Ahead of his Time

by Adrian Cousins

  “Online, what’s that, lad?”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry, George. You remember I said you can access things called websites on your pocket computer, it’s through that.”

  “Ah yes, lad, that radio waves thing.”

  “Ha, yeah, kind of. Anyway, Reutemann wins next Sunday in the Brazilian Grand Prix, but that’s no great shock. Anyone with an interest in motorsport could predict that, so that’s not going to cut-the-mustard with Jen.”

  “Right lad, nothing you can think of in the next week or so?”

  “No, George. It’s not easy to recall news items from forty years in the past. Often when I hear a report on the radio I can then piece it together and remember what will happen next, but I would need the prompt first. It’s not as easy as you might think. I mean, apart from the Titanic sinking the year you were born, do you know anything else that happened that year?”

  George leant back on his chair and rubbed his chin. “No, lad, you’re right. Come to think of it, I don’t think I do.”

  I picked the chair up that was still upturned and stared out of the window – my reflection bouncing back at me. I raised my hands in the air and started a conversation with my reflection. “Jason, what are you going to do?” My reflection didn’t answer and just played Simple-Simon with me.

  “1977 … hmmm … 1977.” My reflection offered nothing new. “I think Marc Bolan and Elvis Presley die this year, but not sure what month.”

  “Really, Presley … he’s not that old. Who’s that Bolan chap.”

  “Think it’s Presley’s lifestyle. Heart attack, I think. Marc Bolan, he’s a big pop star.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Ha, George, I guess you haven’t. We’re getting nowhere, and we have to sort Martin out as well. Also, Don’s going to be a problem as he’s fishing for information.”

  “Lad, I will ensure Martin is okay this week. You worry about Jenny and try and think of an event which happens soon that will convince her.” He stood and grabbed his coat. “Chin up, lad, she’ll come around.”

  George left me with my reflection and a large whisky for company.

  “I’ll have one of those as well, please.”

  A reflection of Jenny had appeared in the window as I stood at the kitchen sink. I spun around.

  “How long you been standing there?”

  “Long enough.”

  14

  19th January 1977

  10CC

  He spotted her going into the pub on his way to meet his contact. It was only a fleeting glance as he waited at the traffic lights at the top of Coldhams Lane. She must have walked from the car park, which backed onto the alley that led through to the Broxworth Estate. He watched as she hovered at the pub entrance, checking her makeup in a compact mirror. He wanted her, but he had to meet his contact and couldn’t keep him waiting – frustrating.

  He smoothed his hand over his hair, then plucked a cigarette from the packet lying on the passenger seat and pushed in the cigarette lighter. He wondered who she was meeting.

  Nudging the volume up on the radio, ‘The things we do for love,’ boomed from the speakers, a quality Sharp system he’d torn out of an old Renault 12 that some dickhead had left unlocked. However, some tosser had ripped off his car aerial and he now had a fucking coat hanger stuck in its place – kids on the estate he suspected. He’d put the word out for information on who’d done it – they’d pay for that.

  A loud car horn brought him back from his lustful gaze, as some wanker hooted him because the lights had turned green. She looked up at the traffic light, but not at him. “Fuck off, you wanker!” He gestured in the rear-view mirror, revved the engine and pulled away with a screech of tyres on the wet road. If he was quick and his contact was on time, he could be back here in an hour and then maybe he would wait near the pub until she came out. If she was on her own, he might fancy some tonight.

  An hour later, he arrived back at the pub and parked at the rear of the car park, squeezing the car beside the corrugated fabricated garage. He’d reversed in so he had a clear sight of the side of the pub and down Brooks Road.

  He’d give it half an hour and, if she came out, he’d take her. If not, it would have to be another night – but he was going to have her soon. Now back sitting in the driver’s seat, he waited after he’d peered through one of the pub’s side windows to check she was still there. At first, he’d been unable to see her and was about to leave when he spotted her saunter back from the toilets and join a bloke at the far end of the lounge. The geezer had his back to him so he couldn’t see who he was, but hopefully she’d leave alone.

  Duncan and Julie, the landlord and landlady, were on their own at the bar. Julie was perched provocatively on a barstool on the punters’ side of the bar. Her short skirt and stockings stirring memories in him when he’d had her in the toilets last Saturday whilst her idiot husband stood chatting to a group of locals twenty feet away. In her late thirties, she was older than he liked them, but she had a thirst for sex that Duncan apparently couldn’t satisfy, but he could – and had on many occasions. Gawping at Julie through the window, he considered forgetting the other one tonight. He could stroll in, have a pint and take Julie in the ladies toilets, or DD toilets as that prick Duncan had renamed them.

  Duncan was such a dick-head. He had his close-knit group of crony punter friends and thought he was ‘The Man.’ Him and his twattish cronies all laughing when he’d changed the toilets signs from Gents and Ladies to SD and DD – Shake dry and Drip dry. “Well, Duncan, you prick, I’ve had your old lady many times in your DD toilets,” he whispered, as he walked back to wait in his car.

  He decided he wanted the other one tonight, but only if she was alone when she left so he could easily take her. If not, the backup plan – he would go back in later and take Julie. She was constantly gagging for it – she never let him down.

  Half an hour passed and, with three cigarette butts flicked out of the car window, he gave up. It would have to be another night – but soon – he had to have her. Tonight, he’d have Julie as a consolation prize – she’d just have to do. At least she was always willing, and there was no fight or forcing himself, although that was the part he loved most. It was a pity she didn’t struggle just a little bit, rather than tugging her knickers aside and begging for it.

  He inched his white Ford Capri’s long bonnet from its hiding place but quickly applied the clutch and brake as he spotted her. She’d left on her own and was now bounding down Brooks Road towards the estate. She was going to go through the alley – perfect. He reversed up, exited the car and lit a cigarette.

  He followed her as she carried on down Brooks Road. Her long blonde hair bounced as it flowed over the collar of her Afghan coat, which covered her tight arse lingering underneath. She swung her suede tasselled handbag as if she didn’t have a care in the world. However, in a few minutes, he was going to change that. It was cold, and snow was in the air, but that didn’t matter as she was hot, and he was ready.

  He’d started taking in the summer. His first was in that very same alley, and now his appetite for taking was growing. It was so much more satisfying taking it than some bird just offering it.

  One last drag, he dropped the butt onto the wet pavement and followed her. Even though it was still early, not quite eight o’clock, the rush hour was over, and the street lay deserted. She would arrive at the alley entrance in less than a hundred yards, and she’d have to walk down it to get through to the Broxworth as there was no other way through.

  He kept close to the bushes that overhung the terraced houses’ garden walls which stretched down the road’s left-hand side. He checked his balaclava in his coat pocket and felt the woollen fabric between his fingers. He’d slip it on as soon as she entered the alley, and she’d be all his to enjoy.

  She didn’t even stop to look, not even a glance, just turned into the dark alley without a care in the world. Yes, this was fate tonight. Those traffic lights earlier were on
red so he could see her going into the pub. It was meant to be, and now only a few seconds to go before he’d get what he wanted. The anticipation and excitement were a drug, an irresistible thirst that was building in him.

  He reached the alleyway entrance, stopped, held his breath, and peered around the corner; there she was, only fifty yards ahead. Although pitch black, he could make out her movement as she marched through the alley in her knee-high white boots. He slipped on his balaclava but was disappointed he had his heavy boots on, so creeping up would be difficult. Keeping close to the wooden-panelled fence, he picked up his pace. He planned to grab her about halfway through, where the alley opened up behind the block of garages and was only visible from the allotments. Now slightly heady as his heart rate increased, a feeling which came just before he took them. The thrill was intoxicating.

  ~

  Jess replayed the meeting with her father in her mind as she stepped into the alley. She was so chuffed her father had turned up tonight because, after sitting in the pub for over two hours on Tuesday, she’d feared he wouldn't show. Now she felt relieved and excited she had a ‘Father’.

  Although initially it had been slightly awkward as neither knew what to say, the conversation did eventually start to flow. Jess replayed snippets of the conversation over and over, analysing the meeting. He looked younger than her mother and had a modern attitude which had surprised her. Maybe that was due to him having a young wife and small children. Tonight was the first step in getting to know him, and she decided she liked him.

  Now she had her own flat, she had some stability and could prepare for her child’s birth, although it was grim and had been empty for five months after some druggy woman overdosed last year. The sadness of the child’s father not there for her was crushing, but she’d have to just get on with it.

  Her father had wanted to know so much about her mother, which after twenty years of no contact was not a total surprise. How they were ever together, God knows. Her mother dressed like an old granny with her stuck up ‘I’m better than you’ attitude. She wondered what had happened to make her so old before her time, especially as her father, who was a similar age, acted and dressed so much younger. He’d even used the word cool a few times, which made her smile.

  The alley was devoid of street lamps, but she knew it like the back of her hand and could confidently negotiate her way around the metal dustbins positioned by the back gates of the old flats. Fifty odd yards along the pathway, Jess jumped in surprise as a cat shot out in front of her. It meowed and then trotted back up the path into the darkness. Jess stopped and caught her breath as her hand shot to her stomach, performing that involuntary maternal act. She swivelled her head around to see it disappear. Jess hated cats, especially Merlyn.

  Did she hear a scrape – was that a shoe scraping on the pavement? Jess stood still as she peered back up the alleyway. The light coming from the flats was too dim and, although her eyes had adjusted, she couldn’t see anything. Now her breathing became heavy as if she’d been running. The cat had disappeared, but Jess could still hear it meowing only a few feet away. All she could see were flakes of soft snow as they wisped down, the stillness of the air allowing the flakes to drop vertically to the pavement, laying on her coat sleeves and clinging to the fur cuffs. No, there was no one there, just that bloody cat meowing. Now feeling the cold, she turned and picked up her pace.

  He stood utterly still, concerned she could see him or his breath when she’d turned around. He held it for a few seconds as the cat rubbed around his legs, meowing. He considered kicking the cat away but was concerned it would make too much noise, so he encouraged it to go by gently lifting his boot and nudging it. He could see her silhouette only twenty feet away. Her body form became clearer as the snow lay on her head and shoulders, which formed a white glow around her like the Ready Brek adverts. ‘Central heating for kids,’ she was hot – it was now – take her.

  Jess marched on, but there it was again, that scraping sound. Closer this time and too heavy for it to be that cat. She spun around again and gasped. Only a few feet away was a dark shadow, now illuminated with the white snow that lay across his head and shoulders. No facial features, just a set of teeth that appeared as he closed in towards her. She couldn’t move as her feet seemed welded to the pavement – run Jess, run—

  Too late.

  He grabbed her neck, spun her around, and kicked her legs away, causing her to thump down to the pavement.

  “No, please no – I’m pregnant, please, please, no!”

  He thrust his palm on her head, squashing it to the cold, snow-covered tarmac. She struggled, which he liked, but she was no match for his size, and she couldn’t wriggle free. She cried as her struggling abated. The cat stepped over her head and looked up at him, but he just carried on enjoying his prize.

  15

  A few hours earlier

  Pony

  I’d debated whether I would meet Jess tonight, but hey, could life get any worse? Besides, this wasn’t Jess’s fault. Although she was other Jason’s daughter, as far as she was concerned, I was other Jason, so I felt duty-bound to meet her. George had omitted Jess's existence in the story, which he relayed to Jenny last night, and I was grateful for that.

  Parking up in the pub car park, I decided to wait until I could see who entered the pub. Not that I knew what she looked like, but I assumed not many twenty-year-old females would be entering a pub at six in the evening on a cold Wednesday in January. The winter had been fierce following the hot summer, and I’d seen more snow in the last month than my whole lifetime. Maybe global warming hadn’t taken effect yet. I certainly couldn’t remember a winter like this one and, sitting here in my Triumph Stag, I missed the heated seats my crushed Beemer used to offer.

  Two men, I guess in their mid-fifties, parked up a Dewhurst Butchers Mini-van. Still wearing their bloodstained aprons and white hats they jumped out and marched towards the pub entrance, presumably, grabbing a swift-half before finishing up for the evening. For the next half an hour, they were the only punters to arrive.

  Nothing more had come to light regarding the confiscated typewriter. After last night’s events – that problem, although huge – had sunk way down on the disastrous-issues-to-resolve list. After George had left last night, there was a slight improvement when Jenny re-appeared at the kitchen door. Of course, she wasn’t convinced of my story; I mean, what normal person would be? However, the fact she’d listened to George’s and my conversation had helped.

  Jenny had demanded to see my list of Grand Prix winners, which I duly showed her after retrieving it from its hiding place from the top of the Welsh-dresser. Jenny had a perfunctory flip through the pages, keeping my book to study again later. Although it would take weeks, it would help Jenny believe every time the race winner was as I’d predicted. I was still relegated to sleep on the sofa and had a painful, stiff neck as a result.

  A couple of minutes before six, a young, tall, slim woman with long blonde hair, wearing an old Afghan coat and white knee-high boots, stopped outside the pub entrance. I hadn’t seen her approach, so I assumed she must have walked from the other direction. She rummaged in her handbag and plucked out a compact, then checked her appearance in the mirror as she waved it around, inspecting her whole face. She glanced up as some tosser in a white Capri wheel spun through the traffic lights after being hooted by the driver behind. She then snapped the compact closed and marched towards the pub entrance. It was a reasonable assumption she was Jess – well, here we go, time to meet my daughter – no, his daughter.

  Apart from the community centre, the Beehive Pub was the nearest drinking establishment to the Broxworth Estate, and I’d frequented it a few times in the past five months. It was a spit-and-sawdust type of establishment, and I’d wondered why Jess had chosen this place. Maybe she lived on the Broxworth? If the blonde woman was her, she was not someone I recognised, although I’d only seen her from a distance.

  The pub was quiet, with only the t
wo blood-stained butchers sitting at the bar, chatting to a woman I recognised as the landlady who was perched on a barstool. Her low-cut, skin-tight top barely held onto her ample chest. She sat with her legs crossed, causing her short skirt to ride-up, revealing the top of her stockings. The two butchers appeared to be torn between gawping at her chest and thighs as their heads rotated between the two areas. The blonde, still wearing her coat and sipping an orange juice, waved at me from where she was seated at the end of the lounge bar. I headed her way, assuming she must be Jess or, if not, a working girl looking for business as the pub was well known for that kind of transaction.

  “Jess?”

  “Yes, hello, are you Jason?” She offered her hand and lifted herself slightly out of her seat.

  “Yes, hello,” I smiled, not sure what else to come up with. Although I’d improved and was now much more engaging in social settings, this was awkward. Fortunately, after a slow start, Jess had verbal diarrhoea.

  It was clear from the conversation her relationship with her mother wasn’t a good one, but she was very keen to hear about how her mother and I’d met at university. Of course, I had no bloody idea and kept my answers vague. Concerningly, I discovered that Jess and her mother had returned to Fairfield ten years ago, and Grace now lived in the old town. As we’d never met and not wishing to impersonate other Jason more than was necessary, I would need to try and avoid her. However, as I had no idea what she looked like, that would be tricky and added another issue to my disastrous-issues-to-resolve list, which was exponentially growing.