by Ernesto Lee
In retrospect, that all seems to have been a bit of a waste of time, and whilst I’m not entirely sure if I’ve lived a completely good life, the words of the navy veteran have made me realize that I at least need to live what little of my life I have left.
I finish my drink and head to the bar to order a refill. While the barman fills my glass, I turn towards the end of the bar to watch the early evening BBC news. It’s the usual banal rubbish, but when I hear a soft female voice ordering a drink, I turn back towards the barman to see who it is.
“Hi, Pawel, a gin and tonic please, and make it a double.”
The accent is distinctly northern and not at all what I was expecting. As stereotypes go, and based on looks alone, I would have put her down as a London girl, or, at the very least, home counties privately educated. The accent is not the real surprise though, and as she catches my eye, we both awkwardly look away.
I take my drink back to my booth and put our encounter down to nothing more than an embarrassing coincidence. Despite this, I keep looking over towards her and more than once she catches me staring.
After catching me for a third time, she smiles, finishes her drink and picks up her handbag. To my great relief, she walks towards the door, but then she turns and walks back in my direction. I look down, hoping she is going to the bathroom, but she stops and puts her bag down on the bench opposite me. I look up from my drink and she asks if I’d mind her joining me.
I’d been hoping to be left alone and, gorgeous or not, her interruption is unwelcome, and my response is suitably curt.
“That really all depends on what you want. Did Dr. Bleakley send you to spy on me, Dr. McKenzie? Are you going to report back that you caught me having a sly pint?”
“Yep, that’s right,” she replies with a smile. “I followed you with the GPS tracker that he implanted into you earlier today. I take it that you didn’t know that Dr. Bleakley is an undercover agent for MI5?”
Her response makes me blush and without waiting for an invitation she sits down opposite me.
“I’m no different from you. I needed a drink and was intending to have one before going home. I didn’t follow you. I live close by. What’s your excuse?”
“This is my first time in this pub. I started walking and ended up here. You haven’t answered my question, though. What do you want?”
“Just some company with a like-minded soul. I’m guessing you came here to get some peace and quiet and to escape reality for a while. Well, so did I, but when I saw you at the bar, it made me think about fate and what really matters most in life.”
“I’m sorry, I’m really not following you, Dr. McK—”
“Call me Karen,” she interrupts and holds out her hand. “And you are?”
“It’s Mark, Mark Rennie. But didn’t you know that already?”
“Why would I? Are you famous?” she adds with a smirk.
Now I’m completely confused.
“Sorry, Karen, but can we start again, please? What’s your connection to Dr. Bleakley, and what did you mean by a like-minded soul? Did Bleakley discuss my case with you?”
She laughs slightly and then takes me by surprise as she reaches across the table for my hand.
“That would be a massive breach of patient and doctor confidentiality, Mark. And, besides, it wouldn’t mean all that much to me. Pediatrics is my specialty. My business with Alan today was completely personal.”
“Okay, so, part two of my question?” I ask.
“Yep, part two, that’s the real winner for both of us. I wasn’t trying to listen as you were leaving the surgery, but I heard Dr. Bleakley tell you that you still have some options. I, unfortunately, am out of options.”
My look betrays my surprise, and without thinking I blurt out something about how she looks so normal.
This causes her to laugh again and she thanks me for the compliment. “Thanks. It’s amazing what a shitload of medication, makeup and a wig can do. Believe me, though, ovarian cancer is a bitch, and underneath this extremely expensive wig I’ve got the whole Britney Spears meltdown thing going on. Do you want to see?”
She jokingly tucks her fingers under the wig to lift it off and laughs again when she sees the panic in my eyes.
“For a man knocking on death’s door, you really need to loosen up and live a little. What’s the worst that can happen?” She says with a lift of her eyebrows.
“I’m sorry, the news today hasn’t quite sunk in yet. You seem to be coping okay though. What’s your secret?”
“There’s no big secret. I knew deep down that my cancer was terminal. So, when Alan confirmed it today, I think I was already mentally prepared for it. The way I see it, I have two choices: I can sit around waiting for the end, or I can make the most of what time I have left.”
I nod my head and tell her that I was thinking much the same thing.
“Great, so we’re in agreement,” she says, before calling to the barman. “The same again for both of us, please, Pawel. And two shots of the tequila gold.”
“Oh no, no tequila for me,” I protest. “I’ve got work in the morning.”
Pawel looks at her for guidance, and after squeezing my hand and telling me to relax, she tells him that we’ll both have a tequila. He smiles and starts to prepare the drinks, and I tell Karen that she is playing with fire.
“You do realize that with the medication I’m on, there is a distinct possibility that I’m either going to pass out or throw up?”
“Well, the same applies for me, but let’s hope we don’t pass out. Throwing up might not be such a bad thing though.”
“And why would that be?”
“Two reasons. Number one, it will do us good to get some of that medication out of our system.”
“Wonderful! And number two?”
“Number two, Mark, is that we’ll have room for another tequila.”
She looks at me with the wickedest of smiles and I can’t help but smile back.
“You really are quite crazy aren’t you, Dr. McKenzie?”
“Not yet,” she replies. “But I’m hoping to get there quite soon. Now, are you going to leave me to drink alone or are we going to have some fun?”
Turn the page for an extract from…
Out of Time
The Dream Traveler Book One
By Ernesto H Lee
Well written and a fun read. The reader will surely find that reading ‘Out of Time’ will make time fly – ‘The Book Review Directory’
Entertaining and thought provoking. Ernesto H Lee has crafted a gripping murder mystery, with many twists and turns – Deborah Lloyd for Readers Favorite - 5 Stars
Out Of Time, is the first in a series of Novels from author Ernesto H Lee and is the first part of a two-part story that introduces the reader to Detective Sean McMillan. McMillan has a unique ability to travel back in time through the medium of his dreams, so when he is assigned to a cold case team, finding evidence and solving crimes should be a foregone conclusion. However, Sean soon discovers that changes to the past to influence the future can have unexpected and deadly consequences. The past is not the past, the future is not set and nothing in life is certain. Open your mind and join the ‘Dream Traveler’ on his journey back to the past.
Available Now
Out of Time
The Dream Traveler Book One
By Ernesto H Lee
The Past – Thursday, 13th October, 1994
According to the Staines and Egham News, today is Thursday, 13th October, 1994 and the front page has a story about the landing of the space shuttle Endeavour. Other than that, there is nothing much of interest in the paper, and even if there were the voice behind me brings me swiftly back to earth.
“Oy, this is not a bloody library, mate. Are you gonna buy that paper or what?”
I was born in Kingston-Upon-Thames, so not far from here, but the accent sounds much broader than I remember, and the fashion sense makes me smile. In fairness, I was only six years old
in 1994, so what do I really know about nineties fashion?
I am mesmerized, though, by the super-gelled hair, spray tan, and gold earrings, which remind me of watching Boyzone on Top of the Pops as a kid. I smile again and wonder to myself why Stephen Gately is working in a newsagents in Staines, but my inane grin is clearly making the Boyzone lookalike uncomfortable and he leans over the counter towards me.
“Are you a bit simple, mate, or are you bloody queer? I asked you if you’re gonna buy that paper. If not, put it down and piss off if you’re not gonna buy anything.”
“Sorry, yes, I will take the paper and a packet of Juicy Fruit gum please – how much is that?”
“Twenty-seven pence for the paper and twenty-five for the gum.’’
I hand him the money and ask if he knows how to get to the train station.
“You’re not from round here, are you, mate? I knew as soon as you walked in with your fancy clothes and your weird haircut.”
As he hands over my change, he points towards the door. “Take a right as you go out, then the station is a couple of hundred meters up on the left. Be careful, though – this is a bit of a rough area for a stranger to be walking about in.”
I look at him bemused and he gestures towards my clothes. “Mate, you’re either a bender, or you’re some kind of stuck-up ponce. No one bloody dresses like that round here.”
Another challenge with being a dream traveler is having the ability to blend in fully with my surroundings every time I travel. The ideal scenario of course is to be dressed appropriately, to behave properly, to speak the language if needed, and generally to look and act as if I belong, but it is not always possible.
With enough time and planning, I can do the research and bring money and other items that are correct to the period, but the clothes and hairstyles for every possible time period are a real problem, not least because I have a high-profile day job.
Imagine trying to explain turning up for work with a Billy Ray Cyrus mullet or a Beatles-style mop top in 2018. I’m not sure if even I could explain that too easily.
Fortunately, even though I was only a kid, 1994 is not that far away from the present day and, apart from the styles, everything else should be familiar enough for me not to stand out too much.
“No, I’m not a bender, but thanks for asking and thanks for the directions, Stephen.”
My sarcasm and Boyzone joke goes right over his head, but as I turn and walk towards the door, he cannot resist trying to get the last word in.
“So, if you’re not a bender, what’s with those freaky clothes then?”
“It’s called fashion. I’m a trendsetter – it’s called being ahead of the times. You should try it someday!”
Perhaps twenty-four years ahead of the times is a bit much, but it silences Stephen and I head out of the shop, leaving him standing there scratching his heavily gelled head.
Clearly, either he doesn’t know his left from his right, or the fumes from the gel have him confused, or perhaps he was dazzled by my incredible fashion sense. Whatever the reason, the station is actually on the right-hand side of the road.
Because it is just before 6 pm, it is busy with students and commuters heading home.
When I get to the top of the ticket-counter queue, the middle-aged woman behind the glass looks at me as if I am from another planet. Then she gives me a fake smile and hands me my ticket to Feltham. “Platform number two, love. It’s due at 6.19.”
Behind me, a group of teenagers in school uniform are sniggering, probably at my clothes and hair, but I ignore them and head outside. I cross over the bridge to platform two to wait for the train.
The platform is busy enough, and all the benches are fully occupied, but if the train is on time I won’t have too long to wait. One of the things I enjoy most about travelling within my own lifetime is remembering all the things from my own past.
Behind me, a group of students are crowded round one of their mates, who is proudly showing off Donkey Kong on his Nintendo Gameboy and to the side of me a young girl asks her boyfriend if he wants to come over and watch Forest Gump on Friday evening.
“Dad got a pirate video copy from one of his mates at work. It’s got that guy in it from Big – Tom somebody. You know, the one where the kid makes the wish and gets big overnight?”
The boyfriend nods and suggests that he bring a couple of bottles of Lambrusco and a few beers so that they can relax better.
Dirty git, I know exactly what the Lambrusco is for and so does she. It’s to make her legs relax so that her knickers can slide off better!
The boyfriend catches me staring at them, but before he can say anything, the train pulls into the station right on time and they both move forward with everyone else to the edge of the platform.
It’s rush hour, so the train is busy, and I have to walk through three carriages before I find an empty seat. Unfortunately, the seat is not entirely empty.
“Don’t even think about sitting down, dickhead. That seat is for my boots – keep on moving.”
I thought that skinheads faded away sometime in the 1980s, but obviously nobody told this pair of clowns. There is no denying, though, they certainly look the part. Black Fred Perry polo shirts, braces, tight, bleached Levi jeans, Doc Marten boots – and, of course, the obligatory shaven heads, aggressive demeanor, and mangy looking pit-bull dog.
“So, what’s this then? Are you and your sisters going to a fancy-dress party, or is there a freak show in town?”
Instantly the pair of them are on their feet and squaring up to me.
“What did you say, pal?”
“Calm yourself down, ladies, I was talking to the dog. Now sit down like good little girls before you get spanked.”
The pair of them are now positively frothing at the mouth and the carriage is completely silent as the rest of the passengers wait expectantly to see me get my head kicked in. The only difference between now and 2018 is the lack of smartphones to capture the action.
“You had better piss off right now, mate, or my dog is gonna rip your bleeding throat out.”
“Okay, lads, maybe we got off on the wrong foot. I just want to sit down and read my paper. Is that okay?”
“Who the hell is this joker? I’m warning you, piss off right now or that paper is going right up your arse.”
“Hang on, what about this – why don’t you read my paper? You can read, can’t you, lads?”
My obvious lack of fear seems to throw them off-balance and they look lost for words for a few seconds.
One of them finally splutters, “Enough of your bloody paper. What the fuck are you talking about?”
“My paper – look, have a read,” I explain, helpfully holding it out to them. Neither of them notice how tightly I have rolled it, and as I drop it back down to my side, they also don’t notice the way that I am holding it.
“So, what’s it to be, lads, can we be friends?”
They both launch at me, but I am way ahead of them. In quick succession, the compacted end of the rolled-up newspaper smashes into their faces and they both drop to the floor with blood pumping from their shattered noses.
As they fall, I reach across, pick up the pit bull by the collar and hurl it through the open window, much to the astonishment of the ticket inspector who has now appeared behind me.
He doesn’t speak but I answer him anyway, “What? It didn’t have a ticket!”
He looks like he is about to ask me for my ticket, but when he sees the state of the two dipshits on the floor, he thinks better of it and moves away down the carriage.
For the next few minutes, the skinheads sit opposite me, obviously uncomfortable and in pain, but still looking defiant and putting on a brave face for the rest of the passengers. Then, much to their relief, we pull in to Feltham station and they are up on their feet before the train has even stopped.
I am just behind them as they open the door and I can’t resist a final dig as they step down onto the platform, “Don’t f
orget your newspaper, ladies.”
They ignore me and keep on walking, but as soon as they are at a safe distance, the bravado returns and they both turn back towards me.
“You’re bloody dead, you prick! You had better watch your back,” one of them yells.
“This is not over,” the other one joins in, “you’re a dead man walking!”
Outside the entrance to the station, they get into a battered-looking Ford Sierra driven by another Neanderthal and continue to threaten and abuse me until they are out of sight.
I guess my smiling and waving didn’t help much in diffusing the situation, but I never have been much of a diplomat, so screw them.
I am just pondering my next move when a hand taps me on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, I saw what you did on the train, but you really should be careful. Those guys are nutters and have a bad reputation.”
Being somewhat preoccupied on the train, I hadn’t noticed her before. Under normal circumstances, I most definitely would have. She is absolutely gorgeous with long black hair and, if I had to guess, I would say that she is in her mid-twenties with Indian or Nepalese heritage.
“Thanks for the advice, but scumbags like that don’t worry me. I can handle myself.”
“I think it’s obvious from the display on the train that you can handle yourself, but those two scumbags hang around with a much bigger group of scumbags. They won’t let things go and they won’t be happy until justice has been served.”
“Again, thanks for the advice. I didn’t catch your name?”
“It’s Maria, and no need for thanks – just watch your back is all I’m saying. Anyway, I need to get going or I will miss my bus. Take care of yourself, Superman.”