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

and Joe. “He’s not with it. I think he might need a doctor. Also, as he’s so cold, he could well have hypothermia. Maybe that’s why he’s a bit strange, do you think? I mean, he said it’s August!”

“Martin, what day is it today?” asked Sally.

Martin stared at them, then shifted his gaze to the snow-covered path. Eventually, he raised his head and looked back as they all awaited his reply. Now not confident of what he was about to say – but he knew he was right. “It’s August the 12th. August 12th, 2019.”

Sally looked at the others and arched her eyebrows as they all shrugged their shoulders. “Martin, it’s Sunday the 16th of January 1977. I think we need to get you some help. You poor love, you’re frozen.”

Martin shot Sally a look, eyes bulging again. “What?”

“D’you know where you live?” she asked.

“What d’you mean, 1977?”

“Martin, love, I said d’you know where you live?”

“Four Ridgeway Avenue, Enfield,” he stated, as he shook his head.

Brian, Sally and Joe stood and formed a circle as Brian shook the pins and needles from his left leg.

“He just needs to drive home; that’s only about two miles away,” said Joe.

“We can’t call an ambulance as he doesn’t appear to be physically hurt. I think he’s just a bit confused,” added Brian.

Sally leant into the car again. “D’you have the car keys, Martin? Oh, they’re in the ignition, look.” She pointed at the keys dangling from the steering column.

“I’m going to have to get going. I need to get back to the bakery, and I’ve some explaining to do,” said Joe, waving the severed wing mirror.

“Yes, of course. Will you be able to move your van? Do you need a push?” asked Brian.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” Joe gingerly made his way around the car, his boots sloshing in the slush as he carefully plodded his way back to his van.

“Martin, we think you should drive home now. Get yourself a hot drink and warmed up. Do you think you can do that?” said Brian.

“Err … yeah, think so,” Martin replied, as he shifted his body into the driver’s seat and swung his legs over the gear stick.

Brian grabbed the top of the car door. “Okay, Martin, hope you get warmed up.” As he closed the door, a large sheet of the snow topper slid off the roof and flopped onto the pavement covering his galoshes.

“Well, what a strange man. Did you see that long scar on his face? It was a new scar, and the side of his head had been partially shaved. Looked like he’s had an operation,” she said, as she re-looped her arm in Brian’s.

“You’re right, and what was all that about it being August 2019! Bloody strange if you ask me.”

“He was a bit creepy.”

They stood and watched as a couple of cars passed the Cortina, then it pulled out – no flashing indicator, and kangarooed the first twenty feet – then stalled.

“He needs to pull the choke out; the engine will be cold,” Brian muttered.

The car fired into life again and a punch of smoke ejected from the exhaust as it pulled off down the road.

“Come on, Brian, I’m cold now. Let’s get home and get the fire on.”

The Cortina turned left at the bottom of the High Street towards Enfield.

3

Brexit

Martin released his foot off the accelerator pedal and let the car coast to a stop as the front nearside wheel nudged the kerb. He sat and stared out the windscreen, shaking. Yes, he was cold and, once he’d worked out the car heater sliding controls, the heat helped, but he could still see his breath. Martin knew that although he was freezing, it wasn’t causing the shaking. No, it was this morning’s events that were the problem.

Those problems escalated as he stared down Ridgeway Avenue. Thirty feet ahead was his home, but three people he didn’t know were throwing snowballs at each other in his front garden. A man and a woman he guessed in their thirties and a boy, he presumed about ten years old. The man, decked out in appropriate snow-gear and a woolly bobble hat, continually ducked behind an ancient-looking car that Martin didn’t recognise – just like the one he was sitting in. The man expertly dodged the snowballs being pelted at him as he jumped back up laughing, waiting for the next onslaught.

This morning's events had shaken Martin, and now he truly doubted his own mind and sanity. The only answer was he’d lost the plot and gone completely mad. This was no dream; he was very much awake, alive and frightened.

Before he awoke to this madness, he was sitting in Jason’s Beemer and looking at his phone as he scrolled through Facebook whilst on his way to work. It was 12th of August 2019 and, even though it was only just past eight o'clock in the morning, it was hot. Now, one hour later, he was sitting in a yellow MK3 Cortina. It was no longer hot; it was freezing cold as snow lay everywhere, and three strange people were in his front garden playing snowballs.

Martin scrubbed his hands over his face after he’d laid his glasses on the unfamiliar dashboard. His index finger discovered a strange indent near his left ear which ran all the way down his face. It was a line he’d never felt before – another odd thing. He flipped down the sun visor and studied himself. Yes, a red line did run down his face. A long scar travelled from under his chin all the way up into his hairline in front of his left ear. His hair now had a short patch where the scar ended. At some point, it must have been shaved around the scarring and hadn’t grown back. Repeatedly he ran his finger up and down the scar as if somehow that act would erase it. Martin was convinced it wasn’t there an hour ago. No, definitely not.

Martin pulled