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

him. Yeah, yeah, of course, I’ve heard of him. But that was in the ’60s or ’70s, wasn’t it?

“For fuck sake, Martin, this is the bloody ’70s!”

“Oh yeah, ha-ha, I forgot.”

I shook my head in disbelief. Although he was only ten years my junior, he was just like all the other air-heads I used to work with. Far too many millennials had their bloody head stuck in social media rather than actually listening and debating real news. Christ, I even remember Kyle, the office junior at Waddington Steel, didn’t even know who Winston Churchill was! When it came up in the office conversation, Kyle thought they were talking about a nodding dog and some insurance company.

“So, you have heard of this killer then?” I could feel she wanted him to know – her heart fighting her head for supremacy.

“Yeah, yeah. Some nut job went around killing women. They named him the Yorkshire Ripper, after Jack the Ripper, I think. Anyway, what’s this letter you’re on about?”

I passed Beth back to Jenny and propped open the back door as I was seriously in need of a cigarette. With my lungs filled with smoke, I bashed on bringing them both up to speed with the events regarding my anonymous letter.

I relayed my letters story and what had happened on Tuesday at school when the police had arrived and removed one of the typewriters. As I recounted my tale, I once again became increasingly concerned that my fingerprints had been lifted from the letters and pondered if they were mine or other Jason’s. Did we have the same ones? I was reasonably clear if the police could identify the actual machine used, it would be impossible to identify the author without fingerprints. My other concern was what the police wanted with the author, as the killings seemed to have stopped or had he just taken a break. However, any day now, I expected there would be news of another gruesome murder.

One thing for sure was Martin would be absolutely no help, as he wasn’t even sure which bloody decade the murders took place in. That all said, the top of my disastrous-nightmares-to-sort list was convincing Jenny who I really was. The pendulum was swinging wildly back and forth, and if the expression on her face was anything to go by, it suggested it wasn’t currently in my favour.

“You may not have heard anything from your letter as they have arrested him and are now just tying up the loose ends. If he hasn’t committed any more murders, perhaps your letter has stopped him?” Martin offered up.

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s too much to think about at the moment. The only thing that really matters is you, Jenny, and you trusting and believing me. I just don’t care about anything else. It’ll be a hell of a long time to wait until March 5th when Tom Pryce dies for you to see that I am a time-traveller.”

“And me! Can I remind you the reason I’m here is because you can't drive properly! Having that crash, you caused my death!” Martin had taken up rocking back and forth on the back legs of his chair, with his hands stuffed in his jeans pockets.

“Yes alright, Martin, and you! And yes, I'm sorry I killed you. But right now, I need Jenny to believe me as my whole life depends on it.”

“Jason, I don’t know. As I’ve said, it’s too ridiculous, and I can’t believe we’re actually having this conversation. Anyway, I think it’s time to get Christopher home to bed now, and I can’t talk about this anymore tonight. My head is thumping. It feels like a bomb has gone off between my ears.”

Jenny stood and handed Beth back to me as she leant across to retrieve her coat. I grabbed her hand, but she pulled it away glaring at me. “Don’t, Jason, let’s just get home and get the kids to bed.”

Martin continued to rock back and forth on his chair, with the biggest grin across his face. “Yes! Yes … I’ve got it!”

Jen and I stared at him, both wondering what the cause of his outburst was.

“What have you got apart from that stupid grin?”

“Proof old buddy … Proof!”

“Martin, spit it out. I’m tired, my head hurts, and I want to get the kids home,” Jen fired back, as she fastened the buttons on her coat.

“Back to the Future, my old friend. Back to the Future!”

“Martin, what the bollocks are you talking about?” I was becoming as frustrated with him as Jen was.

“Back to the future! Come on … Marty knows when lightning strikes. The exact moment that stops the clock on the Town Hall … well, we know when lightning strikes!”

“No, I don’t. I’ve no idea when lightning strikes. Anyway, the Town Hall clock worked the last time I looked at it back in 2019.”

“Not lightning … a bomb!” Martin rocked forward on his chair. “We know when there’s a bomb!” He jumped up from his chair, causing it to clatter to the floor as he thrust out his arms as if willing me to know what the hell he was talking about.

“Martin, are you playing bloody charades? For Christ’s sake, what are you on about?”

“Oh, Jesus, man. Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“Yes!”

“19th January 1977, the Fairfield-Four! At eight-fifteen, a bomb rips through the Bell Pub in town … sixteen people killed and many injured. Bloody hell, man, you must remember all the stories when the four men were released from prison in the late ’90s? Their conviction was quashed because of some technicality, and there was uproar in the town about it.”

I passed Beth back to Jenny and slid down onto the nearest chair. “Christ, yes of course, but I’m astonished you know the date. I know all about it, but I would never have been able to guess the exact date. You weren’t even born, and neither was I for that matter … how the hell do