitting in a trance. Lifting his head sideways, he peered at me with one eye. I gestured with my head, giving an instruction it was time to go.

  “The fire will heat the place up in no time. Keep the lounge door open so the heat goes through the house. You know how to work a gas fire, don’t you?” Martin plonked himself down on the new orange sofa, offering no reply.

  “Right mate, we need to talk. But I haven’t got long as Jen will be wondering what’s going on. When we had the crash, for some reason I was moved back to 1976. So tell me, what happened to you?”

  “What the hell d’you mean you got moved back? You say it as if it’s some normal everyday event. Either you or I’ve gone around the bloody bend. Can you hear yourself?”

  “Martin, look around you. You’ve been here, what … six hours or so? This is January 16th 1977, and you’re going to have to get your head around it … and quickly. I know that’s tough. But I had to, and I did.” He just stared and shook his head again. “Look out the fucking window. There’s snow everywhere, and you don’t get that in August, do you? I know this is tough to grasp, but you’re going to have to come around to this, and bloody quickly I might suggest.” I leant forward as if chastising one of my pupils at school, but hell, he was starting to annoy me.