by Sean McMahon
Her two Jack Russell’s charged at her without a second thought, sniffing her shoes, trying to determine precisely where she had been for the last few days, piecing together the entirety of her journey, which she had unforgivably made without them.
‘Down Zack, get down Billy,’ said Kara, both surprised and delighted that her dogs were there to welcome her.
Greg was standing beyond the threshold, a big smile on his face, clearly elated that he’d successfully managed to surprise her.
‘What the hell are you doing here?!’ said Kara, her words at odds with the obvious affection and happiness in her voice.
‘Your sis and I thought it’d be a nice surprise,’ said Greg. ‘She dropped off Zack and Billy and let me in,’ he added, suddenly fearful he may have overstepped the mark.
Kara dumped her bag and hugged him, a single tear rolling down her cheek, for reasons she couldn’t quite fathom or explain.
‘Did I do the wrong thing?’ asked Greg, noticing her glistening cheek.
‘No, you idiot,’ said Kara, attempting to compose herself. ‘I’ve just really missed you is all.’
Greg mumbled something unintelligible, then made an excuse to hide his relief, breaking away to pop the kettle on.
Kara made her way into the kitchen, grabbed a treat for her dogs, and leaned against the kitchen counter. Taking a breath, she exhaled slowly, watching as Greg made her a cup of tea.
“It’s so good to be home,” thought Kara.
*
One hundred-or-so yards away, a dark-haired woman stared intently, having taken up a bench situated on the grass verge opposite Kara’s home. The woman checked her wrist, then reached into the pocket of her dark blue coat, retrieving a notepad. Pulling a pen out from the spiral binding, she flipped open the pad, recording the exact time.
A much-older man, wearing a coat of matching colour, took up a spot next to her on the bench she was occupying.
‘You didn’t need to come yourself, you know,’ she said to the man. ‘This is basic admin.’
The man remained silent, his stern face staring out across the expansive grass verge. He reached up to his neck, undoing the top button of his shirt, and loosened his dark-red tie. Relaxing his arms, he leant forward, resting his forearms on his legs.
Noting his stony glare, she nodded, the reason for his presence dawning on her. She closed her notepad, then nestled it safely away back into her jacket pocket. They sat there in silence, neither one of them feeling the need to fill the communicative void with small talk. They had known each other too long to feel awkward, listening instead to the rustling noise being generated by the breeze, as it swam across the leaves of the trees and danced across the open stretch of grass before them, like a river of perpetual motion.
*
As Jasmine pulled up onto the driveway of Hal’s house and killed the engine, Hal jumped out and made his way to the boot of the car.
Jasmine stepped out from the car, just as Hal moved in for a goodbye hug.
‘Thank you so much Jasmine,’ said Hal. ‘I really appreciate all the driving you’ve done this weekend!’
‘You’re welcome,’ said Jasmine. ‘No point in us taking more cars than we needed.’
The front door of Hal’s home opened, and he was bombarded with kisses from his small, black, Staffordshire Bull Terrier, who was jumping up and vying for his undivided attention.
‘Ha-ha, I’ve missed you too girl, get orf me!’ but Shelby refused to listen, she’d clearly missed her daddy.
Jess came out shortly after, and gave him a hug, then chatted to Jasmine, whilst Shelby continued to jump up excitedly. As the girls departed, Hal sighed contentedly, taking in the fact that he was finally home.
‘Feels like I’ve been gone a year,’ said Hal, rubbing Shelby’s belly.
‘You’ve only been gone since Friday, weirdo,’ said Jess, shooting him a loving wink.
Hal made his way into the house and, ensuring he resolved his number one priority, popped the kettle on. Jess closed the door behind him, and chirped her request as she always did.
‘Coffee pleeeeease,’she shouted, as she shot off out of sight, and into the living room. Hal rolled his eyes, grunting under his breath, but secretly smiling.
Encumbered with a cup of coffee in each hand, he made his way to the living room, experiencing a cold shiver, which caused some of his hot beverage to slosh over the side and onto the carpet.
‘Oops,’ he said sheepishly, passing a cup to his fiancée.
‘Finally found us a window cleaner,’ said Jess. ‘Reasonably priced too.’
Hal feigned interest, slurping his coffee, and wondering if anyone had ever uttered a sentence more painfully-British that what Jess has just said to him.
‘Sweet, you’ve been on about that for ages,’ said Hal.
Jess shot him a playful scowl, and Hal switched out his slurp for a sip out of politeness, remembering how much that drove her crazy.
‘So, tell me all about it,’ said Jess, curling up on the sofa. ‘What did I miss?’
‘It was great,’ said Hal. ‘The lodge was amazing. Oh, Peter and Fearne are getting their first place together. And Jasmine is having a baby bo–’
The end of his sentence was cut-off by Shelby, who rudely interrupted him via the medium of an uncharacteristic growl, which she was directing towards a large plant situated in the corner of the room.
‘What’s up with Shelby?’ asked Hal, taking another swig of his coffee-flavoured sugar-milk, and making a mental note to finally bite the bullet and look into getting some proper coffee into the house.
‘Eesh,’ scoffed Jess, ‘ignore her, she’s been growling at that plant all day.’
‘We’ve had that thing for over a week now,’ noted Hal, ‘you’d think she’d be used to it.’
‘Tell me about it. Don’t stop, carry on, what did I miss,’ said Jess, eager for him to continue so that she could experience the weekend vicariously through him.
As Hal continued to fill her in on everything that had happened during his stay at Fir Lodge, Malcolm stared at Shelby, who was blocking him from progressing any further towards her dad. From the corner of the room, he looked up from her, and stared at Hal. His eyes dropped down to his left hand, and for the one-hundredth time, he inspected the pink plastic rectangle of information, reading it out loud once again.
‘Harold Callaghan, 165 Kent Street, thirty-three years of age,’ he said out loud, despite having already committed it to memory.
He looked up from Hal’s driving licence, placing it back into his out-of-phase pocket, and reaffixed his gaze back to his murderer. It had taken him an incomprehensible amount of time to get here. Countless years spent planning his revenge, obsessing over every detail; what weapon to use, whether he would kill the orange detective first, or last.
“Better to make him watch,” he had thought.
He suddenly realised that his left-hand had drifted unconsciously to his waist, and was now gripping the hilt of the large blade that was tucked into his belt. Malcolm blinked to clear his mind, and then grinned, baring all of his teeth like a hungry shark.
Raising his right hand, he aimed his gun at Shelby, miming the act of pulling the trigger, and blowing the sound of a fake gunshot through his pursed lips. Unable to help herself, Shelby responded by rolling onto her back, and playing dead, hoping to be rewarded with a treat, a customary reward for a trick well done in her household.
Raising the weapon towards Jess, he mimicked the action of firing off another pretend bullet into her forehead, then one at Hal, just for good measure. He despised guns, they were so…impersonal.
“Much better to be up-close,” he thought, as he remembered the blood that flowed from–
‘Focus Malcolm,’ he said to himself sternly.
The black, liquid-like fog often sent his thoughts spiralling into tangents that were not currently relevant.
Lowering the gun back down to his side, he felt the darkness before it a
rrived. It swirled around his body, eager to claim him once more, but he wasn’t in the least bit concerned. He had what he needed.
The all-too-familiar sound of rushing air filled his eardrums, as his surroundings were systematically obliterated from his vision, with Hal himself being the last to vanish.
‘See you soon, Harold,’ he whispered into the dark, black fog, his words thick with iciness, and tinged with resentment.
And with that, he was vaporised from the timeline, sent hurtling back into the past, with a single, simple agenda; to restart the past, and change the future.
The Restarters will return.
Acknowledgments
Great Scott, so many people to mention, without whom I would never have got any of this off the ground, and adequately hovering on quantum-entangled propulsion drives, but here goes.
First and foremost, thank you, dear reader. Thank you for taking the time to read the first part of this story. I hope you enjoyed it, and will join me for what comes next. I also hope that maybe you will spread the word by passing this book to friends, family, or perhaps even just in the form of small-talk to your local barista. I have some big ideas for where the Restarters are heading next, and if you can find the time to leave a review, it will really help in terms of keeping the lights on.
It would be remiss of me not to start by thanking my editors; Beverley Hatchman, Amanda Gliddon and Christopher McMahon. I can’t thank you enough for all of your hard work. The journey to reaching this version of the story wouldn’t have been possible without you.
A special thank you to Rebecca Greenwood, my first ARC reader. Your feedback and enthusiasm has been truly invaluable to me.
My sincere thanks to Danny Wyatt, the builder and owner of the real Fir Lodge, who was so enthusiastic and supportive when I pitched him the idea, despite not knowing me at all. For more information on how to book a weekend vacation at the real-life Fir Lodge, please visit my website, which will link you to their bookings page. I have it on good authority that he has since installed a time-dilation dampener around the lodge, so there’s no danger of potential visitors being sent hurtling back to the beginning of their weekend. Though by the end of your time there, you’ll wish you could do just that.
Special credit must go to my graphic designer, Sam Moore, who patiently took my concept for a book cover and made it a reality (and then had to put up with me calling on him every forty-five minutes for the past several months.) See you soon for Book Two, Sam!
Thank you to my fiancée Gemma. Your patience and support has been instrumental in this book ever seeing the light of day. For every evening where I said “Just one more page”, for every cup of coffee you brought me, despite me clearly having had far too much already, and for the hours we spent dog-walking where you reassured me, for the billionth time, that the term “Restarters” worked just fine, I thank you.
A special shout out to Janine and Victoria, who spurred me on to take an idea made in jest, and to run with it to write an actual novel. It is a fact that you wouldn’t be reading this now if it weren’t for them.
Lastly, but by no means least, thank you to Russell Whitcombe, a very talented photographer and friend who was instrumental in securing the additional photos I needed weeks before launch.
Well, time for me to find a Restart Point. I hope to see you for Book Two, which will be called—
Wait, can anyone else hear the sound of rushing air?...
Your friend in time,
Sean McMahon
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About the author
Sean McMahon has saved the world countless times.
From the comfort of his sofa.
Utilising a controller, as a conduit for his actions.
He also believes he invented the concept of the digital photo-frame, but has no way to prove it.
Sean lives in Essex with his family. In his spare time, he loves watching movies, reading, is an avid gamer, and enjoys walking his ridiculously-energetic Staffordshire Bull Terrier, Mindy. He also spends his quieter moments making contingency plans for surviving in the event of a potential zombie-apocalypse.
Sean also once took a leak standing next to Simon Pegg at a press event. To this day, nobody cares.