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

“Okay, Jen, okay. Go and sort the kids out, and I’ll see what I can do with him.”

“Why don’t you find it odd that this bloke turns up claiming he knows you and some ex-wife of yours from 2019? Christ Jason, just get him out of our house!” Jen delivered her ultimatum and stormed past me, off to bathe the kids.

“Oh, bollocks,” I muttered under my breath. This was the nightmare I’d hoped would never come true. But now it had, and I needed to think fast before this new wonderful life I’d carved out for myself started to unravel. I checked Jen had disappeared upstairs and stepped into the lounge, quietly closing the door.

“Look, mate, this isn’t going to be easy for you. But we’ve a lot to talk about, and I can’t do it here.”

“What the hell is going on? And who the hell is that woman? More to the point, why does everyone I’ve met today reckon it’s 1977? Jesus Christ, even the car radio in that yellow piece of shit was playing an interview from some politician from the fucking seventies!”

“Keep your bloody voice down. For Christ’s sake, keep it down,” I hissed, as I gestured my hands up and down, frantically trying to calm him. “Look, mate, I’ve somewhere you can stay tonight. Let’s go there now and we can talk as I can’t talk here … alright?” I was just desperate to get him out of the house. Fortunately, one of the houses I’d purchased on the Bowthorpe Estate I hadn’t rented out, so my quickly formulated plan was to squirrel him away in there until I could work out what the hell I was going to do.

“Right.” Martin huffed. He looked exhausted. I remember that exact feeling five months ago when I’d made that journey back from 2019.

Shovelling Martin out the front door, I turned and bellowed up the stairs. “Jen, I’m just going to follow Martin home and make sure he’s okay. I’ll be about an hour or so.” I hovered on the doorstep, waiting for her reply.

“Jen?”

“Okay!” she shouted down the stairs.

Clearly, she was really put out by what had happened, and I knew I had some tricky and difficult explaining to do when I returned home. So, I had to think fast; otherwise, everything was going to turn to shit.

“Right, mate. Follow me, and we’ll talk when we get there. You’re just going to have to trust me, and I know that’s a real stretch at the moment. I was where you are now five months ago. I’ve done it, eaten the pie and got the t-shirt.”

I walked up to my new car, a Red Triumph Stag. I’d traded in the Cortina yesterday, and the Stag was my dream classic car. One of the perks of time-travel was purchasing an old classic car that was brand new and just off the production line. Martin trudged to the car he was driving and unlocked the door.

“Martin, wait, Martin,” I called out and jogged towards him.

“What?” He replied sharply.

“Where the hell did you get this car from?” I glared at my yellow Cortina, which I’d sold only twenty-four hours ago to Coreys Mill Motors, a second-hand car dealership not far from the Bowthorpe estate.

“Well, hell, I don’t bloody know! I just found myself in it this morning, didn’t I! For Christ’s sake, are you listening to me or what?” his aggressive reply flowed into a full-on rant. “That’s just typical you, Jason. You don’t listen, and you’re never interested in anyone else but yourself. It’s always been the bloody same with you. Do you know that no one, and I mean no one, on your team likes you! You should hear the talk behind your back in the office. Every day all of us moan about you. You’re a right tosser with no people skills whatsoever!” He took a step closer and pointed in my face. “Yes, look shocked if you like. I bet you thought we were friends, drinks at Christmas and all that. Although Caroline likes Lisa, she thinks you are a right tosser and feels sorry for me that I have to work for you!”

I stepped back, nodding my head. Five months ago, his description of me was reasonably accurate – but I’d changed. Of course, he wouldn’t know that as 12th of August 2019 was only a few hours ago in his world. I glanced up to the front bedroom window where Jen was standing glaring at us – understandably, she looked concerned. Although unable to hear our conversation, she could see the yellow Cortina. If she spotted the license plate when Martin drove off, that would be impossible to explain.

‘You’re screwed, Apsley!’

Sunday afternoon traffic was light; the journey across town was quick, and I was thankful for it. As he’d stood and bellowed at me before leaving my house, I’d noticed a scar all the way down the side of Martin’s face. It wasn’t there the last time I saw him on the 12th of August 2019, seconds before I ploughed the Beemer into the white van which killed me. Well, I think it did, and then transported me to 1976. I’d often wondered what happened to Martin in my passenger seat, and now I knew. But where the hell had he been for five months?

I thought about his rant. Yes, okay, I knew I was a bit of a dick back then but did all my staff hate me? Christmas 2017 I’d decided uncharacteristically to have a department Christmas night out and booked at a pretentious, over-priced brasserie. Sales had been way above budget that year, resulting in receiving a hefty bonus which had nicely swelled my pay packet. I intended to foot the bill for all twenty-five of my team as a gesture of thanks for delivering outstanding results and, of course, my bonus. At the time, I believed it was an inspired idea. Although I was miffed