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

to save her baby. Anyway, she didn’t know who’d thrown David to his death. Probably some other low-life like Paul, so what did it matter if she ratted them out.

“Okay … okay! I’ll tell you. Let me go … I will tell you … Please.”

Paul refused to let go. “Fucking talk, bitch!” he screamed at her.

“I … I was … err … I was walking … err—”

“TALK!”

“I … I was walking down Thetford Lane, across the fields behind the flats. I saw two men throw David off … they threw him off.

“What men?” Paul’s nose touched hers as his spit covered her face.

“I don’t know … I don’t remember … Please, I don’t know. I think one of them drove off a few hours later in a yellow Cortina. He was too far away to see, but it looked like the bloke on top of the flats as he had the same denim jacket on.” Jess’s eyes watered as he held her hair tight. “Let me go … let go, you bastard.”

As Paul let go of her hair, Jess stepped away from him. She momentarily considered sticking her knee in his groin but lost her opportunity as he turned and smashed his boot into the cupboard next to the sink. The flimsy plywood door collapsed and splintered as his foot travelled through it, knocking bottles of cleaning fluid which cascaded and scattered as if he’d delivered a strike in ten-pin-bowling.

Jess’s eyes were wide with terror as he stepped towards her. He smiled and stroked her hair.

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He walked to the kitchen door, turned and faced her, “You ain’t seen me today. Say nothing. You talk … I’ll kill you.”

He grinned and blew her a kiss.

19

Lusardi

We’d only managed to catch a few hours sleep, as we’d spent most of the night talking, so as morning came, we were both exhausted. After leaving Martin last night, we’d both driven into town. St. Stephens Street was cordoned off with dozens of emergency vehicles scattered up and down the hill, their blue spinning lights piercing the low grey fog that hung in the air.

After settling the kids, we’d managed to catch Gordon Honeycombe presenting the ITN News at Ten. The breaking news item was a report that a bomb had ripped through a town centre pub in the Hertfordshire town of Fairfield. There were no details of casualties, but a call received by the BBC from a fringe Irish Republican terrorist group had claimed responsibility. It was reported the group claimed to have tried to deliver a warning call to the pub minutes before detonation but stated the line was engaged.

Jenny said that the Bell Pub was run by the O’Briens, a well-known family with strong Loyalist links. This clearly suggested the reason for the pub being targeted. We agonised over the fact that we’d phoned the pub and, whilst on hold, had prevented the terrorists from delivering their warning. Before I’d time-travelled back, had that call got through? Although sixteen people had lost their lives the first time around, would there be more this time because my call blocked the warning call?

There were only two possible reasons Martin knew the precise moment that the bomb was going to explode. The obvious one was he was somehow involved in the bombing. This was the explanation which Jenny hung onto for most of the night. As tiredness took hold of us both by the early hours and her thankfully strong belief in me, she started to come around to the second ridiculous possibility that Martin and I were, in fact, time-travellers. I was fully aware that sleep deprivation was probably the cause for her softening, and by the end of the day, her head would have taken supremacy over her heart.

There was only one topic of conversation at school on Thursday, the bombing of the Bell Pub in town. The whole school seemed to have been placed in limbo, as every time a student, teacher, Trish or Roy opened their mouths, it was to discuss the bombing. Every break time, I found myself with my colleagues huddled around the staff-room radio listening to the updated news reports. By mid-afternoon, it became clear the timeline hadn’t changed as sixteen people were confirmed dead – precisely the same number of fatalities the first time around.

I approached Roy regarding the temporary caretaker role, advising him of an old friend's suitability whom I could vouch for. An old friend was the best description I could muster up. In reality, Martin wasn’t an old friend, but the bloke who used to take the piss out of me at work and screw my ex-wife. However, I needed to secure him in employment, so telling Roy that Martin was some wanker who’d knobbed my ex-misses wouldn’t have worked.

Securing a capable caretaker who had the necessary skills to change a lightbulb and know which way to hold a screwdriver was way down Roy’s list of essential tasks. So, after he replied, “Yes, yes, fine whatever, Jason,” I knew I’d accomplished my mission. However, the thought of Martin at school with his sixteen-year-old mother as a pupil was bound to be a disaster. But hell, at this stage what choice did I have? For sure, he couldn’t just sit in that house all day long.

With the school day completed, I zipped up to get Martin prepared for his new role. Primarily to check he had everything he needed and talk through the plan, so we were both on the same wavelength. That plan would consist of a created history which we would need to keep as simple as possible and memorise.

Parking up on the drive of number eight, I nipped in to see Don. He deserved some explanation to what was going on, albeit more lies. As always, Hawkeye-Nearshad spotted my arrival. In fact, he probably spotted me before I even turned up, as his snooping ability was that good. He was there on the