Frankie Fish and the Sonic Suitcase

by Peter Helliar

  And with that our two time travellers hurried away from the Fish household.

  Frankie and Grandad made their way quickly through a nearby park, Grandad looking as though he’d got an obese elephant off his chest.

  ‘It’s time to go back then, isn’t it?’ Grandad said, patting the Sonic Suitcase. ‘We stopped Other Me from giving Young Me advice, so he’ll lose the race like last time and then everything will go back to normal.’

  But Frankie was staring up at the sky with dread. Heavy storm clouds were moving rapidly across the Glasgow sky. ‘This is not good,’ he said, as it began to spit.

  ‘A bit of rain never hurt anyone,’ replied a chirpy Grandad. ‘It’s good for the farmers.’

  ‘Well, it’s not good for the Fishes.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ replied Grandad.

  ‘You said that the last time you came here it was SUNNY, right?’ Frankie asked. A freezing cold wind began to blow.

  ‘Weather changes all the time,’ Grandad said. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’ But he didn’t sound so sure anymore.

  Frankie shook his head. ‘But it does. I’ve read about this – when different things happen in the same timeline, it means there’s been some kind of simultaneity breakdown.’

  Grandad looked over one shoulder, then the other. ‘I’m sorry, did you think you were speaking with Albert Einstein or something?’

  Frankie didn’t smile. ‘This is really bad, Grandad. You don’t understand –’

  ‘Frankie, you’re getting worked up over nothing,’ Grandad interrupted, as thunder rumbled in the distance. He gestured to the Sonic Suitcase, where the battery was sitting at forty-two per cent. ‘We’ve done what we came to do. Now let’s just get home before –’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Frankie said, raising his voice to compete with the gathering storm. ‘We’ve meddled with time and now the future is muddled!’

  Cue thunder claps as the two Fish men ran to take cover in a nearby rotunda.

  ‘Muddled?’ Grandad repeated. He had lost all his chirpiness now, like a canary with laryngitis.

  ‘When you came back a SECOND time to the same place, you messed with the time path,’ said Frankie tightly. ‘That made today more unpredictable. Think about it, Grandad. You landed the Sonic Suitcase in the wrong place without meaning to. The weather is TOTALLY different now than it was before –’

  ‘And young Alfie was asleep this time, instead of answering the door,’ finished Grandad slowly. ‘You mean things are different this time just because we came back?’

  Frankie nodded. ‘And now that it’s raining, anything could happen. They could cancel the Big Race entirely.’

  Grandad went pale. ‘How about we go back home and if it doesn’t work, we can come back and fix it again?’ he suggested desperately.

  Frankie sat down on a bench in the rotunda, exhausted by his own explanation. ‘That could make things even worse. The more we go back and forth to the same point in time, the more we destabilise the timeline and wear out our time path.’ He shook his head. ‘No. We need to stay for the Big Race. We need to make sure it turns out the way it’s supposed to.’

  Grandad clenched his fists. Frankie knew this was NOT what he wanted to hear. The old man wanted to type those co-ordinates into that stupid computer and get them back to 2017. Frankie hoped he’d see that he was right.

  As the silence stretched out, Frankie remembered his conversation with Roddy, and what he’d said at the end. He felt sick. He’d thought he was doing the right thing, but who knew how much damage he might have caused?

  Finally, Grandad nodded sadly. ‘We don’t have a choice, aye.’

  Frankie sagged, relieved. ‘Nope, we really don’t.’ He crossed his fingers for luck, and then helped Grandad to his weary feet. ‘The Big Race is just over an hour away, so we need to hurry across town. We just have to hope that the race plays out exactly as it did – the first time around.’

  Mercifully, the rain stopped, though the skies were still dark and grey as Frankie and Grandad jogged briskly through the old streets of Glasgow.

  Now, Frankie had the edge on his grandad about time travel, but the old man knew the streets of his hometown like the back of an ageing hand.

  ‘I know a shortcut,’ he told Frankie, leading him to a pair of rather intimidating rusty metal gates. Leaves danced in the breeze and the steel chain that held the gates together rattled loudly. Beyond them was what appeared to be an imposing school building.

  ‘We can squeeze through here,’ Grandad told his grandson with a cheeky grin. He held the gates apart as Frankie slipped through, and then followed after him.

  Frankie wasn’t exactly sure why, but once on the other side of the gates, Grandad suddenly had a spring in his tired old step.

  Whistling, the old man strode through the school grounds, pointing things out to Frankie – his favourite monkey bars, and then the football pitch where he’d once dreamt of playing for Celtic and eventually Liverpool.

  ‘This is great, Grandad,’ said Frankie, ‘but we need to get to the Big Race.’

  But Grandad didn’t seem to hear him. He pointed through a dusty classroom window and explained to Frankie that this was where he and his mate Lenny McGregor had once pranked their headmaster. ‘Mr McGinley never saw it coming, the old fool,’ he smirked.

  Frankie was stunned. ‘You did pranks?’ he asked, forgetting about the Big Race for a moment. It was like hearing that Old Man Harris had once sung a Beyoncé song on X-Factor.

  ‘Yeah, me and Lenny hooked up a dead rat on a fishing hook and lowered it onto McGinley’s head as he was saying the morning prayer,’ Grandad said, a conspiratorial glint in his eye.

  ‘He was bald, so it looked for a few seconds like he had a bad wig. Everyone loved it! Well, not McGinley … and probably not Jesus either.’

  He chuckled happily, and dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief.

  Frankie grinned, though he couldn’t imagine himself getting so emotional about going back to school when he was 120 (although actually, Grandad was only eighty-five).

  But maybe time does funny things to you, Frankie thought. Certainly time-travelling does. Then, with a jolt, Frankie suddenly remembered why they were there.

  He tugged urgently on Grandad’s arm. ‘The race starts in less than forty minutes, so –’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know,’ Grandad grunted as he led Frankie out of the school. ‘Keep your hair on.’

  ‘One of us has to,’ said Frankie, but quietly, so that his nearly bald grandad didn’t hear.

  They kept walking at a good pace, down the street, past some old factories billowing smoke and up to a building marked St Mary ’s Hospital. ‘Let’s have a breather,’ said Grandad, puffing loudly.

  Frankie looked at his watch. The Big Race start time was rapidly approaching, and they needed to get to the speedway soon, but his grandad did look like he needed a short break. ‘OK, one minute,’ Frankie said, his jaw tight. Time, quite obviously, was NOT on their side.

  Grandad looked at the hospital entrance and then down at Frankie, his eyes twinkling. ‘I want you to meet, or at least see, the most beautiful woman in the world …’ Then he slipped quickly between the hospital’s emergency-department doors.

  ‘Grandad –’ Frankie screeched, following him into St Mary’s Hospital. ‘We do NOT have time to look for your old-lady girlfriend!’

  But he stopped short when his grandad pointed out a pretty, young nurse at the nursing station, her brown hair pinned up under a hat. As they watched, the nurse turned around to call for someone, and Frankie caught sight of some very familiar bright blue eyes.

  ‘Is that … Nanna?’ Frankie gasped.

  Grandad let out a little laugh. ‘Technically she’s still Nurse Mavis Hopley. She only becomes Nanna Fish when I marry her, and we have your father and then your father has you and your sister Lou.’

  He took two steps forward, but his grandson clutched his jacket.

  ‘Grandad!’ Fran
kie hissed. ‘No, you can’t. We can’t, it’s too risky! And we REALLY need to go.’

  Grandad looked wistfully at Nurse Hopley. ‘Just a quick hello?’

  ‘Remember the rules?’ grimaced Frankie. ‘That quick hello could change everything.’

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ Grandad said reluctantly.

  With this reassuring declaration, Frankie let go of his grandad’s jacket … but as he did, the old man raised the back of his hand to his forehead and crumpled to the ground.

  Frankie dropped to his knees and nursed his grandad’s head. ‘Grandad! Grandad!’

  No response.

  ‘Everybody move back,’ came the eerily familiar voice of Nurse Hopley. The crowd reluctantly dispersed as Nurse Hopley knelt at Alfie Fish’s side. ‘What’s his name?’ she asked Frankie, who was rendered speechless.

  Then suddenly Grandad’s eyes popped open like a six-year-old’s on Christmas morning. ‘Alfred’s my name,’ he announced, ‘and I am so sorry, but I appear to have fainted.’

  Nurse Hopley helped Grandad to his feet, and as he rose he gave Frankie a wink. What a tricky old fool, Frankie thought to himself.

  ‘Are you feeling OK?’ Nurse Hopley asked Grandad with concern.

  ‘I’m feeling quite wonderful. Say, has anyone ever told you how beautiful your eyes are?’ Alfie murmured, as Frankie looked around for a sick bag.

  ‘Oh, we are a sweet talker, aren’t we?’ Nurse Hopley laughed.

  ‘Grandad, we really need to get going,’ urged Frankie, looking at the clock on the wall.

  ‘I suppose you’re off to the Big Race then, like everyone else?’ smiled Nurse Hopley. ‘I’m working, but I’m going to listen to it on the radio. Depending on the outcome, I might have a date tonight with a dashing young driver.’

  ‘Is that right?’ chuckled Grandad, clearly assuming that she meant a date with his younger self.

  Nurse Hopley flushed the colour of a tomato trapped in a lava lamp. ‘I don’t normally share personal information like that with strangers,’ she said, ‘but I feel like I know you somehow.’ She stared at Grandad like she was trying to work out the answer to a question she didn’t understand. ‘Have we met before? You look so familiar.’

  ‘N-no,’ Grandad stammered, and then added, ‘Although some people think I look like a young Mick Jagger.’ (No they don’t.)

  ‘Mick who?’ asked Nurse Hopley.

  ‘Never mind him,’ said Grandad quickly. ‘Who is the lucky driver?’

  Nurse Hopley flushed even deeper. ‘Clancy Fairplay,’ she blurted. ‘He was a patient here once, had a nasty bout of gout, and he’s been pestering me ever since for a date. I finally said I’d have dinner with him if he wins the Big Race today. He’s a bit full of himself, but a promise is a promise.’

  Grandad groaned loudly.

  Nurse Hopley looked worried. ‘Sir, you’ve gone a little pale,’ she said. ‘Are you going to faint again?’

  Grandad shook his head.

  ‘He’s fine,’ said Frankie hastily, pulling his grandad towards the exit. ‘Sorry, we’ve got to get going. Thanks, bye!’

  Nurse Hopley gave them a confused wave and, with a strange look, turned back to her station.

  ‘A date with Clancy Fairplay?’ Grandad moaned as they left the building. ‘Mavis never mentioned anything about that before. Not in over fifty years of marriage.’

  Frankie had gone cold. Was this yet another example of time breaking down?

  Thunder clapped above them.

  Frankie felt a sudden urge to look in the mirror. ‘Grandad, how’s my face?’ he asked worriedly.

  Grandad glanced at him. ‘It’s weird, like normal,’ he snapped. ‘But we’ve got bigger fish to fry, Frankie. If Clancy wins the race, I could still lose Mavis. And if I win the race, I lose …’

  ‘Everybody,’ finished Frankie. ‘We ALL lose.’

  The track was only a few hundred metres from the hospital, and the road was full of racing fans making their way to the Big Race. Men walked with children on their shoulders and kids waved colourful homemade flags. There were festive chants, feverish cheering and fitful clapping.

  But the mood of the two Fish men was entirely different. The excitement of their whirlwind tour had been replaced with a much heavier feeling. Things were not looking good for the future of the Fish family.

  As they neared the entrance to the track, Grandad suddenly stopped and bent down. For a minute Frankie thought he had ‘fainted’ again, but he came up holding a coin in his right hand.

  ‘About time we had some good luck,’ said Grandad. There was a little spark in his eyes as if he had just had an idea. ‘Do you like ice-cream, Frankie?’

  ‘Of course. I’m a kid,’ replied Frankie, thinking that it was like asking an old person if they enjoyed sleeping in front of the TV or farting during family dinners.

  ‘Go over there and buy yourself one,’ Grandad said, pointing to nearby shop. ‘Get topping if you want it, too.’

  Frankie couldn’t believe it. He was never allowed to get topping. He bit his lip, torn – they only had twenty minutes until the race started, but then again … if he was VERY quick, and surely he’d more than earned it today …

  ‘Do you want one too?’

  ‘No thanks, I’m watching my figure,’ replied Grandad. ‘Here, give me the suitcase. I’ll hold it while you get your ice-cream. I’ll wait right here.’

  ‘OK, I’ll be super quick,’ Frankie said, dashing off. Just as he was about to enter the ice-cream parlour, Grandad called out to him. ‘Frankie!’

  Frankie turned around.

  ‘You’re not such a bad kid after all,’ Grandad said. ‘I’m very happy to be sharing this adventure with you.’

  Frankie felt a grin spread across his face. ‘Thanks, Grandad. You’re not so bad yourself.’ Then he disappeared into the ice-cream parlour to make the painful and urgent decision between chocolate and strawberry.

  The shop was empty, except for a young man in a pointy white hat behind the counter, listening to the radio. Two commentators were excitedly discussing the Big Race. Frankie pressed up against the glass, trying to decide which way to go.

  Too. Hard. To. Choose.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ Frankie asked the attendant, flashing his money. ‘How much ice-cream does this get me?’

  The man squinted at the coin. ‘Two cones, two scoops each, plus topping.’

  Frankie stared at him. ‘No way!’

  In 2017, a single coin would barely pay for the cone itself. Frankie had the extraordinary idea of having one scoop of chocolate and one scoop of strawberry with caramel sauce.

  As the Pointy-Hat Man started scooping ice-cream, a pompous voice boomed from the radio.

  ‘The racing of the race is merely a formality,’ the voice said. ‘We all know who the best driver in all of Scotland is … It’s ME, Clancy Fairplay. And let me tell you something else, not only will I win the Big Race, but I’ll also win the heart and hand of the most beautiful woman in Glasgow, Miss Mavis Hopley!’ he declared, like Nanna Fish was a prize to collect.

  ‘Clancy Fairplay? That man is such a scoundrel that even his name lies,’ scoffed Pointy-Hat Man. ‘That germ doesn’t have a fair bone in his body. If he even THINKS of coming into THIS shop again, he’ll have another thing coming.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Frankie.

  ‘I had to toss him out of here a week ago,’ the man snorted. ‘He slapped a child just because he asked him for an autograph.’

  ‘That’s terrible!’ gasped Frankie. He thought that if he ever saw Clancy Not-so-Fairplay in person, he’d kick him right where the sun don’t shine (though in Scotland, that could be anywhere).

  Clancy’s voice kept blathering on as Pointy-Hat Man piled the strawberry scoop on top of the chocolate. ‘Alfie Fish may be fast, but he lacks the control and discipline it takes to be a great driver. He makes emotional decisions. If he were on my team, I’m not sure I would trust him to do what he says he’ll do.’


  As Pointy-Hat Man handed Frankie the towering cone of ice-cream in exchange for the coin, Frankie’s mind began racing. His smile, which a minute ago had been as wide as a pair of elephant’s speedos, was now as narrow as sparrow’s bowtie. Clancy Fairplay’s words replayed in his head: ‘I’m not sure I would trust him to do what he says he’ll do.’

  Frankie hurriedly left the ice-cream parlour, his cone trembling. Grandad had said he’d wait for him on the other side of the street.

  But Grandad was gone.

  A lady in a fur coat approached, carrying a small, shaggy dog. It was difficult to make out where the dog ended and the coat began.

  ‘Are you Frankie? Frankie Fish?’ she asked in a thick Scottish accent. If she wasn’t saying Frankie’s own name, he wasn’t sure he would have understood her.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied meekly as a trickle of chocolate ice-cream ran down his thumb.

  ‘Your grandad asked me to tell you he had to go and make things right,’ she explained. ‘He said he’ll see you when he’s done.’

  Frankie had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. He hardly noticed as the strawberry scoop slipped off his cone onto the wet cobblestones. Then the chocolate one slid off after it, like the world’s sweetest avalanche.

  ‘Oh, you dropped your ice cream …’ said the Furry Lady, as her dog went crazy and struggled to the ground. ‘Ruffles loves ice-cream.’

  Ruffles did love ice-cream. His fat little tongue lashed all over Frankie’s favourite sneakers, but Frankie was too preoccupied to notice.

  Surely this is a mistake, Frankie thought as he swung his head from left to right to try and spot his grandad.

  ‘Which way did he go?’ Frankie asked the Furry Lady, who was taking great delight in Ruffles’ ice-cream haul.

  ‘That way, dear,’ she said, pointing down the road in the direction of the Big Race. ‘Are you feeling OK? Your face looks a little … funny.’

  Frankie pressed his fingers into his face as he looked into the butcher’s window at his reflection. Somehow his eyes looked narrower and his cheeks were fatter.