“Come on then, Prince Monolulu, what’s the horse?” askedGeoff.
“Who’s Prince Monolulu?” asked Josh.
“Never mind, before your time,” said Geoff. “Ask yourgranddad.”
Having no idea what he was talking about, I pressed on, andsaid, “If you really want to make some decent money today, put all your cash onMister Fibuli.”
“Now I know you’re taking the piss,” said Geoff. “Thatdonkey is way past its best. It hasn’t won for about three years.”
“I’m telling you, Mister Fibuli is the one to be on. Backit, Josh. You backed that last one, didn’t you?”
“I did,” said Josh, “but Dad didn’t. His horse fell.”
“We’ve heard enough,” said Geoff. “You are beginning toirritate me, mate. Come on, Josh, let’s go and find something decent to bet on,and don’t be wasting any money on any more of his duff tips. He just got luckywith that last one.”
I let them go, but gave Josh a knowing look as he got up andmouthed “back it” at him. Then I retreated to a safe distance. Geoff lookedlike the sort of bloke who might be quite handy with his fists, and I didn’tthink winding him up any further would be the best course of action.
Ten minutes later, the crowd was stunned as Mister Fibuli,an eleven-year-old grey gelding, pulled clear of the field up the hill to winat odds of 33/1. Again I saw Josh celebrating, but there was a look of fury onGeoff’s face. Josh’s brother looked none too pleased either.
I didn’t relish approaching them all again, so I loitered inthe vicinity of the toilets and waited. The three of them were knocking backplenty of booze at the bar so they’d all have to pay a visit eventually.
I stayed out of sight until Josh went in, and then followedhim. He went up to the urinal and unzipped his flies, and I neatly slotted innext to him. This could easily have been misinterpreted by a casual observer, amiddle-aged man hanging around outside the toilets and then following a youngman in.
I hadn’t attracted any attention, though; everyone was toobusy trying to work out the winner of the next race.
Now I was standing next to Josh who was in mid-piss: I had acaptive audience so it was now or never.
“Mister Fibuli,” I said. “What did I tell you?”
“Awesome tip, mate,” said Josh. “I had a tenner on it. I got50/1 with one bookie; most of them had it at 33/1. But you had better stay outof Dad’s way: he’s well annoyed with you. Where do you get your info from?” heasked.
I just came straight out with it “The future,” I declared.“I’m a time traveller. I’ve come here specifically to meet you, because I’vebeen given information that you are an expert on time travel and I am hopingthat you can help me.”
Josh seemed somewhat taken aback, but I certainly had hisattention. “Who told you this?” he asked.
“I can’t divulge that,” I said, knowing that if I mentionedLauren’s name, it might have a negative effect. They had after all onlyrecently split up. “But I do know the future, and I’ll prove it once more,” Isaid. “Back Hill Valley in the next, and when it wins, ditch your dad andbrother and meet me in the on-course betting shop after the race.”
Hill Valley won the handicap chase at odds of 5/1, and sureenough, Josh came and found me in the on-course betting shop. I had well andtruly grabbed his attention, so I briefly outlined my situation to him. He waseager and attentive and seemed quite convinced.
“The thing is,” he said, after I’d finished explaining, “Idon’t actually have the ability to travel where and when I want to in time, allI know is that it is possible. I am not sure exactly what I can do to helpyou.”
“You may not have that ability now, but maybe you will oneday in the future,” I replied. “All I want to do is find out one thing – if theactions I am taking in my life lead to a happy ever after. I want to know thatin a decade or more from now, I haven’t died of cancer, my wife is alive andwell, and that Stacey is happy.”
“And you want me to find this out for you?” asked Josh.
“If you can,” I replied. “And if you ever do find out how todo it, come back in time and tell me.”
“When?” said Josh.
“Not now,” I said. “Earlier, much earlier, when I’ve doneall the things I need to do to put life on the track that I want.”
I had already worked all this out in my head. It needed tobe way back, when I was a young man, before I had even met Sarah. I took abetting slip from the counter, grabbed a small blue pen, and wrote thefollowing down on the slip:
Thomas Scott. 6th August 1990, 5pm, RadcliffeCamera.
I had picked out this date more or less at random. I hadmade it as late in the day as possible as I couldn’t be sure exactly where Iwould be in the morning. This would give me plenty of time to get there in caseI woke up and found myself out of town. The Radcliffe Camera was a well-knownmonument in the centre of the city, and seemed as good a place as any.
Before I gave the slip to him I also wrote down my date ofbirth and home address.
“Keep hold of that,” I said, handing it to him. “You shouldbe able to find out all you need about me from those details. Meanwhile, I willbe there on that date and at that time. If there is any way you can find a wayto make it back there, please do.”
Josh pocketed the betting slip. “This is surreal,” he said,“but if I can be there, I will.”
“Thanks,” I said. “And now you’d better get back to theothers. And don’t forget to back Henry Clare in the next. A bit of extra cashtowards your time travel experiments wouldn’t go amiss, I’m sure.”
“Thank-you,” said Josh, “in
