Class of '92 (The Time Bubble Book 5)

by Jason Ayres

  “Hello?” said a croaky old man’s voice. Josh realised right away that it was the wrong Peter, but he couldn’t just hang up. That would be rude.

  “Hi, is that Peter?” he asked.

  “Hello?” said the old man. “Sorry, you’ll have to speak up a bit. My hearing aid’s playing up.”

  “I’m really sorry, I think I’ve got the wrong number,” said Josh, at which point a series of beeps sounded in his ear. Josh had no idea what this sound was but a few seconds later he was disconnected. He would later discover what he heard was commonly referred to as “the pips”.

  The next “P” in the book turned out to be called Paul, after which he had been turfed out of the phone box by an irate, tough-looking man who told him it was “one customer, one call”. Josh hadn’t seen any signs to suggest that any rule to that effect was in place but saw no point getting into an argument with one of the locals. There were plenty of other phone boxes after all.

  The skies were darkening overhead as he wandered on down the road in search of another box that hadn’t been vandalised. As he did so, it dawned on him that calling people with the initial P might not produce results anyway. If he was living at his gran’s house, the phone was highly unlikely to be registered in Peter’s name. If he had no luck with the other names with the initial “P” he would just have to go through all the Cowley numbers.

  That was all assuming that the number was even in the phone book. He was sure he remembered something from his youth about people with landlines having the option to go ex-directory. He remembered his parents doing it to try and get rid of all the nuisance callers. So did pretty much everyone else. The phone book, at least in the chunky form he had found in the B&B, no longer existed by then.

  He didn’t even know if Peter’s grandmother would have the same surname. What if she was on the maternal side? If he drew a blank with this he would probably have to try and track Peter down at his college. He wouldn’t be able to do that for several days because of the Christmas/New Year break and he really couldn’t afford to wait that long. He had already spent a decent chunk of his cash on the B&B as well as kitting himself out with some new clothes to replace the ones he had lost in the charred backpack.

  The Asian woman was taking ages on the phone still, so he glanced around, trying to see what other differences he could spot between 1992 and his own time. As he did, it began to rain. Perhaps he ought to take shelter in Dillons, a small convenience store opposite the phone box.

  “Oxford’s Bermuda Triangle mystery deepens” read a billboard advertising the Oxford Mail outside the shop.

  Before Josh had time to wonder what that was all about, the Asian woman finally hung up and left the phone box, casting a dirty look in his direction as she did so. Josh had no idea what he had done to merit this, but ignored it, and got into the shelter of the box just as the heavens opened.

  The phone looked to be in working order, despite the copious amounts of crude graffiti in the box. There were the usual drawings of male members complete with local telephone numbers offering a good time. Other nuggets of information informed him that “Tracy is a slag” and “Swindon are shit”. He took the latter to be a reference to the football team as opposed to the town itself, due to the otherwise grammatically incorrect usage of the plural verb.

  He put a tenpence piece in the slot and attempted to make his first call but the flat numbers on the dial didn’t seem to work. Was this another out of order box?

  Then he realised that they weren’t buttons. Unlike the simple buttons in the more modern phone box he had used earlier, these numbers were set inside a circular dial, the likes of which he had never seen before.

  After fiddling about for a moment he caught the edge of the dial, causing it to move slightly. Only then did he realise that he had to turn it to get the number he wanted. It was blindingly obvious once he realised. Thank goodness no one from this century was watching – he must have looked like a total noob.

  Now that he had figured out how to actually use this antiquated dialling system, he phoned the first Grant in Cowley but got no joy. It was another Paul. The second number didn’t even answer, which was maybe just as well at that moment as the rain was hammering so hard on the phone box windows that he would have struggled to hear them, anyway.

  As he looked out he could see that was a positive torrent of brown, muddy water running down the gutters at the side of the road, carrying dead leaves, empty crisp packets and all other manner of detritus along with it. At least the rain was deterring any more would-be callers from venturing out. He had the phone box to himself.

  When the rain eased off he tried again and on the fifth call he got lucky. When he asked the woman who answered for Peter, she replied, “Yes, that’s my grandson, but he’s not here at the moment. Can I ask who’s calling?”

  This was promising. Improvising, he said, “Oh yes, I’m one of his tutors from Westminster College. It’s about a project we were working on over the holidays. Can you tell me when he’ll be at home?”

  “He’ll be back later this evening,” she replied. “I’m not sure when, but I’ve told him not to be late. I bolt the door at half past ten. You might be better ringing back tomorrow.”

  “Thanks,” replied Josh. “I’ll do that.”

  And that was that. He couldn’t be sure it was the right man, but he had given the name of Peter’s college and she hadn’t corrected him. There was a very good chance this was the right Peter, so all he had to do now was go round to the address in the phone book and find out.

  He couldn’t go right now because Peter was out and besides, the rain was getting heavy again. He would get soaked just sprinting the ten yards across the tarmac to Dillons. Idly, he wondered if they sold umbrellas.

  Meanwhile, back at the station, Rebecca was on desk duty with Dan when a high-priority call came in from the 999 team, asking to speak to Adam. She transferred it through and a few minutes later, he bounded eagerly out to the front desk.

  “Some dog walker’s found a body in the river,” her superior informed her. “Rebecca, you come with me. Dan, you can man the desk.”

  “Oh, why does she get all the fun jobs?” protested Bradley.

  “Luck of the draw, mate,” replied Adam. “Anyway, I wouldn’t complain. You’re in the best place; it’s pissing down out there. Come on, Becky, we need to get down there right away.”

  It was only a short walk to the river where the body had been found. There was already an ambulance present when they arrived but no one else other than the dog-walking man who had raised the alarm. It was a filthy day with the rain continuing to bucket down and there were muddy puddles everywhere.

  Rebecca already had her suspicions about the identity of the dead man, and these were confirmed as soon as he was turned over. It was Ernest Chambers, the man whose wife had come in to report him missing two days earlier.

  “I don’t think there’s any foul play here, boss,” said Rebecca. “Do you recognise him?”

  “Of course I do,” replied Adam. “His picture’s been plastered all over the papers for the last couple of days. They’ve got hold of your bloody silly Bermuda Triangle idea.”

  “Well, I did say that there as an unusual pattern about these disappearances, didn’t I?”

  “You did,” said Adam, scrutinising her closely. “You haven’t been talking to the press, have you?”

  “No, of course I haven’t,” replied Rebecca.

  “I should hope not,” replied Adam. “We talk to the press through official lines of communication only – press conferences, that sort of thing. It’s always best to do things by the book, Becky. Then there can’t be any comeback later.”

  “I can assure you I have not spoken to the press. They probably just did what I did, sir. Put two and two together…”

  “…and made five?” Adam finished her sentence for her. “I’m sure you can see now that there is no Bermuda Triangle or anything else sinister going on here. I already suspecte
d that it was going to be Mr Chambers from what they said on the phone. That’s why I wanted you down here instead of Dan, to see for yourself and quash these silly theories that you and the papers seem to have cooked up.”

  Rebecca found his tone patronising but didn’t say anything as Adam continued his monologue.

  “This poor old chap’s probably wandered down here, had a heart attack and fallen in the river. I’m sure the post-mortem will confirm it. There’s nothing more for us to do here – agreed?”

  Rebecca nodded her acknowledgement, but she still wasn’t satisfied. This was just one man, but what about the other people who had gone missing? She wasn’t about to give up on this just yet.

  Chapter Six

  Saturday 4th January 1992

  It was Saturday lunchtime and Peter was struggling to find the motivation to face the day.

  He had been on a date the previous night and it had not gone well. His dates rarely did.

  At the end-of-term Christmas party a few weeks previously, emboldened by copious amounts of booze, he had plucked up the courage to kiss a similarly inebriated girl from his class called Amanda. He had known her since they had started the course, three years before and this was the first time he had dared make a move.

  He and Amanda had got on from the start. She was in halls of residence at the college, sharing with another girl called Jenny. The three of them had realised quite early on that they had much in common, musically. During their first year he spent many an evening in their room, getting drunk and listening to The Cure, Depeche Mode and all the other bands they adored.

  Amanda was the more reserved of the two, more conservative in her choice of clothes of baggy jumpers and jeans, also taking her studies a good deal more seriously than Jenny. Her room-mate, on the other hand, was wild, dressing like a punk and smoking joints in the room. This was something neither Peter nor Amanda did. With her bright blue dyed hair, ring through her nose and all-round general attitude, everything about Jenny screamed “rebel”.

  In hindsight, Amanda would have been much the more sensible choice of girlfriend, but Peter spent the whole of that first term at college fantasising and pining over Jenny. Unfortunately, he couldn’t pluck up the courage to tell her so months drifted by which was frustrating, because she didn’t seem to have any other boyfriends. Naïve as Peter was, the penny never dropped as to why.

  It was only after he came into the room one night to find her in bed with a girl from up the hall that he realised the truth. Jenny was a lesbian, but hadn’t told him. Amanda knew, but had been sworn to secrecy. There was still a lot of homophobia around in 1992 and people were a lot more reticent about coming out than they would be a generation later.

  Unfortunately Peter had confided his interest in Jenny to Amanda some months before, which put her in a difficult situation.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he had whined after the truth came out. “You knew I was keen on her yet you let me suffer all this time.”

  “Because I promised I wouldn’t,” replied Amanda. “This hasn’t been easy for me. I tried to discourage you, remember?”

  It was true. She had. While Peter had been going on to her about how much he fancied Jenny, Amanda had continually suggested that Jenny wasn’t interested but it had fallen on deaf ears. Peter had a serious crush and youthful desires make minds irrational. He had been convinced that in time Jenny would come to feel the same way.

  Amanda showed him a lot of sympathy and he found himself warming to her. Of course, he had pretty much disqualified himself from any chance of a relationship with her. He hadn’t read the early signs – that she was keen on him, but now he’d confessed his feelings for her best friend he could hardly turn around and ask her out instead. How would that have sounded?

  “Oh well, Jenny’s turned out to be a lesbian so no joy there. I don’t suppose you fancy a date, do you?”

  No, he had well and truly backed the wrong horse there. Nobody wants to feel like the second choice. Instead, he and Amanda simply carried on being friends, hanging out all through that first year or two of college. To the casual observer, they looked like a couple and that didn’t do his love life any favours either. Any girls who may have fancied him from afar just assumed he was with Amanda and looked elsewhere.

  The nuns on the hill – that was the nickname bandied around about the girls at the teacher training college by students from other colleges who assumed that they didn’t get up to much due to the high female:male ratio. It certainly seemed that way to Peter. On his limited experience he concluded that unless they were doing it with each other, they weren’t doing it at all.

  Then things changed – in the second year he met Christina and his friendship with Amanda cooled considerably. The two women made it quite clear to him that they didn’t like each other. During the third year when he was away teacher training he barely saw her.

  Then, suddenly, Christina was gone from his life, and he found his friendship with Amanda growing again during the autumn term. This all came to a head at Christmas. They had been a few drinks to the good when suddenly he found her green eyes looking up at him from her chubby, pale face, eager red lips just begging to be kissed. Such was her diminutive figure she almost had to stand on tiptoes for their lips to lock.

  He wasn’t quite sure even how it had happened. He certainly hadn’t planned it. One minute they had been drinking and chatting, the next they were kissing.

  It had been the last day of term and he hadn’t seen her in the days that followed. That may have been just as well. He felt a little shy and awkward and also confused about his feelings. But as the days passed, he began to wonder whether what he had been searching for may have been right under his nose all along.

  Amanda could and should be more than a friend. He had messed it up with the whole Jenny business and then going out with Christina but that was all water under the bridge now. Perhaps he ought to do something about it.

  Amanda had gone home to her family in London over Christmas, but had returned to the flat she now shared with two other students just after New Year. As soon as she was back, he rang her and asked her to come out for a drink.

  This planted a seed of doubt in his mind as she didn’t sound particularly keen on the phone but she agreed to meet him on Friday night at the Lamb & Flag on St. Giles. This was a favourite haunt of his and countless generations of students past and future.

  They chatted away like they always did, but there was an element of awkwardness. There was an elephant in the room that wasn’t going away. After four pints of Ruddles County, he finally plucked up the courage to talk about what had happened at Christmas. Then he told her how he really felt about her.

  He had been so sure that she would reciprocate. It made perfect sense. But yet again his amorous hopes were to be dashed.

  She said she had enjoyed what had happened at the party and that she had fancied him when they had first met. However, she had had time to think about things over Christmas and had decided that she valued what they had too much to risk losing it.

  “You’re just too good a friend,” she had concluded.

  So he had gone home alone, romantic aspirations up in smoke again. Why could he never get this right? To cheer himself up he spent the whole night listening to The Smiths but even Morrissey’s mournful musings couldn’t help him this time.

  Now it was Saturday lunchtime and he needed to get up but was struggling to find the will to live. There was somewhere he needed to be at 3pm, which had the potential to be even more depressing than the previous evening, if that were possible.

  Oxford United were all set to play Tranmere in the third round of the FA Cup and he had bought a ticket earlier in the week when he had been in a better mood.

  In his current frame of mind he wished he hadn’t but since had spent seven quid on it so he had better go, even if he didn’t want to. Supporting Oxford United had become a chore rather than a pleasure in recent years, and he had no idea why he still subje
cted himself to the weekly torture.

  It had all been so different a few years ago when the club were riding on the crest of a wave, winning successful promotions to the top division and winning the League Cup at Wembley.

  They had had some fantastic players in those days – legends like John Aldridge and Ray Houghton, but they couldn’t hold onto them. Inevitably they were snapped up by the all-conquering Liverpool.

  Now the club was lingering near the bottom of the Second Division, with the future uncertain. The club’s multimillionaire benefactor, Robert Maxwell, had recently died in mysterious circumstances, falling off his yacht into the Atlantic Ocean.

  In the past few weeks, all sorts of rumours about financial misconduct had emerged, including a scandal about Maxwell raiding the Daily Mirror’s pension fund.

  Under these circumstances, United’s future looked increasingly perilous but Peter still continued to go out of a stubborn sense of loyalty – because that was what football fans did.

  “What time do you call this?” asked Gran, as he eventually hauled himself down the rickety wooden stairs of her aging house.

  Although she kept it immaculately clean, its age was definitely showing. There were creaking stairs and floorboards throughout which made it impossible to sneak in or out without being noticed. She may have been seventy-eight years of age but there was nothing wrong with any of Elsie Grant’s senses. A wiry, white-haired woman with piercing blue eyes, she was as on the ball as ever.

  “It’s about 1 o’clock, Gran,” he replied, casting his eye at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. Her husband had been given it many years earlier when he had retired from the British Leyland factory, just over the bypass from the house.

  “Goodness knows what my Pat would have had to say about this,” said Gran. “Never in his life did he stay in bed past 9am, not even on a Sunday. I don’t know what the youth of today is coming to, I really don’t. Now sit yourself down and I’ll make you some breakfast. Or should I say lunch?”