Ahead of his Time

by Adrian Cousins

  As I feared, Jess lived in a flat on the Broxworth Estate, and after extracting Don and Beth from there last year, I was concerned to have another connection to that God-awful place. Jess had attended the City School, like me, and every other bugger I seemed to be meeting. She now worked part-time in a second-hand book store in the old town. Reading between the lines, I got the distinct impression she heavily relied on hand-outs from her mother, who’d carved out a successful career for herself, putting that first above Jess or building any other relationships after other Jason had left.

  Jess didn’t seem to blame me for leaving her mother and felt that I was best away from her, as she said she was impossible to get along with. Overall, I liked Jess. She was easy to talk to, with a relaxed attitude. I had this niggling thought that I knew her or had seen her before, and more than once. I couldn't place it, so put it down to this strange situation that she was my daughter, but not, therefore it was my mind tricking me into thinking that she looked familiar.

  We both didn’t know what we wanted from our relationship and, when I asked why she’d now made contact, she was at first cagey with her reply. I sensed she had a specific reason for unearthing me at this point, so I pushed her on it when she returned from the toilets. The Dewhurst butchers had gone leaving only the two of us and the landlady at the bar.

  “I got you another orange juice.”

  “Thanks, Dad … is it okay to call you that?” She flashed a cheeky smile, looking out of the corner of her eye as she lit her cigarette.

  “Um … err, well—”

  Jess waved her hand which was holding the cigarette. Propping her chin up with the heel of her other hand, she balanced her elbow on her knee, which now jiggled up and down. She was either nervous or needed to revisit the toilets. “No, I’m only joking – it is an odd situation, though.”

  “Why now, Jess? You didn’t really answer me when I asked earlier.”

  Jess continued jiggling her leg, blew a plume of smoke towards the ceiling and turned to look at me. “Because you’re going to be a grandfather.”

  “Oh, wow! Well, congratulations … you didn’t mention a partner—”

  “Odd word … you mean a husband or boyfriend, I presume?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, yes, the father is unfortunately not going to be around. He will be in the future. We love each other, and he’ll be there for the child when … when he can.”

  “Does he work away?”

  “Uh-huh, something like that.” Jess dropped her eyes and wiped some imaginary dirt from her boots.

  “I can help. You know, financially. I don’t want to interfere, but I’m in a position to help.”

  “Maybe … maybe … but that’s not why I wanted to meet you … it was more about … well, I thought you should know.”

  “Yes, I’m so glad you did. I want to apologise for not being a father to you, causing you to grow up in a single-parent family. That was wrong, and I’m sorry.” Well, it felt the right thing to say, and if other Jason sat here and not me, perhaps that’s what he’d have said. I certainly wasn’t pleased she’d made contact, though, as it was just piling on the problems I now faced. Although George and I knew she was not my daughter, as far as the rest of the world was concerned, she was.

  Jess shrugged and stubbed her cigarette out. “Hey, it’s no big deal. I’m cool with it.”

  “You really shouldn’t smoke whilst you’re pregnant. It’ll harm the baby.”

  “Ha, didn’t harm me. Mum used to smoke like a chimney. Anyway, that’s all a conspiracy theory. Ciggies aren’t that bad for you.”

  Clearly, I wasn’t going to convince her, not in this era.

  “Can we meet up again? Perhaps I could meet your wife, and you know, my half brother and sister?”

  “Jess … it's complicated at the moment. I need to tread carefully when I tell my wife about this.”

  “Fuck, she doesn’t know?” Jess plucked another cigarette out of her packet. “You really are a secretive one, aren’t you?” Jess grinned, looking intrigued as she could see I was starting to squirm.

  Shaking my head, I declined the offer of a cigarette as she lit hers and started her knee jiggling routine.

  “Jess, give me a few weeks, and then we can meet again. All I ask is for a little time. Have you told your mother we’re meeting?” Concerned that this Grace Redmond would surface to cause more problems, which would be the tipping point on my ability to cope at the moment.

  “No, she probably thinks you still live in South Africa.”

  “Okay. Can we keep it that way for now?”

  “Yup. I’ve no need to tell her. If she asks if I’ve found you yet, I’ll just lie.”

  “Jess, thank you. Look, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to go now. Do you have a phone number I can contact you on?”

  She shook her head, looking down at her boots again. “No, the flat hasn’t got a phone.”

  “Right, well, give me your address. You can contact me at school.”

  I wasn’t sure how to deliver an appropriate goodbye. I offered my hand to Jess, which she ignored, instead tightly hugging me, which wasn’t what I’d expected. Although I’d just about cleared my affliction of OCD and rarely concerned myself about Ying-Yang, it seemed fate was playing a cruel game with me this week.

  When Jess handed me a ‘Pony’ beermat, the slogan ‘Pony the little drink with the big kick’, with her address written across the middle, it gave me a slight shudder – Flat 120, Belfast House, Broxworth Estate – Carol Hall’s old flat.

  16

  Mary Celeste

  I’d lied to Jenny, and it was one of many which I’d spun out over the past five months. Earlier that day, I’d left a note on the kitchen table stating I had a teacher review meeting after school and would be back late. This covered the time with Jess, but I wondered what reception I’d receive as I was home later than planned. That’s if I’d get any reception and would have to prepare to spend my second night on the sofa. Or perhaps worse, find my belongings left on the porch with the locks changed.

  I parked the car on the drive and sat there as what I saw worried me to death. Jenny’s car wasn’t on the driveway. There were no lights on in the house, and the curtains were open, giving it a ghostly vacant look. My house now reminding me of the haunted house at the fairground which my grandparents took Stephen and me to every summer.

  Jenny was always home when I returned from school, so where was she? My immediate thought was she’d gone to her parents and, if she had, I prayed she’d said nothing about the previous night. I regarded her parents as friends, and I imagined the disappointment on their faces as Jenny told them she’d made a huge mistake by marrying an unstable nutter. Until I could convince Jenny I’d travelled from the future, I needed my story to be kept between us.

  ‘No chance of that, Apsley, you don’t listen! I keep telling you, you’re screwed.’

  That pesky voice in my head was probably right. Convince Jenny that Martin and I were time travellers? Ridiculous!

  But then I considered the reason she wasn’t home could be worse. Had she just left me, taken the kids and gone into hiding? Or even more disastrous than that and had a crash, causing the kids to be catapulted through the windscreen because that bloody car had no rear seatbelts? All that time protecting Beth, killing David Colney, and now she would be a dead child following a road accident. Was that a kind of poetic justice as that was my route here to this world.

  Traffic accidents were more common in this era. No one but I could see that, as it seemed normal to everyone because they didn’t know any different. With limited or no in-car safety functions, lack of seat belts, and drink driving totally acceptable – just a matter of could you get away with it rather than it was socially unacceptable – all added up to frequent car crashes where death was not unusual.

  I decided to drive past her parents’ house and see if her car was there. At least if it was, I knew she was safe, although it would worry me
what she was saying to John and Frances. The journey to her parents’ home and back took less than fifteen minutes. Jenny’s car was not on their drive, and I’d considered nipping up to Fairfield General to check if they’d been admitted after a car accident, but I decided I was now being dramatic.

  Rubbing my hand across the top of the gas fire, I could tell it hadn’t been on for hours – where was she? Returning to the kitchen, I grabbed the kettle and next to it was my note from this morning. Jenny had crossed through my words and added on the bottom; ‘Will be back later. Get yourself something to eat.’

  No love you, or darling, written, but then what did I expect? The good news was she was coming back and, so far, it appeared she hadn’t had a car accident. I considered ringing around her friends to check if she was there, but that was really unusual for her to go out at this time of night with the kids. It was early evening, and Jenny was a stickler for keeping to the kids’ allotted bedtimes.

  Laying open next to the note was my Grand Prix results book which Jenny had taken yesterday. The book listed the races with the winner and any podium places I could remember. Also, I’d added any notable incidents, such as significant crashes. I’d reviewed them many times and knew them to be correct. Time travel came with the ability to correct the past, but it also came with a heavy responsibility, something George and I had discussed repeatedly.

  Before the police incident on Monday, I’d considered typing a letter to the British Grand Prix driver, Tom Pryce. He was one of the most talented drivers of the ’70s and recognised as a potential world champion of the future. However, I knew in March this year he would die on the Midrand track in the South African Grand Prix. There were two reasons that I never wrote that letter. Firstly, I expected it would be ignored as any sane person would, suspecting it was penned by some mystic with a Ouija board. Secondly, if by miracle, he did believe my prediction and decided not to race, the future would be altered. This would render my predictions going forward useless when he won future Grands Prix, which he wasn't supposed to be in.

  Plucking up my notebook and rubbing my hand over the page, I hoped it wasn’t for the second reason. Allowing Tom Pryce to die so I could keep winning at the bookies was a terrible reason for hoping my prediction continued to come true. Next to my entry of the March Grand Prix where I’d written, ‘Tom Pryce dies’, scribbled in pencil and not in my hand, was a series of question marks. Had Jenny read my book and put the question marks there? The shrill of the phone jolted me back to life. I snatched up the receiver of the push-button trim phone from the wall.

  “Evening, son, been ringing you on and off for over an hour.”

  “Hello Don, sorry I’ve been at a meeting. You okay?”

  “Yes, I’m alright.” The phone line became muffled, although I could hear Don talking with his mouth away from the receiver, “Christopher, careful with your drink, please, Sonny-Jim.”

  “Did you say, Christopher? Don, hello … hello … Don, hello.”

  “Sorry, son. Your boy has got a plastic cup of squash, but he was struggling to hold it.”

  “Is Jenny with you? I was wondering where she was.” At least I’d located her. Although Don was a big part of our lives, I was surprised she was there tonight. Christ, I hoped she wasn’t talking about, well – you know what.

  “No, that’s why I’ve been calling you. Now look, I don’t want to come between you two, and I know something strange is going on with this Martin chap. I’m sure you’ll tell me when you can, but Jenny came around about an hour ago asking if I could mind Christopher for her and then went next door with the baby. She’s been in there with that Martin chap for over an hour. Now, son, she’s a grown woman, and I can’t stop her, but something’s wrong with that bloke. Sorry, son, I know you said he’s a friend, but he’s not right, and I don’t like the thought of Jenny around there.”

  “Oh, bollocks! Don, I’m on my way.”

  My mind was reeling from what was being said between Jenny and Martin as he was a loose cannon. Now I feared he was talking about me when we worked together and what a tosser I was. Then there was Lisa, oh bollocks, he would be talking about my ex-wife, and for sure everything would be relayed with a negative spin on it.

  Don had positioned himself by his front window as I arrived. He caught my eye and beckoned me over. I trotted up to Don’s front door as he opened it and stepped out onto the porch, half pulling the door closed behind him.

  “Son, listen, don’t go in there all-guns-blazing. You need to keep a calm head. Whatever it is you two have got to sort out, getting heated or angry ain’t the answer.”

  “I know, Don. I know.”

  “Alright then, son. Off you go. Christopher is happy enough, so don’t worry about him. Whatever you say and do next door, remember that lass of yours is special. Don’t lose what you have, my boy.”

  Well, I would try. The events of the last fifty hours had turned my life to shite, but he was right as nothing really mattered as much as keeping Jenny. I took a deep breath and rammed the spare door key in the lock. Stepping inside, I expected to hear talking, but no, the house was deathly quiet. Concerned what the next few minutes would bring, I nudged open the kitchen door, spotting plates and cups across the table which Martin had used and left. Presumably, he’d decided he wasn’t going to wash up. “Well, mate, there’s no dishwasher available now, so you’ll have to get used to it,” I muttered.

  As they weren’t in there, I glanced in the dining room and lounge and found what I didn’t expect –nothing – the house was deathly quiet. There was only the upstairs to check, but I could see no good reason for them to be up there.

  “Hello,” I bellowed out to the house – nothing, not a peep – this was like the Mary Celeste.

  Placing my boot on the bottom stair, I peered up and called again, but nothing. No good reason, I thought. If they were upstairs and quiet – why? Would they be in some lovers’ embrace? I had history of this.

  Before Lisa and I split up, I had this very same situation when standing on the bottom step and calling out hello, receiving no answer although I knew Lisa was home. The house was not huge, and I knew she could hear me. At the top of the stairs was the family bathroom. As the door was ajar, I could see Lisa wasn’t in there, but still no answer. As I moved up the stairs, that squeaky floorboard had given her away.

  Through the stair spindles, I spotted a leg disappear into what is now Beth’s bedroom. That naked leg was covered in hair with a snake tattoo above the ankle – a man’s leg, not Lisa’s. At the time, it was just a spare room with built-in sliding mirrored wardrobes and a double bed. Shocked, I’d frozen on the stairs. It wasn’t rocket science; Lisa had another man in the house who was wandering around naked. I remember feeling I really didn’t care. In fact, I might even say I was relieved, which is an odd reaction to discovering your wife has a lover in your bed, but I think it was the realisation that we both knew our marriage was over.

  As I reached the top step, Lisa replied as she came bounding out of the bedroom in her dressing gown, flushed and sweating. Not being a total idiot, I took the opportunity to make her sweat a little more whilst deciding whether to punch snake-tattoo man or leave for the pub.

  “Lisa, I was calling you.”

  “Oh, hi, Jason. I’ve been in bed with a headache. Can you nip out and get some tablets? There aren't any in the bathroom cabinet?”

  “Oh, really. I’m sorry to hear that, but I know we have some in the spare room.”

  “No, no … we don’t, we don’t.”

  “Yes, Lisa, we do. I’ll get them for you. I must say you look quite unwell and very hot and flushed.”

  Although I really didn’t care she’d been playing away, as we both knew our relationship had been over for some time, my male pride was dented. I was going to milk this moment and get the most out of watching Lisa in her state of panic. Lisa stood by the spare room door, I guess, trying to quickly think of a reason to prevent me from entering and discovering her naked
lover. The squeaky floorboard was now playing its repetitive tune as Lisa nervously jiggled on the spot, but I was curious to know who it was, so I pushed my way past. The room was empty, but there was only one hiding place, and that would be difficult as those wardrobes were crammed with winter clothes and various boxes of tat. Glancing at Lisa, who squirmed as she stood with her hand planted across her mouth, I grinned ear to ear. I inched open the wardrobe.

  “No, you’re right. There’s none in here. I’ll nip out and get you some.”

  “Oh, God, thank you so much.”

  The relief on Lisa's face was as if she’d just received the all-clear from some deadly disease. Smiling at her, I laid my hand on her elbow, then turned back to look at the wardrobe. Lisa glared at the five-inch gap between the mirrored sliding door and the wall where some winter coats sleeves had sprung out, and I guess praying that her nude lover was hidden deep inside behind the coats.

  “But it would be good to check anyway, that head must be pounding … or perhaps you’ve had a good pounding!”

  The relief on her face evaporated as I leant back and pushed the door open. It glided on its runners, stopping as it nudged the rubber stopper. Nestled between the coats was a pale, hairy, male backside sticking out. I didn’t stop to see the rest of him, as dented male pride had taken over. I left for the pub, where I proceeded to get hammered.

  17

  Eliza Doolittle

  Why the hell I thought Jenny and Martin would be in a lovers’ embrace I have no idea. But I guess my mind was on over-drive with the concern of what the hell they were talking about, well, more to the point, what Martin was saying. I knew Martin was a ladies’ man and always seemed to have a volley of woman attracted to him, but I was disappointed with myself for thinking Jenny would be sucked in by his magnetism. As I checked the bedrooms, I gave myself a bollocking for entertaining those thoughts.

  ‘She’s better than that, Apsley. And you should remember how lucky you are, you tosser.’