by Alex Marks
My head felt a bit straighter for my rest, but my ribs were killing me after hours in a half-slump and my fingers were burning. I hobbled stiffly down to the bathroom, had a long piss, and then re-set my watch by the kitchen clock and started to gather together what I was going to need.
It took several slow trips, punctuated by taking more pain-killers and eating a sandwich, but I had soon decked out the little eaves room above the workshop with a camp bed, sleeping bag and an electric heater. An old kettle fished out of the shed and a collection of just-add-hot-water foodstuffs would see me through the night, and I'd already filled up the water carrier from our camping stuff. I'd taken the desk lamp from the work bench, and strung an old blanket across the window to hide the light, although the room faced the bathroom side of the house and so wouldn't be especially visible anyway. Still, no point in taking chances.
I carefully brought down my old motorcycle leathers and helmet and rummaged the Yamaha's key from the drawer in the kitchen. I walked into the living room and pulled my old laptop out of a box, then took a look around to make sure nothing was visibly out of place before lugging my final trophies over to the workshop.
Tuesday, 2 April 2015. 12.41
Now I had my shit together, it seemed obvious that the first thing I should do was to pay my father-in-law a visit, with extreme prejudice. It felt strange, but everything else faded away in the face of this compulsion to do some serious damage, to pay back my beating and humiliation, to stop being the loser who'd been on the receiving end of his boot. I boiled the kettle, then sat on the floor and ate a pot noodle, plans running through my head at top speed. Today would be a good day to do it, as I would have an excellent alibi – if I remembered correctly – I was in the lab all day. On the other hand, I also wanted to visit the house in Headington again and see what I could find out. I finished the noodle and considered.
It was strangely liberating to know that, whatever I did, it couldn't touch me. I found myself smiling broadly at that, and then limped down the stairs to choose a nice, big, heavy spanner. It thudded into my palm very satisfactorily. I pulled the tarp off my old black Yamaha R1 and wheeled it onto the drive. Luckily, I'd filled it up just before going off to the conference back in February, and hadn't ridden it since, so it was good to go. I'd already – painfully – wriggled into the leathers, so now I just plugged my earbuds in, jammed my aching head into the helmet and took off.
Zipping down the road to Oxford a bit faster than I would normally I revelled in this new feeling of confidence and power. The Rolling Stone's Jumping Jack Flash pounded in my ears.
'I was born in a cross-fire hurricane!' I sang along, although if anyone was getting a spike right through the head today it definitely wouldn't be me. A little voice in the back of my mind wondered why I would be feeling so pepped up, but it was easy to ignore. I was on my way to mete out some long-overdue justice to a complete bastard, why wouldn't I feel revved?
I made it up to North Oxford in-between the population migrations of lunchtime and the end-of-day school run, and pulled the bike into the side road that led to my parents-in-law's £900,000 1930s detached home. As I killed the engine, the expensive quiet of Summertown seeped in through my visor: the nannies were out with their charges, the yummy mummies were coming back from lunching, and their banker husbands were still at the office. Sexist, I know, but tell me I'm wrong? Fortunately for me, Richard Holland worked from home.
I had stowed the wrench inside my leathers, where it had been pressing against my cracked ribs for the entire journey, each jolt a nice little reminder of why I was here. I reached in for it now, and pushed it inside my right sleeve, its heavy metal head clasped and hidden in my hand. I swung my leg over the bike and began to walk across the street.
As I passed a large, expensive car parked at the curb I caught sight of myself in the window: an dark figure in motorcycle leathers, visor down, anonymous, sinister. I didn't look like me, and with a jolt I came to a stop. The wrench suddenly seemed as heavy as lead in my hand, and ice cold, and I had a clear vision of what it would look like, what it would sound like, if I brought it smashing down onto Richard's skull. My head went light like a balloon and the road bucked as if it was trying to throw me off, and suddenly the spanner was clanging away onto the tarmac and I was kneeling in the gutter trying not to pass out.
What the fuck had I been thinking? I didn't go round to people's houses and attack them. I took in a deep breath, and another, and squeezed my eyes shut to try and arrest the images of pain and violence that were flashing through my mind like a horror film running out of control. I don't know how long I knelt there, but eventually the bass drum in my chest slowed and the metallic taste of adrenalin on my tongue started to fade. I staggered back to the bike and rode away.
I made it down the Banbury Road to St Giles before my shaking made it too dangerous to go any further, so I pulled into the car park outside the Oxfam bookshop and staggered into the St Giles café. Too posh to be a real greasy spoon, it nevertheless served a decent all-day breakfast and I devoured one like a starving man. It was only when I was sitting back in my chair, stuffed to the gunwales, sipping my second cup of tea that I felt vaguely like myself.
I shuddered at the thought of what I had so nearly done. Looking back, the dangerous self-confidence that had been affecting me since this morning I could only assume was some weird side-effect of the time travel, and I resolved to watch for it in case it crept back into my mind. I was still me, I was still trying to get through this nightmare and get proper justice for Sarah and Helen, wasn't I? Against the far wall a long mirror reflected the entire café, identical and different enough in reverse to set my teeth on edge and my mind jangling. I stole a glance at the other customers: they seemed distant from me somehow, as if they were real and I was merely a reflection, not properly solid anymore. I pinched the bridge of my nose – I felt my sanity like a separate thing, a heavy possession that I could, theoretically, put down. The thought slipped down my back like a cold snake, curling in my stomach and making it ache with anxiety. I wished Sarah was here, to take my hand and make everything alright again.
I couldn't afford to give in to this. I needed a real plan, and I needed one fast. I'd got an extra week, a precious week where I was free to do what I liked, go anywhere, be anyone. Maybe I wasn't real anymore, maybe I was just a ghost, but I could at least choose to be a useful one. The police weren't investigating Sarah's death or her allegations against her father, so I would. I had a perfect alibi, and at this point in the events of the last few weeks Richard Holland had no idea that I suspected him. I would haunt his steps, follow him, see who he met with and where he went, and at the end of it all I might give the evidence to the police or just cut out the middle man and release it to the press. Even better, I thought, glancing out of the window at my bike, I had the perfect cover for riding around Oxford and following my father-in-law as he went about his shady business. After all, nobody pays any attention to a motorcycle courier.
An hour and a trip down the Cowley Road later, I was the proud owner of a large yellow bag with 'Nemesis Couriers' printed onto it (just my little joke). It had a bogus phone number and web address printed under the logo, and I'd dragged the bag up and down the pavement a few times to give it a well-worn scruffiness. The rest of me looked so anonymous in my leathers that if anyone did notice me then the day-glo bag and its red winged logo would be the only thing to stick in their minds.
I bought a cheap fluorescent waistcoat to complete my disguise, and a handful of padded envelopes to pack out the courier bag. My mobile was unusable - the operating system had announced a 'permanent fatal error' when I'd tried to turn it on - so I also headed into a Polski Slep to buy a disposable phone on a network that I hadn't even heard of before. The heavy-set man behind the counter looked curiously at my pair of black eyes, but said nothing. The mobile was cheap and tiny, but it worked, and I stowed it inside my leathers before getting back on the bike and heading home.
> I was absolutely exhausted, and I was starting to panic that I would arrive at the same moment as my earlier self, so I pushed hard and slammed down the sweeping turns of the road as fast as I dared. My eyes stung with tiredness, my ribs ached, and it took all my remaining energy to ride in a straight line. I'd almost got home when I must have zoned out for a split second, over steering towards a corner. I pulled up, heart pounding, and decided to push the bike the last hundred yards into the drive. Max, out watering his spring bulbs in the last of the daylight, raised a hand in greeting and I gave him what I hoped passed for a friendly nod, glad my visor was down and he couldn't see my purpling black eyes.
I dragged the bike back into the workshop, and then I waited, I just couldn't help myself, I had to wait to see my earlier me arrive. That strange hot confidence was seeping through my veins again, and I forgot about my aching bones and my splitting head as I stood and waited. Oddly, I found myself feeling almost smug, as if I was lying in wait for my earlier, more innocent self.
There I was. The car pulled onto the drive and the headlights, switched on against the early Spring gloom, went dark. I leaned closer to the door, which creaked very slightly against my weight, and watched as a figure pulled itself wearily out of the drivers' door and slammed it shut. I held my breath.
I watched myself stand for a second, looking at the house with remembered unease, and then trudge resignedly inside, shoulders slumped and defeated. A night of tidying and whisky awaited, I remembered, and again there was that rush of hot disdain. This was the guy who got himself pushed around - by Bill Gilbert, the police, and fucking Richard Holland, not me. It was going to be different this time round; I was going to be different.
I stepped away from the door, and all the exhaustion came crashing back, staggering me. I just managed to get up the stairs to my temporary home, but now time had gone jerky, and I was suddenly lying down on my camp bed, and then there was blackness.
CHAPTER ten
Friday, 3 April 2015. 04.46
I'll say this for time-travel: you sleep like a baby. Despite my cracked ribs and my creaky camp bed I woke on the Friday morning as if I'd spent the night in a £2000 suite in the Waldorf Astoria. The grey light of early morning was seeping around the blanket across the window, and when I twitched it aside I saw the house and garden still slumbering in the gloom. I looked at my watch: 4.46am. Good, I had plenty to do.
Knowing I was sleeping heavily upstairs, knocked out by grief and a hefty dose of whisky, I quietly let myself into the house. I made an urgent visit to the downstairs loo – biting my lip viciously against the agony of a bowel movement, Richard's size twelve shoe prints still marked heavily on my abdomen. I tried to distract myself by watching the light streaming in through the little window, despite the early morning grey skies, and listening to the birds tuning up outside. I remembered that today, the first time round, I'd set off to work at about nine, so belted myself painfully back into my trousers and headed back up to the attic. I got a cup of black coffee before firing up my old laptop. It took a while to boot up, which reminded me why I'd replaced it, but eventually it got to the desktop and I navigated anxiously to the networks icon. I wasn't sure if the house wifi signal would reach over here, but to my relief I saw three green bars – it would be good enough for what I wanted. The laptop, already equipped with the password, logged in automatically and I opened a browser window.
At some point during the night my sleeping brain had posed a question which I realised I'd never bothered to ask before: where did the Hollands get their money? I'd always had a vague impression of some City job, finance, banking, whatever, and frankly I'd found Richard so repellent I'd never bothered to ask any more. I knew that Sarah had gone to a good school, and had been comfortable at University, but she'd always had to work and her parents hadn't been the sort to dish out expensive presents. I guess I hadn't cared enough about them to ever think about their finances. But now, I wanted to know.
The first thing I did was to fire up the Companies House website, and do a search for Richard Graeme Holland. I had to cough up an admin fee before it gave me any information, but after a few minutes I was staring at a page of results:
Name and contact details
Holland, Richard Graeme
Date of Birth: 22/07/1945
Address: 66 Lonsdale Road, Oxford, OX2 9AA
Directorships held (1 of 1)
Finance Director
Company name(s): Haverford Vintages Ltd
Company description: Import and export of fine wines and vintages from around the world.
Registered company number(s): 2794653
First registration date: 18/11/1972
Names of directors: Gillespie, Ian; Saunders, Trevor; Forrest, Nigel; Holland, Richard.
Registered address: Unit 12, Hockmore Street, Oxford OX4 3UZ
Click here to download most recent accounts submitted.
I frowned at the screen. An address in OX4? I quickly opened another tab and found the location on the map. It was a back-street behind the hideous 1970s shopping centre in Temple Cowley, right on the edge of Oxford's most famous area of deprivation, Blackbird Leys. I couldn't imagine Richard Holland in his shiny shoes and polished jag going anywhere near there, in fact I didn't think he set foot in East Oxford in his entire life. I turned the map view into a street view, and virtually rolled down the road: it had tatty maisonettes on one side, and industrial wheelie bins and lock-up garages on the other. I couldn't tell which one was Unit 12.
I sat back and rubbed my neck, stiff from peering at the screen. I switched back to the company information page and downloaded the accounts. A PDF icon appeared on the screen, followed a second or two later by pages and pages of utterly boring figures. I scanned quickly down until I found the proverbial bottom line, and then made an involuntary grunt as I saw the company was apparently turning over six figures. This made no sense: who in their right mind would run a million-pound wine importing business from a scabby lock-up in Temple Cowley? Would you really keep valuable stock from all over the world behind a battered up-and-over garage door? It was like discovering Alan Sugar ran his empire from an office above a kebab shop.
I quit the Companies House site and googled Haverford Vintages. I got a lot of hits for some random off licence in Haverford, Pennsylvania, but it took digging down to page four of the results before I located the wine importer's site. It was a simple holding page, announcing that the Haverford Vintages website was under construction. I took a look at the metadata, and it didn't seem that progress was very quick: the last update had occurred over four years previously.
It didn't take a physicist to work out that it was all camouflage. One fact seemed to be supported by another, unless you were able to connect a third that made the whole supposition impossible. There was nothing surprising about a business using a lock-up in Cowley, unless you knew it was a million pound wine importers; there was nothing peculiar about a website being under construction unless you noticed it had been like that for years; it seemed perfectly normal that a fine wine company would make big money, unless you were aware that its business address was in a dilapidated block in a deprived area. They were hiding in plain sight, blending in, stealthy, poisonous.
My heart was a stone in my chest and I knew where the money was really coming from. The wine business was just the vehicle that got that cash into circulation, laundering it, supposedly washing it clean of the fear and the pain and turning it into useful things like fancy cars, big houses, nice holidays. I pushed the laptop away and worked hard not to be sick, my battered insides clenching and cramping painfully.
I stood up and paced around the narrow attic space, trying to walk it off. How had nobody put this together before me? But then, I'd never bothered to ask where the latest five star holiday or designer kitchen or hand-made suit had come from, so why should anyone else? Oxford isn't short of rich bastards, so Richard had chosen his long-grass well. I stopped pacing. I knew now, and that was somethi
ng. I could rip apart his web of misdirection, and I would. I looked at my watch – there was just time.
I let myself back into the house in complete stealth mode, almost holding my breath. Upstairs, I could hear myself stomping about, and then the shower running. I had my hand on the kitchen door handle when Fergus appeared at my heels, mewling piteously for his next meal. I shushed him, but he carried on yowling, so I swore at him and quickly slung some of his dry food into his bowl. His noise stopped at once, like a switch being flicked, and his head disappeared into his food. I listened intently: the water was still running, there was still time. I shot across the hall and into the living room, and rushed to the cupboard under the window where miscellaneous stuff was usually kept. If I remembered rightly – yes! I fished out the digital SLR and clicked the cupboard door shut as quietly as I could. I took two steps across the hall, back into the kitchen, and then registered that the sound of the shower had stopped. Shit! I raced across the room and out of the back door, the deadbolt sounding like a gunshot as I locked it, then ran full-out back to the garage.
My heart was pounding as I flattened myself against the wall, but I couldn't resist peering round: and there I was, standing at the kitchen sink, staring at the two mugs I was holding in my hands with an unreadable expression on my face. I slipped back behind the corner of the garage and eased myself in through the doors before putting my hands on my knees and breathing deeply. Bugger me, that had been close.
Now I had to wait for earlier me to finish getting ready, and for the postman to appear. It all seemed to take an age, but eventually I heard the crunch of feet on the drive and the rattle of the letterbox, followed a few minutes later by the slam of the front door. I didn't watch this time, superstitiously feeling that I would know I was being observed. Instead, I heard the car door open and bang shut, the engine start, and then the tyres biting the gravel as it drove out and away.