by Jason Ayres
What I planned to do was breathtakingly simple and that was the beauty of it. I wasn’t going to do a Bobbitt and chop his dick off, or any other violent act. I was simply going to show the world what a cheating bastard he was.
It was highly possible what I was planning to do might constitute an illegal act, but I didn’t care. I had heard of so-called revenge porn crimes, but wasn’t sure if this would fall into that category or not. It was a bit of a grey area. I wasn’t going to waste time researching it; besides, even if it was a crime, it was worth it.
In the kitchen I made myself a posh coffee using the very expensive De’Longhi coffee machine we had purchased together. Annoyingly, he had managed to keep that during what I jokingly call our ‘divorce settlement’, even though we weren’t married.
Perversely, I wished we had been because I had come out of the relationship very badly. I never even thought while we were together about the rights or otherwise of common-law wives – something I had later cause to regret.
Health-wise I didn’t feel great this morning, and hadn’t done since I had woken up. My throat was sore, and then I sneezed suddenly. I had all the symptoms of the early stages of a cold which triggered a memory. I did have a bad cold that New Year. If I hadn’t, I would never have caught him in bed with Emma.
I took a sip of the coffee – wow, it was good and the hot liquid was soothing to my throat. I wish I had kept hold of this machine. Lily would have loved it. It made me angry just thinking about it, how much I had lost.
I thought I had got over all this, but sitting here now in the kitchen of the home I had once made my own was bringing it all back to me and it was making me angry.
Part of me was tempted to hurl the coffee machine on the floor and smash it, but what would that give me other than a brief moment’s satisfaction? No, I was better than that, and besides, it could scupper my plan.
I didn’t want to do anything that might jeopardise what I had in mind. If I smashed up his beloved De’Longhi he might just begin to suspect that I had rumbled him. It was OK to be angry but I needed to channel that anger effectively.
My anger melted away in an instant as I heard a telltale scratching at the kitchen door.
“Tommy!” I squealed in delight as I opened the back door to let in my beloved former pet.
After much affection and fuss which the poor cat probably didn’t appreciate, coming in as he had for his breakfast, I heard the telltale creaking of the aging floorboards from the bedroom above which told me Rob was out of bed. We lived in a 1930s semi which, despite being lovely, with large rooms and big bay windows, was also showing signs of wear and tear.
Things went quiet for a couple of minutes which meant that he would be sitting on the toilet reading yesterday’s newspaper. He insisted on taking that in there with him, something that I considered to be another filthy habit. What was it with men and reading on the toilet?
Shortly afterwards, there was this horrendous noise that sounded like an aeroplane taking off which meant he had flushed the toilet. I remembered that it had been making that racket for months before I left but nothing had been done about fixing it. I had suggested a plumber but he reckoned it was just an airlock and something he could easily fix himself. He hadn’t bothered, though.
A few minutes later, here he was, waltzing into the kitchen in his ill-fitting shirt, bought before he had put on weight, and tie, all set for his incredibly dull job as an accountant in the regional headquarters of a global finance company.
“Morning,” I said, attempting to sound all bright and breezy in order to conceal my contempt.
“Got any coffee on?” was the grunted response. He wasn’t a morning person – well, not with me anyway. I’m sure it would be different if it was Emma sitting here. Still, she probably would be soon. In my world, the one that had already happened, he hadn’t wasted any time moving her in after I left. Still, it might be different this time because what I had planned for today might wreck their future. Here’s hoping!
“I’ll make you one,” I said, turning back to the machine. As I was preparing it, I felt another sneeze coming, but rather than cover my mouth, I freely let it fly all over his coffee cup.
What’s mine is yours, I thought, chuckling inwardly. What are a few germs between ex-lovers?
“Here you go,” I said, turning around and handing him his coffee. He hadn’t seen my act of sabotage and took it eagerly. He also hadn’t bothered to say “bless you”, uncaring bastard that he was.
Enjoy the cold, you bastard was what I had really wanted to say and it took a lot of restraint not to say it out loud.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’d better drink this quickly – I need to get to work.”
I looked at the clock above our old-fashioned electric cooker. It had one of those grills at head height that you don’t see much anymore, but I really liked it.
Rob didn’t agree. He said it was dangerous, having melted a Tupperware box which he accidentally left on top one day when he was grilling some bacon. The resulting mess of molten plastic that dripped through had ruined his breakfast. He reckoned the kitchen was in serious need of modernisation, not that he was ever likely to fork out any money on it.
It was nearly eight-fifteen and I was eager to see the back of him, but then a wicked thought struck me. I decided I would wind him up a bit first.
“Relax,” I said. “There won’t be much traffic on the roads today.”
Although 31st December was not a bank holiday, many people took the whole of the period between Christmas and New Year off. It was one of the few times of the year you could actually move freely around Oxford’s road network without getting stuck in a jam. He had plenty of time to get to work.
“In fact,” I added, emboldened by the knowledge that I had the upper hand, “we could go back upstairs for a quickie if you like?”
“Sorry, babe, I’d love to, but we’ve got an early meeting today,” he blatantly lied. “Maybe later,” he added.
I knew he would say no, that’s why I had asked. I wanted to make him feel uncomfortable. We hadn’t done it for months before we finished, as he always had an excuse not to. There would be no later either – he would just say he was too tired then. The truth was, he was saving himself for Emma, as his next sentence made all too obvious.
“Listen,” he added, tentatively. “You are still working tonight, aren’t you?”
Making sure I’m out so you can have the mistress around, no doubt?
Jeez, it was tough biting my tongue and not saying this stuff out loud.
“You know I am,” I replied. “You suggested it, remember, for the extra money?”
“Yes, of course,” he said. “What time are you leaving?”
“About six,” I replied.
“I probably won’t see you, then,” he said. “We’re going for a few drinks after work.”
He jumped up, placed a token peck on my cheek and said, “since I won’t see you later, that’s to say Happy New Year.”
With that, he pulled on his coat, grabbed his crappy little briefcase which he thought made him look important, and left.
“Oh, you’ll see me sooner than you think,” I said, out loud this time, but not until he had shut the front door behind him.
With him gone, I went to rummage around in the medicine drawer for some cold and flu remedies. I knew that this cold was going to be an absolute stinker – almost flu-like. It was so bad that I had been sent home from work with it at 2am first time around. That had been when I had found him and Emma at it in our bed.
I wasn’t going to be going to work, this time. I was going to call in sick again, but at least it would be genuine this time. That would allow me to be right here waiting to catch him out, but it wouldn’t be like last time. This time, the whole world was going to see what a scoundrel he really was.
That was all to come later. Meanwhile, I had something else I wanted to do first. I returned upstairs to dress and make myself presentable, then l
eft the house and headed into town.
I didn’t live in Headington now, but just off St Clement’s, closer to the city centre. I could have easily walked it, but there was actually a bus at the bus stop for once so I hopped on that. I was right, there was hardly any traffic on the roads and the journey only took about five minutes.
I was glad to have the shelter of the bus. It was raining, a typical dreary December drizzle, and I felt bad enough with this cold as it was without getting soaked to the skin as well.
My plan was to track down Professor Hamilton. I had done my homework on him and my destination was the college at which he lectured. Unfortunately, I was to be disappointed.
Other than the tourist area outside the front of the college, where tourists of various nationalities were wandering around the quadrangle, the whole college had been pretty much mothballed for the Christmas break. Most of it was locked up and when I did finally manage to find a member of staff she informed me that Professor Hamilton had gone back to Scotland for Hogmanay, as he did every year.
That was a real blow. It wasn’t as if I could wait around a few weeks for term to start again. In the time frame I was trapped in he would always be away. The only other option I had was to try and track him down in Scotland and again the short time frame was going to render that difficult. I could try, but was it worth it?
The whole idea of getting help from him was a long shot anyway. This Professor might be some sort of expert in the field of time travel but that didn’t mean he actually knew how to make it happen. All he had done had been to write a few academic papers about the theory of it.
Having me turn up in the middle of his Hogmanay celebrations like some wild-eyed lunatic claiming I was from the future was unlikely to garner a positive response, unless he really did know how to time-travel and that seemed improbable.
In the end I decided to write him a letter and address it to the college. He would get it when he got back for the new term, by which time I would be long gone, but that didn’t matter. If he ever did find out how to time-travel, he ought to be able to track me down as long as I spelled out the exact details of the situation.
I walked back down Cornmarket Street, reassuringly familiar with its age-old buildings. I passed the building that had once housed HMV, a shop I had spent countless hours in during my youth. Perhaps I would get to visit it again soon, but in 2020 it had become a branch of NatWest bank.
I turned left at the end of the street, just as Carfax Tower chimed for 12 o’clock. You wouldn’t have thought it was midday, so dark were the midwinter skies overhead. It was beginning to drizzle again and I was keen to get undercover. I sneezed, feeling increasingly poorly despite the three layers I was wearing.
I called into Ryman’s and browsed through the writing paper pads. It was reassuring to see they had so many, even in this electronic age. Ignoring the more flowery and colourful ones, I picked up a plain white pad. I didn’t want my letter to the Professor to look like some teenage girl’s love letter or something in crazy, fluorescent colours from some unhinged fantasist. I needed it to appear as ordinary and professional as possible.
Adding an envelope, I headed for the till where I picked up one of those BiC 4 colour pens. I had always loved them. I’d been using them since school and they were one of the few things that had stayed comfortingly the same throughout my entire life.
It was always the black or blue ink that ran out first. I rarely used red because I thought it made me look like a teacher, or green, which someone had once told me was the colour the mentally ill used. I had no idea if that were true or not but I certainly wasn’t going to be writing my letter in green.
Armed with my newly acquired stationery I headed a little further along the High Street and into the Covered Market. I was making a beeline for my favourite café which had been a long-term fixture in the market. I also had fond memories of the place from when I worked there for a few months as a teenager. I was going to need these familiar points of reference as the years went by to give me stability in what was going to be a rapidly changing world.
I sat down and ordered a large breakfast and more coffee. Despite feeling poorly, I still felt hungry. What was it: feed a cold and starve a fever? That was alright, then, and I didn’t have to worry about the fat content of this fry-up. Just like being able to spend whatever I wanted, food and drink was unlimited, too. The calories from this meal weren’t coming back with me through time.
Whilst I was waiting for my saturated fat-laden meal to arrive, I pulled out my writing pad and started penning my letter. Pausing midway to devour my enormous brunch, I continued writing, and two cups of coffee later, my missive was ready to send:
Dear Professor Hamilton,
I am writing to you because I understand that you are a world expert in time travel and I am hoping you can help me with my unusual and possibly unique problem.
To sum it up, I have become stuck in some sort of time loop where I am spiralling back through time within my own life. Every 48 hours, at precisely 3am on 2nd January, I am cast back a year and two days in time. It first happened to me on 2nd January 2025 and has happened four more times so far. Today for me is 31st December 2020, but in another two days it will be 31st December 2019.
I am a nurse at the John Radcliffe Hospital which is where it first happened, in a dead patient’s room. There was a strange man there, waving a weird remote device about. He said his name was Doctor Gardner and he was attached to the university. He would be aged about fifty, or at least that is how old he will be in 2025. Do you know him? If you do, could you tell him about all of this? Perhaps he will know how this happened to me.
I tried to see you at the university, but you are away for the holidays, and since I am only ever here over New Year, I’ve no way of finding you in Oxford. By the time you come back in January, I will be gone, or at least this version of me will be. Maybe there’s another version of me still here – if so, maybe you could find her?
Or if there is any way at all you can help me, can you come and find me on a New Year’s Eve either now or in the future? I am enclosing a list of all the addresses I have ever lived at and when I lived at each one. Here’s hoping.
Yours sincerely,
Amy Reynolds.
All I could do now was post the letter and hope for something to happen. Did I really expect that anything would? It seemed unlikely. Even if he did believe me, the chances of this Professor Hamilton knowing how to travel through time seemed slim.
The same couldn’t be said of my waistline after my mammoth breakfast, but it would save me having to worry about eating for the rest of the day. I was going on a stake-out tonight and I could be holed up for some time.
I hauled myself up out of the chair and headed for the postbox on Carfax. With the letter duly despatched, that concluded the first half of my business for the day. The second half was going to be all enjoying myself. If all went to plan, I was going to get a lot of pleasure from the wanton act of revenge I had planned.
Chapter Eight
2021
I heard the sounds of Big Ben chiming on the TV downstairs, the pop of a champagne cork, and Rob and Emma’s laughter.
In contrast to the good time they were having, I was in abject discomfort, hidden inside the walk-in wardrobe in my bedroom. I had been there now for several hours and I was desperate for the loo but I couldn’t leave now – not if I didn’t want to risk messing things up.
They were still laughing and chinking glasses downstairs. How much longer were they going to be? I had assumed that if they were having an affair they’d be straight into bed as soon as I was out of the way, but that hadn’t been the case. Unless they had been at it on the sofa, but I hadn’t heard anything. I certainly hadn’t anticipated being holed up here the entire evening.
My cold wasn’t helping either. I felt lousy and my nose was dripping and I hadn’t brought any tissues in with me. Fortunately, I just happened to be next to one of Rob’s expensive Itali
an suits, so I was able to put the sleeves to good use.
It was no good – I was going to have to go but I couldn’t leave the wardrobe. Even at my relatively light weight compared to Rob, I would make the decaying floorboards creak. I would just have to find something to use in the wardrobe.
Using my phone as a torch, I scanned the floor until my eyes alighted on his golf shoes. They would do very nicely. As long as I positioned myself carefully, I ought to be able to fill one of them up without them overflowing.
Hopefully they wouldn’t leak either. I was pretty sure he had told me they were waterproof. He hadn’t said anything about them being piss-proof, but then the manufacturers probably hadn’t envisaged this scenario in their prelaunch testing.
Relief flooded through me as urine flooded out of me into one of the ridiculously bright green shoes. Why did golfers wear such ludicrous outfits? Job done, I carefully placed the shoe at the back of the wardrobe. I didn’t want to stick my own foot in it later. I’d leave that particular delight for him to enjoy at a later date.
I got myself back into my previous position, hoping I would not have to wait too much longer. Settling into place, directly behind the two-inch gap I had left in the sliding doors, I picked up the weapon with which I was going to wreak my revenge. Not a gun, a knife, or a cleaver, just a simple seven-inch android tablet.
I may have relieved my bladder, but now I had another problem to contend with, namely a nosy cat, who was scratching at the wardrobe door, curious to know why his owner had taken to hiding in cupboards.
“Go away, Tommy,” I hissed. I had been delighted to reacquaint myself with my old pet this morning, but now he was threatening to let my proverbial cat out of the bag.
I opened the door just enough to shoo him away, then I had to get myself back into position quickly as I could finally hear footsteps on the stairs. The door burst open, and Emma led Rob playfully by the hand into the bedroom. She certainly seemed to know her way around the place alright – she had clearly been up here before. I felt disgusted, wondering how many times her head had been on my pillow.