Shaping those young minds was a big responsibility. Joe was charged, to some degree, with the unenviable task of setting the moral standards by which his young readers would live the rest of their days. For that reason, he tried to ensure that Joshua Wyrdd always did the right thing. He got himself into scrapes, of course. What time-travelling teen didn't? But he didn't lie, cheat, or steal.
Well, sometimes he did. But only if his actions served some greater purpose. Anyway, without those scrapes there would be no stories. It was all about the story.
Taking a deep breath, Joe began to type.
Chapter 3
Joe awoke with the sun shining down on him through the window. From outside came the sound of traffic and the cawing of seagulls. For a moment he didn't know where he was, so unfamiliar were the surroundings. His shoulders and neck ached, and when he tried to move his arms he found them heavy as lead and crawling with pins and needles. As his mind cleared he remembered the train journey down to Wales, the barren seaside town, and the gloomy Sea Breeze hotel.
He had fallen asleep at the desk, resting his head on folded arms. Following his lead, his laptop had also gone into 'sleep' mode. Joe hit a key to bring it back to life, and saw that he had managed just a few paragraphs before nodding off. Reading through what he had written he saw that it wasn't great, but not bad, either. It would do for a start.
He searched for a Wi-Fi connection so he could check his emails. You never knew when a commission might come in. His laptop scanned, but found nothing. That was annoying. There were usually a few networks available, even if they were password protected.
Joe sighed, making a mental note to bring it up the next time he encountered the hotel Nazi.
He turned to the TV instead. This was dangerous. There was always the chance of getting stuck into the Jeremy Kyle Show or Loose Women. But in the absence of Internet, TV seemed the only thing that could fill the monitor-sized hole in his life.
There were only three channels.
What the fuck was all that about?
Where were the other fifty-odd?
That was something else to talk to the plump hotel Nazi about.
Flinging the remote control on the unmade bed, he decided to get some food instead. Not remembering any mention of a restaurant or dining hall on the premises, he guessed it would mean venturing outside. A glance at the icon in the bottom right-hand side of his computer screen told him it was 10.25am. Though still pretty early for him, it was too late for breakfast but not late enough for lunch. So, a seaside brunch it was.
Joe stretched and got to his feet. He hated sleeping in his clothes. For some reason it always felt like he hadn't been asleep at all. He considered grabbing a shower, then decided against it. He was on holiday, fuck it. Besides, there was nobody he felt the need to impress.
Instead, he relieved his aching bladder, pulled out a crumpled pair of jeans and a clean white tee from his rucksack, and changed into them. Fresh clothes were almost as good as a shower.
It seemed like a nice day outside. He went to the window, and what he saw in the street outside creased his brow in confusion.
People. There were people everywhere. In stark contrast to the day before, the seafront was now a hive of activity. Couples of all ages walked by hand-in-hand, old wooden deck chairs populated by old people faced the sea, groups of children chaperoned by stern-looking adults milled around ice cream and candy floss vendors, and there was even a small cluster of tired-looking donkey's huddled together on the beach.
What a difference a day could make!
The sun was blazing down from a cloudless sky, and everyone had shed their winter clothes. Either string vests and short trousers had made a spectacular comeback, or people in north Wales just weren't that fashionable.
Even at that early point, Joe instinctively knew there was something wrong. What he was seeing wasn't quite... right. He knew it, but something in his mind shrank away and chose not to pursue the truth. You cannot legislate for what cannot be.
Instead, he headed out to join the party.
On the way down the hotel corridor, he noticed how much better things looked in the daylight. The place didn't look nearly as run-down as it had the previous evening. Even the well-trodden brown carpet looked as if it had been spruced up. Maybe this was the first step towards a facelift in preparation for a busy summer season.
There were also other guests now, Joe could hear giggling and chatting behind closed doors as he passed.
Once outside, Joe turned to look at the front of the building. The decorators had been. The stone-finished walls had been buffed, the broken tiles had been fixed, the cracked window replaced, and a fresh coat of paint applied to the green door. Good work!
The workmen must have completed their tasks and left early, because there was no sign of them now. There wasn't even a telltale odour of fresh paint. And it wasn't just the hotel that had benefited. The run-down building next door now looked immaculate. The walls having been repaired and the graffiti washed off.
Joe really must find out the name and number of the builders charged with the restoration work, just in case he ever needed their services. They had done an amazing job. How could they do so much work in so little time?
He didn't know. He was no expert. But the evidence was staring him in the face. They must have come in either very early in the morning or during the night.
In fact, now Joe thought about it, the whole street seemed to have been renovated. Everything looked brighter and more vibrant. Even the weather had changed. It wasn't just sunny, it was warm. The temperature must have risen fifteen degrees since yesterday.
Blinking several times, he looked closer at his surroundings. He must just have gotten the wrong impression of the place when he arrived. Everywhere looked better in the sunshine, however run-down and decrepit it first appeared. He should have hunted down that newspaper after all. Then he might have had prior warning of the imminent heatwave.
Not to worry. He could pick one up now, and see how long this glorious weather was set to last.
From the hotel he turned left and began walking down the promenade, just as he had done the previous evening, this time marvelling at the cacophony of sights and sounds. There was laughter everywhere. He passed a man in his thirties carrying a gurgling toddler on his shoulders, a handkerchief tied at each corner covering his head, and a pair of old ladies with walking sticks and old-fashioned curlers in their hair. A pretty girl of 19 or 20 wearing a prim yellow dress with a pale green flowery pattern zoomed by on roller skates and flashed him a smile, the sun reflecting off the metal braces in her mouth. Joe smiled back. He couldn't remember the last time he had caught a pretty girl's eye. Neither could he remember the last time he'd seen anyone on roller skates.
Continuing down the promenade, he soon came across a news kiosk. Had it been there the night before? If so, it had escaped his attention.
The kiosk was manned by a smart, elderly gentleman wearing a brown tweed jacket and matching flat cap. A self-rolled cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. That was something else you didn't see much of these days. “Good day, sir!” said the old gent as Joe approached.
“Er, hi...”
The old gent frowned and leaned slightly forward, as if struggling to remember something. “Have we met before?” he asked.
Now it was Joe's turn to frown, “No, I don't think so,” he replied. “This is my first time here in Rhyl.”
“Are you sure?”
“Er, quite sure, yes. I think I'd remember. Don't you?”
“S'pose so,” said the old man with a dismissive shrug.
Joe was beginning to feel awkward under the old man's probing stare, and quickly diverted his attention to the array of newspapers and magazines laid out neatly before him. He recognized most of the titles, but there were a few he was unfamiliar with. Probably just small circulation local rags. He knew mainstream media pretty well, but the provincial press had numerous regional publications you
would never know existed unless you happened to visit the area they served or specifically sought them out.
He selected something he knew. The Daily Telegraph. Always a decent read. Usually, anyway.
The first thing he noticed was that the typeface had changed since the last time he bought it. The 'new' look was dated, intentionally, he suspected. Must be the latest skirmish in the war against the Internet. Give people the retro look they craved. It was comforting.
The main headline said something about Prime Minister Edward Heath speaking about the troubles in Northern Ireland.
Edward Heath?
Prime Minister?
Then Joe noticed the date at the top. Saturday March 3rd 1973.
What the heck?
Must be a commemorative issue of some kind.
He almost put the newspaper back and selected one that actually carried today's news, then decided against it. Whatever was happening in the world in 1973 had to be more interesting than what was happening in 2014.
Suddenly, he realized the significance of the date on the newspaper. March 3rd 1973 was his birthday. Not the annual half-arsed celebration, but his actual birth day. The day his mother brought him into the world. A smile spread over his face. He loved coincidences.
“How much, mate?”
“Same as usual, sir. No price hike. Not yet, anyway.”
“Well that's some good news,” Joe replied politely, unsure whether the old guy was alluding to an imminent planned cover price increase he had gotten wind of, or if he was making a weak joke based on something in the commemorative newspaper. People sold replica copies like this on the Internet for small fortunes. Joe had stumbled across one for the price of an ordinary daily. Bargain. This could turn out to be a good day, after all.
He rummaged in his jeans pocket, fished out a two-pound coin, and passed it to the old gent. “Keep the change, mate,” he said as he began walking away, flicking through the comically over-sized newspaper as he went. He didn't see the look of bemusement that spread over the old newspaper-sellers face when he examined the coin Joe had given him.
As he strolled in the sun, Joe suddenly remembered that it was almost lunch time, and he had skipped breakfast. Looking around for a place to eat, he saw that just down the road was what looked like an old-fashioned greasy spoon café. That would do nicely.
Further down was a small movie theatre, the kind you don't often see any more. These days it was all sterile multiplexes that charged almost as much for the popcorn and coke as they did for the ticket to see the latest Hollywood blockbuster.
Joe strained his eyes to read the name of the main feature. It was Battle for the Planet of the Apes.
Must be another remake, he thought.
Trying to find a way to connect events in his mind, he decided the commemorative newspaper might be some kind of promotion linked with the remake.
Yeah, that must be it.
Later, with the wonderful gift of hindsight, he thought that perhaps this attempt at justification was just his subconscious' way of softening the blow.
The greasy spoon was full of cigarette smoke mingled with the smell of sausages and bacon. The Department of Health and Safety would have a field day if they stumbled across this place. But seduced by the smell of frying meat, Joe was in no mood to complain about people smoking. There might even be different smoking laws in Wales, for all he knew. He remembered reading somewhere that they had been paying for plastic bags for years. Maybe letting them still smoke in public was the pay-off.
But didn’t the plump hotel Nazi make a point of telling him smoking was against the law now?
Did she?
Whatever. Who cares?
Taking a seat at an empty table in the window, Joe picked up a menu. No sooner had he done so, a pretty waitress with a mini-skirt and a pony tail appeared holding a notebook and pen. “Morning, sir!” she chirped. “Welcome to Ray's cafe. I'm Joan. What would you like?”
Joan? Old-fashioned name for a bright young thing.
Without even consulting the menu, Joe ordered a full English breakfast and settled back to watch the passers-by passing by. Two smiling youths strutted past the window, each with immaculate quiffed hair, too-tight drainpipe trousers, and green parka jackets, despite the blazing sun.
What the hell were they thinking? Was there a mod revival going on or something?
While he waited for his food, Joe spread open the paper and scanned a few pages; Richard Nixon was travelling back to China in a bid to establish relations, there was a worldwide oil crisis looming, inflation was on the increase, and Elvis Presley's Aloha from Hawaii had just been broadcast to the biggest live television audience ever. Apparently, more people had watched that than the NASA moon landings. The TV guide listed Streets of San Francisco, Ironside, and the Wombles as the 'highlights of the Week', while the sports pages talked up Don Revie's Leeds United.
Wow. It was all happening in the early seventies.
Soon, the full English arrived and Joe remembered how ravenous he was. Pouring a healthy dollop of HP brown sauce onto the side of his plate, he picked up his knife and fork and tucked in. It felt like he hadn't eaten for days.
As he took a bite out of a thick Cumberland sausage dripping with fat, and the peppery taste flooded his mouth, a strange set of conflicting emotions came over him. There was a surreal, dream-like disconnection, accompanied by no small trace of unease. On the other hand, he felt more alive than he had in years. There was also excitement, and an overwhelming desire to make the most of his visit to the seaside, this welcome diversion from his humdrum reality. Rhyl didn’t seem like such a bad place.
On the adjacent table, two women who looked to be their early-to-mid twenties were chatting excitedly in thick, north-Walian accents. One sported a infeasibly large beehive haircut, and the other wore what must have been one of the shortest mini skirts ever manufactured. Amidst the giggles, talk of beauty products he would never use and strangers he would never meet, a few snippets made sense to him.
Isn't Bowie's new album just brilliant?
Isn't that Clint Eastwood so dashing?
Joe was no expert, but as legendary as he was, David Bowie was seldom talked about in those terms these days. And it must be thirty years since Eastwood had been in any way 'dashing.' The guy was well into his seventies!
Slowly, little pieces of an unseen puzzle began clicking into place. The mysteriously refurbished hotel, three channels on the TV, no Internet connection, the newspaper laying open on the table in front of him, people smoking in cafe's, the mods walking past, the cinema down the street, the two girls on the next table discussing whether Bowie or Eastwood would make the best lover.
This really was the year 1973.
Unless he was the victim of an elaborate conspiracy, some TV reality show specifically designed to fuck with people's heads, he had gone to sleep last night and woken up in a different time.
No. How could that happen? It was impossible.
Wasn't it?
It must be a dream.
Under the table, Joe pinched the skin on his forearm. Hard. And winced at the pain. Then his throat closed up and he struggled to control his breathing as waves of panic threatened to engulf him.
He wasn't dreaming.
This was real.
At least Joe seemed to be fitting in quite well, with his unremarkable casual attire. It might have been a different story if he had worn his Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band 1999 reunion tour shirt.
Without finishing his brunch, Joe got up and left Ray's cafe, leaving a five pound note next to his empty plate. He wasn't sure how much a meal cost in 1973, but he was pretty sure a fiver would cover it. He just didn't want to be there when the waitress examined the note and saw that it wouldn't actually be printed for another thirty-odd years. That would be tricky to explain. Worst case scenario, she would think he was trying to pay with Monopoly money and call the police.
Outside, he walked along in a daze, watching peop
le enjoying the sunshine and feeling like a more like a voyeur than ever. Now he recognised the awkwardness he'd been feeling all day for what it was. He didn't belong here.
But something had brought him here for a reason. Everything happened for a reason, didn't it?
He hadn't completely given up on the idea that it was all a dream, his mind clinging to a last withering shred of hope. But he knew that wasn't the case. It would be too simple. Too neat and convenient.
So if not a dream, then what? Some kind of scientific anomaly? A freak accident of physics? Maybe that wasn't as outlandish as it seemed. Maybe it happened all the time. God knew there were enough mysterious disappearances in the world, and people don’t just vanish into thin air. Everyone had to go somewhere. Perhaps the unfortunate time travellers ended up in mental institutions in some foreign time, unable to cope with the events that had befallen them.
Or maybe they found their way back to where they came from and decided never to speak of their fantastic journey. Who would believe them, anyway?
After a while, the memories of the experience would surely fade. Then, as memories and dreams merged into one, barely distinguishable torrent, the unwitting traveller might be able to convince himself it really had all been a figment of his imagination.
It suddenly occurred to Joe that perhaps he had brought all this on himself.
The Joshua Wyrdd books.
Perhaps he had thought about his time-travelling boy-hero so much, invested so much time and energy into making the stories believable, become so immersed in their endless alternate realities, that he had triggered a reaction in the universe. Some weird cosmic force that somehow made his imaginings real. Could his life now be imitating his art?
Joe suddenly needed some alone time. He could feel the dark rumblings of a migraine stir somewhere behind his eyes. The ideas were coming thick and fast. It felt almost as if a plughole had been unblocked inside his head, allowing a stream of consciousness through the hole instead of dirty dishwater.
Out of Time Page 3
