Calling time a time trav.., p.1
Calling Time: A Time Travel Adventure (The Jason Apsley Series Book 4), page 1
Calling Time
By Adrian Cousins
Copyright © 2023 Adrian Cousins
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the author’s express written permission except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, schools, places, locales, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Adriancousins.co.uk
…
Also by Adrian Cousins
The Jason Apsley Series
Jason Apsley’s Second Chance
Ahead of his Time
Force of Time
Calling Time
Beyond his Time (novella)
Deana Demon or Diva Series
It’s Payback Time
Death Becomes Them
Dead Goode
Deana – Demon or Diva Series Boxset
Standalone Novels
Eye of Time
Contents
Also by Adrian Cousins
Before you dive in …
Prologue – The Good Life
Message in a Bottle
Easter Rising
Definitely Maybe
The Turning of the Screw
Carrott Confidential
Official Secrets
Who’s Heisenberg?
The Carnival is Over
Dead Man Walking
I Have a Dream
The Desert Fox
What’s Up, Doc
A New Hope
Cool Britannia
Rising Damp
Basic Engly Twenty Fido
The Hunt for the Red October
The Nixon Line
The Laughing Gnome
International Man of Mystery
Turkish
American Beauty
The Twilight Zone
Stand and Deliver
Three White Rabbits
Keeping up Appearances
Two-Ton-Ted from Teddington
A Few Good Men
Sex, Breakfast of Champions
Overpaid, Oversexed, and Over Here
Elementary, My Dear Watson
The Brittas Empire
The Professionals
Battle of Britain
The Outcasts’ Outcast
Mockingbird Heights
Death Becomes Her
Scorpio
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Our Survey Said
If I Were a Rich Man
Games Without Frontiers
Love is Like a Butterfly
Naked Gun
Calling Time
What’s next?
Can you help?
Free book for you
Acknowledgements
Before you dive in …
Hello, and thanks for buying this book. This is the fourth part of the Jason Apsley story, which was a trilogy. However, as this is the fourth book, clearly, that is no longer the case. Now it’s a tetralogy … apparently. If you’ve read my Deana series, that will resonate with you. That ghostly diva, with the extensive diction, taught me that new word.
Anyway, if you haven’t already, you may want to (and I strongly recommend) read the three preceding books before this one. And perhaps the accompanying novella, Beyond his Time.
If you’re fully up to speed, then great – dive in. I hope you enjoy Jason’s latest time-travel-induced adventure. Before you do, just thought I’d mention that Beth, our hero’s seventeen-year-old daughter suffering from a hearty dollop of attitude, can, on the odd occasion, be prone to uttering the odd obscenity – now, as you’ve made it this far into the series, I’m assuming you can forgive the girl.
Okay, you’re good to proceed – oh, but hang on there …
Before you turn the page or swipe left on your Kindle – an action I’m led to believe you would perform on a popular dating app when faced with a creepy bio and picture of a serial killer, not that I’ve partaken in such activity – dating app or serial killing – but felt it was essential to offer that information for the purposes of clarity – I’ve laid out below a quick run through of who’s who regarding the main characters. It may have been a while since you read Force of Time – book three in the trilogy. That’s now, apparently, a tetralogy – so you might enjoy a little refresher.
Who’s who? A quick reminder …
Jason Apsley – our time-travelling hero. He needs no introduction. Died in 2019, awoke in 1976 – as you do.
Other Jason – Ah, him! So, the man our hero replaced in 1976 and subsequently disappeared. If you haven’t, although it’s not totally necessary to enjoy this book, you might enjoy Beyond his Time, which tells his story.
Jenny Apsley – Jason’s ‘Jessica Rabbit’ wife. Not a time-traveller. However, she’s a fully paid-up member of the Time Travellers Believers’ Club. (TTBC)
Beth Apsley – Jason’s bestie from his first life, now his adopted daughter. Biological parents – David Colney and Carol Hall.
Chris Apsley – Beth’s half-brother, adopted by Jenny and Jason. Biological parents – Carol Hall and an unknown.
George Sutton – Jason’s grandfather from his first life, and now a close friend in his second. George is one of the five members of the TTBC.
Martin Bretton – Also known as Leonardo Bretton, Jason’s work colleague from his first life. Martin died six months after Jason in 2019 and time-travelled six months later, arriving in 1977. Technically speaking, Andrew Colney is his biological father following his mother suffering a sexual assault in 1987. However, due to time-travel, that assault was expunged, so Martin’s existence in his and Jason’s second life is … well, I guess, just a time-travelling mystery.
Jess Poole – Other Jason’s biological daughter. However, due to Jason replacing other Jason in 1976, Jess regards Jason and Jenny as her parents. Although she hasn’t partaken in such activity, Jess is also a fully paid-up member of the TTBC.
Paul Colney – Nasty bastard. Probably the evilest git on the planet. Died 1977 in a car crash with Martin. Both men time-travelled to 1987. (That’s when Martin became Leonardo.) Paul murdered his brother, Patrick, amongst others, before disappearing abroad.
Patrick Colney – Paul Colney’s twin, murdered by Paul in 1987. Ex-boyfriend of Jess and father to Faith Poole, Jess’s daughter.
David Colney – When a sixteen-year-old schoolboy in 1976, he enjoyed a one-night stand with Carol Hall. Thus becoming Beth’s biological father. David abused baby Beth in Jason’s first life, resulting in a prison sentence and Beth being raised in a children’s home. David became a serial killer in 2015. When Jason time-travelled, he prevented Beth from being abused by David before dropping him to his death from the top of the flats on the Broxworth Estate, thus expunging the rampage of murder that older David embarked on in 2015.
Andrew Colney – The youngest of the four evil Colney boys. Technically, Martin’s biological father. Andrew was caught and sentenced in 1987 for a series of sexual assaults. In 1994, he’s still enjoying a stay at Her Majesty’s pleasure.
Shirley Colney – Criminal matriarch, mother to the four Colney boys. Unbeknown to all until 1987, Shirley and other Jason were half-siblings. Shirley died in 1987 when run over by Beryl Brown (née Hall) on the Carrow Road Bridge.
Carol Hall – Other Jason’s and subsequently Jason’s neighbour on the Broxworth Estate. The estranged daughter of Beryl Brown and the biological mother of Beth and Chris. Murdered by Paul Colney in 1976.
Beryl Brown – Beth and Chris’s grandmother. The illegitimate daughter of Donald Nears. Due to abuse at the hands of Shirley Colney when in a children’s home in the 1940s, Beryl killed Shirley in 1987.
Donald Nears – Ah, our dearly departed Don. Didn’t we all love him, eh? Other Jason’s and subsequently Jason’s neighbour on the Broxworth Estate. Due to their friendship, Don became Jason’s honorary father. Don died at ninety-one in 1987, moments after joining the TTBC.
DCI French – Frenchie, as we affectionately like to know her. DCI Heather French worked her way through the system to become Fairfield’s lead detective. She knows, but can never prove, there’s something not quite right about Jason Apsley.
Carlton King – A pupil at Jason’s school in 1976. In Martin’s first life, he was a close friend of his mother’s and became editor of the Fairfield Chronicle, where George once worked. Carlton is an inquisitive, ferret-type investigative journalist in Jason’s second life.
Prologue – The Good Life
April 1994
“The good old British weather, eh,” Tony muttered, shaking his head.
To ensure the occupants of the beaten-up, ancient-looking camper van couldn’t spot his half-hidden position, Tony loitered behind the cover afforded by a large oak a few yards into the dense copse flanking the parking area. He cupped the half-smoked rollie in his mud-splattered hand to avoid the lit end of his cigarette being spotted in the fading early evening twilight.
However, they weren’t his only concern. To his right, Tony also spotted a dog walker. Taking care not to be seen, h
Despite an unseasonal warm spring, resulting in the Easter holiday reaching temperatures just north of twenty degrees, three days later and, somewhat inevitably, normal service was resumed. Wet, cold, and frigging miserable.
Tony tipped his head back, glanced up and sighed, squinting to avoid the misty drizzle assaulting his eyes. God, he hated this place.
“Not for much longer,” he mumbled.
After a few years of living in sunnier climes, which the Costa del Sol offered, a brief trip to Fairfield reminded him why he hadn’t missed the damn place. Less than a few weeks back in the UK, he now missed the sun, the birds, the booze, the ‘good life’ he’d become accustomed to.
Stuff Britain, with its shit weather, crap government, whinging birds, interfering neighbours, TV personalities with over-inflated opinions of themselves, expensive cigarettes, traffic jams, queuing, Eastenders, the Welsh, the Scots, the Irish, Scousers, yada yada yada, the frigging list was endless. Britain was no longer British. Back in the ’70s, a man could be a man. Not anymore. As far as Tony was concerned, the dreary place he’d once called home had gone soft.
Anyway, he’d started to leave a trail of destruction, so now was probably the right time to leave. Sod this dump; he was going home. After stealthily taking one last drag on his cigarette, Tony nipped the lit end between his fingers before lobbing the butt beside his mud-caked shovel that lay on the sodden earth.
“Come on, piss off,” Tony hissed between gritted teeth.
He shivered as the rainwater snaked down his shoulder-length hair before finding its way inside his collar and down his back. After digging for the best part of an hour, and although building up a decent sweat as the chilly twilight set in, his sodden hoodie now served as a cool pack against his skin.
Tony removed the Bowie knife from his back pocket and twizzled the blade in his hand as his eyes flicked back and forth between the camper van and his rental car parked not twenty or so feet behind. Fortunately, the dog walker had disappeared somewhere along the main road.
The young couple, New Age traveller, eco-warrior, tree-hugging types, didn’t appear as if they planned to continue their journey anytime soon. The bearded chap, who flicked his cigarette ash through the quarter-inch gap of his cranked-down window, appeared to be laughing at something the woman had said. When assessing the girl, Tony thought she looked like a hippy student type as she propped her bare feet on the dashboard whilst drinking coffee from a flask. Disappointingly, they didn’t appear to be going anywhere soon and had set in for the night.
“Bollocks.” Tony sniffed and wiped his dripping nose with the back of his hand, which gripped the seven-inch blade, whilst contemplating his next move.
By the weekend, he would be back in sunnier climes. So, being spotted by the tree-huggers should be of little or no consequence. However, he was still here, and he’d rather not draw unnecessary attention to himself. Tony weighed up his options. The hippy couple would probably fail to remember his rental car if questioned at a future date. He’d been careful, swapping out his car every few days to avoid leaving a traceable trail. However, a man appearing from the edge of the woods carrying a shovel on a cold, wet evening would be memorable.
Tony’s choices were limited. He could risk being spotted, which might lead to the filth sniffing around the woods and then a news bulletin describing him and his car. A situation he could ill afford before his flight later this week. Or, he could add to the body count and dig two more graves. Although ruddy annoying, collateral damage was sometimes inevitable in his line of work.
Neither option appealed.
Taking into account his joy of inflicting pain and the fact that option two would cover his tracks, that seemed the safer option. However, disappointingly, that would involve more digging in this crap weather, plus being left with a shit-heap of a camper van to dispose of. Despite his predilection to revel in and enjoy torture and murder, Tony thought one grave was enough digging for tonight. He dismissed option two with a sniff and a shake of his head.
Option one, then.
Tony wiped his prints from the shovel, planning on lobbing it into the bushes to avoid arousing too much suspicion when appearing from the woods. With the shovel raised, poised to be tossed, Tony hesitated when spotting movement. The bearded tree-hugger hopped out of his van and jauntily headed towards Tony’s position whilst fumbling with his fly.
“Adam, d’you want me to hold it for you?” the woman playfully called out as she cranked down her window.
“I think you’ll have a job. It’s that bleeding cold out here, I can hardly find it,” Adam chuckled, skipping along with his hand rummaging around in his underpants, stopping a foot short of the tree Tony employed as cover.
Tony held his breath.
Adam hooked out his appendage and offered a satisfied sigh to the heavens as he urinated on Tony’s boots that poked out from behind a tree.
Psychopath, lunatic, madman, dangerous fucker, just some of the labels which various people had chosen to slap on him throughout his life – even his mother. Fair enough. Murderer and rapist could easily be added to that list. However, apart from his mother, no one had proved those last two. Anyway, Tony had a short fuse, so it wasn’t his fault, was it?
Some tree-hugging, bearded knob pissing on his boots after he’d endured a bleeding soaking when digging a ditch to dump his latest victim in was enough to light the blue touch paper. It didn’t take much where Tony was concerned.
Just as Adam finished urinating, with a hearty shake of his John-Thomas, Tony stepped around the tree, holding the shovel aloft.
“Oi, you pissed on my boots.”
The bearded man, still gripping his exposed appendage, bulged his eyes whilst involuntarily allowing his jaw to sag. As if struggling to focus on two tasks at once, now his focus had moved to gawping at the grinning man who stood before him, Adam halted his penis-waving mid-shake.
Tony swung the shovel’s blade in an arc towards Adam’s head. The ping that emanated when steel met skull caused the woman to look up and peer through the opened window.
“Adam? Adam, you okay?”
Tony crouched down on his haunches to finish the boot-pisser with his Bowie knife before stepping clear of the trees and striding towards the camper van.
“Adam …” With her hand gripping the half-opened window, the woman paused. “Where’s Adam?” She flung open the door and hopped out, giving an exaggerated sigh as her bare feet met the muddy ground.
“Your boyfriend pissed on my boots.”
“Hey, who the hell …” again, she paused when noticing the knife held loosely by his side as he made up ground between them.
“Who … where’s … oh, God, no,” she muttered, now rooted to the spot, fearing what might have happened, or more to the point, what was about to happen.
Tony waved the knife over his shoulder towards Adam’s body. “Your boyfriend’s bleeding out over there in the trees. If he’s not already, I reckon he’ll be dead in a few seconds.”
The woman swivelled her eyes towards the trees as her brain registered what was going down before preparing to take flight.
Too late.
As she pinwheeled around, Tony barbarously snatched her forearm and hauled her close to him.
“Adam pissed on my boots,” he huffed in her face before shooting his eyes downwards. “My boots … they’re covered in his frigging piss.”
“Who … who,” she stammered.
“Me? You’re asking who I am, are you, girl?” Keeping a tight grip on her arm, he cupped his hand that gripped the knife around the back of her head. “I’m your frigging worst nightmare.”
Part 1
1
October 2015
Message in a Bottle
For the purpose of maintaining an upright position, I white-knuckle gripped the doorframe whilst waiting for the fluorescent strip light to go through its painfully long humming and flickering sequence before it would hopefully illuminate the garage. I should have replaced the light years ago. That particular task, just one of those unfancied jobs on that metaphorical to-do list, always seemed to get relegated to the bottom.
