by Nick Jones
How the hell didn’t I see this? High street brands like Curry’s, Dixons, Woolworths, all of them… familiar, but weird. People, clothes, logos, buses, cars, everything is softer and rounder, baggier and just wrong, diddly wrong!
Thinking back, I realise that earlier, as I ran from the Imperial Gardens, I passed a shop that Mum used to love. Habitat. That shop hasn’t been in that location for years. The newsagent’s where I bought my ticket was all a bit retro, but I wasn’t really looking. I was miles away and my surroundings were just a blurred background compared to my goal. I raise my Lottery ticket, hand trembling and scan over the numbers and that’s when it finally hits me. My mind leans over the edge of sanity like a speeding truck on two wheels. I swallow, throat instantly dry and pull the ticket close to my face, just like the old woman did in the shop. This can’t be right. It can’t be!
The numbers are correct, I know them like the back of hand because they’re written on the back of my hand, but that isn’t the problem. It’s the year, printed clearly below the numbers.
’02. As in 2002. As in, Oh my giddy Aunt I’ve gone back twelve years, 2002. Standing there, mouth agape, frozen with fear – and brain freeze – in Cheltenham High Street my clothes pop from existence. I’m now hanging out in 2002 – literally – with nothing but a useless Lottery ticket, a ‘pack-a-mac’ raincoat and the sudden, close attention of everyone around me. A woman shrieks and people begin pointing, staring and laughing at me, covering their mouths in reflected embarrassment.
My face glows red but the rushing blood does nothing to ease the growing icicle of pain currently searing though my neck and spine. I scramble to unzip the raincoat and cry out in frustration. The bag itself is black but there is a tiny pink label stuck to it that I didn’t notice in the shop.
Helpfully packaged in a black outer bag I shake out my raincoat. It’s candy pink and covered in little yellow ducklings, and it’s an extra small. I feverishly tie the arms around my waist, spinning the bulk of the material to cover my, well, you know. Let’s just say it leaves my butt cheeks open to the elements, which is when I realise it’s actually quite warm. I left 2014 in the cool grip of winter and I’ve arrived in the summer of 2002.
I catch my reflection in a shop window. I look like a child wearing some kind of starter nappy, or worse than that, a sex offender. In the distance I see a policeman and woman taking an interest in the crowd gathering around me. The woman – short and fit looking – pinches her radio and starts running in my direction. Brilliant, getting arrested would be just awesome.
I think back to my first jump, waking naked, no pyjamas and then back to Finch’s office where the same thing happened. I suspect that if I ping forward to the present now I will most likely be naked on my arrival.
I need to hide but the freeze is telling me I won’t make it home in time. I run, barefoot and panicked, heading instinctively for the nearest and safest place I can think of. I glance over my shoulder. The policewoman has left her older – and to be fair, chubbier – partner behind and is calling out for me to stop. No way I’m stopping. What the hell would I say? And what if I disappear right in front of her? I run as fast as I can, praying that the hastily tied knot in my pink loin cloth holds.
I know where I need to get to but I’m finding it hard to get my bearings in this alternative version of Cheltenham. Shops are like beacons when we navigate our home town. We just don’t realise how much we use them until someone re-shuffles the deck.
I have no time though, no chance to marvel or think about what this means. I cut down an alleyway, buying myself a few precious seconds away from the crowd and, more importantly, my pursuer. I dodge behind a parked car and slide from view. I hear heavy footfall passing quickly and wait for thirty seconds.
I study my location nervously; I’m crouched in a space between two buildings, just enough room for four cars. I could just stay here I suppose, waiting for time to shoot me like a cannonball back to 2014. I wonder if this place, this area, cut into the buildings is the same shape in the future. If it isn’t, I could end up encased in a ton of concrete on my return, or half way through a window or something equally gross, not to mention deadly. I could be trapped or splattered or crushed instantly by something that doesn’t exist yet, but will in 12 years’ time.
I decide that whatever happens, I should aim to be in a known location when I go back, one that is definitely the same in the future. That could be a park or a road of course, but I have an idea, one that might make this trip worthwhile after all. It’s risky and potentially stupid but the best ideas usually are, and I think it’s worth a shot.
I sneak back around the car and out onto the pavement. The policewoman is nowhere in sight. I adjust my makeshift underwear and head off, each step sending a fresh spray of ice across the inside of my skull. The sensation assures me that I don’t have long, that if this is going to work, I need to hurry.
10.
People’s eyes widen as I pass them, like rushing headlights. Hundreds of people see me naked. On a scale, it’s a pretty bad day, but when I arrive outside the steps to Vinny’s Vinyl I hope to turn it around. I’m relieved the shop is here if I’m honest. I mean, I guess he’s been selling vinyl forever, but from this shop? I wasn’t sure.
The shop’s sign – normally battered and flaking – is rich and deep in colour. It looks almost new. A bell sounds as the door opens and a couple of teenagers, dressed in black (shoe-gazing Cure fans) slink nonchalantly up the steps. Even they can’t fake complete indifference. They shrug and raise their heavily made-up eyes.
A chill of ice courses through me as I descend the narrow stone steps and enter the shop. Music is blasting out. The Clash, I think, but it’s a song I don’t recognise. The shop is like everything else in this version of Cheltenham, oddly familiar, yet somehow new. Posters depict bands that would now – and by now I mean the present – be considered almost old school. Mary J. Blige, Nickelback, Eminem, looking really young. Thankfully the place is empty but for a middle-aged man browsing the jazz section. He doesn’t look up as I stagger in and lean against a stone pillar. I grab a record and hold it behind me, trying to cover my arse as they say.
An odd, blue cast descends over my vision like a waterfall and I cry out in shock and pain. My guts contract and I feel as though I’m being squeezed of air. It passes but doesn’t leave me completely and I realise what it means.
I need Vinny before I disappear out of this place.
I call his name as loudly as I can before dropping to my knees. A man approaches and initially I think it’s the one and only customer, come to see why I’m shouting. But it’s not him. This man is tall and thin, with dark hair. He walks quickly and kneels beside me. I smell his leather boots and body odour. Fresh sweat, the kind you are allowed to exude if you are a musician or into the scene. I stare up into his eyes and realise in a mighty flash of understudying that it’s Vinny. His expression is a cocktail of confusion and concern. I’m curled up in a ball, as if I’m expecting a good beating. Vinny – or should I say Thinny? – glances down at my outfit and the album I grabbed to cover my arse and shrugs with a quick and easy smile. I see a roll-up ciggy tucked in the corner of his mouth; same old Vinny, just a lot less of him. His hair is receding but after knowing him without any, this current version looks like he’s wearing a wig. I grab his arm, the Lottery ticket still clutched between my fingers. ‘Listen to me,’ I beg, weak with tension. ‘You have to listen!’
‘I will,’ he says, leaning back a little, ‘but first I need to call an ambulance.’
‘No!’ I shout, ‘Don’t do that.’
Thinny Vinny stands and jogs – I mean he actually runs – to the back of the shop and makes a call. The blue colour returns to my world, covering the shop in a cyan glow, giving my world the appearance of a tropical fish tank at night. ‘Vinny!’ I cry again and he’s back at my side.
‘You need to take this,’ I whisper, thrusting the ticket at him. ‘You need –.’
; ‘Alright, quiet down mate,’ Vinny presses his hand to my shoulder, ‘It’s okay, just calm –’
‘No!’ I hiss, ‘I’m from the future.’ My instant frown suggests that even in my current state I know how crazy that sounds. I continue nonetheless, moaning in pain as I talk, ‘You and I know each other, we meet, we’re friends.’ The door-bell sounds and I realise with relief that it’s the customer leaving. He obviously decided that naked men screaming and shouting wasn’t what he had in mind for a lazy summer afternoon in town. I pull Vinny as close as he will let me and whisper, ‘This ticket doesn’t win the Lottery this Saturday.’
Vinny stares, eyes searching mine, ‘Doesn’t win?’ He attempts a laugh but fails. ‘Along with millions of others then.’
‘But it will win,’ I say shivering now, ‘December 2014, put these numbers on, okay?’
Vinny nods his agreement. ‘Whatever you say, dude.’
I cry out in pain and our eyes lock. Fear grips me, panic too. There’s something I need to say before I go, something I have to tell him, ‘When we meet, you must pretend you –’
But my words stop and there is only blackness and a sudden wonderful release from the pain.
11.
As quickly as I arrived, I travel back through time, returning to the present in an almighty rush of silence. Like the Cheltenham of the past, it’s what’s missing that makes all the difference. I’m pain-free, the blue cast is gone and it’s just me; naked but for the raincoat covering my essentials.
I’m in Vinny’s shop. I’ve travelled back to exactly the same location I left from, the familiar corner by the stone pillar, but it’s different all over again. It smells different too, a stale, bitter odour seeps from the old carpet, an oily, dusty smell that’s taken years to mature. In the dim light I can just make out a couple of posters depicting bands and albums that reassure me I’m back in 2014. Foo Fighters, ‘Sonic Highways’ and Bruce Springsteen, ‘High Hopes’.
I breathe a massive sigh of relief. Not because the Boss is back – and it’s a great album – but because I am. Back I mean.
My skin ripples with gooseflesh. It’s December here and cold. It’s dark outside. I don’t hear anyone, no traffic or late night, drunken joviality. I figure it must be late, early morning. I stand and work my way to the front of the shop. The door is locked. No surprise but it wouldn’t make any difference anyway, there are steel shutters blocking my exit. I find a wall clock. It’s gone midnight. Shit, unless I start smashing stuff I’m stuck here for the duration, freezing my balls off. Literally.
I move quietly through the blocky greyness of Vinny’s shop, along the rows and boxes of vinyl. If I can get to his office there might be clothes there, perhaps even a long coat. I huff in frustration as I try the office door. Locked of course, in fact I’m coming to the conclusion that I’m trapped here and can’t even get to a phone. Vinny’s office has a window – toughened glass like the type they used to have in schools – but I think I might be able to break it with some effort. Do I want to do that? I peer inside. I can see his desk and a phone. His computer light is pulsing like a robot snoring. I see another light. This one is amber and blinking on and off angrily. It’s almost like some kind of –
Oh crappy doo. It’s an alarm; silently barking, telling the world I’m here. How the hell am I going to explain this?
I’m going to hide near the front of the shop and when the police arrive, decide whether or not to make a run for it. Either way, I think I’m screwed.
Twenty minutes later I see torchlight. A beam cuts through the darkness and travels over me but thankfully, doesn’t stop. I crouch, ready to run. An electric motor kicks in and the shutters rattle into life, travelling noisily up into their housing. Keys jangle in the lock and the door opens. A shaft of light cuts a triangle over the stacked records above me, dust particles dancing.
‘Hello?’ A voice calls out tentatively, one I recognise immediately. ‘Cash?’ Vinny says, ‘Is that you?’
I relax and stand up. ‘Vinny?’
The torch does an Irish jig and he cries out, ‘Bloody hell!’
‘Sorry,’ I say, realising I must have sacred the crap out him. ‘Yeah, it’s me.’
The torch steadies and settles on me again. I shield my eyes. ‘Are you, er, are you alone in here?’ Vinny asks.
‘Yes.’ I say, embarrassed that he might think I’m occupied in some weird way. He closes the door, places the torch upright on the floor and throws something at me. I grab it.
‘Thanks,’ I say, slipping the jacket on. The warmth reminds me of being on Morecambe Beach as a kid, wriggling out of my swim shorts, wrapped in a big fluffy towel. Funny how those memories are burned in.
I hear a click as the old overhead lights buzz and pop into life. I finally get a good look at Vinny. Watching someone age is, of course, a gradual process, something we often don’t even notice. I’ve just seen Vinny age twelve years in a matter of minutes. The difference is huge and so is Vinny. He’s back to his old self, wide and round and reassuringly big, his bald head illuminated beneath the lights. I smile, awkwardly, at him. He stares back, suspiciously.
‘I think we better talk in the office,’ he says, voice unusually stern.
Vinny’s office makes my house seem like the tidiest place on Earth. There’s no doubt about it, he’s a hoarder and paperwork is far from exempt. There are half-filled mugs of tea everywhere and an ashtray filled with cigarette stubs. Vinny switches on two small lamps, both have torn shades from different eras and countries. He collapses loudly into a chair, a beaten up leather thing that looks like a prop from an old movie. He stares at me intently. I manage a feeble smile. ‘Thanks for not calling the police,’ I say.
Vinny rubs his chin and begins nibbling his bottom lip. His eyes narrow, ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’
For a moment I’m back at school, where being accused always came with a no-win set of possible answers. ‘What was?’
‘I know it was you,’ he whispers, ‘the bloke from ages ago, the one who turned up rambling about Lottery numbers and then buggered off.’ He folds his arms and leans back, ‘Back then, you looked like you do now.’
This is the first time that my time-travelling (I’m still getting used to just dropping that into conversation) has impacted anyone. Well, as far as I know anyway. Vinny remembers the past, and my sudden arrival in his shop all those years ago. For me, it feels like seconds. For him, it’s twelve years.
And what’s changed in those twelve years, I wonder? Have Vinny and I done anything differently? Are we still friends? I sigh heavily.
‘Cash,’ Vinny says, ‘you need to start talking.’ He tugs open a drawer in his desk and pulls out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He hands me one, half fills it and we both take a decent slug. It feels good and he’s right, I do have some explaining to do. He called me Cash, I realise. ‘Are we friends Vinny?’ I ask, nervously. ‘Do I come in the shop all the time? Do we talk shit, do you know my favourite band?’
‘Yep,’ Vinny says easily. ‘You come in here all the time, we talk lots of shit and it’s The Beatles, but this is a riddle, one that’s nagged me for years. You gotta help me, what’s going on?’
I realise I’m clenched, hardly breathing. I try to relax. He’s right of course, I need to explain, but where to start? ‘You aren’t going to believe any of this,’ I say.
‘Try me,’ Vinny says kindly, and I do. I start with ‘viewing’ and my dysfunctional childhood, I tell him about Amy, about Hypnosis and Alexia Finch and end with my latest naked sprint through Cheltenham, clutching a Lottery ticket, over a decade out of sync. I tell him everything, about my money worries and, honestly, it feels good to tell someone, to let it out and just un-bottle. Vinny listens intently, nodding and sipping his whiskey. By the time I’ve finished babbling my stupidly unbelievable story, our glasses are empty and I have no idea how long I’ve been talking. We are returned to a deafening silence and Vinny’s expression gives nothing away. He stares at the f
loor.
‘You okay?’ I ask him.
He looks up, clearly processing. ‘Yeah,’ he sighs. ‘It’s just a hell of a story, a lot to take in, you know? When you turned up that summer, it was so quick. Some naked guy I’d never seen before, talking as though he knew me, telling me the Lottery numbers.’ His face becomes grave and his eyes search mine. ‘You seemed in pain too, I figured you were ill, you know, in the head?’ I nod as Vinny continues. ‘I turned around,’ he says, ‘and when I turned back, you were gone. But the door hadn’t opened, there was no bell, you just vanished.’ He frowns. ‘I checked the shop for hours after that, convinced you would jump out at me.’
Vinny grabs a pouch from his shirt pocket and begins rolling tobacco deftly into a cigarette paper without looking. Its dark, rich aroma hits me and I almost ask if he can roll me one, but I know it would just send me into a coughing fit. He licks the paper quickly, lights it with a match and puffs aggressively to get it going. He looks at me, exhales blue smoke and says, ‘For months after that I kept wondering if you would come back, if you were going to be a problem if I’m honest. Then, when you didn’t, I guess I kind of forgot about it, about all of it.’ Vinny’s hand is shaking. He swallows hard. ‘Then you turned up again, years later, and I thought, shit! It’s the guy, it’s the naked guy!’ He laughs, and shakes his head in disbelief, ‘But what was I supposed to say? I couldn’t be sure it was you, that you were the same person. You seemed normal and quiet and kept yourself to yourself. Back in 2002 it all happened so fast I couldn’t be sure it was you, I couldn’t accuse you!’ He continues to shake his head, trying to figure things out. ‘And then we became friends, and it all just slipped away, I put it behind me and decided that it was one of those weird things. You know, a coincidence.’