Ahead of his Time by Adrian Cousins (read novels website .TXT) 📗

They married in 1990 when I was just two years old.”

“Do you know where he was in the late ’70s? Presumably, in college in the States, I guess?”

“No, he was fifteen years older than Mum, so he’d be in his early thirties. Probably about the age I am now. I don’t know what he was doing then, although he would have been living in America at the time. I remember him saying that he never found the right Gal, as he put it; then the first time leaving the States and within his first week here, he met the woman of his dreams.”

“Well, that seals it, lad. Your father is in America now.”

“Fricking hell! My dad’s there right now, isn’t he? And we’re the same age …  fuck me!”

“Mind your language. There’s no need for that, d’you hear?”

“Sorry, George,” I said.

“Not you lad … ’im.” George thumbed towards Martin.

“Yeah, I know, but I thought I would say it for him until he gets the hang of it.” I grinned.

“Oh, I see. Well, I’ve only met two time-travellers, and they both have mouths like sewers.”

Martin pointed at me and laughed. “You should’ve heard him at work! Every other word he uttered was either Fuck, or Bollocks. We all reckoned he’d got Tourettes!”

“Tour-what?”

“Forget it, George. Right, let’s get back to it.” Now checking my watch, concerned I really needed to get going soon. I had the grovel-to-Jenny path to crawl along tonight, so being super late was only going to add shards of broken glass to that already super-tricky path to squirm across.

“What about your mum? She’d presumably be of school age now. Is that in Enfield? That’s where you come from, isn’t it?” I questioned Martin as he proceeded to gulp down his second pint.

“No. I was born and raised here in Fairfield.”

“Thought you said this lad worked for you? Didn’t you know anything about your staff?”

Martin choked and snorted beer down his nose. “Ha!” He wiped his nose and table with the sleeves of his parka, both arms performing a synchronised movement to clear the mess he’d made. George screwed up his nose at the revolting sight as I just shook my head, whilst Martin just smirked at me as he continued to swirl the spat beer in a circular motion with his sleeve.

“George back then, or future then, I … how shall I put it without you chastising me for my language … I was a—”

“A right tosser – that covers it,” Martin blurted out and grinned.

I pointed at Martin. “Yup, that about covers it.”

“Oh right, okay, lad. Carry on about your mother.” George shot me a confused look. I shrugged, guessing I’d have to go into greater detail with him at some point about my not so wonderful previous life.

“As I said. I was born in Fairfield and went to school here. The same one as my mum did … the City School.”

“You went to the City School, really? And your mum, when was she born?”

“1961. She’d be … err … sixteen now.”

I glanced at George, both of us raising our eyebrows.

“Fricking hell, my mum is still at school!”

“Martin, what’s your mother’s name.”

“Sarah Bretton.”

I thought for a moment. Nope, I didn’t know a Sarah Bretton. “No, that’s presumably her married name. What’s her maiden name?”

“Moore. She was Sarah Moore before she met Dad. I was originally called Moore and then took my stepfather’s name when they married.”

“Good, God! Really?”

“You know her, lad?”

“Yes, George, I know exactly who she is!” I’d seen her at school today and yesterday at court in the public gallery when Patrick Colney was found guilty for stabbing her father, whom I’d now discovered would become Martin’s grandfather. The court case which I instigated by encouraging Sarah to speak out about David Colney – a very small world indeed – and she was Martin’s mother.

Martin stared at me, eyes wide, as he shot a look at George and then back to me. “How would you know my mother?”

“I’m a teacher at Fairfield City School, and your mother is one of my students. This may scupper an idea I had today on how we could integrate you into this world. As I see it, the biggest problem we have is Martin doesn’t exist, as he’s landed with no history. He hasn’t dropped in to take the place of his father; therefore, we have to create a history.”

“What’s your plan, lad?”

Martin had drifted from the conversation, sitting further back than George and I. The first few weeks of time-travel were tough, and I guess he was trying to get his head around the knowledge about his mother. George and I assumed our position leaning in close to whisper.

“There’s a temporary position for a school caretaker. Clive, the caretaker, has gone in for an operation and needs six months of convalescence. I’m conducting the interviews, and I thought I could engineer it that Martin gets the job. I reckon I can circumnavigate the paperwork, and also I’ll be able to keep a close eye on him. If I can swing it, I thought we could buy some time as clearly he can’t just mope about all day.”

“That’s a cracking idea, lad. I think you should do it.”

“But what about his mother being a student?”

“Lad, you can’t worry about that. She won’t know him. Anyway, he’ll be the school caretaker, so she won’t give him another look.”

“Do you think?”

“Yes, lad, I do. We have no choice, do we?”

“George, you’re right … I don’t think we do.”

We had our strategy in place, which I planned to get to work on in the morning. We were still unclear why Martin was here in 1977. Maybe there was no reason, and he’d just followed me here. George ferried Martin back to my rental house as I headed home for my continued interrogation. I was concerned my other closest friend, Don, would need some answers soon, but my immediate problem was Jenny and the urgent need to repair the damage to haul my