He sprinted through the gate onto the grass, which dulled the sound of his pounding footsteps. His prey was only ten feet away, running on tiptoes like a gazelle. Ten-feet, six-feet, four-feet. The adrenaline rush peaked as he leant forward – he knew he had her.
Sarah sprinted as fast as she could, without glancing back as she couldn’t afford the time to do so. The sound of those footsteps was frighteningly close as they pounded on the grass behind her – as every second passed – the closer they came. Oh, Sarah, why did you come this way? Why did you get out of Scott’s car – why? Tears started to blur her vision. Not again, please not again, her mind screamed as the sound of those footsteps thundered down inches behind her.
Reaching out, he whipped his arm around her neck, lifted her backwards, and threw her to the ground. He landed heavily on top, that very act thumping the breath out of her. The sexy, hot, blonde woman in the tight black dress fell silent. Pushing his hand on the side of her face, he forced her head into the grass.
“Make a sound, bitch, and you’re dead.”
She didn’t move as her right eye swivelled around, trying to see him. He held his hand tight on her head and sat on her stomach, taking a moment to catch his breath. He had his prey. It was a secluded spot, and the air was warm. Perfect. He could have a play, take his time and savour the moment. He licked his lips.
“Please, please,” she whimpered.
He loved this. She scrunched her eyes closed and shook. Her whole body now trembling – even better, he thought.
This wasn’t the first time Sarah had suffered a sexual assault, and if they could be categorised, this was far worse than the last time all those years ago. Although her attacker had fled, Sarah wasn’t sure how long she’d lain sobbing in the foetal position. Whilst he raped her, he’d held her head tightly to the ground. Sarah had managed to swivel her eye and look at him and, although dark, she’d recognised the face – a face she knew – a face she’d never forget.
6
17th January 1977
Boycie
“Have you reached a verdict upon which you all agree?” The court clerk stood erect, a confident boom to his voice as he addressed the foreman of the jury. The court was deathly quiet as everyone awaited the verdict. However, everyone knew it was a foregone conclusion as the jury had filed back into the packed court after only retiring for two hours. This was a discouraging sign for the defence counsel who sat slumped on his bench, resigned to the inevitability of a lost case.
“Yes.” came the reply from the foreman, a gentleman in his late sixties, wearing a green knitted cardigan with only the bottom leather button fastened. His checked-shirted belly pushed through the gap, giving the appearance he was at least eight months pregnant.
“How do you find the defendant on the charge of attempted murder, contrary to common law under the Criminal Law Act 1967, guilty or not guilty?” the clerk asked.
“Guilty,” the foreman replied. Hands clasped behind his back and his chin in the air, now appearing pleased he’d conscientiously completed his civic duty.
The small gathering in the front row of the public gallery jumped for joy, cheering and hugging. Patrick Colney slouched in the dock, staring at the judge showing no emotion. His ‘brief’ had advised this was a likely verdict and had urged him to plead guilty, so he wasn’t surprised. He wouldn’t get long. He’d be out in eight, ten at worst, and his old man would protect him inside. Anyway, he had the ‘Colney’ name – no one messed with his family.
As he glanced up to the gallery, the cheering tossers calmed down. The family of Robert Moore he presumed – the bloke he’d stabbed. His twin brother, Paul, stood staring at him. Patrick winked back and mouthed, “It will be okay, look after Mum.” He continued to stare up at the public gallery as two prison officers re-applied the handcuffs in preparation to transport him back to prison. His girlfriend didn’t look at him as she sat with her head bowed below the railing, causing her mass of blonde hair to flop forward over her face.
Paul was seething. This was shaping up to be a really shit six months. His old man’s sentence extended by three years for a charge of actual bodily harm to a prison officer, then his younger brother, David, had fallen to his death last September. Now his twin brother was going to be banged up as well. It took all his self-control, and he didn’t have much, to not smash someone’s face in.
The Moore family filed out of the public gallery, all except one averted their eyes from Paul. The teenage girl who’d caused all the problems to start with raised her chin defiantly and looked straight into Paul’s eyes. Sarah Moore, that was her name. Someday, somehow, he’d deal with her. His now dead younger brother, David, had enjoyed a fumble with her. Well, he’d do more than a fumble, and he imagined strangling the life out of the pompous little cow or pumping her full of heroin as he had Carol Hall. Paul smirked as he remembered squeezing the syringe into Carol’s arm and watching her life drift away. Sarah Moore would get the same as no one got one-up on the Colneys.
Patrick's girlfriend stood and wiped her eyes on her coat’s sleeve and then glanced at Paul. Although he was Patrick's identical twin, he was evil and she hated him. She loved Patrick, but his family were hell. His mother terrified her, and she wished Paul would die like his younger brother David had last year. She’d seen two men drop David off the roof of Belfast house but had kept that information to herself. As far as she was concerned they were heroes, and no way was she going to rat them out. The only disappointment was she wished Paul had dropped to his death along with David.
She knew Patrick was different, although no angel as he’d stabbed that bloke, resulting in his appearance in court today. However, it was David’s fault in the first place for being such a pervert. If David hadn’t assaulted Sarah Moore, her father would never have bounded up to the Broxworth, and Patrick wouldn’t have had to get involved.
Paul grinned at her. “I’ll keep you warm at night while Patrick’s away,” he said, and then suggestively poked out his tongue whilst making a moaning sound.
“Piss off,” she threw at him, as she bolted for the exit door.
“Your loss, girlie.” Shame though, as Patrick would be banged-up for a while and she was hot with a nice tight arse. Maybe he’d take her anyway as there was nothing Patrick could do about it now. Paul stretched out his legs, propping them up on the seat in front as he raked through his pockets for his cigarettes.
Lighting up, he blew smoke out into the court even though some tosser had stuck a no-smoking sign up. Bollocks to that, he would have a smoke if he wanted. Apart from one bloke at the far end, the public gallery was now empty. Paul crossed his legs and studied him. He recognised him but just couldn’t place where from or understand why he was still there. Paul decided to sit and wait and let the other bloke leave first as he wanted to see his face when he turned around.
~
I sat staring out over the emptying court. The drama was now over as the sentencing had been postponed for a week. Only a few court ushers were milling about, but Patrick’s bloody twin brother was still sitting near the exit. He probably kicked the shit out of people daily, so he may well not remember the nose realignment job he gave me last September, but I didn’t want to have to face him. I would just sit here for a few more minutes and, hopefully, he’d have gone. Glancing at my watch, I had a few hours until meeting George. Martin had explicit instructions to stay in the house with the curtains closed. Christ, I hoped he hadn’t done anything stupid today, like tell Don he’s a time-traveller.
I needed to smooth things with Jenny after a particularly woeful performance when trying to explain what was going on after I returned from dropping Martin off last night. It was our first argument since we’d got married, and my claim that I’d worked with Martin in South Africa wasn’t going to hold water for long. It had been relatively easy when I was the only time-traveller as I could manage myself, avoid cock-ups and control the lies. However, I now suspected Martin could prove to be a loose cannon tha
t would blow ship-sinking-sized holes in my life.
Paul Colney was still there behind me, and I could feel his eyes burning holes in the back of my head. Bollocks. I’ll just get up and go. Head down, I bolted for the exit.
“Apple, that’s who you are! That pissing interfering school teacher. Why are you here?” Paul Colney faced me, eyes squinting, making it quite clear he had no intention of letting me pass.
“The name is Apsley, and I suggest you step aside. I want nothing to do with you.” A confident reply, I thought, but I was shitting myself. If he knew that I’d been the one who persuaded Sarah Moore to spill-the-beans about David’s abuse of her, and then I’d purposely let David fall to his death, he’d kill me or have me killed. Either way, I didn’t fancy those scenarios. Paul seemed to weigh up his options. I guess he concluded a courtroom wasn’t the best place for a confrontation so he stepped aside, allowing me to quickly make my exit.
God, I was knackered. I’d hardly slept a wink last night as I desperately tried to work out what I needed to do. Any sensible solution eluded me of how I could protect my life, this new wonderful life I now had. I think I eventually drifted off to sleep just as I conjured up the brilliant idea of burying Martin under the patio. However, I realised I’d borrowed that idea from Brookside, a soap I seemed to be fixated with as a teenager. I could even remember the characters and the storyline, which spookily involved a father abusing his stepdaughter called Beth. I’d heard that before! Anyway, a sodding good job I had today off as controlling a classroom of thirty kids was hard enough and nigh-on-impossible with no sleep.
With a couple of hours to kill before getting over to Don’s, I took a trip to Coreys Mill Motors. In front of the Portakabin sales office, in pole position, was a red Hillman Hunter. A Deal-Of-The-Week sign slapped across the window stated it was six-months-old, low mileage and a fiver short of six-hundred quid. I was giving it the once-over when the salesman approached.
“Af’noon sir, lovely little motor this one. Only one lady owner who’s had it from new. She only used it to nip up to the local shops, so it’s practically as good as new. You fancy a test drive? I can grab the keys, and we can take it for a quick spin if you like?”
“No, thanks. Although I’m trying to persuade my wife to replace her Viva, which she seems overly attached to. This has four doors, and I see it has rear seatbelts fitted as well.”
“Yeah, it’s got all the modern features. Ha, why the old-girl who had it, had rear-seatbelts fitted, hell knows, but don’t let that put you off … it’s a great car.
I shot him a disbelieving look. Was I hearing him correctly? I wanted the seatbelts, and this guy saw them as a negative.
A few weeks ago, I’d tried to buy child safety seats. Although in this era, they appeared not to be a safety feature that anyone believed were necessary. The sales assistant in Halfords, a small shop in the town centre, had looked at me strangely when I enquired if they stocked them. I recall him returning from the stock room with a wire child seat that could be strapped to a bicycle. When I pointed this out to him, he gestured around, and said – “As you can see, this is a cycle shop, sir.” How the hell was I supposed to know that? In my day, I remembered Halfords sold car stuff as well. But the thought of Christopher rolling around the back seat and Beth in her Moses basket, both ready to be catapulted through the windscreen of Jenny’s car, terrified me.
“Mr Apsley, talk of the devil and there you are.” The sales manager had poked his head out of the Portakabin door.”
“Hello, Mr Thacker. Good to see you again.”
“You interested in the Hunter? Good cars, you know. I could look at doing you a deal … shall we talk business?”
“Err … maybe. You said, ‘talk of the devil’, were you talking about me?”
Mr Thacker had a quick look left and right and took a puff on his cigar. He raked his hand over his greying hair and nodded his head to beckon me inside.
“Mr Apsley, we had a strange thing happen, and I just can’t put my finger on it. It’s bizarre to the point that I’m considering I’ve lost my marbles!” He removed a blue-spotted handkerchief from his double-breasted suit pocket and dabbed his forehead, although it was bloody freezing in there.
“Oh, what’s that then?” Thinking it can't be half as nuts as my time-travelling mate turning up in my old yellow Cortina.
“Your Cortina! We took it in on Saturday morning, then this morning it’s disappeared – vanished as if in a puff of smoke! I was just going to ring the police to report it stolen, but there on my desk was the sales invoice and a roll of cash on top.”
“Who sold it? Was it one of your salesmen?” I asked, not sure why selling a car was odd for a second-hand car sales garage.
“This is the odd part. I sold it yesterday morning at seven-thirty. However …” he paused as if awaiting the drumroll. “… I didn’t, did I? As we don’t open Sundays,” he said, waving the invoice in the air.
I reached out and took the invoice from his hand, and there it all was in neat fountain-pen handwriting. Sold by Charles Thacker, dated and time-stamped seven-thirty on January 16th 1977. The invoice displayed the buyer’s details at the bottom. Purchased by Mr Martin Bretton, with his signature. A signature I knew very well. My mouth dropped open and my jaw sagged down as I stared gormlessly at the invoice.
“Do you see my point, Mr Apsley? I’ve gone barking mad … mad! Barking mad.” He flung his arms in the air. “And another thing, I priced the car up in my book on Saturday afternoon. I was going to let it go relatively cheaply as the new MK4 Cortina has just been released, but the cash left here is two grand! Look, it’s on the invoice … two grand! It’s not worth half that!”
“Yes, this is very odd. I know it’s a bit irregular, but could I borrow this invoice? I’ll bring it back in a couple of days.”
“Oh … err, what for?” he questioned. Charles brought his hands back down out of the air and rammed his cigar back in his mouth again, puffing at it like Churchill.
“I just thought I’d do some checking on the buyer. Is that okay?”
“Yes, yes, to be honest it’s put me in a bit of a spin today. I’ll be glad to see the back of it.”
“Thanks, Charles, appreciate that.”
“What about the Hillman Hunter? Only one lady owner from new, so can we discuss a deal?” He returned the cigar to his mouth again and delivered a machine-gun laugh that sounded far too similar to Boycie.
I smiled at him and waved the invoice, “When I bring this back, we’ll have a chat about it.”
“Don’t wait too long as that car will be snapped up soon.”
I liked Charles, but he was a true second-hand car salesman, always half an eye on a deal.
7
Flux-Capacitor
Considering the complete madness of the past five months, the past twenty-four hours miraculous events should’ve been a walk-in-the-park. However, discovering my old yellow Cortina was a time machine or some kind of portal that received time-travellers was a significant discovery and somewhat difficult to comprehend. Since September, my life had slotted into place. David Colney was dead, so no longer a threat to Beth and those five women he murdered in forty years’ time. I’d settled into my perfect life with my new family and teaching career. But now I felt I’d been catapulted back five months and was being forced to start over.
Don confirmed Martin hadn’t ventured out of the house all day and, as I stood on the doorstep banging on the door, I could see that the curtains hadn’t been opened from where I’d drawn them last night. With no response from Martin, I rummaged through my pockets for the spare key and let myself in.
“Martin, it’s me. Are you okay?” No response. Where was he? I whizzed through the downstairs, then vaulted up the stairs.
“Martin?”
Pushing open the bedroom door, revealed him sat on the bed with his knees up around his chest, staring into space. “Martin, I was calling you … Martin?”
He glanced a
round with that new hollow vacant look which he’d acquired. His glasses were on the bedside table, and his face had a few days of dark stubble, giving him a tramp-like appearance. I’d never seen it before, never clicked, but Martin reminded me of someone else. Although at this point, I just couldn’t think who.
The hair was different, and I was used to seeing Martin in clothes that fitted into the era of 2019, not his current attire that definitely belonged in the ’70s. Hang on, I thought, Martin always smiled, but now with the few days’ stubble and the solemn look without his glasses on, he oddly looked like Paul Colney as if he was his twin and not Patrick. A cold shiver slithered down my spine. Perhaps I was seeing things as I was tired, and this morning’s events had sent my mind back to times I wished to forget.
“Martin, have you eaten?”
He shook his head, then looked down between his knees at the bed covers, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and sniffed.
“Come on, I’ll make you some dinner … Martin, come on.” I lobbed the green rucksack I was carrying onto the bedroom floor.
“I’ve brought you some clothes to get you through the next couple of days. I’m only a bit bigger than you, so it should all fit. There’s a denim jacket, jeans, t-shirts and underwear in there. Oh yeah, I shoved a few toiletries in there as well.”
Martin’s head shot up. “Underwear … your underwear!”
“It’s clean! I could have brought you some of Jenny’s knickers if you prefer! We’ll get you sorted with clothes later this week, but it will have to do for now.”
Ahead of his Time Page 5