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

“Mum was at the Festival House on St. Stephens Street. She was into amateur dramatics when she was a teenager. That night she was there completing rehearsals as she played Eliza Doolittle in the play, My Fair lady, and The Bell Pub is opposite. Mum kept all the newspaper clippings in a scrapbook. Apparently, my grandparents were in a right state until they found out she was okay.”

“Jason … Jason, he said the 19th January!” Jenny said, the colour draining from her as she pointed at Martin. “What’s the time now?”

I turned and looked at Jenny, then glanced at Martin. “Oh, bollocks!”

“What?” he said.

“Martin, today is the 19th January.” I looked at my watch. “It’s five past eight … that bomb goes off in ten minutes!”

“Well, that will prove it then!” He grinned, generally looking pretty delighted with himself.

“Martin, in ten minutes, sixteen people are going to be blown to smithereens!”

His jaw dropped, realising the enormity of the situation.

“Have we got the Yellow Pages in here,” blurted Jenny.

“Fuck, no.” I bolted out of my chair and ran through the open back door to Don’s. I raced in, grabbed his Yellow Pages and ran back. Don shouted after me, but I didn’t have time to explain, just calling over my shoulder that I’d be back in a moment. Slamming the heavy yellow book on the kitchen table, I thumbed through it as I ripped over the pages.

“Shouldn’t we be calling 999?” shouted Martin, as Jenny and I pored over the book with my finger chasing down the page.

“No time,” I yelled back.

“What you looking for?”

“Shut up!” Jenny and I yelled in unison. Jenny grabbed a pen from the kitchen worktop. Whilst juggling Beth, she made a fist of her hand and hovered next to me with the pen at the ready.

“21748,” I yelled.

“217 … what was the last bit?”

Martin was peering at the place where my finger had stopped, the telephone number and address for the Bell Pub. “Err … that’s not enough numbers, you’re missing one. All numbers have six digits.”

“Shut up!” We both shouted.

“48 – 21748.”

“Got it.” Jenny and I ran into the hall. I grabbed the receiver and dialled whilst Jenny held out her fist where she’d scribbled the number.

It started to ring. Jenny and I were staring at each other, our eyes locked together, praying we had enough time. I placed my hand over the receiver as I waited for an answer. “Shit, they’ll be able to trace the call. I can’t do this.”

“You’ve got to. We’ve no choice! If you’re right, people are about to die!”

I grabbed Beth’s shawl off of Jen’s shoulder and wrapped it around the phone’s mouthpiece. The ringing just continued. I looked at my watch, eight-eleven. “Jesus, this thing goes off in four minutes. Come on, come on, pick up the damn phone.”

After what felt like a lifetime, the call was answered.

“Bell Inn. Hang on, please.”

“Hey, hello, hello,” but all I could hear was the receiver had been placed down and the man who’d answered it shout, “1:85, please.” The background noise was full of chat and laughter of what I suspected would be a busy pub.

A thunderous whoomph powered through to my ear, causing me to yank the receiver away from my head. Then there was nothing – no noise – no dialling tone – just some crackles of a disconnected line.

18

20th January 1977

The Deadwood Stage

Alex stopped and consulted his order book at the door of flat 120. Although he always knew what every one of his customers ordered each day, it was prudent to check new ones. Smiling to himself that it was correct; well, he always was as he prided himself on knowing his round. Placing the two milk bottles on the doorstep, one gold top and one silver top, Alex called out as he did at every door, ‘Watch out, watch out, there’s a Humphrey about’.

He pushed his Unigate peaked cap back on his head – just like Reg Varney wore his. He swung his wire bottle holder and whistled ‘The Deadwood Stage’ ashe strode along the landing. He loved Doris Day. It was proper music, not that disco rubbish which was continually clogging up the wireless airwaves.

Jess woke as she heard the bottles clatter down on the doorstep and the whistling the milkman always seemed to be doing, the same tune every day. Her eyes felt heavy and sore. For a brief second, she wondered why, but it came rushing back into her head like a tsunami of terror washing away all other thoughts. Pulling her coat tightly around her, as the flat was cold, she didn’t think she could get up to turn the fire on. It was too much effort and she was desperate to sleep and never wake up. Fighting her thoughts, her stinging eyes released their tears, and she sobbed into the sofa cushions until exhaustion dragged her back to a fitful sleep.

~

Paul eased himself up in bed and reached behind to yank the pillow up behind his head. He grabbed his radio and cigarettes from the bedside cabinet, knocking the stack of Men-Only magazines that slid sideways and tumbled to the floor. Their glossy covers of glamorous naked models sprawling out, with this month’s centrefold, Cassy, smiling back at him as she squashed her breasts together, her lips pouting.

“One day, gorgeous, it might be your lucky day.” He felt a stirring below as he gazed at her picture and lit his cigarette. Still leching over the glossy photo of Cassy, he poked his tongue out and wiggled it at her as he yanked up the radio aerial, extending it to its full height. Paul thumbed the dial around to the pre-set medium-wave station of Radio 1.

Noel Edmonds was yakking on about his School Report slot and then that knobby jingle 247 radio 1.“The Drifters for Debbie in Lancashire, and You’re more than a number in my little red book,” announced Noel.

Paul blew the smoke