Ahead of his Time

by Adrian Cousins

  I perused the idea of starting a time-travellers group on Facebook but would have to wait a good twenty-five years or so for that. Perhaps Friends Reunited, that was a bit earlier? No, the only option was a newspaper advertisement. However, I thought it would attract all sorts of nutters, and I had no desire to complicate my life any further. I certainly didn’t want to receive a million letters from God knows how many weirdos out there who thought they were time-travellers – unlike me and Martin, who were the real deal.

  45

  Blind Date

  “Right mate, I won't be long.” I hopped out of my old Cortina and flung the door closed. The super poor part of our plan was my walk into the Broxworth, but there was no other way to get to Jess. With my previously used disguise, which had served me well last year, I wrapped the scarf around my face and stuck on my trilby hat. Head down, I trudged my way into the estate, keeping an eye out for who was about and praying to some higher being that I could get in and out without incident. If Jess was out, then the whole plan had turned to shit and, it would be back to square one – but time was now running out.

  The estate appeared quiet, which was probably a combination of it being around tea-time and the biting wind which ripped through the concrete alleyways. Trotting up to flat 120, I gave the door a quick tap and pushed the letterbox flap.

  “Jess … Jess, it’s your dad. Are you there?” I could see the kitchen light on and hear the radio – first hurdle accomplished – she was at home.

  Still crouching and peering through the letterbox, I spotted her come out of the kitchen. Jess faced the front door whilst she appeared to wipe her hands down her jeans.

  “Jess, it’s Dad.” She rushed to open the door. I sprung through the opening like an Olympic sprinter pushing out of the blocks, keen to get inside without being spotted.

  “Dad, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “Thought I’d come up and see if you’d like to come over to ours for tea. Y’know, meet Jenny and the kids.”

  “D’you realise how dangerous it is coming up here? I said on Monday Paul must now know it was you who killed David.”

  “Yes, I know. But I had no other way of contacting you.”

  “But it’s so risky! Hell, what will he do to me if he knows you’re my father?”

  “Alright. Yes, yes, I know, I'm sorry. So, shall we go?” Now unsure what else to say, so I just grinned.

  Jess frowned, and I could almost see the questions running through her mind. “Okay, yes, that’ll be nice.”

  “Great! Err … shall we go?”

  Jess grabbed her coat from the hook in the hall. “Give me a minute, and I’ll be ready,” she said over her shoulder, as she disappeared back into the kitchen.

  “Okay.”

  “Not that we know each other very well, but there’s something you’re not telling me,” Jess shouted from the kitchen as she silenced the radio. “Dad?” Jess now stood in the hall, pulling her coat on and flicking her hair over her collar.

  “No, not at all. Just thought it would be nice for you to meet Jenny and the kids. We … err … we’re eating at a friend’s house as we are living with him at the moment. He’s nice though; you’ll like him.”

  Jess stopped adjusting her hair and narrowed her eyes. “Dad, this isn’t a blind date you’re setting me up with, is it?”

  “Ha, Christ no! Don is in his eighties, so unless you’re in to old boys, it’s not a blind date.” Although I thought of Martin and sure enough, my newly acquired daughter was right up his street.

  “Phew, you had me worried then.”

  “I have a friend waiting in his car to take us up to Don’s. He’s a nice bloke.”

  Jess was ready and stood looking up at me, her eyes narrowed. “So, he’s the blind date then?”

  “No, no. He’s just a mate giving us a lift. I thought it would be sensible not to bring my car up here as you-know-who knows what I drive. Last thing I need is Paul spotting my car.”

  “No, definitely not. I don’t think you’re welcome around here.”

  I’d heard that before only a few months ago standing in this very same flat. What was it with this bloody estate?

  “Right, come on then. If we turn left at the bottom of the stairs, we can nip through the alley and on to Coldhams Lane. Martin is parked near the Beehive, so we can hopefully get there without being seen.”

  As we ran across Coldhams Lane, I relaxed and stopped clenching my bum cheeks tightly together, now relieved that somehow we’d made it through without incident. Although by no means in the clear, at least we were out of the estate. What Jess didn’t know was the whole evening was a ruse to get her to report Paul Colney. If we could get her to do that, she’d be sleeping in the spare room at Martin’s tonight. I was sure Martin would be well up for that, although I’d made it clear to him – Jess was off-limits.

  “Right, we’re here.”

  Martin had already started the engine, preparing himself to perform his Steve McQueen impression. He revved the engine a few times just for extra drama, I suspected.

  “Bloody hell, it’s that ruddy Cortina! Not exactly inconspicuous, is it!”

  “Agreed, but Paul’s not looking for this car now. As I said, better than bringing the Stag up here.”

  Opening up the back door for Jess, I followed her in as Martin was ready to fly. Like the getaway driver he aspired to be, he pumped the accelerator, so not exactly keeping our presence low key. Oh well, we’d made it now, so no drama here, I thought.

  “Jess, this is Martin.”

  Still revving the engine, he turned and smiled. “Hi, Jess.”

  Jess didn’t reply or smile back. Her complexion had changed, and her mouth dropped open as if in shock or surprise. Although there was the likeness between Martin and Paul, I was surprised she could see the resemblance in the dim light. Martin and I were looking at Jess, but I realised Jess wasn’t looking at Martin. I turned my head and followed her gaze to the front passenger door, which at that point had opened. I hadn’t heard it happen as Martin, throughout this whole encounter was pumping the accelerator.

  The slow-motion feeling I’d had when I ploughed the Beemer into that white van forty-two years in the future returned. I had just enough time to swivel my head to watch Paul Colney slide into the passenger seat next to Martin and ram a sawn-off shotgun in his face. The barrels of the gun pushed his cheek inwards, distorting his appearance. The sound of the engine returned to a low idle as Martin’s foot slipped off the accelerator. Those few moments now seemed as if the four of us were in some alternative remake of The Matrix.

  “My three favourite people all together … how nice!”

  None of us replied. Martin swivelled his eyes, I guess to confirm what was the cause of his cheek indentation. Paul lowered the gun and pointed it at Martin’s lap.

  “Drive, dick-head, or I’ll blow your dick off.”

  Jess grabbed my hand as she turned to look at me with pure horror etched across her face. I thought we’d made it out of the estate unseen, but what an idiot I’d been. Now I, Jess and Martin were in significant danger. In this short space of time living in the ’70s, I’d learned that the Colney family were pure evil. However, although evil and doing the Gowers family bidding – Paul Colney was mentally deranged. He was a psychotic rapist nutter who’d act without thought of consequence. The chance of any of us surviving this encounter was extremely low.

  “I said drive, dick-head,” Paul spat at Martin, who for a few seconds hadn’t moved as he stared at Paul in shock. The trajectory of the barrels of the gun, now pointing at his crown-jewels, jolted him out of his trance. We shot out into Coldhams Lane, causing Jess and I to be flung back into our seats.

  “Where … err … where to?” Martin croaked.

  Jess and I just sat holding hands. Paul was in front of Jess. With no headrests blocking my reach, I considered leaping forward. I could quickly wrap my arm around his neck and he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. As I mu
stered up the courage to move, I released my hand from Jess’s, ready to strike. Paul turned slightly, adjusting his body so he could have half an eye on me.

  “Just keep driving … we’re going to meet some acquaintances of mine who make me look like Mother Teresa.” He grinned. “Don’t do anything stupid, Apple … otherwise, this tosser loses his dick.”

  Glancing at the shotgun with both barrels inches from Martin’s groin, I quickly dismissed my heroic plan as Martin would acquire a large hole between his legs if I moved a muscle. I sat back as Jess took hold of my hand and squeezed. I could feel the relief radiating through her that I’d changed my mind. Although obeying this psycho would avoid the shotgun being emptied in Martin’s lap, thus rendering his overused tackle useless, this journey’s final destination would certainly deliver worse consequences. Not that Martin would see it that way, but then it wasn’t my dick with a sawn-off nuzzled against it.

  ‘For fuck sake, Jason. Think. Think man. You’ve got to come up with a plan, or we’re all dead!’

  46

  Mrs Blunders

  Whether it was fear, adrenalin, or he’d formulated a plan himself which involved high-speed driving, Martin pulled through the gears at a pace and dexterity which Ayrton Senna would’ve been proud of. Although that didn’t end well for him in the San Marino Grand Prix in 1994. For a brief moment of distraction, I made a mental note that I had to somehow stop him racing that day. He was my hero and, if I survived the night, I made a promise to Ayrton that I’d do whatever I could to change his future.

  I can only presume I spotted the bikes a good few seconds before Martin as his reactions appeared slow. Three young lads on bikes careered out of the cut-through lane, which leads down to the City School. They didn’t check their surroundings as they bumped down the kerb and swerved out onto the road.

  Paul didn’t see them as he was facing Martin gripping the shotgun, and Jess’s view was blocked by Paul. Martin reacted at the last possible moment and avoided ploughing through the lads, who all sported surprised expressions as the Cortina headed straight for them. Ripping the steering wheel to his left, Martin steered the car away from the frozen-in-time cyclists. The car’s speed resulted in us careering across the road in a nanosecond and successfully demolishing a bus stop shelter leaving crumpled metal and shattered glass in our wake as the front of the Cortina met with a large oak tree.

  The tree, which had presumably resided in that position way before the Broxworth estate was built or even planned, had probably been planted during Queen Victoria’s reign, and didn’t waver in this new event in its long life. The Cortina crumpled and now shortened to the length where the wheel-base would be more fitting for a Ford Anglia.

  It appeared I hadn’t moved as I was still sat in the rear seat, still holding Jess’s hand. However, my nose which had previously been broken by the monster sitting in the passenger seat throbbed, and I could taste the blood that now flowed down it. I can only assume I’d been flung forward, smashing my nose on Martin’s seat and then catapulted back as the large oak halted our path. Jess and I looked at each other; her face was almost identical as the blood flowed from her nose.

  Martin and Paul were not sitting. Their bodies were positioned through the car windscreen stopped in mid-flight as if they were diving into a swimming pool. Paul’s body was slightly further through the ‘dive’ as Martin’s progress towards the oak had been halted by the steering wheel, which appeared to be embedded in his chest. Without a word, Jess and I opened the rear doors. Jess’s opened as expected, mine I had to put my shoulder to as the crash had reshaped the door frame.

  Martin’s head was turned towards me as I approached the front of the car. He stared directly at me, but I knew his eyes could see nothing. At the age of forty-two, I’d never seen a dead body close up until now. Although I had no medical training, I knew my work colleague and fellow time-traveller was dead … again.

  “Fucking hell, man, that’s awesome!”

  I turned to see the three lads who’d quickly recovered from their near-death experience with the front of the Cortina, standing with their bike frames between their legs and gawping at the front of the car.

  “That one’s got a windscreen wiper stuck through his neck! Fucking gruesome!” exclaimed another one of the lads, as they took in the horror in front of them.

  I glanced from Martin to Paul. He did, in fact, have a windscreen wiper protruding out the back of his neck and was fully impaled on it with what appeared to be gallons of blood pumping from him which poured across the now crumpled car bonnet. Jess stood on the other side of the car, transfixed by the sight of Paul Colney in front of her. Ignoring the sight-seeing cyclists and leaving them to take in the scene, I slowly made my way around to Jess. Grabbing her hand, I squeezed it to bring her out of her trance.

  It was only a week ago when Jenny and I had argued about my wish to replace her car with one that had rear seatbelts, plus my annoyance that she never wore her seatbelt when driving. We’d watched the ‘Blunders-family adverts’ on TV, which showed the nightmare-driving-family causing havoc. That particular advert showed a man, not dissimilar in appearance to Martin, travelling through his yellow MK3 Cortina windscreen after encountering Mrs Blunders woeful driving.

  I stood with Jess staring at our own real-life road-safety TV advert as two cars stopped and two men and a woman rushed over to the scene.

  “Bloody hell! What’s happened here!” called out the first guy who’d run over from where he’d abandoned his car a few yards away. Within less than a minute, the road was blocked as half a dozen vehicles had slowed or stopped. Many drivers jumped out of their cars to see if they could assist, whilst others stayed in theirs and gawped at the scene.

  I tugged Jess’s hand and stepped back, pulling again to get her to react. Fortunately, this non-verbal communication worked and, as the crowd of onlookers closed in on the gruesome scene, we moved behind them.

  “Come on … quickly.” I held her hand and tugged Jess across the road, stepping into the cut-through lane, so we were out of sight of any onlookers.

  “Jess, you okay?”

  She nodded, although I could see she was starting to violently shake as she fumbled for a tissue in her coat pocket and then applied it to her nose. I took a moment to deal with my face with the corner of my coat. I could feel my neck stiffening, and I suspected we both would suffer severe whip-lash.

  “We need to get out of here. Paul was holding that shotgun and, when the police arrive, there will be a bundle of questions I don’t fancy answering.” She nodded as I took her hand, and we nipped down the lane to the school playing fields.

  The first phone box we came across, a hundred yards down from the school on Eaton Road, I phoned George. Within half an hour, we sat in Don’s kitchen, whisky in hand as George and Jenny attempted first aid to our noses.

  47

  5th February 1977

  Hamleys

  Jess was okay about sleeping at Martin’s, as there was no more room in Don’s. I, as predicted, had a very stiff neck in the morning. When we reconvened for breakfast at Don’s on that Saturday morning, Jess seemed to be physically in much better shape than I was. Mentally the events of the previous evening had taken their toll on her. She appeared very quiet and withdrawn as we all sat around the table mid-morning when George had arrived who’d brought Stephen with him to keep Christopher amused.

  Christopher had become quite grumpy as the adventure of the last five days at Don’s had lost its appeal, and he now missed the plethora of toys that filled his bedroom at home. In a few short weeks, by being spoilt by Jenny, me, her parents, Don, George and Ivy, he’d amassed a toy collection that put the boys’ section of Hamleys to shame. He’d very quickly forgotten Lexton House children’s home, with its stark grey walls and the small communal toy box that contained donated outdated and sometimes broken toys.

  Jenny persuaded Jess to go up to the hospital with her to get checked out. The story would be she’d tripped
and fallen, so a quick check to see if the baby was okay was the sensible thing to do.

  George, Don and I discussed the previous evening’s events. Once again, I had to ‘manage the room’ as I had my two closest friends together. Don, knowing my misdemeanours over the last five months, and George had the knowledge of my time-travelling skills.

  As we all were, Don was delighted that a twist of fate had removed another Colney from the planet. This one we all were convinced was the ‘Fairfield rapist’ as we’d named him. George and I believed we’d stopped his future career as a serial rapist as he must have carried on right into the late ’80s when he presumably raped Sarah Moore – Martin’s mother – a discussion we had out of Don’s earshot.

  I was beside myself that I’d caused Martin’s death. Although it was a complicated conversation as George knew it was the second time I’d been in a car with Martin when he’d lost his life, whereas Don believed it was the first time. Either way, both fully understood my distress and were insistent it wasn’t directly my fault.

  Jenny and I planned to decamp back home on Saturday afternoon, safe in the knowledge that Paul Colney no longer posed a threat. Shirley Colney, for the moment, would be consumed by the death of another son to cause us any immediate issues.

  Jenny and Jess returned before lunch. As Jess was pregnant, she’d jumped the queue at A&E and had been quickly assessed. The baby was fine, and I thought that baby was a tough little bugger after the last two week’s events. He or she, probably taking after their father – another bloody Colney.

  I considered perhaps the Beth I knew from my previous life had acquired her toughness from her father, David, and not the Lexton House experience. Only time would tell when she grew up for the second time. I hoped that steel-like persona was a product of her time in the children’s home and not inherited from her future murderous now-dead father. I had many years to find that out, so I chose to dump that thought back in a ‘keep-closed-pandora’s-style-box’ in a dark recess of my brain.