Ahead of his Time, Adrian Cousins [short story to read .txt] 📗

at his clothes again. What was he wearing? These weren’t his; they were really outdated. The sort of clothes he might have seen his father wearing in old polaroids before Martin was born. Although warm, and grateful for that, the green parka was definitely not his coat. Rummaging through the pockets, all were empty, no phone, wallet, not even fluff. Exiting the car, he hesitantly stepped forward, approaching the snowballing family.

“Excuse me, does Caroline Bretton live here?” he asked, dreading the obvious answer.

The woman turned to face Martin with a snowball in her gloved hand. Her arm was poised, ready to pelt it at the guy Martin presumed must be her husband.

“No. This is number four, sorry. Think you have the wrong house,” she replied with her hand still in the air, holding her snowball. “John, do you know a Caroline Bretton on this street? I don’t.” She addressed the man who was peering over the roof of the snow-covered car in the driveway.

As he turned to face Martin, the boy achieved a direct hit to the side of John’s head. The snow stuck to his hair in clumps, and the jubilant boy jumped up in a triumphant leap. “Yes, got you!” he exclaimed.

“Hang on, Peter, hang on.” John put his hand in the air and turned back to Martin. “No, sorry, don’t know anyone by that name. Sorry mate.”

“How long have you lived here … can I ask?” asked Martin, aware that his voice was rather high pitched and jumpy.

“Nearly six years. We know most of the people at this end of the street. Sorry old chap, never heard of this Caroline woman.”

“Right. Okay, thanks,” Martin replied. Motionless and rooted to the spot, he glanced at his house. The house, as far as he was concerned, he’d only left just over an hour ago on that hot August morning.

“Is everything all right?” the woman shouted across to him.

Martin looked at her, shoved his cold hands in his coat pockets, and was now giving a competent performance that wouldn’t look out of place in any zombie movie.

“Hey mate, you okay?” John asked him, following up his wife’s question which hadn’t had a reply.

“Peter, come here, please.” The woman gestured to the boy to come closer to her, presumably to put distance between the strange man and her son.

“Can you tell me the date today?” Martin asked, not directed at anyone, just a question into the cold air.

“16th of January,” replied John.

“And the year?” Martin asked, as he turned to look at John.

“1977.” John turned and shot his wife a quizzical look.

“16th of January 1977,” Martin repeated.

“Yes, mate; you sure you’re okay?” John replied, as he waved his hand behind him – a gesture to his wife and son to go indoors, which they did immediately.

Martin backed up a few steps, shaking his head. Back in the car, he turned at the bottom of the road, heading north towards Fairfield.

Flashbacks had started, the first being the car crash that morning. Yes, he remembered it now. Jason had somehow driven straight into a white van. A bloke was shouting and trying to pull the car door open. His head hurt like hell as blood streamed down his face, which had been pushed into the airbag. Although that was it, he couldn’t recall anything else.

The car tyres crunched the dirty rutted snow as he crawled his way along Welsfold Road in Eaton, a suburb of Fairfield. It was only a short walk to his old school, the City School, which he had fond memories of. Yes, he could remember details like that easily. However, trying to remember what happened after the crash this morning, no, he couldn’t recall them. The snow had started to melt in the winter sun, leaving the roads and pavements covered in a mixture of white and grey slush. Three snowmen were dotted along the verges, all donning a carrot nose with striped scarves around their necks.

Martin parked twenty yards from his mother’s house, killed the engine and sat for a moment. The drive here had added weight to what the couple at his home and the people in Cockfosters High Street had said this morning. There was no M25 on his journey. All the cars he saw were old, classic cars, like the one he was sitting in. With its retro bandwidth dial, the car radio played an interview with Roy Jenkins, the Home Secretary, about his decision to leave government and become the President of the European Commission – nothing was said about Brexit. This gave great sway to the ridiculous idea that he was in 1977. The crash in Jason’s BMW wasn’t an hour ago, but forty-two years two hundred and eight days in the future. Why he’d worked that out to the exact day he didn’t know, but he had.

“Oh, come on, come on!” he blurted, slamming the palms of his hands on the steering wheel. No, this was just ridiculous, bloody ridiculous. Travelling through time wasn’t possible. He sighed heavily, leant back and traced his finger up and down the scar on his face.

He didn’t need to go and ask if Sarah Bretton lived at his mother’s house as that would have been a futile venture out into the cold. As he sat contemplating his next move, he watched an elderly couple he didn’t know as they strolled along, walking a brown Labrador. They stopped at what he knew was his mother’s house and tentatively trod up the drive. The elderly gent brushed the snow from the obedient dog's paws before unlocking the front door and disappearing inside. Question answered – his mother didn’t live there.

He closed his eyes as a wave of exhaustion attempted to drag him back to sleep. The last two hours had seemingly drained the energy from him. Now the flashbacks started to come again, and he could picture himself lying flat as he was being wheeled down a corridor. People beside him were running alongside as the strip lights