by Nick Jones
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I wake, gasping for air as though it’s me Frankie is smothering to death. It doesn’t help that I have a pillow over my head. I throw it across the room while making an embarrassing gurgling noise. It’s five a.m., still dark. I stare at the ceiling, unable to stop myself replaying the viewing.
I hear his mother’s crackling voice, echoing through time. “You ain’t got it in you, Frankie.”
But he did. He killed her, his own mother. I mean, she was pretty annoying, but he didn’t need to do that.
No. I don’t mean that. I use stupid, flippant comedy to avoid actually feeling stuff. I always have, I guess. I desperately don’t want to think about it, but I can’t deny it. My viewing makes me think of my own mother, and that’s when a real pang of sadness rolls in.
I frown, chewing my lip. Before I changed this timeline, I left my mum – or the ghost of the person Julie Bridgeman was – in a home for people with dementia. I saw her ruined by the loss of Amy and my dad’s suicide and then watched the dementia rip away at her memories like a fire through a hotel, room by room until there was nothing left. Like Amy, she was stolen from me.
It’s yet another reason for me to maintain the integrity of this timeline.
Marinating in my own hangover, I lie in darkness, nerves jangling, the viewing still as close and dangerous as a circling shark. I watch the first slivers of sunrise work their way over the ceiling and decide I need to shake this off.
Come on, Joe, I tell myself, but it’s hard. So much has happened since I got back, my head is spinning. I realise as I sit up that the room is actually spinning. I’m hungover to hell. My whole body aches, my eyeballs burn, and it feels like someone has driven a truck over my head, reversed until the tyre is pressing on the base of my skull and then parked up for the day. All I really want is to pull up the duvet and spend the entire day in bed. But I can’t do that.
For starters, I could time travel any moment and I have work to do. Researching Frankie Shaw, the mummy killer. On a positive note, what’s the one thing I have going for me?
I have the benefit of knowledge of the past.
Surely that’s an advantage, isn’t it? I can arrive prepared, and if I’m prepared… then I can beat this bastard and secure everything I worked so hard to achieve.
Three pints of water, four espresso shots, two ibuprofen and two paracetamol later, I still feel like shit warmed up in a microwave, but at least I can see. I end up in front of a Mac. This one – I have three! – is on a small bench in my huge kitchen.
Right, research.
I open the browser.
Facebook. The password is pre-filled. My finger hovers over the log-in button.
My opinion of Facebook is about the same as it ever was. I always feel worse about myself after looking, so why bloody bother? Antisocial Networking, that’s me. Did you know that if it was a religion, it would be the second largest next to Christianity?
Jesus Christ.
Literally.
Later maybe. Now, I have bigger fish to fry. I sigh and open a new window and spend the next hour or so researching Frankie Shaw. It doesn’t help with my nausea. The guy was famous for all sorts of gangster-related shenanigans. Your classic long firm: basically selling stuff you don’t own and then disappearing before anyone catches you. Extortion, threatening people, gambling, drugs and robbery. The man who shot Lucy is called “Mad Harry Hurst”. He got done for torturing his victims and eventually admitted to seven murders. He never implicated Frankie Shaw.
I find numerous articles about the unsolved murder of Don Dickerson, shot in the head in a crowded pub. Vinny mentioned this. It sounds like an urban myth, but the rumours say that the jukebox stuck when the killer fired… ‘The sun ain’t gonna shine anymore’ ticking over on a loop while Don Dickerson bled out. There were eyewitnesses, of course, and all of them said the killer had been masked. I have no doubt Frankie got away with murder. I know what he’s capable of.
Frankie was suspected of many other crimes and, of course – in the end – it caught up with him. Rather than murder, the police went for tax evasion (Al Capone-style) and a host of minor offences that all added up. Facing twenty years behind bars, Frankie hanged himself in 1971. Fittingly, it was April 1st.
His ma would have been proud; he had it in him after all.
I lean back and rub my face. I’ve done about as much research as I can stomach. I’ve jotted down all the key dates, events and locations. As I work my way down the list, my mind turns to Biff in Back to the Future Part II and the sports almanac. Biff used his detailed knowledge of the future to bend the present horribly out of shape. If I take this list of future events into the past – and it falls into the wrong hands – I could literally change the world.
I consider my options. Maybe I could use some kind of code, make sure it’s useless if someone else finds it.
Like a really crap version of Enigma.
Not such a bad idea.
I create what looks like a shopping / to-do list. I use codes for various things. It’s complicated and probably stupid, but when I cross-reference it against the various events it works. I know what it means.
So…
Frankie Shaw = Fish Soup
Don Dickerson = a Dozen Doughnuts
Are you following?
The day = an amount, for example, X3
Time is just the time.
The date = a price, for example, £2.63
Frankie walked into the pub and shot Don Dickerson at 4 p.m. on the 5th of February, 1963.
On my shopping list, it looks like this…
Dozen doughnuts (out of stock)
Fish soup x 5. £2.63
Meet at the pub, 4 p.m.
I write down as many coded events as I think might be useful. Frankie ends up being flowers, fruit and Fairy Liquid. I have to get my kicks somehow.
I sleep the Mac and consider trying to get some more sleep myself, but then a harsh vibrating buzz snaps my mind into focus. I sit bolt upright and fumble for my pocket watch. I flip open the fascia. The jump dials have been blank for so long, I can’t believe they are set.
0 Days 0 Hours 17 Minutes
Seventeen minutes!
Mamma Mia. Here I go again.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Wow. Seventeen minutes is not a lot of warning. I’m going back to the sixties again and if I mess this up, who knows, Amy might not be here when I return. I consider calling her but what on earth would I say? If I don’t see you again I’m sorry, but don’t worry, you won’t feel a thing?
There were times when I was travelling back to save Amy that I felt alone. But this is different; I have people here and yet don’t have them. In some ways, I’m more alone than ever.
It’s complicated.
Out of nowhere, a Beatles lyric arrives. The Fab Four have been the soundtrack of my life, and horribly absent since I arrived back in this version of the present. The lyrics tumble into my mind, not even one of my favourite songs, but fantastically relevant.
‘I get by with a little help from my friends.’
I smile.
I’m not alone. Vinny wants to help. He even called himself a sidekick.
Well, I could do with one now.
Before I can change my mind, I dial his number.
‘Yo, Doctor,’ he answers cheerily.
‘I’m going again.’
‘Cool.’ I hear him swallow. ‘When?’
‘Seventeen minutes,’ I tell him, already running for the door. ‘Actually, less now. Vinny, I want you to come with me.’
‘Great,’ he says breathing heavily. The line crackles. ‘Can you get to me?’
‘I think so. Be ready.’
I make sure I have the money Bill gave me, put my head down and run. Am I being selfish? Maybe, but Vinny knows what he’s doing, he wanted this, he said so himself. As I run, I try to convince myself that’s true. But who am I kidding? The truth is, I don’t want to face this alone.
Hangovers, dehydration and running don’t mix. It sends a metallic hedgehog thrashing through my skull. By the time I bound up the steps of Vinny’s flat the eyeball-stabbing pain of my beery hangover has been replaced by someone scraping bits of broken glass over the base of my skull.
It's an improvement.
Vinny, on the other hand, looks totally fine. He looks like an excited boy on Christmas day as he ushers me into the lounge. There’s a song playing: ‘Get Back’ by The Beatles.
Paul McCartney rocks and wails, ‘Jojo was a man who thought he was a loner...’
Well, Paul, not any more.
Vinny smirks. ‘I couldn’t help it.’ He holds my shoulders until I look at him. ‘I’m glad I’m coming with you.’
He might not be saying that if he knew my plan involved a coded shopping list. I gasp for breath, my mouth feels like I've tried to eat five crackers at once. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’
‘Totally.’ He throws his head back and laughs. ‘It’s the Swinging Sixties man, it’s where I belong, baby!’
I check the watch. One minute, twenty-three seconds.
Laid out on a table is what can only be described as a time traveller’s survival kit. Vinny explains that he has gathered food, drink, a first-aid kit, a complete A-Z of the sixties and a couple of gangster books. He starts shoving it all into a rucksack.
‘No,’ I say impatiently, ‘ditch everything, it’s too dangerous.’
He looks hurt.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘but the books, your phone, all of it… we can’t take it.’
His eyes widen. ‘Like The Terminator,’ he says. ‘They might use it. Okay, Cash,’ he says, using my nickname for the first time, ‘you’re the boss.’
The air feels charged, exactly like the night of the storm, the night this all began. The hairs on the nape of my neck rise and Vinny exhales. ‘Wow! This reminds me of when I stuck my finger in a plug socket!’
I smell phosphor, as though someone has just blown out a match. The air pressure changes. The colours in the room shimmer, it’s actually quite beautiful. I have the strangest sense of walking from a dark cave into a lush tropical forest.
Vinny stares at me, excited. ‘So, how does it work then?’ he asks.
I take his hand and offer him a lopsided grin. ‘Like this.’ And quick as a soap bubble bursting on a summer’s day, the present disappears.
Part IV
Can’t Buy Me Love
Chapter Forty
My stomach lurches at the sudden shift in location. The day is painfully bright, my jet lag and hangover make a pukey combo. I shield my eyes against the sudden onslaught of space and light. We’ve landed outside. It’s warm, daytime. In front of us is a statue of an angel holding a bow, surrounded by a fountain of water. Traffic streams by, cool-looking cars, classics I recognise. Petrol fumes mix with cigarettes and the odd whiff of food and perfume. People are everywhere, bright colours, smart clothes. The place is buzzing, vibrant and instantly familiar.
‘Piccadilly Circus,’ I murmur.
‘Woah,’ Vinny gasps. I turn to him, glad to see he made the trip safely. ‘Cash, this is… this is… incredible.’ He turns a full three-sixty before eventually settling his attention back on me. ‘You actually are a time traveller.’
His expression is one I recognise, the one I’m sure I’ve worn on many occasions. The sheer onslaught of cubic space that suddenly surrounds you is enough to spin you out. ‘Breathe, Vin,’ I tell him, ‘nice and deep.’
‘Gotcha.’ He aggressively inhales and exhales like he’s trying to hyperventilate.
‘Where did you two come from?’ a sultry voice purrs.
I turn and see a woman in a dazzling tangerine dress and knee-high, white leather boots. She has pixie-like features, cute bobbed hair and dark eyes thick with make-up. Her porcelain skin is perfectly unblemished. She looks us up and down and bubbles with laughter, long eyelashes flickering. I glance at Vinny and then down at our hands, which are clasped together. ‘Arghhh!’ I pull away.
The woman tilts her head playfully. ‘You popped up right in front of me. How did you do that?’
‘We’re from the future, baby,’ Vinny announces.
I elbow him.
The woman laughs, ‘Well, you look crazy… and also, pretty groovy.’ She flashes us a beautiful smile. ‘See you cats later.’ She walks away, thighs kicking right and left like a professional model. We watch her for a while, along with most of the other men nearby.
Vinny smirks. ‘She called us groovy cats.’ He starts jigging up and down. ‘This is the sixties, Cash, we’re in the freaking sixties!’
Yes, we are – and we have a mission to complete.
I hold up the silver hunter pocket watch. Vinny and I watch as the three jump dials rotate like a one-armed bandit and eventually settle.
0 Days 2 Hours 17 minutes
4:33 p.m.
May 28th, 1962
Vinny laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘The Beatles are about to play their first session at Abbey Road Studios.’ He screws up his face. ‘It’s unbelievable, flipping unbelievable.’
I nod. ‘It’s almost a year before my first jump when Lucy gets shot.’
‘It’s a bit like vinyl, isn’t it?’ Vinny says.
‘How do you mean?’
‘You’ve got the whole album and you can skip around on the tracks. It’s like you landed on track three and now we’re on track one, does that make sense?’
‘Actually, it makes total sense.’
Non-sequential time travel also messes with your head.
‘That’s good, right?’ Vinny says. ‘It means she’s alive and we’ve got plenty of time.’
‘Two hours, fifteen minutes.’
Vinny claps his hands. ‘So, where to?’
I turn my attention to the watch, popping open the back to reveal a standard compass. I rotate it slightly, watching the flickering magnetic arrow do its thing.
The first little nibble of panic sets in. Bill talked about change events... said the watch would guide me. Nothing yet. I remember the list in my pocket. I pull it out and look for any links to today’s date.
‘What’s that?’ Vinny asks.
I explain my patented Time Travel Shopping List™ method.
‘Nice,’ Vinny nods. ‘Probably safer than my rucksack.’
‘There’s nothing on this specific date,’ I tell him, ‘in terms of Frankie Shaw, anyway.’
Vinny nods. ‘So what do we do?’
I glance around at the busy London street in 1962. I look back at Vinny and feel a growing sense of dread. Poor guy. He thinks this is some kind of adventure, that I know what I’m doing.
Born leader? Moi?
More like born pleader.
I mean, who the hell made me the time travelling expert? I’m just some poor sod who wanted to save his sister and didn’t realise how deep the rabbit hole went.
Vinny looks at me expectantly. I frown. ‘I’m sorry, mate,’ I tell him, ‘but I don’t actually know what to do.’
‘That’s okay,’ he replies, happily. ‘I do.’
‘Ooookay,’ I say, nervously.
He glides a hand across his front as if presenting himself to London on stage. ‘Maybe you haven’t noticed, but people are staring at us. Do you know why?’
I glance around. People cover their mouths, whispering. A group of girls stares at us, giggling. In all the panic, I hadn’t thought about it. I’m wearing jeans, a checked shirt and Converse. Vinny is wearing a Metallica T-shirt, ripped black jeans and Doc Martens. We stick out like the proverbial futuristic thumbs.
‘See what I mean?’ Vinny says.
I nod.
‘Well, good news,’ Vinny grins. ‘I know London like the back of my hand, and while we’re waiting for your pocket watch to download its data or whatever the hell it’s doing, we might as well stay busy.’ He strides away.
‘Vinny, wait!’ I jog after him. ‘Where are you going?’
He grins. ‘If we’re going to complete this mission of yours, then we need to blend in. We need clothes, Cash, and I know just the place.’
Chapter Forty-One
We make our way across London, through crowded streets that feel like the most elaborate and expensive movie set ever constructed.
Vinny beams with excitement. ‘Here we are,’ he says. ‘The fashion hub of London.’ He offers me a nervous smile. ‘I still can’t believe we’re here.’
Carnaby Street.
I’ve seen pictures, of course, even a few colour photographs, but nothing could have prepared me for such a blaze of brilliant, vibrant colour. The shops are all perfectly presented, neat rows painted in rich reds, royal blues and pale creams. Union Jack flags hang across the street, the signage of boutique fashion brands bursts from the brick walls. Although the street is surprisingly short – it would probably only take a few minutes to walk – you could spend all day here.
I soak in the cool and trendy vibe. People are smiling, chatting with each other, laughing. Spilling out of one shop and then diving into the next. There’s a reason it was called the Swinging Sixties, there is a tangible feeling of happiness and confidence. The seeds of flower power are being watered here, the youth about to explode into the next era. There is just an undeniable optimism.
Vinny strides ahead like he knows where he’s going. We pass various shops, glass-fronted displays that look like museum pieces. I recognise shop names from books and documentaries. Irvine Sellars, Menswear. Mates – The Village Store. His ‘n’ Hers. We reach a cream-coloured building. Its tall exterior is painted with a rainbow of colour that tapers down to polka dots that spill joyfully over the pavement.
‘Lord John’s,’ Vinny announces with quiet reverence. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘Neither can I.’ The last thing I expected to be doing on my super-important trip into the past was shopping. I check the watch. Still nothing.