Ahead of his Time

by Adrian Cousins

  “Well, yes, Charles, that’s the other reason for coming today.” From where I was sitting, I had a clear view of the sales lot. I scanned the view again, looking to see if Paul Colney had shown up. Charles followed my sightline, presumably wondering what I was looking at as my gaze had been longer than a casual glance.

  “Everything alright, Jason?”

  “Err … yes, fine. Sorry. Ummm … the Cortina story is a bit complicated. There’s a bloke trying to track me down, as he’s explicitly looking for the previous owner of that Cortina. It’s, as I say, a bit complicated.”

  “Oh?”

  “Charles, I think this chap will turn up here at some point and ask some questions about who you purchased the Cortina from. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say.”

  A deep frown formed across his face as he puffed on the unsupported cigar in his mouth. He leant forward, removing the cigar. “I would never give out that information. This does sound very strange, though. I do hope you’re not in some kind of trouble as I wouldn’t want to be involved in anything dodgy.”

  “No, Charles. It’s just difficult to say. But this chap isn’t the nicest. His name is Paul Colney.”

  “Never heard of him,” he replied, as he waved his cigar and reclined back in his chair.

  “He has close links to the Gowers. Have you heard of them?”

  His complexion instantly changed. I watched as the blood drained out of his face as if a plug had been pulled in his neck, causing the blood to gurgle out somewhere below. I half expected to see seven pints of the red-stuff pool under his chair. Pale and giving the appearance he was about to faint, he gripped the arms on his swivel chair.

  “I’m sorry, but I think we’d better end this conversation. Also, I’ve just remembered I’ve already agreed to a sale on that Hunter, so it’s no longer for sale. I’m sorry, Jason, but I think you’d better leave.”

  “Look, I am sorry to put you in this situation. But rest assured, this has nothing to do with the Gowers. Paul Colney is just a lowlife who thinks the driver of that Cortina had something to do with an accident involving a member of his family.”

  “Mr Apsley, that may well be. But I run a respectable business, and I don’t want anything to do with anyone connected to them. I have my reputation and good name with the authorities to consider.”

  “I understand, and I’m so sorry to have put you in this position.”

  “So am I!”

  “Look, Charles. I’m just a school teacher. I’m not from the underworld, and I have no connection to the authorities. Could you just tell this bloke if he asks that you bought it for cash and not through the books?”

  Charles stood and shoved his cigar back in his mouth. Although it had burnt out ages ago, I think it was just a habit to have one on the go. He shimmied around his desk and sat on the edge leaning towards me. “You’re not from the Inland Revenue? You’re a school teacher, you say?” he said, with the cigar now skilfully shoved to the side of his mouth.

  His slightly greying hair gave him the Jonah Jameson look. I now half expected him to scream at me to get a picture of Spiderman. I could certainly do with the support of a Marvel character at the moment – that would sort out a certain Mr Colney.

  “Yes, Charles. And to show my appreciation, let say I take that Hunter off your hands for eight-hundred … cash. That’s two-hundred over the asking price.”

  Charles leant back and fished about in his suit pockets. Catching a box of matches, he plucked them out, shook them and then lit one. He puffed heavily at the stub of his cigar, at the same time alternating his glances from the lit match and my face. I guessed he was weighing up his options.

  I knew Charles was money motivated and the offer of an extra two-hundred quid I hoped would be enough for no more questions and for him to create a suitable back story for the Cortina. Satisfied the cigar end was burning after a few puffs and blowing on the lit end, he looked back at me through the blue-haze that now engulfed the Portakabin.

  “Eight-hundred. And you say cash?”

  “Yes, Charles. I can bring cash next weekend. In the meantime, any questions about the Cortina, you say it was a cash deal and off the books. Do we have a deal?”

  Charles eased himself off the desk and stood. I followed suit.

  “Deal, Jason.”

  We shook hands after I’d left him fifty-quid as a deposit. I didn’t hang around as I was keen to get out of there in case Paul turned up. Unfortunately, my desire for a classic sports car had left me in a position that, once again, my motor stood out like a sore thumb.

  Pulling out onto the main road, I headed up to see Don and to check on Martin. However, I would knock this time, as I was sure he and Nursey Nicole would be enjoying their Saturday morning. If they were playing doctors and nurses, adult style, I didn’t want to see them in action.

  I waited for the lights to change after getting caught at the red traffic lights a hundred yards from Coreys Mill Motors. As I glanced in the rear-view mirror, I spotted a white Ford Capri with a coat hanger aerial swing into the car sales lot.

  38

  Spit The Dog

  Thankfully the rest of the day was uneventful. Martin and I had a long chat about our situation, his mother and Paul Colney. By the time I arrived at his house, Nicole had gone. I found him lying on the sofa in the lounge laughing at Tiswas.

  Both of us were too young to remember the show the first time around; in fact, Martin wasn’t even born. The slapstick comedy wasn’t my thing. Even though it was aimed at children, I wouldn’t have enjoyed it even if I was the right age to see it when first released. Judging by Martin’s reactions, as we sat and chatted, he would have, as he continually laughed at the clown-like antics. I’ll admit I did enjoy watching Bob Carolgees and Spit the Dog, and both of us couldn’t stop laughing as the dog spat at all the show’s guests. It was good to laugh at something after the tough week we’d had.

  Martin’s face appeared better than I expected, although his right eye was severely swollen. He said his nose hurt like hell and, between that and the attentions of Nicole, he’d achieved very little sleep.

  I decided I’d been way too tough on him. Let’s face it, time travelling back forty years and knowing you’re never going back is tough to take. I was conscious all I’d done for two weeks was berate him daily. He was still a loose cannon, but I needed to cut him some slack.

  Don and I discussed the events at Coreys Mill Motors, and both felt it had gone as well as could be expected. After seeing that white Capri on Friday and today, we knew it was a stroke of luck I’d just missed Paul earlier that morning. Don pushed me regarding the need to have a conversation with Jenny about Jess and, as always, both George and Don were right. Their wise counsel was invaluable, and I promised Don that I would come clean with Jenny over the weekend. “It's for the best, son”, he’d said as I left to go home.

  Passing Coreys Mill Motors on the way home, I was relieved to see it still standing. As no police cars were in attendance, I hoped the last couple of hours had been uneventful. It appeared that Paul Colney had left without killing anyone and hopefully not managed to extract any information about me, although I was aware this wouldn’t be the end of the matter. Oh no, he would continue to pursue the owner of that Cortina, but maybe today had bought me some time.

  Don was right; well, of course he was. Jenny was disappointed that I’d not told her about Jess earlier, but she was supportive and understood my desire to help Jess. However, it did add further complication to an already difficult situation. I guess the conversation was more straightforward than Don suggested it might be, as he thought Jess was my daughter. But of course, Jenny knew differently as Jess was the daughter of other Jason.

  Jenny thought once we’d moved past the Paul Colney issue – easily said, I reminded her – and perhaps when Martin had started to settle, he could find his own place, and we could slot Jess into the house next to Don. A perfect solution for the next ten years – until Patrick was released
– then there might need to be a rethink.

  The news events were very repetitive, with nothing reported that stood out as an event that I could remember and then predict what would happen from there. Although Jenny firmly believed who I was, an event that I could predict was going to happen imminently would just help cement that belief.

  The national newscasts focussed on the continued grumblings from various trade unions regarding pay, or lack off, and the link to inflation. But as it had topped out at twenty-four per cent, it was clear the government would not be able to sanction any public-sector pay rise anywhere near that. Otherwise, inflation would get to the levels of post WW1 Germany. The comparison to West Germany’s solid economy and the UK’s, which was in freefall, was often a conversation in the staffroom. Many of my colleagues were unhappy with the lack of pay increase since the agreed pay deal in 1975 of twenty-seven per cent. I would have loved to tell them in 2019, a full half a per cent was the average public-sector pay deal – but I guess these were different times.

  Unemployment was another heavily discussed subject when us teachers fell into our moaning sessions. Even though I benefited from hindsight, it was tough to see how the government could square that circle of inflation, pay demands, and unemployment. I knew they didn’t and was also aware of the economic doom that the next few years would bring.

  Jenny and I watched the Saturday lunchtime news, which was as depressing as usual. Jenny had said, “It can’t get any worse, can it?” I wasn’t able to alleviate her concerns as I described the up and coming ‘Winter of Discontent,’ which would spiral the UK economy to even lower depths of depression over the next two years. Jenny thought it sounded horrific as I described the strikes that led to dead bodies stacked up as the gravediggers’ pay dispute was unresolved.

  The picture I painted of rubbish piled up on the streets when the council collection operatives refused to resume their weekly collections was equally grim to hear. However, Jenny did laugh at my description of ‘dustmen’ as she put it. I remember George in my previous life recounting these times, and now the poor bugger had it all to come again! Well, no, it seemed like again, but it was the first time … again.

  The local news continued to report about the bombing in Fairfield, with a different angle on the story each day. It had slipped off the national news as it was now ten days old. Although, on Saturday evening, the Fairfield bombing made it back to the national news as a reference point to the events unfolding in Oxford Street. The IRA had accepted responsibility for seven bombs, one of which caused Selfridges to be set alight.

  Jenny was pleased to hear that the Good Friday Agreement would bring lasting peace. The news that it would take another twenty years to get to that point was not so good, especially as I advised her that there would be many more bombings on the mainland in those preceding years.

  Sunday was a quiet, uneventful day, which was a bloody miracle in itself after the last week. After we’d finished our Sunday tea, which consisted of sandwiches and cakes, we settled into early evening television. Christopher loved the lemon-curd sandwiches but had spat out the Heinz Sandwich Spread ones, saying it was yucky. After I dished out his telling off for saying horrible things about Jenny’s sandwiches, I banished him to the naughty step – the bottom step of the stairs in the cold hallway.

  In my view, he was totally correct in his assessment of the sandwich filling. Not in his earshot – I agreed with him. After suffering a decade of the stuff in my school packed lunch in the ’80s and definitely not daring to criticise the sandwich filling choice with my grandmother, Jenny agreed not to purchase the product again – what a relief.

  After Christopher had served his ten-minute sentence on the naughty step, we allowed him to watch some TV with us before bedtime. He was super excited watching the biplanes on the TV show ‘Wings’. The basic plot was a blacksmith’s son becoming a pilot in the First World War. I was sure the storyline was sugar-coated, and I expected Don would be berating the TV as he sat and watched it. The show appeared dated, with over-exaggerated accents and shockingly poor cinematography.

  To me it was tame and boring, but this was all we had in this era, and I had a long wait for the digital age and hundreds of channels to choose from. Although I used to moan about that at the time, “Thousands of channels and piss-all worth watching,” I could hear myself ranting at the TV.

  Jenny thought the show was too scary for Christopher, which did make me laugh as I thought back to my youth when I’d watched the film ‘An American Werewolf in London’ at the age of ten and the ‘Evil Dead’ only a couple of years later. Children’s innocence eroded at a lightning pace over those forty years from the ’70s through the millennium.

  After Christopher was soundly tucked up in bed and Beth had her last feed for the evening, the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it.” I sprang off the sofa, surprised with my enthusiasm, although it was probably to avoid any more pain of the utterly dreary TV on offer. That said, I was looking forward to ‘The Rise and Fall of Reginald Perrin’, which was showing later – now some comedy was timeless.

  Standing a few feet back from the doorway was a forty-something woman wearing heavy makeup, which appeared to have been applied with a trowel. She stood with her arms folded in what gave off an aggressive aura.

  “Hello,” I said and smiled, now slightly concerned who this woman was standing on my doorstep on a cold Sunday evening.

  She stepped forward with her arms still tightly crossed. My smile wasn’t reciprocated, just the offer of a cold stare and said nothing.

  “Err … can I help you?”

  “You know who I am?” she coldly delivered, and there appeared to be little chance of a smile coming. Presumably, her concrete makeup had set her face to a scowl. I had now developed a growing unease about where this conversation was heading.

  “Sorry, no. Can I help you?”

  Jenny joined me at the front door and nuzzled up to my side, her head resting on my arm as I waited for the woman to answer.

  The scary woman took a further step forward, closing the gap between us to less than a yard.

  “Shirley Colney. We’ve never met. But you’ve ’eard of me, I’m sure of that.” With her bleached hair, dark roots and evil voice, it appeared Cruella de Vil had left ‘Hell Hall’ and arrived on our doorstep.

  As with Mr Thacker, yesterday morning, when it appeared that a plug had been pulled out of his neck, the very same effect seemed to be syphoning out the blood from my veins.

  “What d’you want?” I heard myself say, although I didn’t remember my brain deciding to instruct my vocal cords to speak. I could feel Jenny now gripping my arm.

  “That baby is my granddaughter.”

  Her words took an age to register in my brain, and they seemed to hang in the air before deciding on their final destination. It then took an age for me to compute those five simple words and the meaning they delivered. Jenny’s grip on my upper arm tightened even further as if feeling the pressure of the pump on a blood pressure machine reaching its optimum peak point.

  “We’ve unfinished business – you and me – you’ll see. Your time is nearly up, and when that happens … that little girl will be mine.”

  39

  31st January 1977

  Bunsen Burner

  Sunday night was a return to those nights of a week ago, as in achieving very little sleep. After getting rid of the monster disguised as Shirley Colney from our doorstep, Jenny and I felt the cracks widening in our perfect life. That bloody Colney family, which I seemed unwittingly to be totally entwined with, had just rammed another wedge in the cracks.

  Shirley was clear that Beth was her granddaughter, and her evil child-abusing, future serial killer son, David, was Beth’s father. I’d pulled myself together after the shock of her visit and banished her away from our home, but I’d no idea what she meant by that statement, ‘Your time is nearly up.’

  I stayed strong for Jenny, who was terrified of what would n
ow happen. As I was, although I didn’t show it. Keeping a level head and a lid on my emotions was critical to convincing Jenny that it would all turn out okay. I was putting on a good show. However, Jenny was right to be worried.

  Shirley Colney had stated that Carol Hall had told her last year that she and David had got it together when he was fifteen. A coming-of-age present from her son, Paul, as she put it. Shirley claimed the product of David and Carol’s liaison was apparently Beth. She added that she’d dismissed the slag at the time, as she described her, but now knew the truth that Amy Elizabeth was her granddaughter. She made it quite clear she would be part of Beth’s life as she was a Colney and, if we knew what’s good for us, we would comply with her demands.

  Jenny planned to call her boss, Barry, and set up a meeting to discuss what support we could expect from the Child Protection team. Although Jenny knew the guidelines on this situation, her head was in a mess and needed Barry’s calm manner to get it all in perspective. We agreed to talk to her parents on Monday evening, and we could then formulate a plan from there.

  I had my own separate challenges to deal with today, which involved turning Sarah Moore’s lustful gazes from her thirty-one-year-old son onto the Fairfield Chronicle's future editor, Carlton King. Although Carlton was a bit of a dick-head at school, he manages to aspire to a decent job in the future. Maybe Sarah could do worse, I thought.

  “Good Morning, Miss Colman,” I announced, much brighter than I was feeling, as I slugged my way into the school office to prepare for another week.

  “Oh, good morning to you too, Mr Apsley. And what a lovely morning it is!” she replied enthusiastically. She seemed to have developed a glow about her.

  “How was your weekend? Did you get up to anything exciting?”