by Ali McNamara
‘Really?’ Harry says, still looking at me doubtfully. ‘You’d better inform security, Michelle, and when they find her, tell them to remove her from the building immediately.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Michelle says, retreating out of the door. ‘And once again, I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t hold you responsible in any way whatsoever, Michelle!’ Harry calls to her departing figure. ‘But I do you!’ he says accusingly, pointing at me.
‘Me! How am I to blame?’
‘Eligible bachelors! I’m as much likely to make a list for most eligible bachelor as you are for the Pulitzer Prize. Now, why are you really here and where is your friend?’
‘I’m right here,’ Ellie says, walking calmly through the door with Michelle hurrying along behind her. ‘I simply got a bit lost, that’s all. It’s quite a building you have here, Harry.’
‘Mr Rigby to you, thank you,’ Harry says, glaring at her. ‘I’m only Harry to friends and people I trust.’
Ellie narrows her eyes and is about to open her mouth when I jump to my feet.
‘I think we’d better be going now,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Thank you for your time, Harry – er – Mr Rigby.’
‘I’d say it was a pleasure.’ Harry takes his eyes away from Ellie for a moment and allows them to rest on me. ‘But now I’m not so sure.’
We are unceremoniously escorted out of the building by a big burly security guard, and firmly ejected back through the black gates and on to the pavement outside.
‘That was definitely worth getting thrown out for!’ Ellie says, her bright green eyes shining with excitement as we make our way back over to her motorbike.
‘Do you think?’ I ask, glancing back through the railings at the Beat Music building.
‘Yup, I learnt some very interesting stuff about our Mr Rigby while I was there.’
‘You and me both,’ I reply, deep in thought, as I think about my last few minutes with Harry. ‘Interesting it’s definitely going to be this time. That’s for sure.’
Twenty-Seven
We’re sitting in a local café sipping on two weak, non-syrup filled coffees, discussing what Ellie discovered on her travels around Harry’s offices, while I wish I had anything with a shot of caramel or vanilla inside my cup, or at least a big green mermaid on the outside keeping it warm…
‘… so when I’d finally given Michelle the slip,’ Ellie continues, her eyes lighting up.
‘Just how did you do that?’ I interrupt. ‘I mean, you’re many things, but Houdini’s not one of them.’ I nearly use Dynamo as my magician of choice, but I’m getting better at remembering to think before I speak.
‘Toilet window,’ Ellie says, grinning. ‘One of the perks of being tiny. The toilets are on the ground floor and I waited until all the cubicles were free then climbed up on the sinks and squeezed out of the window. It led out on to a sort of patio area.’
‘Then what happened?’ I ask, amazed at her ingenuity.
‘Then you’ll never guess who appeared for a break in the sun with a packet of ciggies and a desperate look in her eye?’
‘Who?’
‘Only Lucy.’
‘Lucy?’ I rack my brains for a few seconds. ‘Do you mean Lucy from the club?’
‘Yeah, that Lucy.’
‘But what’s she doing in Harry’s work?’
‘It seems Lucy works at the Beat Music building in the day, and the Karma club at night.’
‘She told me she worked in the packing department of a firm. But how is there a link between that and what we’re trying to prove, though? I say we, but I still find it hard to believe that Harry is involved in anything like this.’
Ellie smiles. ‘Aw, Jo-Jo, you spent a few minutes in his office earlier and you know him inside out now, do you? That’s good going.’
‘No, of course not. But…’ I need to phrase this carefully ‘you can tell a lot about a person in half an hour, and I’m certain that Harry wouldn’t knowingly be involved with drugs. But look, we’re getting off track. What did you find out from Lucy?’
Ellie leans in towards me across the table. ‘Well, I didn’t have long, but she definitely hinted that Harry was involved.’
‘Hinted, Ellie? This is drugs we’re talking about. Hinted isn’t enough to take this any further.’
‘Shush,’ Ellie hisses, looking on either side of her. ‘We don’t want it getting out.’
‘What exactly did she say?’ I whisper. ‘Word for word.’
Ellie takes a maddening sip of her coffee before replying. I get the feeling she’s enjoying this little drama.
‘After I told her what we were really doing there today, she said it was possible that drugs could be coming in through the company. Apparently there are packages that come in that they aren’t allowed to open down in the unloading bay. Special deliveries she called them, said they all go straight up to Harry’s office.’
‘And so?’ I ask her, wide-eyed. ‘That proves nothing.’
‘No, it doesn’t have to… yet. But, she also told me something we didn’t know.’
I lift my cup of coffee and wait, not prepared to add to her dramatics.
‘That Harry and Ringo are big buddies.’
‘What?’ I exclaim, slamming the cup back down on the saucer.
‘Apparently, Harry is often in Karma and has private meetings with Ringo – she’s seen them both.’
I let this information digest for a few moments.
‘Are you suggesting that Harry is supplying Ringo with drugs for the Karma club?’ I ask eventually.
Ellie nods. ‘What other explanation is there?’
I think again.
‘I don’t know,’ I reply carefully, ‘but if there is one I’m damn well going to find it. Either way, I’m going to uncover the truth.’
Twenty-Eight
It’s later that afternoon and I’m sitting in my flat above George’s record shop, thinking.
Ellie and I sat in the café and talked for ages about what we should do next. Ellie was only used to dealing in celebrity gossip and I, well, I wasn’t used to dealing with any sort of information like this, big or small. We were like the proverbial fish out of water, flailing about on the bank for air, except in our case it was our next lead, or bright idea.
In the end we decided our only option was to return to Ringo’s club, to see if we could find out anything more for ourselves. So we headed home with the intention of taking a quick nap, knowing that tonight was probably going to be another late and fairly boozy one.
But as hard as I try, I just can’t nod off, so instead I’m lying flicking through the TV channels until it’s time to get ready to go out. But the stations are full of kids’ TV programmes, and after I’ve done a few minutes of Grange Hill and Blockbusters, I decide to turn on the little portable radio that sits on a table next to the sofa. I recognise the DJ’s voice immediately: it’s Steve Wright, a DJ I know from 2013. He’s on Radio 2 in my future, but back now in 1985 he’s on peak time Radio 1 in the afternoon.
He plays ‘Crazy for You’ by Madonna, and then ‘The Power of Love’ by Huey Lewis and the News, and he goes on to talk about a brand new movie about to open in cinemas called Back to the Future.
I have to smile. That’s one of my favourite eighties movies. Michael J. Fox and Christopher Lloyd fighting to get Marty McFly – Michael’s time-travelling alter-ego – to return to his life in 1985 when he accidentally travels back in time to 1955.
It seems great fun in the movies, all these time-travelling adventures. But when you’re doing it for real, it’s a very different story. At least I didn’t travel back as far as the fifties, I only went back to 1963, and since then I appear to be moving steadily forward. If I keep jumping in time like this, I’ll make it back to 2013 in no time. If that’s how it works.
How it works – that’s the question that keeps bothering me. It’s the thing that keeps me awake at night, the thing that unsettles me more than anything. It’s not the con
stant change of decade, the bed I sleep in, the clothes I wear, or the company I keep on a daily basis that disturbs me most. It’s why. Why is this happening to me? And how can I prevent it happening over and over again, instead of returning home?
I sit up on the sofa and bury my head in my hands. I need answers, and the only person who can give them to me is downstairs, selling records.
‘Hi, Jo-Jo,’ George says as the bell rings above my head and I enter the shop. ‘I thought you were resting?’
‘I can’t settle, George, I need to know,’ I say, flopping into one of the wooden chairs.
‘Need to know what?’ George asks calmly, as he continues to arrange some new sunflowers in the vase that always stands on the shop counter.
‘Why I’m here.’
‘Ah! Well, that’s a question we’d all like to know the answer to,’ George says, not looking up. He puts the final flower in the vase and takes a sniff before pushing them forward on the counter. ‘Indeed, why are we all here?’
I’m really not in the mood for George’s vagueness today. ‘No, I mean why am I – I – here specifically? You said we could discuss this further yesterday.’
The shop bell rings as a young man enters.
‘And we will, Jo-Jo, but for now, can you just excuse me for a minute?’ George says as he walks over to greet his customer.
I sigh wearily; will I ever get to the bottom of this? I gaze out of the window, not taking much notice of the man George is dealing with, but as he speaks there’s something about his voice I recognise.
‘Yeah, it’s gonna be great,’ he says excitedly, ‘the band are really up for it. Which is madness really, because they’ve played so many huge gigs in their time, but this is the one everyone wants to say they were there for.’
‘I’m really looking forward to watching it on TV,’ George replies. ‘It’ll be one of those days about which people will ask in the future: “Where were you and what were you doing during Live Aid?”.’
I turn and stare hard at the man George is talking to. It can’t be, can it? It sounds just like him, but he has his back to me so I can’t see him properly to decide for sure.
‘I might be able to do better than that for you, George. How do you fancy actually being there and seeing the gig live?’
‘And how am I going to do that?’ George asks. ‘Tickets are like gold dust.’
‘Not when you’re a roadie to one of the bands performing, they’re not. Let me see what I can do for you, buddy.’
‘Really?’ George asks, a huge smile spreading across his face. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘Come on, George, you’ve always been good to me here. Where else would I be able to indulge in my fetish for rare and eclectic punk records? I can’t get them anywhere else and I know that if I mention your name in the right ears it’ll always be heard favourably. Everyone knows George from Groovy Records.’
‘Stu?’ I exclaim, standing up. ‘Is that you?’
The blond head in front of me turns around, and the face that looks quizzically back at me is maybe older, without anger, and is no longer framed with green spikes, but there’s no doubting it’s Stu from 1977.
‘My name is Stuart, yes,’ he replies. ‘I’m sorry, but do I know you?’
‘I – I’m Jo-Jo,’ I stutter. ‘We – we met a long time ago, when we were younger.’
Stu looks at me with interest. ‘Really? I’m sure I would have remembered you. I’m not great with names, but faces I’m usually very good at recalling. Especially really pretty ones.’
I can’t do anything but smile. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to respond because I have no idea what’s happening now. How can Stu be here?
‘It was at a party,’ I improvise. ‘It was quite dark and I think you were a little drunk.’
Stu looks a tad embarrassed. ‘There are a lot of parties in the business I’m in. You meet a lot of people…’
‘It’s fine,’ I say hastily. ‘I understand completely.’
‘Listen, if you’re not doing anything later,’ he says, ‘me and a few friends are heading down to a little club in Soho called Karma. Maybe you’d like to join us?’
Stu from 1977 is hitting on me now? This is just getting too weird!
‘Actually, I’m already heading there tonight with a friend. We know the owner.’
‘You know Ringo?’ Stu asks, looking surprised.
‘My friend does.’
Stu nods. ‘Makes more sense.’
I’m about to ask him why, when George interrupts.
‘Shall I just leave you two to your arrangements? I have things to be doing around the shop.’
‘No, George, I’ll just take this,’ Stu says, holding up a Sex Pistols album. ‘I don’t have this one any more. I lent it to a dancer on one of my tours and never saw it again.’ He turns to me. ‘So, Jo-Jo, if you’re at Ringo’s place tonight maybe we’ll catch-up again.’
‘Maybe we will,’ I say, trying to sound casual.
Stu pays for his album and, promising he’ll be in touch with George about Live Aid, he leaves the shop.
I immediately turn towards George.
‘What the hell was that all about?’ I ask with my hands held aloft.
‘The Live Aid tickets?’ George asks with wide eyes.
‘George!’
‘Sorry. It would seem that a few of the pages of your book are starting to stick together a little. Some of the characters we thought we’d left behind are reappearing in a new chapter.’
‘George, enough of the book analogies!’
‘All right, some of your time travel wires are very definitely becoming crossed, and before you ask, no, I don’t know why.’
George sits down on one of the wooden seats. He does look a little bemused by the situation this time, so perhaps he doesn’t have all the answers.
I run my hands through my hair and pace about the shop.
‘This is the first time this has happened. I’ve never met the exact same person twice, have I? This must be the Stu that jumped back to 1977. He told me he was a roadie with a band, that’s how he got electrocuted on stage, and…’ my voice trails off as I stop pacing and stare at George.
His face tells me everything I need to know.
‘No, Jo-Jo,’ he says, shaking his head, ‘you can’t mess with the future, it’s one of the golden rules.’
‘Rules are made to be broken, George,’ I say calmly, as I think through what I need to do. ‘It’s my fault that Stu from 1977 didn’t ever return to his future. So this time I’m going to make sure he never goes back to the past.’
Twenty-Nine
The Karma club is packed when we arrive, and Ellie and I can barely find space to stand, let alone a booth. Boyd is on the door again and he lets us straight in this time.
We end up squeezing on to a couple of stools at the bar, and while we wait to order I look around to see if I can see Stu, but there just appears to be the usual bunch of suited, booted and incredibly loud businessmen and their ‘adornments’ taking up the tables, chairs and booths.
‘Looking for our friend?’ Ellie asks, leaning in towards me so I’ve a chance of hearing her – it really is incredibly loud in here tonight.
‘Who do you mean?’ I ask, jumping a little on my stool.
‘Easy, I meant Harry. He could well show up here at some point, couldn’t he, if he’s in cahoots with Ringo.’
‘Yes, I suppose he could,’ I reply almost in relief. With Stu turning up in George’s shop this afternoon, I’d almost forgotten about the Harry and Ringo situation.
‘Why, who did you think I meant?’ Ellie asks, her eyes narrowing. ‘Do you know something I don’t, Jo-Jo?’
‘No, of course not. Sorry, I’m just on edge tonight, that’s all. This whole story doesn’t sit easy with me.’
‘I bet nothing sits easy with you in that skirt,’ Ellie says, nodding at my black leather mini skirt. ‘Blimey, Jo-Jo, I never thought you had it in you – black l
eather and red stilettos? They’ll be thinking you’re one of them.’ She nods towards one of the girls carrying drinks.
‘Don’t be silly, Ellie, we don’t know that’s going on here for sure, we’re just guessing. Until we get some firm leads, everything we’re doing right now is simply guesswork.’
‘You make us sound like cops.’ Ellie’s green eyes sparkle. ‘Looking for leads and on such a serious subject too. I’ve never done anything like this before. We’re like…’ She pauses for inspiration. ‘I know: those female cops in Cagney & Lacey!’
I stifle a grin. This situation with Harry is far from an amusing one, but the thought of Ellie and I as the female crime-fighting duo is. ‘Bagsy I’m the blonde one then,’ I wink.
Ellie screws up her face. ‘Aw, I want to be Christine; I have the right colour hair and everything. You’re much more a Mary-Beth.’
I don’t know that much about Cagney & Lacey, but the little I do says that Mary-Beth was definitely the frumpier one of the two. ‘Why would you say that? I’m not dull.’
‘No, I don’t mean that. I mean you’re just more sensible, that’s all. Whereas I’m more flirty and outgoing.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yes, really.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ I say with determination. ‘I’ll show you who’s sensible!’
I sit up on my bar stool and cross my legs so my black leather skirt slides up a bit higher. Immediately the barman, who’s been ignoring us up until now, pops up ready to take our order.
‘Tequila slammers, please,’ I request. ‘Two of them!’
‘Slammers, eh?’ Ellie says with approval. ‘You are living dangerously; you might make detective Christine Cagney yet.’
The barman brings us our first slammers and we bang them on the counter to make the liquid fizz and bubble in the glass, then we down them as fast as we can.
‘Another,’ I gesture to the barman when he catches my eye.
‘You don’t have to prove anything to me, you know,’ Ellie says, trying to catch my eye now too. ‘I was only joking.’