Ahead of his Time Page 6

  As we trod downstairs, I could see the figure of a man approaching the front door through the obscured glass. I pulled it open to let him in before George got a chance to knock.

  “Evening, George.”

  “Hello lad, well, this is exciting! Gotta say, I’ve been looking forward to this all day,” he chuckled.

  “Martin, go and sit at the kitchen table and I’ll be with you in a moment,” I said, grabbing his arm and gently shoving him in the right direction. He staggered on, still in his zombie-like state.

  “George, this isn’t a circus act! We’re not the freak show next to the bearded-lady tent, you know!”

  “No, sorry lad, you’re right. Come on, let’s have a chat with him.”

  As instructed, Martin sat at the kitchen table. With his head down, he’d stretched his hair back with both hands and held that position.

  “Martin, this is George. He’s my grandfather and knows everything about me. In fact, he’s the only one who does.”

  George took a seat whilst I stuck the kettle on the stove and prepared to make Martin something to eat from what I’d purloined from Don’s pantry.

  “Hello, Martin. As Jason said, I’m George.” He outstretched his arm, offering a handshake. Martin looked up but didn’t take the offer.

  “Is this madness true?” croaked Martin.

  “Oh yes, lad, it is … totally true,” he chuckled. “It’s taken me a while to get my head around it, but yes, lad, you are in 1977.”

  Martin sat upright, rolled his eyes and shook his head. “For fuck sake!”

  George arched his eyebrow at me as I pulled out the car sales invoice from my jeans pocket and showed it to Martin, “Is that your signature?”

  Martin peered at the document. “What the fuck! What … I … what’s going on?”

  I filled them both in on the day’s events, having to bring Martin up to speed on previous events so he could keep up with the conversation. Although it was frustrating as he repeatedly threw in ‘What the fuck,’ much to George’s dismay at the language. Although he did shut up for a while whilst he powered his way through the stack of cheese sandwiches I’d prepared. I guess he was starving after not eating all day.

  He stopped mid-chew with a mouthful of cheese and bread mulching about in his mouth. “Can you both hear yourselves? You reckon that Cortina is a time machine … it’s not a fricking DeLorean! You’ll be saying it’s got a Flux-Capacitor next!”

  George narrowed his eyes at Martin, “A what?”

  “George, it’s from a film in the mid ’80s … a kinda time travel film.” Bloody hell, this was going to be a nightmare keeping these two on track.

  “Look, what we know at the moment is both Martin and I time-travelled here and ended up in that same car. How it got from Coreys Mill Motors to Cockfosters High Street on Sunday morning, well, who knows. Also, how Martin ended up in it, we’ll probably never know, as we never knew how I ended up in it last August. What we need to concern ourselves with are three things. Firstly … can we get Martin back? Secondly … if we can’t, what do we do with him? As there doesn’t appear to be another Martin Bretton in this world whose life he’s about to take, that’s going to make it tough. And thirdly… how do we keep him a secret from everyone?” I found myself pointing at Martin, who had his mouth open with mushed up food sitting on his tongue – it wasn’t a pleasant sight.

  “Evening gents … who are we keeping a secret then?” Don closed the back door and shuffled in.

  “Evening Don, come in.” Jesus – now this got more complicated. I shot Martin a look, hoping he’d remembered the rules of what could be said in front of Don.

  All four of us looked at each other, eyes darting back and forth – all with our secrets – with me holding all of them and Martin the unpinned hand grenade about to blow up.

  Martin stood up, scraping the wooden chair across the linoleum floor. “I need a piss,” he said, padding off down the hallway.

  Before anyone else spoke, the back door opened again—

  “Daddy … Daddy, look at the picture I’ve made at school today. It’s our snowman!” Christopher bounced in, his blue school cap half-cocked, giving him the Benny Hill look as he waved his painting in my face. Jenny followed him in with Beth in her arms. Oh, for fuck sake, could this get any worse? Jen gave me a kiss and smiled at Don and George. None of us had uttered a word since Don arrived, and now we all stared at Jen.

  “Hello boys, are you three having a secret meeting? Is this your den?” she giggled and then instantly frowned as she detected the tension in our faces. She must be wondering why we were in this house and not Don’s.

  “Daddy, look. Look at my picture.” I picked Christopher up and studied the picture as he pointed to the snowman.

  Christopher gave me a guided tour of his painting as he pointed to each part. “That’s the snowman we made yesterday. That’s me. That’s you. And that’s Mummy with Beth. He’d painted us as stick-men; Jenny had blood-red hair, right down to her ankles, which was precisely where my blood had drained down to. This was a bloody nightmare.

  “It’s terrific! Well done, Chris. Very good indeed … aren’t you a clever boy.”

  “I knocked on your door, Don, but saw all the lights on in this house, so assumed you must be in here,” Jenny said, as she turned and smiled at everyone again.

  Her gorgeous smile evaporated as she noticed Martin plodding his way back into the kitchen, cleaning his glasses with a piece of toilet paper. She shot me an angry look, scrunched her face, and raised her eyebrows – oh poo – I was about to be sucked into a giant black hole.

  Fortunately, George spoke, which offered me a glimmer of breathing space.

  “Take the kids next door, and I’ll sort Martin out.”

  “Come on, Chris, I’ve got some cakes next door, and you can show me your picture,” said Don, as he took hold of Chris’s hand after I’d lowered him to the floor.

  Jenny was still glaring at me as we all stepped through the back door, leaving George and Martin on their own.

  “Jason, why’s that nutter in your rental house? What the hell is going on? I thought you were taking him home!” Jenny hissed.

  “I brought him here as he has a few issues at home,” I replied, trying to think on my feet as we crossed over the driveway into Don’s kitchen.

  “Well, you’d better explain that as well!” Jenny stood on the doorstep, glared at me and pointed at my old yellow Cortina. The black hole was sucking hard.

  8

  Quicker Than The Human Eye

  Don enjoyed seeing the kids, but he could sense the tension between Jenny and me, and I guess he had a million questions he wouldn’t mind machine-gunning my way as well. He was savvy enough to know now was not the time and expertly entertained Christopher with a set of dominoes which he’d tipped onto the carpet.

  The two of them built various structures which Christopher took great delight in knocking down whilst he had half an eye on the TV, showing the Hong Kong Phooey cartoon. The question was, who was he? The mild-mannered Janitor – could be! Well yes, this was probably Jenny’s question – who was I? Trouble is I didn’t have a striped cat called Spot to get me out of this particular dilemma, and diving into a filing cabinet drawer wasn’t going to turn me into a number one super guy – quicker than the human eye. I might have found it funny if I wasn’t so consumed with the events of the past half hour.

  Jenny played with Beth as she laid her on a blanket in the middle of the room, leaving me to try and work out my next move. Now I had Don wondering about Martin and Jenny seething about ‘Martin the nutter’ as she’d now described him twice. To a lesser extent, I was also concerned about what the hell George and Martin were talking about next door. I felt doomed and panicky and now convinced myself I could feel my chest tightening. Oh, bollocks, was I going to have a bloody heart attack? Well, if I was, it might be a way to escape this particular dilemma.

  “I’ll take Beth home and start tea. Can you br
ing Christopher with you?” Jenny called across to me as I was debating the state of my breathing.

  “Jason, I said can you bring Christopher home?” She glared at me with those kryptonite eyes which seem to bore deep into my skull.

  “Yes, Jen. Sorry.” I jumped up from the sofa and escorted her to the door as she turned and shot me an angry look.

  “Don’t be long. You and me need to have a chat when you get home.”

  I nodded and plodded back into the lounge.

  Don arched his eyebrow and nodded to the kitchen. “Right, Chris, my boy, stack those dominoes in the box for me, so you’re ready to go home for your tea. I just want a quick word with your dad.”

  Don joined me in the kitchen, where I’d padded to and now stood leaning up against the sink.

  I scrubbed my hands over my face. “For Christ’s sake!” This was a nightmare, and I was struggling to see my way out of this one.

  “Right, son. I’ll help you get out of this mess you’re in, but I need to know what mess it is. What I do know is looking at that chap next-door tonight, he’s the spitting image of Paul Colney. I didn’t notice it yesterday as I didn’t really look at him. So, my boy, what’s going on … who is he?”

  I huffed and glanced at Don, not knowing where to start.

  “Come on, son, talk to me. You know you can trust me.” Don shuffled over to the cupboard beside me, pulled out a bottle of Whyte & Mackay whisky, then grabbed two glasses from the draining-board. “Get this down you; this always does the trick.”

  I downed the whisky as instructed. “Look, Don, I’ve known Martin for years, many years, and I’ve never seen the resemblance to Paul Colney until tonight. Martin has always been clean-shaven with short hair. I’ve never seen him without his glasses until tonight, so I guess I’ve missed the likeness. However, you’re right, he does look like him. Seeing Paul Colney at court today triggered the resemblance when I laid eyes on Martin tonight.”

  “Right, son, but that aside that’s not what the issue is with Jenny tonight, is it?” Don lifted his glass with his index finger pointing at me.

  “’fraid not, Don. It’s …” I shut my mouth, uncertain of what my following words could be.

  “Well, son, what is it then?”

  “Don, you trust me … yes?” Don nodded.

  “I’m gonna need some time on this one. Can you just keep an eye on him next door for me and ensure he doesn’t leave the house? I promise I’ll tell you everything as soon as I can.” I grabbed his shoulder, looking directly into his eyes.

  “Yes, son, of course. But don’t suffer on your own here. You and your family are the most precious thing in the world to me. I don’t want anything going wrong, and I’m worried about him and any connection he may have to Paul Colney. Because as sure as eggs are eggs, looking like he does, there must be a connection.”

  “Cheers, Don, thank you. I’ll update you as soon as I can. Look can you keep hold of Christopher for two minutes whilst I nip next door? Then I must get going.”

  “Yes, son, but don’t keep that wife of yours waiting.”

  I nipped back to number eight, desperate to find out what had happened whilst I was with Don, all the time frantically trying to work out what the hell I’d say to Jenny when I got home. When I re-entered the kitchen, George was in full flow. Martin was standing by the sink gazing out the kitchen window, zombie-like as he stared at his own reflection.

  “So, as I said, lad, there must be a reason.”

  “A reason for what, George?” I asked, as I closed the back door.

  George shook his head at me, then raised his eyebrows as he nodded in Martin’s direction. “You’re back then, lad. Jenny doesn’t look too pleased … is she alright?”

  “No, George, she isn’t. I have some difficult explaining to do when I get home.”

  “Oh, Christ, lad. Can I help in any way?”

  “No, George. I’m just going to have to work this one out on my own. Although how I explain the Cortina being here … I have no idea.”

  Martin turned and faced me; his hands shoved in his pockets. “George said you came back for a reason. So, I must have come back for a reason too. Do you think that’s possible?”

  I shot George a look, concerned with what he’d told Martin. George shook his head to confirm he hadn’t said anything he shouldn’t have.

  “And he said you have taken the place of another Jason Apsley, who’s disappeared. Is that right? Fricking hell, I can’t believe I’m saying this.”

  “Yes, it is, and I don’t know what happened to the other one. He was born in 1934, and yes, mate, I’ve taken his place. He would be the same age as me now if he existed. When I arrived, I just slotted into his life. Everyone seemed to know me and assumed I was this other Jason. We must be identical, but what the hell happened to him, well, God knows. It seems that you’ve come back as yourself as there doesn’t seem to be another Martin Bretton in this world.” I held up my hands. “Well, we don’t know that, of course, but you showed up at my house, so I guess there isn’t.”

  “There’s my dad.”

  George and I shot each other a look and then stared at Martin.

  Martin gawped at us both, eyes darting from one to the other. “What?” he questioned, raising his hands.

  “Hang on, lad. Are you saying your father is called Martin Bretton as well?” George glanced at me again. We both knew what each other was thinking.

  “Yeah, so what? It’s just a coincidence, that’s all. No real drama there.”

  George and I leant back in our chairs, George raised his eyebrows, and I shrugged back.

  “Possible, I guess,” I said to George, and he nodded back.

  Martin grabbed the spare chair and slid into the seat. “What’s going on? Why d’you two keep looking at each other?”

  “Martin, do you have a middle name?” It wasn’t unusual to call a son the same as a father, especially if it was a family name. However, the name Martin wasn’t exactly a traditional name through the generations.

  “Trevor.”

  “Right lad, and what’s your father’s middle name?”

  “Trevor.”

  “Lad, you’re telling me your parents named you after your father with both Christian names the same? Well, there’s nothing as queer as folk as they say.”

  “That’s a bit odd, mate, don’t you think?” No, that was more than odd. George and I again glanced at each other, both raising our eyebrows, realising Martin had potentially returned and taken the place of his father, but hell – why?

  “Well, yeah, I see what you mean. But it’s just a coincidence, that’s all. My parents didn’t name me after my dad, as Mum hadn’t met dad when I was born.”

  George and I swivelled our heads and gawped at Martin, both of us simultaneously exclaiming, “What!”

  “I was three months old when Mum met my dad, well, my stepdad. As I said, it's just a coincidence that we both had the same Christian names. It’s always been a talking point over the years on what a funny coincidence it actually was.”

  “Lad, where is your step-father now, well not now, in 2019?”

  “I’m afraid he died of cancer when I was twelve, three days after the millennium.”

  The back door swung open as George and I pondered this new information. I recalled what Martin had said yesterday about me and the fact that I was never interested in anyone else. Of course, back then, I wasn’t. I never knew he lost his father at such a young age.

  “Son, Jenny has phoned asking if you’ve left. I said you had, so you better get going, or she’s really going to have your guts-for-garters.”

  “Christ, thanks, Don, I’m coming.” My head was now pounding, and the thought of facing the Spanish Inquisition led by Jenny Apsley as the Grand Inquisitor didn’t help.

  “Go, lad, I’ll sort Martin out. I’ll call you at school tomorrow lunchtime with any update, but go now.”

  Taking Christopher into my arms as Don slung my coat around my shoulder
s, I scooted back to my car. Not only now getting ready for the grilling which awaited me at home, but also praying George could hold it together and keep everything under wraps with Martin and Don.

  9

  18th January 1977

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  For the second consecutive night, I’d achieved hardly any sleep. When I arrived home last night, we’d fed the kids, then Jenny organised bath time whilst I busied myself in the kitchen. The atmosphere was treacle-thick, and neither Jenny nor I approached the massive ‘elephant in the room’ until after I’d read Christopher his bedtime story. When we did, Beth had a screaming session which took Jenny an hour to get her back to sleep. It was gone nine when the ‘elephant’ was discussed.

  All I could muster up was Martin had purchased my old car on Sunday. Fortunately, I had the invoice in my pocket, and Jenny didn’t question why the car was sold when the garage was closed or that Martin had paid a bloody fortune for it. She accepted Mr Thacker had achieved a quick sale, but I stumbled when she challenged me on why I had the invoice.

  I injected an over-elaborate lie about Martin and girlfriend trouble to cover up the reason for staying in the rental house, and the Grand Inquisitor accepted this story. However, my well-versed ability to lie had left me high-and-dry as she scrutinised the version of events regarding my friendship with Martin. When specifically pushed on why he’d returned from South Africa, and when we both worked at some company called Waddington Steel, I sunk further into the cavernous hole I was digging for myself.

  Jenny was not angry; it was far worse. I could see in her eyes she was losing trust as all my answers were vague, and now the last five months were unravelling at high speed. The only slow down to my life falling apart was when Beth awoke, hungry and screaming her head off, but that was just hitting the pause button. For the second consecutive night, we went to bed on an unresolved argument.

  Although I loved my job as a teacher, today, I just wasn’t in the mood for it. I desperately needed to get hold of George, although he’d said he would call me at lunchtime so I’d just have to wait, but Jesus, that was hours away. Moping into the school office, I decided I’d just have to get on with it. The efficient Miss Colman was already in the office, and as always, looking efficient.