Ahead of his Time

by Adrian Cousins

  “Chris, it is really cool … probably one of the greatest cult films ever made.”

  “Mum, why does Dad always make out he knows things he can’t possibly know? Like this film, for example! He’s so odd … he always talks about things as if he knows about it, but he’s never seen it!” Chris turned to me with a questioning look.

  Jenny laid her head on the bannister, smirking. “Get out of this one, Mr Apsley!” she chuckled.

  Time-travel cock-ups were an everyday event. My usual escape when this happened with either Chris or Beth was resorting to bribery. “Here’s another tenner. Enjoy yourself and make sure you’re back at Stephen’s by ten. Otherwise, Ivy will have your guts-for-garters!”

  “Cheers, Dad … works every time,” he replied under a cheeky grin.

  “Is that daughter of ours ready yet?”

  “Beth, honey, are you ready? I said we’d get you to Melanie’s house by seven,” Jenny called up to her bedroom.

  The door flung open and out stepped a perfectly formed tornado capable of wreaking havoc that could destroy a medium-sized mid-state American town in seconds.

  “I’m here,” she announced at the top of the stairs. Ten years old going on twenty-one.

  “Good. Now make sure you’re polite to Melanie’s parents, and when they say it’s time for bed … it’s time for bed,” Jenny replied.

  “Yes, I don’t want to hear tales of destruction on the breakfast news in the morning that a category one tornado has devastated a large detached house in Fairfield,” I added.

  “Dad, do you mind! I’m a perfect proper lady.”

  “Beth, sweetheart, you’re perfect. Proper … I’m struggling with … Madonna could learn a few things from you!”

  “Cool. Give her a call, and we can hook up!”

  I turned to Jenny— “She’s ten! What’s she going to be like when she’s sixteen, for Christ’s sake!” I exclaimed.

  “Darling, you should know!”

  I looked at my truly wonderful daughter as she stood smiling down at us. “That’s what worries me!”

  Back when I was in the throes of killing David Colney and worrying if I would have to wait years to discover if baby Beth was actually Beth, my best friend from back in 2019, I, of course at that point, had no definitive way of knowing. She had the same mother, the same birthday and the same name – but I could never be certain.

  Looking up at my ten-year-old daughter, I was certain. She looked exactly how I remember Beth looking on that first day of school when old Bummer had forced me to sit next to her. Well, not exactly the same, because this version of Beth was confident, fun, loving and didn’t have a hint of anger. Nurture had won over nature. Jenny and I had a wonderful daughter that all too quickly, I was fully aware, some boy would ask to take her away from me. But she would be happy – I just knew it.

  Roy was promoted in 1984 to an offensively sizeable comprehensive school in London. The education authority urged me to progress and thought I could take the City School in a new, modern direction. As I loved my job, I declined as I had no desire to take up the role which Roy had held for all those years. The stress had taken its toll on Roy and, although we were the same age, he looked at least fifteen years closer to a date with the grim reaper than I did. Mr Elkinson was appointed as Head, as he was in my day as a student there. He was still a quiet and unassuming man and very much left the school’s running to me, which I enjoyed without the pressure of the ultimate responsibility.

  Don still lived at number ten. Although in his ninetieth year he was very spritely and had a caring neighbour called Jess, who always looked out for him. Jess didn’t wait for Patrick and, as the years slipped by, her unconditional love for the twin of Paul Colney faded.

  Patrick was involved in a prison riot in 1979, resulting in two other inmates being shanked with a sharpened toothbrush. One of them died. Patrick was arrested for murder and convicted for a further twenty-two years to run consecutively to his sentence for attempting to murder Sarah Moore’s father. He would be in his fifties before he saw the outside world again.

  Jess married in 1980. She met Colin at a party at our house that previous summer and, although he was twelve years older, they fell instantly in love. A whirlwind romance ensued, which I could easily empathise with. I met her mother, other Jason’s former lover only once, on Jess and Colin’s wedding day. It was an awkward encounter to say the least, so we didn’t converse much, and I didn’t have to pretend to be who she thought I was.

  Jess’s daughter, Faith, and our Beth were bridesmaids at the wedding. Both little girls were beautiful in their tiny versions of Jess’s long flowing hippy-style wedding dress. Faith, as far as the whole world was concerned, was my granddaughter. Jenny, George and I knew differently, and I often silently thanked other Jason for this gift.

  Colin adopted Faith, and the new Mr and Mrs Poole settled into their new married life. There had been nothing I thought would be an appropriate wedding present when reviewing the gift wish list. Assuming someone else would buy the Teasmade, Jenny and I presented them the keys to number eight on the Bowthorpe Estate.

  51

  Dad Dancing

  Tonight’s event was the Fairfield District Council Summer Ball. Jenny said it was more of a party in a tent than a ball in a marquee, and there was no requirement to wear a black tie. Jenny was now head of Child Services, so tonight was a big deal as she and two other department heads would give a speech and conduct the prize giving.

  The applause continued for over a minute, ending with a few cheeky wolf-whistles as Jenny finished her speech and left the stage. The disco restarted, causing hordes of now-pissed party revellers to stampede and swamp the dance floor as ‘Never Gonna Give You Up.’ pulsed out. A new song that had rocketed into the charts last week by a clean-cut young lad called Rick Astley.

  I never danced. Although I’d perfected that demented baboon style dancing in my previous life, even that skill had now left my repertoire of bad moves. I was now only endowed with poorly choreographed dad-dancing abilities, and I thought the world was better off not witnessing them.

  When the slow dances started, I would take my wife to the dance floor. Not that I was any good, but I could just about manage it without realigning Jenny’s toes. More to the point, I wasn’t allowing any other bugger to take her hand and whisk her around the makeshift wooden dance floor.

  I gave Jenny a hug and kiss as she fell into my arms, relieved she’d delivered her speech and that particular nightmare was over.

  “You were brilliant, sweetheart.”

  “Thank you, darling. Thank God that’s over with!”

  “Shall we get another drink?”

  “Yes, darling. I need an ice-bucket full of G&T … I'm still shaking.”

  I grabbed her hand, and we weaved our way through the crowd to the bar. Before we made it there, we both stopped near one of the back tables and observed an argument which appeared to be getting out of hand. Wearing a short black dress, a young slim blonde lady with her back to us was berating a bloke who was giving as good as he was getting. As we drew near, voices became raised above the music.

  “Piss off, Paula.” The blonde pointed at a woman a few feet behind the bloke she was shouting at.

  “Sarah, for Christ’s sake, you’re overreacting!” the bloke responded.

  Not wishing for Jenny’s special evening to be remembered for some catfight between two women brawling over a man, I thought I’d just step in and calm the waters.

  “Sorry to interrupt. But this is a works’ event, and you’re representing your workplace. I think it’s best you take your argument elsewhere so everyone else can continue to enjoy the party,” I calmly delivered to both of them.

  The bloke looked for a second like he might punch me. But I guessed I appeared to be the respectable fifty-two-year-old that I was, so he changed his mind. Both he and the woman calmed down as my school teacher persona appeared to have worked, but more so because they both recognised me.


  The bloke turned, huffed and walked off. The young blonde looked at me, and I instantly recognised her. I hadn’t seen her for a few years now, but I would never forget her as she had been a significant part of my new life.

  “Sarah … Sarah Moore?”

  “Oh, sorry, Mr Apsley. It’s my boyfriend … he’s being a right tosser.”

  “Don’t think you need to call me that any more. My name is Jason.”

  “Oh, Mr Apsley, I’m a bit embarrassed now.”

  “Jason ... I’m not your teacher now.”

  “Yes, I know. But have to call you Mr Apsley … I just do.”

  “Okay. Are you alright?”

  Sarah scraped back her hair and huffed. “Yes, I’m fine, thank you. I think it’s time Scott and I went home. But thanks again.”

  I touched her arm. “Alright. Well, you take care, won’t you?”

  ~

  It had been a long time since I’d thought about Martin, but seeing his mother tonight brought those memories back. Jenny was fast asleep, but I was restless so, not wishing to wake her, I plucked up my book and decamped to my office. I made myself comfortable in my brown-leather studded chair and read for a while, hoping diving into my latest time-travel adventure book would calm my brain.

  As I sat there in the early hours of Sunday 16th August, I thought about Martin and Sarah. I wondered what would’ve happened if Martin hadn’t died in that Cortina back in 1977. Assuming back then we had rid the town of the Fairfield rapist when Paul Colney had died, I thought Sarah was now safe. The few years after that event, there were no reports of a serial rapist on the loose so I deduced we’d solved that problem. Martin was born in May 1988 and, as he was the product of the attack Sarah suffered, that event should have happened or about to happen. Feeling safe in the knowledge that Sarah’s life wasn’t now going to take that route in this timeline, I settled into reading my book.

  I regularly read time-travel books because I enjoyed seeing what mere mortals wrote about a subject they couldn’t possibly know anything about. Often, I found myself tutting and muttering – “Ridiculous, that wouldn’t happen!”

  52

  Gold Dust

  Detective Constable Kevin Reeves pulled out his cigarettes from inside his jacket, lifting his bum from the driver’s seat to retrieve his lighter from his trouser pocket.

  “Not while I’m in the car,” came the response from the passenger seat.

  “Ma’am?” Kevin questioned, as he held the cigarettes and looked at the Guv, hoping she would relent.

  DI Heather French just raised her eyebrows, and that was enough for the young detective constable to replace the packet back in his pocket.

  Heather had been promoted to DI last year, and this new position now gave her the power and the resources to start cleaning up this town. She knew DC Reeves thought tonight’s stake-out operation was a waste of time, as the vast majority of her team had since they started these covert operations some weeks ago. Heather suspected Kevin would probably rather be in town getting pissed with his mates. But she was the DI, so he just had to do as he was told.

  Since joining the force in the early ’70s, Heather had endured years of mickey-taking from her male counterparts. There were constant referrals to the size of her chest and what they’d like to do to it. All of them, including senior officers, would publicly offer lude remarks and suggestions. This barrage of sexist taunts, along with having her arse pinched and chest fondled, hadn’t changed even when she’d joined CID. She’d started to gain some respect when she passed her sergeant exams, but now as DI, things were very different.

  Along with many of her colleagues, Heather had a thirst to bring down the Colney and Gower families. The Gowers would prove a tougher nut to crack, but in time she would. The Colneys were as good as wiped out, with two of the brothers dead and one serving a long stretch. That just left one still on the loose. But she knew it would only be a matter of time, and she’d arrest him for some misdemeanour.

  Ten years ago, when still a PC in uniform, a series of rapes went undetected. At the time, Heather had raised with her sergeant that she didn’t believe enough resources were being assigned to catch the evil bastard. However, after being ignored and balled out by the DI at the time, she was encouraged to stop voicing her concerns.

  The rapes in the late ’70s, which were all committed near the Broxworth Estate, ceased almost as quickly as they’d begun. She believed it was no coincidence that this happened at the exact same time when Paul Colney had ended up skewered on a windscreen wiper. Also, there had been several retracted sexual assault allegations against Paul at the time. Women had come forward and then changed their stories, presumably once they’d received pressure from the Colneys.

  Ten years later and, almost coinciding with her promotion to DI, a series of rapes had started again, and all of them in and around the Broxworth Estate. Heather had a theory that she knew her team were not entirely on board with, but that didn’t matter as she was the DI and called the shots.

  The four rapes which had been committed and reported over the last three months had provided DNA evidence. Gold dust, as far as Heather was concerned. She would have been happy to set up a mass testing site and have every male in the whole town tested. Although a ball-ache to organise, they could pin-point their man. Last week she’d had a stand-up slagging match with the Divisional Superintendent regarding such an idea. As he was her boss and refused, she was forced to back down. The crown-epauletted dinosaur had instructed Heather to use her bloody detective skills and catch the rapist the old-fashioned way by employing tried and tested police work. Although the Super was an ancient reptile, Heather was convinced his response would’ve been different if he’d been born a woman.

  One of the reasons she’d been promoted to DI was her success rate in catching and sticking behind bars the low-life scum that roamed Fairfield, most of whom originated from the Broxworth Estate. Much of that success was down to her hunches which more often than not proved to be correct.

  One such hunch was why she and one of her DC’s were sat in their unmarked car parked along Coldhams Lane. She knew all she needed was a reason to arrest, and then a DNA sample could be taken, and this new amazing science would do the rest.

  Sod all had happened the whole time they’d sat there and, as midnight approached, Kevin appeared fidgety. She had pointed out to her dopey DC, who now sulked because she wouldn’t allow him to smoke, that a dodgy character had hovered at the entrance lane that cut through to the City School.

  “What's he up to?”

  “Probably just cutting through the school playing fields on his way home, Ma’am,” Reeves emphasised the ‘Ma’ presumably showing his frustration of being a DC and now having to perform a beat-bobby job on a Saturday night.

  “No I don’t think so. I’ve got a hunch on this one,” DI French replied.

  DC Reeves rolled his eyes but ensured the DI didn’t see him do it.

  Both of them stayed in the car for a few more minutes when they witnessed what appeared to be a lover’s tiff, resulting in a young lady being left standing on the pavement. The car she’d alighted screeched up the road, to then only a few minutes later return to repeat the rubber burning exercise. After the car had screeched past them, the young lady in a short dress, clasping her shoes in her hand, disappeared down the lane to the City School.

  “Driving without due care and attention, Ma’am?” Kevin asked, as he watched the prat in the Beemer wheel-spin his way up the road for the second time.

  Heather didn’t even bother to reply as she grabbed the door handle. “Come on, I've got a bad feeling about this.”

  53

  A few minutes after midnight … 16th August 1987

  Sweet Jesus

  What a wanker! Apologise to him! No way, she thought. Scott had shown his true self tonight with all that business with Paula. Sarah was seething as she stood looking into the dark cut-through lane that led down to the City School. Sarah took
a moment to decide whether to take the long way home or make a dash for it across the school playing fields. Sweet Jesus, she thought, if she stood there much longer, it would take all night to get home. “Come on, Sarah, get on with it,” she muttered, huffed, and stepped into the lane picking her way down on tiptoes. Although the lane was paved, all she needed now was dog poo between her toes, which would slap the icing on the cake of a really shite evening.

  Releasing his breath when she was twenty feet ahead, Andy Colney pushed away the laurel hedge branches, taking care to place them back, thus ensuring he created no sound. The Sarah bird was hot, and he was ready. He would have his way tonight and go home satisfied. The adrenalin shot around his body; the anticipation was always better than the act.

  He made his move. He licked his lips.

  “Police. Stop where you are.”

  Andy swivelled around. Ten feet behind him stood two figures, a dumpy woman and a younger male. He glanced back down the lane, but the fit bird had disappeared through the gate onto the school fields. When he turned around, the young male was on him; he had no time to move.

  Handcuffed and pinned to the hedge by the young officer, the dumpy woman approached.

  “Andrew Colney. Well, this is a nice surprise,” she said, as she looked up at him.

  “What you doing? You can't fucking arrest me for walking down a lane.”

  “Problem is Mr Colney, you’re not walking, are you? You’ve been hiding in the bushes for nearly ten minutes. So yes, I can arrest you. Andrew Colney, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the intention to cause harm to others. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  “Fuck off!”

  DI French looked up at him and smiled, “Noted.”