As the 2010s wore on, things just got worse and worsemusically. He thought he was moving with the times, now listening to his oldmusic on an iPod classic rather than playing CDs. But before long it seemedeven that was considered old hat. When he had gone into an electrical superstorein search of a new hi-fi system, he had asked one of the young lads who workedthere if they had one with an iPod dock.
The assistant, who couldn’t have been older than aboutnineteen, had looked at him as if he had been asking for something to play waxcylinders on. He then proceeded to completely flummox Kent with talk of Bluetooth,wi-fi speakers and various other bits of technobabble that went completely overhis head. As he left the shop he heard the assistant say to a colleague behindhim, “iPod dock!” and they both burst out laughing.
As he stood on the car park roof thinking about all thesethings, he reflected that even without all of the other problems in his life,the state of the music industry alone was enough to make him want to commitsuicide.
Maybe he should. Why not just end it all, leap off the roofand get out of this horrible modern world in which he no longer belonged? The 20thcentury was never coming back. He was never going to feel that exuberant burstof youth and excitement about anything ever again, so what was the point incarrying on?
“If only you could go back, eh?” said a voice behind him.
Kent turned to see a slim, young man in a plain black T-shirt,blue jeans and white trainers standing behind him. The man looked vaguelyfamiliar, but he couldn’t quite place him.
“Excuse me?” asked Kent.
“If only you could go back,” repeated the man eagerly. “Andlive it all over again. It wouldn’t be so bad then, would it?”
“Do what all over again?” asked Kent, perplexed. Who wasthis guy and what did he want?
“What you were just thinking about,” said the mysteriousstranger. “The good old days, when music was great and you didn’t have a carein the world.”
“How do you know what I was just thinking about?” asked Kent.The November wind was bitingly cold and he drew his coat up around his neck tokeep in the warmth. He looked at the young man in just a T-shirt and added, “Aren’tyou cold?”
“No I’m not. But then I wouldn’t be. I’m not really here atall, you see. It’s quite warm where I am.”
“Great,” said Kent. “On top of everything else, now I’m talkingto a nutter. That’s it, I’m out of here.” He placed his hands on the metalfencing that surrounded the car park and thought about the best way of climbingup. That was if he even could. He was so fat and unfit, even getting up a six-footfence was going to prove problematical. He’d have clambered over something likethat for fun chasing villains back in his Met days.
“Oh, I’m not a nutter,” said the man. “And you’re nothallucinating either,” pre-empting what would have been Kent’s next thought. “I’mhere but I’m not here, if that makes any sense. I just saw you there, thinkingabout killing yourself and popped along to see if I could do anything to help.”
“What are you, some sort of guardian angel?” asked Kent inthe gruff style he had often used in the force when interviewing suspects. Hewas rather intrigued by this strange encounter. If nothing else, it was thefirst time anyone had made the effort to speak to him in public for months.
“If you like to think of me in that way, then go ahead,” hereplied. “I’ve had many names in my time, but I’m happy to be your angel.” Andthen, again reading Kent’s thoughts: “And I don’t mean in a gay way. You’resuch a homophobe, thinking that. Still, I wouldn’t blame you for fancying me. Haven’tyou recognised me yet? Look closely.”
Kent peered into the fresh-faced young man and a strange realisationdawned. He was looking at a much younger version of himself.
“What the…how is this possible? Are you me? How did you gethere?” A multitude of questions raced through his mind. If this was indeed himin a younger form, wouldn’t he have remembered meeting his older self when hewas him?
“Relax, I’m not you, I just made myself look like this tosee if you remembered the person you used to be. I could just have easily lookedlike this.”
As the angel spoke, he morphed into the shape of a beautifulyoung woman with long, blonde hair who Kent recognised immediately. It was hiswife, Debbie, but not as she looked now. This was how she looked when he firstmet her, twenty years ago, before age, two kids and too many cakes took theirtoll.
“No don’t,” said Kent, thinking about what used to be. “It’stoo depressing.”
The angel morphed back into the form of the young Kent. “Youcan’t fight the passage of time, Richard. Beauty is ephemeral, and the world isconstantly evolving. You need to adapt and embrace life in all shapes and formsas you make your way through it.”
“I know all that,” said Kent. “But it’s so damned hard. Imiss the old days. I wish I’d appreciated them more when I was there. At thetime I never even considered that one day they might end. You’re right, itwould be better if I could go back and live it over again, it was so muchbetter then than it is now.”
“As a great man once said, youth is wasted on the young,” saidthe angel. “But do you really think it was as great in the past as you remember,or do you think you are just looking back now through rose-tinted spectacles?”
“Well, there’s no way of finding that out, is there,”remarked Kent, ruefully.
“What if I said there was?” replied the angel. “What if Itold you I
