Ahead of his Time Adrian Cousins (most recommended books TXT) 📖

One-Armed-Bandit fruit machine as another punter was slotting five-pence pieces into it and yanking down the arm. He was starting to look like a right weirdo as he stared gormlessly, mesmerised by the wheels as they spun around.

“Martin, what you ’aving?” asked George, whilst Brian waited with an empty beer mug in hand in anticipation.

“Oh, err … bottle of Peroni please,” he offered back over his shoulder as his head moved rhythmically with the arm of the fruit machine.

“Sorry, sir, did you say a bottle of Pernod?” questioned Brian, who had a baffled, bemused expression across his face.

“Oh … what? No, no … I’ll have a bottle of Corona then,” Martin threw back but was still transfixed on the Bell-Fruit machine.

“I’ve got orange or cherry-aid, which one? They’ve both passed their Fizzical- ha-ha.”

I could see it would take a long time for Martin to fit in here. He looked confused as Brian held up the two bottles of fizzy drinks. I interjected to end this mayhem before Martin made an irreversible time-travel cock-up. “Brian, he’ll have a pint of Skol.” I shot Martin a look to shut his mouth as he turned and performed a fish-like impression.

“Oh, okay. Wish you’d make your mind up. It’s a bottle of Pernod, then orange aid, now a pint of Skol,” Brian muttered, as he put the two glass bottles of fizzy drink down and reached for a pint glass.

Drinks in hand and peeling Martin away from the one-armed-bandit’s hypnotic motion, we gathered in George’s favourite bay window-seat.

“Right lad, let’s bring you up to speed. What I believe, talking to the lad ’ere last night,” George nodded to Martin, who was in the process of necking the pint in one gulp – I guessed he needed it. “After your accident on 12th August 2019, you died, and Martin ended up in a coma or something like that, as he can’t remember anything past the accident, only snippets of being in a hospital. Then, what I reckon is, he died on 16th January 2020 when he failed to recover from the coma.”

I’d worked that much out myself. Martin said nothing as he repeatedly pushed the centre of his glasses back as he tipped his head forward and leaned in. George was obviously speaking in hushed tones, as the content of this conversation for any normal person was ridiculous.

“Yeah, I’ve got that. What else did you discuss?”

“Right, well. You time-travelled for a reason, and we both know what that was.”

“What was that then?” Martin interjected.

“Not now,” we both replied in unison, as we turned and looked at Martin. He squinted and pushed his glasses up his head again. This certainly wasn’t the time to explain to Martin that I’d saved my best friend in 2019 from suffering child abuse, and she’d now become my adopted baby-daughter.

“So, lad, I reckon the lad here has time-travelled for a reason too. All we have to work out is what that is. In the meantime, we need to work out what we do with him. As we said yesterday, he’s not slotted into another Martin Bretton’s life.”

Although George and Martin had not come up with much during their conversation yesterday, there seemed to be nothing worse happening to add to my already disastrous day.

“You said your stepfather had exactly the same name but died in the year 2000. I think you need to tell us a bit of history about him, like where was he in 1977, i.e., now?” I asked.

“Mum and Dad met at the Mandela concert at Wembley in ’88. I was only a baby, but Mum went to the concert with some friends, and she met my dad there. Apparently, Mum was separated from her friends, bumped into these two American guys and spent the whole concert with them. One of those guys became my stepdad.”

“So, your stepfather was an American?”

“Who’s Mandela?” George interjected.

“What? You’re joking, right? Everyone knows who Mandela is!” Martin blurted out.

“Hang on, hang on.” I slid a pound note across the table. “George, can you get the drinks in. I don't want one, but Martin has necked his down already.” George looked at me and nodded, knowing that I’d have to get Martin’s head straight about living in a different world.

“Martin, look, I know this is all nuts, but you’re living in a different time. Mandela was a political prisoner who’d not come to world attention in 1977. Peroni and Corona beer were not commonplace in pubs. You’re going to have to work hard every day at this, as I still do five months after arriving here. Okay? Do you understand me?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I still can’t get my bloody head around this and that I’m actually here.”

“Well, mate, you are, and you’d better start getting used to it. My life is a billion times better than it was in 2019, I can tell you. Well, it was until Sunday.”

“What, when I arrived at your doorstep?”

“Yep, and now everything seems to be unravelling.”

“I’m sorry what I said to you on Sunday. You know … about everyone hating you back there … y’know … at work and stuff.” Martin looked away from me, breaking eye contact. I presumed he was feeling a little embarrassed, although he had no reason to be.

“Martin, don’t be. You were absolutely right in what you said. Over the last few months I’ve changed so much, and the Jason you knew back then was a right tosser. What you said was true.”

Martin raised his eyebrows, nodded and smiled for the first time in two days. “Yep, you were.”

“Yeah, alright. You don’t have to look so smug about it.”

George re-joined us at the table with Martin’s pint. I nodded that I’d put Martin straight on a few things, and we carried on.

“So, Martin, your stepdad was an American. When did he come to the UK?”

“Dad worked for BP and was seconded over to complete a two-year contract in the late ’80s. That’s when he met Mum and didn’t go back.