“My problem regarding time does not concern the past,” said Mr Wells, whose breath was none too savoury either. “My problem with time concerns the present.”
“I don’t understand,” Norman said. “Do you think you could lean a little further back?”
“The present,” said Mr Wells, “and what might occur in the very near future if I have somehow erred in my sacred mission. If the destruction of the computer you acquired and the program that was running on it has not forestalled the rise to power of the King of Darkness.”
“Let’s not be pessimistic,” Norman said. “I’m sure it has.”
“But if it hasn’t?” Mr Wells made fists with both his hands. “I do not wish to be here when the Apocalypse occurs. I must be back in the past, preparing to make another assault. I do not wish to be here to watch humanity crushed and millions die, for I might well become one of those millions.”
A terrible shiver ran up Norman’s spine. “There’s something I think I ought to tell you,” said Norman.
“What?” asked Mr Wells.
“Well—”
“Norman!” boomed the voice of Peg, putting the wind up Norman and also up Mr Wells. “Norman, come in here. My toenails need a cut.”
“I’ll speak to you later,” said Norman. “How about lunchtime, up the road in The Flying Swan?”
“The Flying Swan,” said Mr Wells. “My favourite drinking house.”
“Mine, too,” Norman said. But he said no more, as Peg boomed his name again with greatly renewed vigour.
“And what is your name, lad?” asked Old Pete.
The elder sat upon Jim Pooley’s favourite bench before the Memorial Library. He leaned upon his stick and looked up at the ragged youth that stood before him.
“Winston, gov’nor,” said the lad, chewing upon one of Norman’s gobstoppers.
Old Pete smiled wanly at the lad – his younger self. It was a most uncanny sensation.
“And why are you not at school?” the ancient asked.
“Never been to school, gov’nor. Schools is for toffs, Gawd dance upon me dangler if they ain’t.”
Old Pete gazed with rheumy eyes at the face of his younger self and he scratched at his antiquated head, for herein lay a mystery. Old Pete could remember well when, as young Winston, he had broken into Mr Wells’ house and hitched a ride upon his Time Machine into the future.
The future that was now the here and now. And he remembered his arrival in Norman’s kitchen and Norman shipping the Time Machine to his allotment lock-up. There was no doubt he’d remembered that, which was why he’d gone as Old Pete to the allotment to witness it, to prove to himself that it had been true.
But he had no recollection of this – he did not recall that as a young lad he had met this old man in a park in the future. Why couldn’t he remember that?
“Can you spare us a penny?” asked Young Pete/Winston. “Me mum’s dying of consumption and I need it to buy ’er a new ’ot water bottle.”
“That isn’t the truth,” said Old Pete, “and you know it.”
“Nah,” said Young Pete/Winston. “It’s for meself, to pay for a poultice to put on me bum. It’s covered in workhouse sores.”
“How old are you?” asked Old Pete.
“I’m as old as me nose, and a little older than me teeth, two of which need pulling – could you make it a threepenny bit to pay the quack?”
Old Pete dug into his waistcoat pocket, and then he hesitated. He recalled a video he’d rented from Norman. Time Cop, it was called. He hadn’t actually meant to rent Time Cop. He’d meant to rent Strap-On Sally’s Sex Salon, but Norman had put the wrong video in the case.
But regarding Time Cop, it had starred this fellow that wasn’t David Warner but looked a bit like him. And this fellow had travelled through time and met himself. And the two had touched, with disastrous consequences. Something to do with the same self being unable to occupy the same place in two separate time periods. Something to do with the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic antimatter, or something.
Old Pete did not wish to touch his younger self.
Just in case.
“I’ll tell you what,” said Old Pete, “I won’t give you a threepenny bit, but I will give you something much, much more valuable. Have you ever heard of the Ford Motor Company?”
Young Pete/Winston shrugged his shoulders, sucked upon his gobstopper and gave his ill-washed head a shake.
“Get yourself a job and invest in shares,” said Old Pete, “the moment the company sets up. Do you think you can remember that? Try very, very hard to remember that.”
His younger self shrugged once more. “The Ford Motor Company,” he said.
“And hang on to all your shares when the Wall Street Crash comes in nineteen twenty-nine. And buy land in Florida then, too.”
His younger self eyed his older self queerly. “Nineteen twenty-nine?” he said. “What’s your game, gov’nor?”
“I’m thinking of my future, your future, I mean. You must try to remember what I’ve told you. It will make you rich.”
“Big oak trees from little acorns grow,” said Young Pete/Winston.
Bloody Norman, thought Old Pete. “But you will try to remember?”
“I remember asking you for a threepenny bit.”
Old Pete drew same from his waistcoat pocket and flipped it towards his younger self. “I didn’t think it would work,” he said dismally.
“What’s that, gov’nor?”
“The Ford Motor Company! The Ford Motor Company!”
“Yeah, yeah, I remember that. Invest what I earn.”
“Exactly,” said Old Pete.
“Yeah, well, thanks for the threepenny bit, gov’nor. And good day to you.”
“Good day,” said Old Pete. “And good luck with your life.”
Winston turned away and ambled off down the road. Silly old duffer, thought he.
“I think the books will balance for a while,” said John Omally. “I thought they wouldn’t, but with the sponsorship money from Sky TV coming in, I think I might treat myself to a new suit, just like your lucky one.”
Jim Pooley sat at his desk in his office and puffed upon a Dadarillo Super-Dooper King. “And what about buying new players to replace our rapidly diminishing stock?” he suggested.
“Do you think really it matters?” John Omally asked.
“Matters?” said Jim. “We have the FA Cup to win.”
“Yes, I know that, but we have the substitutes. And let’s face it, Jim, the team are only winning through the professor’s intervention. You saw what happened on Saturday.”
“I was going to ask you all about that.”
“Oh no, you were not. The professor used some kind of magic to animate the team – you know it and I know it. So it doesn’t really matter who plays as long as he is there pulling the magical strings.”
“And if he isn’t?”
“Then we’re stuffed,” said John. “The ground is lost and the Apocalypse and the End Times begin. Personally, I do not find that prospect appealing. Hence I have faith in the professor’s magical skills and favour the Brentford-winning-the-cup scenario, along with the attendant prosperity that it will bring to our good selves.”
“Should Bob the Bookie pay up on the bet. Which, frankly, I think he will not do.”
“Oh, he’ll pay up, Jim, or we’ll drag him through the courts. That man has taken many pennies from you in the past. It’s only just that you get a few back in return. And even if he doesn’t pay up, you will be the manager of an FA Cup-winning side. There’s a fortune in that. Trust me—”