by Jason Ayres
So, I wouldn’t need to contrive a way of meeting in Oxford after all. It looked like I was about to pay my first of many visits to the racetrack.
I had a vague interest in racing from watching it on Channel 4, mostly during that first year or so when I hadn’t felt up to leaving the house very often.
I got quite a kick out of knowing the results in advance, particularly when I heard the channel’s experts confidently predicting that such and such a horse (usually the favourite) would win when I knew otherwise.
However, there didn’t seem to me to be much point in betting on it. As I’d explained to Lauren, my winnings would be destined to vanish as soon as the day was out, so why bother?
But on this occasion my goal was not to win money. It was to convince Josh that I knew the future and the race meeting was the perfect place. Once I’d tipped him a few winners, I could broach the idea of time travel with him and see what the response was.
If there was any possibility that he could shed any further light on my situation, I had to find out. Of course there was every chance that this would all turn out to be a complete wild-goose chase. I could not be sure that Lauren had not made the whole thing up, but I had nothing to lose by trying. Her story was no crazier than mine, after all.
I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to get him on his own with his brother and father in tow, but I would have to work that out on the day.
At least it shouldn’t be too difficult to find him. He had been tagged in a picture on Facebook standing in front of the bookies, so I knew exactly what he would be wearing in addition to what he looked like.
On the Sunday I made sure I checked the internet and memorised the names of all the winners. I was going to have to get myself on the road bright and early on Saturday morning.
Racing started early at this time of the year in order to get all the races in before it got dark. I wanted to make sure I was at the track well before the first race at 12.10pm.
Unfortunately, there was one thing I hadn’t taken into account and that was that not only did I not wake up until nearly 9am on Saturday morning, I also had a hangover. These were things that I had no control over, and as for the alarm clock by the side of my bed, it was about as much use to me as a chocolate teapot.
I had planned to get into Oxford early on Saturday morning and kit myself out with some suitable gear, perhaps a new Barbour jacket and some tweed trousers to make me look like a member of the racing fraternity, but there was no time for that now.
In the end, I settled for a quick shower and a shave, and then put on an old suit that had been gathering dust in the wardrobe. The last thing I wanted to do was turn up looking scruffy and dishevelled: that wouldn’t help me look convincing at all.
I didn’t look too bad once I’d cleaned myself up, and apart from a fair bit of slow-moving traffic on the A40 heading out of Oxford, I managed to get to the track in plenty of time.
It was pretty busy at the course as I had expected for the main meeting on a Saturday, but there was plenty of room to move about. All I had to do now was to spot Josh and then work out a way to approach him.
It didn’t take too long. I had decided to base myself in the stand above the betting ring so I could watch everyone coming and going.
About five minutes before the first race, I spotted him, blond hair and long, black coat, just as I’d seen it on Facebook. In fact, as I watched he posed for the very picture I’d seen, his older-looking brother taking the snap and immediately uploading it.
I had already decided not to approach him before the first race, a novice hurdle event with only five runners. I knew that it was going to be won by a very short-priced favourite, ridden by the champion jockey, and that most of the punters on the track would have picked it. To go up to someone claiming to know the future and then tip them a 4/9F would be laughable.
After the race, in which the favourite duly obliged amid raucous cheers from the crowd, I followed Josh and his family inside where they headed straight for the bar.
Josh’s father looked quite pleased with himself as he ordered three pints of lager. He’d obviously lumped onto the winner, though he couldn’t have won a fortune at the price. In contrast, Josh did not look pleased.
There were quite a few punters jostling for position at the bar. I had managed to manoeuvre myself in behind them, just as Josh’s brother excused himself to go to the toilet.
This gave me the opportunity I needed to squeeze myself in next to them at the bar where I caught Josh’s eye. “Bit of a dead cert, that one, eh?” I said, hoping to spark off a bit of banter.
“That’s what my dad said,” replied Josh. “He had fifty quid on it. I went for the second favourite, though.”
“I told you it was nailed on,” said Josh’s dad. “You wouldn’t listen.”
“Yeah, but I don’t like backing horses at such short odds,” replied Josh. “What you’ve won will barely cover the cost of these drinks. I want a bit of value.”
“Value doesn’t put food on the table, son. You’ll learn,” replied his dad.
He was a big bloke, with plenty of muscle. I knew that he ran a building firm and it wasn’t difficult to imagine him working on a building site. He also struck me as a bit of a know-it-all. Funnily enough, that was one of the things Lauren had said about Josh when she was listing her reasons for splitting up with him. Perhaps it ran in the family.
Well, I certainly knew more about today’s racing than either of them did. This was the ideal opportunity to set my plan in motion.
“Well, if it’s value you’re after, I’ve got a very decent priced selection for the next,” I said. “Believe me, this one can’t lose.”
Josh’s dad intervened. “Don’t be fooled, son. Racecourses are full of people claiming to have inside information and giving out tips. I’ve heard it all before: take no notice.”
“Sorry, mate, I should have introduced myself,” I said, thinking quickly. “My name’s Thomas Scott, I’m from Lambourn.”
Josh’s dad’s ears perked up at this, “Geoff Gardner,” he replied, “and this is my son, Josh. So, Lambourn, eh? I suppose you are going to tell me you know all the trainers?”
“Nothing like that,” I replied. “But I do know which horse is going to win the next race. It’s Mercury Wells, 8/1. Trust me.”
“Experience has taught me not to trust people who say trust me,” said Geoff, a cynical look on his face.
I held my ground and reiterated what I’d said before. “Look, believe me or not, I am telling you that Mercury Wells will win the next.”
By now, they had got their drinks and the brother had returned.
“There’s only four runners, Dad,” said Josh. “Got to be worth a couple of quid, surely?”
“It’s your funeral, son,” said Geoff. “Nice to meet you, Thomas,” he said, and then added sarcastically, “Give my love to everyone in Lambourn.”
And with that they headed off outside to put their bets on for the next race. I followed at a discreet distance, trying not to be seen. What I was doing fell very much into the “stalker” category, and I didn’t want them to get too suspicious.
The betting market for the race was dominated by the front two horses in the market but halfway round the favourite unseated his rider to groans from the crowd. The second favourite then got very tired in the heavy ground and was passed by Mercury Wells on the run-in.
Watching from afar, I was amused to see Geoff shouting “For fuck’s sake” when the favourite fell, screwing up his ticket and throwing it to the ground. Josh, on the other hand, was jumping up and down cheering as Mercury Wells made the best of his way home.
Everything was going according to plan, so as they headed back inside, I followed, ready to accost them again.
They sent Josh’s brother to the bar, whilst they grabbed a seat in the corner and began poring over the Racing Post. I casually sauntered over to them, hoping that I might get a more friendly reaction from Geoff. However, it
was the exact opposite.
Far from congratulating me on my tip, Geoff was in a confrontational mood. “Oh, look, here he is,” he sneered, as I approached “The champion tipster.”
“What’s the problem?” I asked. “I’ve just tipped you an 8/1 winner.”
“You must think I was born yesterday, mate,” responded Geoff. “Don’t think I don’t know your game.”
“And what’s that exactly?” I asked, wondering what he thought I was up to.
“It’s the oldest trick in the book. You come and give us a tip for a race. Then you go round and find three other mugs and tip them a different horse each. You then go back to whoever you tipped the winning horse, tell them you have an even bigger cert for the next race, but you need to put the money on for them. Then we hand over our cash and you scarper.”
“Did that happen to you once, then, Dad?” asked Josh. “Is that how you know?”
“No, son, I saw it in a film,” replied Geoff, though I was sure I saw him turn a slightly deeper shade of red. I’d have bet good money that he hadn’t seen it in a film. He must have been conned at some point in the past.
“I can assure you I am not going to ask you for any money,” I replied. “But as it happens, I do know what is going to win the next race.”
This was my big chance to really convince. The next race was a very competitive event, a handicap hurdle with sixteen runners which was going to be won by a rank outsider.
“Come on then, Prince Monolulu, what’s the horse?” asked Geoff.
“Who’s Prince Monolulu?” asked Josh.
“Never mind, before your time,” said Geoff. “Ask your granddad.”
Having no idea what he was talking about, I pressed on, and said, “If you really want to make some decent money today, put all your cash on Mister Fibuli.”
“Now I know you’re taking the piss,” said Geoff. “That donkey is way past its best. It hasn’t won for about three years.”
“I’m telling you, Mister Fibuli is the one to be on. Back it, Josh. You backed that last one, didn’t you?”
“I did,” said Josh, “but Dad didn’t. His horse fell.”
“We’ve heard enough,” said Geoff. “You are beginning to irritate me, mate. Come on, Josh, let’s go and find something decent to bet on, and don’t be wasting any money on any more of his duff tips. He just got lucky with that last one.”
I let them go, but gave Josh a knowing look as he got up and mouthed “back it” at him. Then I retreated to a safe distance. Geoff looked like the sort of bloke who might be quite handy with his fists, and I didn’t think winding him up any further would be the best course of action.
Ten minutes later, the crowd was stunned as Mister Fibuli, an eleven-year-old grey gelding, pulled clear of the field up the hill to win at odds of 33/1. Again I saw Josh celebrating, but there was a look of fury on Geoff’s face. Josh’s brother looked none too pleased either.
I didn’t relish approaching them all again, so I loitered in the vicinity of the toilets and waited. The three of them were knocking back plenty of booze at the bar so they’d all have to pay a visit eventually.
I stayed out of sight until Josh went in, and then followed him. He went up to the urinal and unzipped his flies, and I neatly slotted in next to him. This could easily have been misinterpreted by a casual observer, a middle-aged man hanging around outside the toilets and then following a young man in.
I hadn’t attracted any attention, though; everyone was too busy trying to work out the winner of the next race.
Now I was standing next to Josh who was in mid-piss: I had a captive audience so it was now or never.
“Mister Fibuli,” I said. “What did I tell you?”
“Awesome tip, mate,” said Josh. “I had a tenner on it. I got 50/1 with one bookie; most of them had it at 33/1. But you had better stay out of Dad’s way: he’s well annoyed with you. Where do you get your info from?” he asked.
I just came straight out with it “The future,” I declared. “I’m a time traveller. I’ve come here specifically to meet you, because I’ve been given information that you are an expert on time travel and I am hoping that you can help me.”
Josh seemed somewhat taken aback, but I certainly had his attention. “Who told you this?” he asked.
“I can’t divulge that,” I said, knowing that if I mentioned Lauren’s name, it might have a negative effect. They had after all only recently split up. “But I do know the future, and I’ll prove it once more,” I said. “Back Hill Valley in the next, and when it wins, ditch your dad and brother and meet me in the on-course betting shop after the race.”
Hill Valley won the handicap chase at odds of 5/1, and sure enough, Josh came and found me in the on-course betting shop. I had well and truly grabbed his attention, so I briefly outlined my situation to him. He was eager and attentive and seemed quite convinced.
“The thing is,” he said, after I’d finished explaining, “I don’t actually have the ability to travel where and when I want to in time, all I know is that it is possible. I am not sure exactly what I can do to help you.”
“You may not have that ability now, but maybe you will one day in the future,” I replied. “All I want to do is find out one thing – if the actions I am taking in my life lead to a happy ever after. I want to know that in a decade or more from now, I haven’t died of cancer, my wife is alive and well, and that Stacey is happy.”
“And you want me to find this out for you?” asked Josh.
“If you can,” I replied. “And if you ever do find out how to do it, come back in time and tell me.”
“When?” said Josh.
“Not now,” I said. “Earlier, much earlier, when I’ve done all the things I need to do to put life on the track that I want.”
I had already worked all this out in my head. It needed to be way back, when I was a young man, before I had even met Sarah. I took a betting slip from the counter, grabbed a small blue pen, and wrote the following down on the slip:
Thomas Scott. 6th August 1990, 5pm, Radcliffe Camera.
I had picked out this date more or less at random. I had made it as late in the day as possible as I couldn’t be sure exactly where I would be in the morning. This would give me plenty of time to get there in case I woke up and found myself out of town. The Radcliffe Camera was a well-known monument in the centre of the city, and seemed as good a place as any.
Before I gave the slip to him I also wrote down my date of birth and home address.
“Keep hold of that,” I said, handing it to him. “You should be able to find out all you need about me from those details. Meanwhile, I will be there on that date and at that time. If there is any way you can find a way to make it back there, please do.”
Josh pocketed the betting slip. “This is surreal,” he said, “but if I can be there, I will.”
“Thanks,” I said. “And now you’d better get back to the others. And don’t forget to back Henry Clare in the next. A bit of extra cash towards your time travel experiments wouldn’t go amiss, I’m sure.”
“Thank-you,” said Josh, “in more ways than one. You’ve inspired me. I’m determined to unlock the secret of time travel.”
“See you in 1990 then,” I replied, more in hope than expectation, and we parted company. I didn’t bother hanging around for the rest of the meeting, I felt satisfied that my work for the day was done, and I didn’t really want to run into Josh’s dad again.
All I had to do now was to wait a couple of decades to see if he turned up or not.
July 2021
My day at the races had given me a bit of a taste for gambling, so I decided to amuse myself with it a while longer. Even if I couldn’t make any long-term benefit from it, I could still have some fun on a daily basis.
I also wanted to ensure Stacey was well taken care of in the future, so I decided it might be fun to engineer a lottery win on her behalf.
I waited until a rollover Saturday arrived to ensure I
’d have the only winning ticket, and tempted Stacey to spend the evening at home with the offer of a Chinese takeaway. She adored Chinese food, so it wasn’t difficult to persuade her.
The summer had seen a change take place in my domestic circumstances. It had been in August that Stacey had moved in with David in his flat in London. She’d found it a tough break to make, and on the day she left there had been tears, her saying that she was worried about leaving me all alone.
I assured her that this wasn’t going to be a problem, wished her well, and watched as she and David drove away to start their life together. She had promised that she would visit me every other weekend and, true to her word, she had done.
Having Stacey back home with me brought a new lease of life to the old house. It had other benefits, too. I had reason to make more of an effort with cooking, and began to enjoy eating with her three or four nights a week.
Sometimes we would just stay in and watch TV together; other nights she was out with David, or he would come over and stay with us. She seemed blissfully happy, and it was no surprise when she broached the subject of moving in with him.
It was while she was plucking up the courage to tell me she would be moving out that I got the first indication that there may have been some stormy waters in the past.
“Dad, I’m so happy with David,” she had said. “I wasn’t sure if I’d ever feel comfortable with someone after what happened when I was sixteen, but he’s been so good to me.”
This set alarm bells ringing, but I could hardly blatantly come out and ask her what had happened when she was sixteen. It was clearly a “big thing” that I obviously should have known about. Up until that moment it had never been referred to before.
There would be plenty of time to find out. Stacey was 21 now, so I just replied that I was glad she had found someone to make her happy.
So now, here we were, on Saturday night, and I was about to make her even happier. I’d made sure that we were sitting down watching the Lotto draw as we ate our Chinese. I’d even put a bottle of champagne in the fridge ready for the ensuing celebration.