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

“Right, well, give me your address. You can contact me at school.”

I wasn’t sure how to deliver an appropriate goodbye. I offered my hand to Jess, which she ignored, instead tightly hugging me, which wasn’t what I’d expected. Although I’d just about cleared my affliction of OCD and rarely concerned myself about Ying-Yang, it seemed fate was playing a cruel game with me this week.

When Jess handed me a ‘Pony’ beermat, the slogan ‘Pony the little drink with the big kick’, with her address written across the middle, it gave me a slight shudder – Flat 120, Belfast House, Broxworth Estate – Carol Hall’s old flat.

16

Mary Celeste

I’d lied to Jenny, and it was one of many which I’d spun out over the past five months. Earlier that day, I’d left a note on the kitchen table stating I had a teacher review meeting after school and would be back late. This covered the time with Jess, but I wondered what reception I’d receive as I was home later than planned. That’s if I’d get any reception and would have to prepare to spend my second night on the sofa. Or perhaps worse, find my belongings left on the porch with the locks changed.

I parked the car on the drive and sat there as what I saw worried me to death. Jenny’s car wasn’t on the driveway. There were no lights on in the house, and the curtains were open, giving it a ghostly vacant look. My house now reminding me of the haunted house at the fairground which my grandparents took Stephen and me to every summer.

Jenny was always home when I returned from school, so where was she? My immediate thought was she’d gone to her parents and, if she had, I prayed she’d said nothing about the previous night. I regarded her parents as friends, and I imagined the disappointment on their faces as Jenny told them she’d made a huge mistake by marrying an unstable nutter. Until I could convince Jenny I’d travelled from the future, I needed my story to be kept between us.

‘No chance of that, Apsley, you don’t listen! I keep telling you, you’re screwed.’

That pesky voice in my head was probably right. Convince Jenny that Martin and I were time travellers? Ridiculous!

But then I considered the reason she wasn’t home could be worse. Had she just left me, taken the kids and gone into hiding? Or even more disastrous than that and had a crash, causing the kids to be catapulted through the windscreen because that bloody car had no rear seatbelts? All that time protecting Beth, killing David Colney, and now she would be a dead child following a road accident. Was that a kind of poetic justice as that was my route here to this world.

Traffic accidents were more common in this era. No one but I could see that, as it seemed normal to everyone because they didn’t know any different. With limited or no in-car safety functions, lack of seat belts, and drink driving totally acceptable – just a matter of could you get away with it rather than it was socially unacceptable – all added up to frequent car crashes where death was not unusual.

I decided to drive past her parents’ house and see if her car was there. At least if it was, I knew she was safe, although it would worry me what she was saying to John and Frances. The journey to her parents’ home and back took less than fifteen minutes. Jenny’s car was not on their drive, and I’d considered nipping up to Fairfield General to check if they’d been admitted after a car accident, but I decided I was now being dramatic.

Rubbing my hand across the top of the gas fire, I could tell it hadn’t been on for hours – where was she? Returning to the kitchen, I grabbed the kettle and next to it was my note from this morning. Jenny had crossed through my words and added on the bottom; ‘Will be back later. Get yourself something to eat.’

No love you, or darling, written, but then what did I expect? The good news was she was coming back and, so far, it appeared she hadn’t had a car accident. I considered ringing around her friends to check if she was there, but that was really unusual for her to go out at this time of night with the kids. It was early evening, and Jenny was a stickler for keeping to the kids’ allotted bedtimes.

Laying open next to the note was my Grand Prix results book which Jenny had taken yesterday. The book listed the races with the winner and any podium places I could remember. Also, I’d added any notable incidents, such as significant crashes. I’d reviewed them many times and knew them to be correct. Time travel came with the ability to correct the past, but it also came with a heavy responsibility, something George and I had discussed repeatedly.

Before the police incident on Monday, I’d considered typing a letter to the British Grand Prix driver, Tom Pryce. He was one of the most talented drivers of the ’70s and recognised as a potential world champion of the future. However, I knew in March this year he would die on the Midrand track in the South African Grand Prix. There were two reasons that I never wrote that letter. Firstly, I expected it would be ignored as any sane person would, suspecting it was penned by some mystic with a Ouija board. Secondly, if by miracle, he did believe my prediction and decided not to race, the future would be altered. This would render my predictions going forward useless when he won future Grands Prix, which he wasn't supposed to be in.

Plucking up my notebook and rubbing my hand over the page, I hoped it wasn’t for the second reason. Allowing Tom Pryce to die so