Don had taken an instant shine to Jess and insisted on helping her get settled into what was Martin’s temporary home. George said he knew a couple of chaps from work he trusted to go back to her flat on Sunday and collect her personal belongings. Jenny said she would ask one of her female colleagues to go with them, as she didn’t feel it was appropriate for George’s friends to rummage through Jess’s knicker drawer. Jess had sobbed with relief in Jenny’s arms when she realised that with the help of a few people, she was never going back to the Broxworth.
Leaving Don to fuss over Jess, George and I chatted as we ferried our belongings out of Don’s house and packed the cars up to go home.
“It’s crossed my mind, lad … about the car you had the crash in.”
I glanced at George as he handed me one of the bags I was about to lob in the fairly uselessly sized boot of the Stag. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
George raised his eyebrows. “Yes … maybe. Although it’s a bit silly, really. Both of you ended up here in that car … and now … well, you know.”
I gently closed the boot, propped my bum up on its edge, and considered what he was suggesting. “So, Martin and Paul could have been teleported to another life because they were in that bloody car?” I shook my head. “It can’t be … Can it?”
“I don’t know, lad. But you both time-travelled back forty-odd years and woke up in that car. May suggest it has some strange cosmic power.”
“George, can you hear yourself!”
“Ha, yes, lad. I know. I can't believe I’m saying it … but you did, didn’t you!”
“Yeah, we did. The thought of Paul Colney now waking up in some other year to carry on where he left off from, though, doesn’t bear thinking about.”
“I’m sure he hasn’t. Anyway, that’s the car you arrived in, not departed in. It’s not the same, is it?”
I gingerly lifted my bum off the boot lid, unable to turn my neck without suffering severe pain. “No, George, it’s not. They’re both dead … I’m sure of that.”
“Yes, you’re probably right. Anyway, that Cortina didn’t have a flux thingy, type thing Martin said about.”
“Flux-Capacitor?”
“Yes, that’s it. What does that do anyway?”
“George, I have no idea.”
48
6th February 1977
Time-Bend
Sunday morning, I stayed in bed. Jenny told me, no, instructed me to rest. She was insistent if my neck hadn’t improved by the time I got up, we were going to the hospital to get me checked out. Not relishing an afternoon sitting on those uncomfortable straight-backed wooden chairs up at Fairfield General, I complied with her directive. Although my neck was painful, I managed to sleep without worrying about the next day and what drama would evolve. I achieved some proper sleep for the first time since that Sunday when Martin had arrived on our doorstep three weeks ago.
Last Friday, Martin had talked through his plans for his new life with such excitement. He really had embraced his time-travel leap with real enthusiasm after a predictably tricky start. I shed a tear for my fellow time-traveller and prayed he was now at peace.
I’d always wrestled with my ability to bend time and how it always seemed to pull back to the laid down path it already had set in motion. However, David’s death last year had proven I could bend time. Now for sure, I’d achieved it once again. I knew for certain Paul Colney had raped Jess, as he’d admitted it. Which would also suggest he raped those two women last summer. So, assuming that Martin’s mother had told the truth, and why wouldn’t she, it had to be Paul Colney who raped her in ten years’ time.
Convinced I’d successfully achieved another time-bend, I balanced off the sadness of Martin’s death against the knowledge that young Sarah Moore’s future life had indeed changed for the better. Martin would be happy with that knowledge, as it was his primary target to achieve. I would watch Sarah’s progress through life and now hoped she’d go on to achieve what she wanted, and when she wanted. Although I did laugh at the thought of that dork Carlton King and her together.
Although it hadn’t, I convinced Jenny my neck had improved as I had no intention of spending my Sunday afternoon in A&E.
The local radio station lunchtime news item reported the car accident on Friday evening. The newscaster stated there were two fatalities with no other vehicles involved. There were unconfirmed reports that two passengers had fled the scene, and the police were appealing for witnesses. One of the deceased was confirmed as Paul Colney, a twenty-three-year-old man from the Broxworth Estate. The other deceased had not yet been identified. The incident was reported as gang-related as firearms had been recovered.
Although the police were appealing for witnesses, I wasn’t unduly concerned about Jess and my descriptions being circulated. Those first on the scene that evening hadn’t looked at either of us. They were all consumed with the crash scene and the two dead bodies on the bonnet of my old Cortina. I certainly had no concern about the three lads on their bikes, as I believed they were from the Broxworth – you can just tell, can’t you? We were safe in that knowledge, as no one from the Broxworth talks to the police. I’m led to believe it’s an unwritten requirement of living on the estate.
No surprise Martin had not been identified, as he didn’t exist. Nowhere on the planet was there any record of Martin Bretton, aged thirty-one living in the United Kingdom. That would be a mystery the police would never resolve. Eventually, resources would dry up, and it would end up in a case file on a dusty shelf of unresolved cases – I was confident of that.
Pondering the Colney family and their evil ways dragged my mind to the Yorkshire Ripper. Over a year had passed since any reported murders which fitted his modus-operandi. I’d often tried to pull out of my memory the dates he murdered those women. That book Lisa had bought me, and I’d read that Christmas Day, had unfortunately not held in my memory. Apart from a few odd details like being repeatedly arrested and a lorry driver, nothing else stuck. However, over a year had elapsed since his last murder, so I deduced that time had bent again. Somehow, this time, Peter Sutcliffe had stopped his murderous campaign. Had perhaps my anonymous letter worked? Maybe the police interviewed him last year when following up the letter, and he was sufficiently spooked to stop?
That Sunday evening, it seemed as if time cruelly dealt its fate when I’d reached a point of believing I’d once again successfully moved its planned direction. Only a few hours earlier that day, I’d relayed my thoughts to Jenny about the Yorkshire Ripper, and we agreed that a prolific serial killer wouldn’t rest up for over a year. No, we both firmly believed he wouldn’t have taken a serial-killer vacation, but would regularly continue his murderous campaign until caught. Which is what my limited memory believed to be the case.
The early evening national news reported a young female’s body had been discovered that morning by a man walking his dog in a park in a suburb of Leeds. The brutal attack was dubbed the work of ‘The New Jack the Ripper’. The police had instantly linked this attack with the murders in January 1976 and October 1975.
Time was a force of nature that wouldn’t bend at will. It was official – a serial killer was on the loose in the north of England, and there was bugger all I could do about it.
49
Some weeks later
‘Murrayisms’
There were no more reports regarding our crash in February. It was treated as just another road traffic accident as I thought it would. The fact that Martin couldn’t be identified was presumably incidental. The case was probably just filed away, awaiting a missing person’s report to link it with – and that would never happen.
The Deputy Head position at school had to be resolved. I and another applicant, who until the day of the interviews I didn’t know, were put through the process in late February. Roy was frustrated and stated that he wanted his man, as he put it, and I should be appointed.
I was super relaxed about the whole interview and assess
ment process, probably as I really didn’t give a toss whether I got the position or not. My laid-back attitude must have helped as I subsequently was successful and appointed to the role. Roy was delighted, far more than I was.
I met the other candidate on the day of the interviews when we shook hands before going in to my assessment. I’d met him before in my previous life, and the memory flooded back of him marching Beth and me into the Headmaster’s office when we were both sixteen in the early nineties. Keith Jones still appeared to have the grace and humility of Hermann Göring. Although on our brief meeting this time, he didn’t seem to be the sort of chap that might have your fingernails pulled out with a pair of pliers.
Now Martin had vacated, Jess moved into the house next to Don. I now had both houses rented out and received meagre rent. But that didn’t matter as it felt bloody fantastic to be able to help these two people who’d entered my life. Jess was very much Don’s surrogate grandchild, and he doted on her.
Don, as always, had his ear to the ground, and a few old acquaintances liked to keep him up to date on the events up at the Broxworth. Shirley Colney, as expected, was devastated that she’d lost a second son within the space of six months. She’d apparently skedaddled and was living it up in the Costa Del Sol, so no longer the controlling factor in Fairfield she once was.
The Gower family had apparently become frustrated with the Colneys and their lack of control, now considering them to be a liability. You didn’t need to move in those low-life circles to know if the Gowers were no longer supporting the Colneys – they were finished.
Shirley had dumped Andy, her youngest son, on her sister. Both Don and I agreed he’d probably grow up to be a low-life as well. Unlike his older brothers, Andy Colney wouldn’t have the backing of the all-controlling and powerful Gower clan.
Clive Trosh had left the hospital and was recovering well. I had one hell of a battle on my hands persuading him to take one of my diamonds. In the end, I introduced him to Don and, he worked his magic which resulted in Clive accepting my offer. So, I took another one of my diamonds from my safety deposit box and visited Maypole Jewellers. Terry Maypole was disappointed I didn’t need the ring made in an hour, as he said it was one of his best pieces of work when he’d made Jenny’s ring. Mr Maypole got to work on producing another masterpiece which I couldn’t wait to give to Clive.
The ever-efficient Miss Colman, although still efficient, seemed to have taken on an air-head persona. I think she’d copied the stance of Mr Humphries, as she continuously held her left hand slightly raised in the air to ensure everyone could see the engagement ring.
Roy was disappointed that Martin had urgently returned to South Africa as he had received a job offer that he couldn’t refuse. It was the best story I could come up with to cover up his disappearance. We agreed that we would just get by until Clive returned, so decided not to look for another temporary replacement.
Following that promise I made in the Cortina that I would somehow stop Ayrton Senna from dying in 1994, Jenny and I thought we should firstly try and save Tom Pryce and the marshal, who would die in a few weeks.
We constructed two letters this time. Using an ancient typewriter once owned by Frances, we were super careful to ensure we left no fingerprints on either paper or envelope. The first letter we sent to The British Racing Drivers Club, informing them that Tom Pryce would die on March 5th. The second was an airmail letter sent to the Midrand race track in South Africa, stating that track safety could be significantly improved if marshals were placed at both sides of the track. This added measure would improve track safety and, if an incident occurred, there would be no requirement for a marshal to cross the track mid-race.
I took a trip out to London one Saturday morning and, with a gloved hand, slotted the two letters in an unremarkable red post box near Marble Arch.
I was living in that era when motor racing was not the hyped-up sport it was in my day. The lack of TV channels was a big part of that reason, and so limited air time resulted in limited programmes. I knew I was only a few years away from enjoying live races on the BBC, with the one and only Murray Walker commentating. However, I did enjoy the highlights he presented at this time with his comical blunders or ‘Murrayisms’ as they were later called. I always looked forward to the highlights and now realised back in 2019, I hadn’t appreciated the fantastic coverage which was on offer.
Sunday 6th March, I didn’t watch the BBC2 highlights. I stood in the back garden, smoking a cigarette as Jenny tried to console me. My tears weren’t for Tom Pryce specifically, who had died as he had the first time. Nor were they for the marshal, a teenager called Jansen Van Vuuren, although before the news reports today, I hadn’t known his name. No, my tears were for the fact that I couldn’t stop these events. I knew women who were going to die over the next few years at the hands of Peter Sutcliffe. I also knew more motor racing drivers would die doing what they loved. I had future knowledge of world events that would cost thousands of lives, but I was fully aware I was powerless to change that history.
I felt utterly helpless.
As Jenny said, I’d changed some history for the better. Beth and Christopher now had a real chance of a better life. I’d stopped two evil men from carrying out their future rapes and murders, and I should be proud of what I’d achieved. She was right, but my frustration was unless these events were intrinsically linked to my life, I could do bugger all about it.
I would now spend the next forty years knowing the disasters and hideous crimes were about to happen and, once again, I was powerless to change it.
50
15th August 1987
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off
“Jenny, are you ready yet? We’re going to be late!” I bellowed up the stairs.
“I won't be long, darling. Just give me a minute,” she shouted back. Although for some reason when Jenny shouted it was gentle. On the other hand, I sounded more like a market street trader offering a pound of brussels for twenty pence.
“Dad, you got a tenner I can have?”
“What about your own money you get from your Saturday job? Don't Sainsbury’s pay you for stacking their shelves?”
“Yeah … yeah, but there’s … this girl I want to impress. A few extra quid will help.” Christopher grinned. He knew how to extract money from my wallet without moving a muscle.
“Oh, I see! Well, why didn’t you say so … err, you are being careful, aren’t you?” I whispered, leaning towards him. I no longer needed to look down as he was already my height, fully past the bum-fluff stage and now had to shave every morning. His natural father, whoever he was, must have been a giant gorilla – King Kong, maybe?
“Don’t know what you mean, Dad,” delivered with a deadpan face.
I handed him a tenner. “That enough?”
“Yeah, cool, Dad. And it’s a bit late for the birds-and-the-bees chat if you know what I mean.” He winked before allowing his aviator shades to slip back down onto his nose.
I wasn’t sure if he saw himself as James ‘Sonny’ Crockett from Miami Vice or Lt. Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell from Top Gun. Either way, my son had a coolness about him which regularly sucked in girls to his manly charms. It seemed only yesterday that I used to call him ‘Benny,’ named after the cute little cat in Top Cat.
It seemed overnight he had morphed from Top Cat to Top Gun, and most girls at school could see it as well. That all said, Jenny and I couldn’t be prouder of him. He worked diligently at his Saturday job and grabbed copious amounts of overtime on Sundays when the shop was closed to help restock. The manageress, a Miss Osborn, had made a point of telling me so last weekend when I picked him up after his shift.
But what we were really over the moon with was his school work. It was difficult having his father as the Deputy Head at the school he attended, but Chris took it in his stride. Top of the class in all subjects, football and cricket team captain and all earned through his own hard work and determination. Maybe his father was a hybri
d of Gary Lineker, Ian Botham, King Kong and Einstein … an interesting fellow, I might suggest.
Christopher Apsley was definitely our version of The Jam’s Davie Watts.
“Oh, Chris … Chris?”
“Whaaat?” came the reply from the kitchen.
“You know you’re going back with Stephen to George and Ivy’s tonight as your mum and I are out late?”
“Yeah, no worries. Didn’t know you had it in you to see it past midnight.”
“Cheeky git,” I threw back at him.
“What film you seeing?” I called into the kitchen.
“Jen, we’re going to be late,” I called up the stairs. I needed an intercom system in the house, as you had to shout to be heard. We’d moved into number eleven Winchmore Drive in the Summer of ’77. Ten years on, we both believed we were so lucky to have such a large luxury house.
“I’m coming, darling … stop worrying,” Jenny gently shouted back down the stairs.
“Ferris Bueller’s Day Off,” Chris replied.
“Oh, really!”
“Oh really, what, darling?”
“WOW, you look gorgeous! Not that you’re not always gorgeous, of course … you always are … you will be the belle of the ball.”
“You need a shovel, Dad?” Christopher offered, as he joined me in the hall.
“Thank you, darling.” Jenny stopped on the second from last step on the stairs, making her about an inch taller than I was as she leant in and kissed me.
“What do I need a shovel for?” I asked Chris, breaking the kiss from my gorgeous wife.
“For the hole you’re digging yourself in with Mum! Gotta say, Mum, you look pretty cool. Anyway, what’s wrong with that film I’m going to see? You said ‘Oh really’ as if it's rubbish? It’s supposed to be really cool.”
Ahead of his Time Page 30