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

now spend the next forty years knowing the disasters and hideous crimes were about to happen and, once again, I was powerless to change it.

50

15th August 1987

Ferris Bueller’s Day Off

“Jenny, are you ready yet? We’re going to be late!” I bellowed up the stairs.

“I won't be long, darling. Just give me a minute,” she shouted back. Although for some reason when Jenny shouted it was gentle. On the other hand, I sounded more like a market street trader offering a pound of brussels for twenty pence.

“Dad, you got a tenner I can have?”

“What about your own money you get from your Saturday job? Don't Sainsbury’s pay you for stacking their shelves?”

“Yeah … yeah, but there’s … this girl I want to impress. A few extra quid will help.” Christopher grinned. He knew how to extract money from my wallet without moving a muscle.

“Oh, I see! Well, why didn’t you say so … err, you are being careful, aren’t you?” I whispered, leaning towards him. I no longer needed to look down as he was already my height, fully past the bum-fluff stage and now had to shave every morning. His natural father, whoever he was, must have been a giant gorilla – King Kong, maybe?

“Don’t know what you mean, Dad,” delivered with a deadpan face.

I handed him a tenner. “That enough?”

“Yeah, cool, Dad. And it’s a bit late for the birds-and-the-bees chat if you know what I mean.” He winked before allowing his aviator shades to slip back down onto his nose.

I wasn’t sure if he saw himself as James ‘Sonny’ Crockett from Miami Vice or Lt. Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell from Top Gun. Either way, my son had a coolness about him which regularly sucked in girls to his manly charms. It seemed only yesterday that I used to call him ‘Benny,’ named after the cute little cat in Top Cat.

It seemed overnight he had morphed from Top Cat to Top Gun, and most girls at school could see it as well. That all said, Jenny and I couldn’t be prouder of him. He worked diligently at his Saturday job and grabbed copious amounts of overtime on Sundays when the shop was closed to help restock. The manageress, a Miss Osborn, had made a point of telling me so last weekend when I picked him up after his shift.

But what we were really over the moon with was his school work. It was difficult having his father as the Deputy Head at the school he attended, but Chris took it in his stride. Top of the class in all subjects, football and cricket team captain and all earned through his own hard work and determination. Maybe his father was a hybrid of Gary Lineker, Ian Botham, King Kong and Einstein … an interesting fellow, I might suggest.

Christopher Apsley was definitely our version of The Jam’s Davie Watts.

“Oh, Chris … Chris?”

“Whaaat?” came the reply from the kitchen.

“You know you’re going back with Stephen to George and Ivy’s tonight as your mum and I are out late?”

“Yeah, no worries. Didn’t know you had it in you to see it past midnight.”

“Cheeky git,” I threw back at him.

“What film you seeing?” I called into the kitchen.

“Jen, we’re going to be late,” I called up the stairs. I needed an intercom system in the house, as you had to shout to be heard. We’d moved into number eleven Winchmore Drive in the Summer of ’77. Ten years on, we both believed we were so lucky to have such a large luxury house.

“I’m coming, darling … stop worrying,” Jenny gently shouted back down the stairs.

“Ferris Bueller’s Day Off,” Chris replied.

“Oh, really!”

“Oh really, what, darling?”

“WOW, you look gorgeous! Not that you’re not always gorgeous, of course … you always are … you will be the belle of the ball.”

“You need a shovel, Dad?” Christopher offered, as he joined me in the hall.

“Thank you, darling.” Jenny stopped on the second from last step on the stairs, making her about an inch taller than I was as she leant in and kissed me.

“What do I need a shovel for?” I asked Chris, breaking the kiss from my gorgeous wife.

“For the hole you’re digging yourself in with Mum! Gotta say, Mum, you look pretty cool. Anyway, what’s wrong with that film I’m going to see? You said ‘Oh really’ as if it's rubbish? It’s supposed to be really cool.”

“Chris, it is really cool … probably one of the greatest cult films ever made.”

“Mum, why does Dad always make out he knows things he can’t possibly know? Like this film, for example! He’s so odd … he always talks about things as if he knows about it, but he’s never seen it!” Chris turned to me with a questioning look.

Jenny laid her head on the bannister, smirking. “Get out of this one, Mr Apsley!” she chuckled.

Time-travel cock-ups were an everyday event. My usual escape when this happened with either Chris or Beth was resorting to bribery. “Here’s another tenner. Enjoy yourself and make sure you’re back at Stephen’s by ten. Otherwise, Ivy will have your guts-for-garters!”

“Cheers, Dad … works every time,” he replied under a cheeky grin.

“Is that daughter of ours ready yet?”

“Beth, honey, are you ready? I said we’d get you to Melanie’s house by seven,” Jenny called up to her bedroom.

The door flung open and out stepped a perfectly formed tornado capable of wreaking havoc that could destroy a medium-sized mid-state American town in seconds.

“I’m here,” she announced at the top of the stairs. Ten years old going on twenty-one.

“Good. Now make sure you’re polite to Melanie’s parents, and when they say it’s time for bed … it’s time for bed,” Jenny replied.

“Yes, I don’t want to hear tales of destruction on the breakfast news in the morning that a category one tornado has devastated a large detached house in Fairfield,” I added.

“Dad, do you mind! I’m a perfect proper lady.”

“Beth, sweetheart, you’re perfect. Proper … I’m struggling with … Madonna could learn a