Past Imperfect

by Graham Debenham

part 4 of 10

A chance encounter whilst commuting to work gives Nigel the opportunity to go back and change his past for the better or the worse.

They walked through the front gates of Taplow Street Comprehensive School, and Nigel felt almost overcome with emotion as memories came flooding back. This was where it all began. This was where the standard was set for the rest of his life. This was where he had the opportunity to put things right.

Over in the centre of the playground were three lines of children, all facing toward the main school building. The centre line was class 1a, his and Cynthia’s class. To their left was 1b, and to their right, 1c.

The last kid in line in class 1a was someone whom Nigel remembered. He was a little fat boy named Terry, and the only reason Nigel remembered him was because he was the first kid to speak to him. He remembered it as if it were yesterday (in fact it was today, but you know what I mean). As Mr. Owen had come to the end of his welcoming speech, Terry had turned around and whispered, “I wonder where the tuck shop is?”

Nigel remembered thinking that it was all a bit Tom Brown’s School Days. After all this was a Comprehensive school. But of course, he had been too polite to say anything.

“Off you go then,” Doreen said, giving them a little encouraging push. Shyly, Nigel took Cynthia’s hand and they walked over and joined the centre line of children.

As they took their places, behind the kid called Terry, Nigel glanced across to line 1c, and there he was.

Tommy Wellard.

Even now, forty years later, the sight of the scruffy kid was enough to give Nigel goose bumps. He looked just the same as he had forty years ago. Not surprising really, since this was forty years ago.

Nigel was still looking over when Tommy turned and looked straight at him. At first Nigel was tempted to turn away and avoid the inevitable confrontation. Then he thought of the years of torment that had followed this one event. This had been the day when Nigel’s life had begun to turn pear-shaped.

No. Today would be different. He held Tommy’s gaze for several long seconds. Then it came.

The silent obscenity.

As Tommy mouthed the disgusting words, Nigel slowly smiled. He turned back toward the front of the line, raised his right hand and rubbed the side of his face with his middle and forefingers, spreading them apart to form a nice V shape. He was going to flip Tommy the finger, but as far as he could remember, that particular form of insult didn’t become popular until the early seventies.

He glanced across at Tommy. The scruffy kid looked like he was about to pop a blood vessel. He looked at Nigel raised a finger and pointed. He didn’t say a word; but the look said, You’re dead!

Nigel shook his head slowly and turned to face the front. Mr. Owen had just finished his welcoming speech and was inviting the new first year pupils to have a walk around the school to familiarize themselves with where everything was.

Right on cue, Terry turned around and whispered, “I wonder where the tuck shop is?”

Nigel leaned forward. “I think you’ve been reading one too many Boy’s Own annuals,” he whispered.

Terry gave a smile of embarrassment and, while the rest of the first-year pupils wandered off in search of their future classrooms, he wandered off in search of sustenance.

As the crowd of children thinned out, Tommy Wellard and his two cohorts walked over and stood in front of Nigel. “Are you askin’ fer a punch in the gob?” Tommy growled.

Nigel thought for a second. He didn’t recall this happening the first time round. But then he had already changed one or two small details of his own past. He looked around to see where his parents were. They seemed to be conversing with the parents of several other children.

He looked at Cynthia. “Would you go over and keep my parents occupied for a few minutes please?” he asked.

“Why?” Cynthia asked, looking worried.

“It’s okay.” He replied with a grin. “I’m just going to have a little chat with this gentleman.”

She looked at Tommy, the revulsion obvious in her expression. She slowly walked off, looking back once or twice.

When she was out of earshot, Nigel turned back to Tommy. “Right,” he said, nodding his head toward the boys’ toilet block. “My office, now!”

“Your what?” Tommy said, but Nigel was already striding off toward the toilets. Tommy followed, beckoning the others to follow. This cocky little git needs a good seein’ to, he thought.

Nigel walked into the toilets, took off his duffel bag and placed it carefully on the closest wash basin. He removed his blazer and placed it carefully on top of the bag, just as Tommy and his posse walked in.

“Right, you little smart arse.” Tommy said, jabbing his finger in Nigel’s face.” Now you’re gonna get a smack in the chops.”

Nigel looked at the jabbing finger with interest. This seemed like a good opportunity to test his theory on the age/size/ strength ratio. He grabbed Tommy’s finger with his left hand and pulled sharply downwards. Tommy gave a high pitched scream and fell to his knees, his finger still in Nigel’s fist.

“Now you listen to me, you gobby little moron,” Nigel said calmly, trying to remember as much dialogue as he could from his favourite television shows. “Poke this finger at me again, and I’ll rip it off and shove it where it won’t see the sun. Do we understand each other?”

Tommy nodded his head, frantically trying to prise his finger from Nigel’s grip. “Yeah... yeah, I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “Don’t break me finger... please.”

“Good.” Nigel said, releasing his grip. “Now bugger off! And take these Muppets with you.” He realized that the word Muppet would not be invented for three or four years, but he doubted very much if Tommy or his followers knew that.

Besides, it sounded ‘cool’.

Tommy dragged himself to his feet cradling his throbbing index finger in his other hand. With a nervous shrug of his left shoulder, he slowly backed away in the direction of the doorway. His two goons followed him out, obviously disenchanted with his outstanding display of cowardice.

When they had gone, Nigel looked down at his hand. It looked so small, but by comparison it wielded enormous strength. It occurred to him, briefly, that using adult strength in a child’s body might be considered by some to be excessive.

As he stood looking at his hand in wonderment, it became blurred and indistinct. Nigel felt as if he were about to faint. The feeling lasted several seconds, during which time the toilet block seemed to undulate around him.

He placed both hands on the rim of the wash basin and closed his eyes. White pinpoints of light danced around in the blackness and he could hear the muffled sound of his heart thumping as his hearing was shut off. Oh my God, he thought, I’m having a heart attack.

He wondered briefly if it were at all possible for an eleven-year old to suffer a myocardial infarct, deciding that whilst possible, it was extremely unlikely. Several seconds passed until the feeling of vertigo finally subsided. He opened his eyes slowly in case the nausea returned. The blackness dissolved into light, the white pinpoints gradually dissipating.

The room was different. The dingy brick interior of the boys’ toilet block at Taplow Street Comprehensive was gone. It had been replaced by an equally dingy green painted room, at a location which he had yet to determine.

As his hearing returned he could make out the sounds of male voices and the hiss of running water. Looking around, he realized that he was in a shower block. Several of the showers were in use, but not by young boys. He reached up and rubbed his eyes. That was when he noticed his hands. Not the soft delicate hands of an eleven-year old but the coarse, calloused hands of a grown man.

He looked down at his body. He had a towel around his waist and several tattoos on his arms and chest. Where the hell am I now? he thought. He looked around the room. There were no mirrors on the walls, something which he found unusual for a shower room. Several men were shaving, using small round mirrors, but they all looked a bit unsavoury, so he didn’t fancy approaching any of them.

“You all right, Speed?”

Nigel turned suddenly at the sound of the familiar voice.

Tommy Wellard!

But not the Tommy Wellard that he remembered from Taplow Street. This Tommy looked to be in his early twenties. He too was wearing just a towel, and his long hair was pulled back in a pony tail. Like Nigel, he had several tattoos on his body and arms.

Nigel looked at Tommy, blankly. Where the hell am I, and why are you here?

Tommy walked over and gave him a light punch on the arm. “What’s up mate? You look like you seen a ghost. You all right, or what?”

And why are you calling me mate?

Nigel forced a smile. Obviously he had skipped forward a few years. Well, quite a few judging by the look of Tommy. Until he found out where and when this was, it might be prudent to play along.

“I’m all right mate,” he said, returning the punch. “What about you?”

Tommy gave a worried smile, showing several gaps where teeth had previously been. “I’ll feel a bit better after the results of the board, I can tell ya,” he said with a nervous shrug of the left shoulder.

Nigel smiled and nodded. “Yeah, the board,” he replied, having no idea what Tommy was talking about.

“If there’s any justice at all, we’ll be out of here in a couple of days,” Tommy added. “I dunno about you, Speed, but I’m getting’ a bit toey in here.”

Nigel’s smile faded. “Yeah, me too.” He replied, starting to get a funny feeling about where he was. The feeling was confirmed a second or two later.

“Compton, Wellard; stop gas-bagging and get your gear on. The Guv’nor wants to see you in fifteen minutes.”

He looked over to the door of the shower block. The voice belonged to a tall, muscular-looking man wearing a blue uniform, similar to that of a police officer. The bunch of keys on the chain attached to his belt and the letters HMP on his epaulettes gave the game away.

I’m in bloody prison!

* * *

Proceed to part 5...