The Replacement Phenomenon

By Will Thurston

If someone had told Jake Hingham two weeks ago that time travel was real he would have laughed in their face. If they had then told him that he’d be pointing a gun at a policeman to save hundreds of lives, he would have had them committed.

Yet, there he stands in a shoot-out, and with the pull of a trigger he can change his destiny after over a week of being hunted, strangled, shot at, imprisoned and probably even killed. It all sounds crazy to Jake, but his life was turned upside-down when he wished for the chance to save his dead family a week and a half in the future.

You probably wouldn't believe his story. He wouldn't blame you. If he hadn’t lived through it then he would probably not believe it. That doesn’t change the fact that he's standing there with a fifty-fifty chance of surviving for another minute. One shot, one chance. It’s time for Jake's moment of truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Whitfield
• Release date: Dec 13, 2010
• ISBN: 9781908042040

Will Thurston

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Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Friday 30th January 2004, 11:25pm

Despite Jake Hingham hearing the gunshots that had killed his family, and his arriving at the scene within seconds, one scene was missing from his memory.

He had not witnessed the demise of his wife and his two sons just a few hours earlier. His mind was working fiercely, attempting to fill in the blanks.

Various absurd images of killers came to mind, exiting the car and raising various sizes of guns, saying various versions of stupid lines from tough guys in action movies, or saying nothing at all.

There was not enough data available to accurately imagine the incident.

Still why was he powerless to prevent his mind from running over and over every imagined possibility?

Numbness, which one would expect in the wake of tragedy, was absent.

Pain. Nothing but pain.

Numbness would find the door swinging wide open inviting it in, if it bothered to show up.

Letting go of the tragedy, the torment, the burden he would carry for the rest of his life, was impossible.

Alcohol had provided some degree of welcome, albeit temporary distraction.

The problem was that drunk Jake was remarkably similar to sober Jake. His inebriated mind still worked pretty much as normal, except for the parts that controlled his balance and his speech.

Jake used the black balcony railing to halt his fall as he slipped and stumbled towards an aerial view the crime scene that had previously been the front garden.

Alcohol running through his veins did not combine well with a dressing gown and old slippers. Not on a stone tiled floor, not in times of inclement weather.

What did it matter that the evening's weather was dreadful? Who cared that the rain was throwing down like there would be no tomorrow?

The only things in his life that he cared about were gone.

Tomorrow loomed, as it always had done for those left behind, but within it he would not find any redeeming features.

However galling it was to accept his new reality, within the space of a few seconds his precious family had become as much a part of history as his ancestors.

There was nothing left. Living, dying didn’t matter. Day-to-day life would be miserable and mundane without them.

But that alone did not explain this mad melancholy. It would have been painful, but perhaps eventually tolerable, if he had not been moments away from intervening. Seconds away from saving their precious lives, arriving just in time to be the first one to see the gruesome scene, directly below his unsteady feet.

Those final few curves in the road usually flipped a switch in his brain. Gone were the frustrations of work, replaced with the delight of soon seeing their faces, embracing them. A timely and necessary reminder of why he suffered through work in the first place.

The white Art Deco themed rendered exterior gave their house the look of a giant, elongated sugar cube with prominent rounded corners and the flat roof. Only new, bright white window frames punctured the smooth render, as well as a centrally positioned balcony protruding from it.

The interior was refreshed and clean, an estate agent’s dream, if one ignored a couple of residual, stubborn design features from the Seventies. And the recent murder in the front garden.

But it was their forever family home. Selling it and moving on was not on the cards. Not until tonight, anyway.

Over time it would either become the shrine to a departed family, a reminder of good times, or it would be a building attached to a crime scene. One upon which he could never again set his eyes without seeing blood and bodies.

Hot tears burned in his eyes until let loose. If only he had been able to stick to his New Year promise to make the most of their time together, or any of the similar promises he had made every time January rolled around.

The never-retreating nausea was trying to overwhelm, to take over and to demand that he get as far away as was physically possible. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow.

The almost empty bottle of cheap white wine might have fused with his skin, becoming an extension to his arm, such was the tight grip.

If I'm lucky those heartless maniacs will come and finish the family off.

Why would anyone kill his wife and two children in such a quick, brutal manner but leave him untouched? What had they done? Why was he, the worst of the four, somehow exempt?

They were just a small family, growing up in Darlington, a quiet town in County Durham. What could they possibly have done to hurt or offend anyone? They didn't go looking for trouble. They had been a normal, quiet lot, doing normal things together.

Just to look at his wife, Amy, anyone could see the sweetest, cutest mother in the world. Any suggestion that she had even read a book or a magazine about the dark underbelly of the criminal world was absurd. Their kids? Well, they were just kids.

He turned and walked towards the bi-folding doors that ran the length of the platform on which he now stood. Today, only the utilitarian door at its left edge had been opened.

His own distorted, distraught face was staring back at him through the double glazing.

He spun around, arms arcing out from his side like the tassels on a garment.

It was time to yell at the grim sky some more.

Maybe someone or something up there was listening. Maybe not. Either way, it made little difference. There would be no answer to his night-time rant from some omniscient force. It wouldn’t be welcome anyway. Why would such a force deign to reply to his shouts if they had ignored the very incident that had sparked them?

The shouting might help to alleviate the pain that threatened to consume him. If some of it could escape, maybe some sort of peace could be ushered in to take its place.

Or maybe he would just unearth more pain and misery, spilling in to fill the void, like sea water invading a well-dug hole on a sandy beach. Even so, emptying his thoughts in tortured cries couldn’t exactly make things worse. The sky would do nothing but sit there silently and take it, feigning interest.

Why? he asked the midnight blackness. "Why my family? Why now?"

The burning question, the one that ignited his insides, went unanswered again.

Maybe the answer lied somewhere in a much-needed distraction. Anything that could keep his mind from the subject. Anything at all. Work, gardening, furniture, even reality TV shows, anything else at all would consciously be given priority on the stage of his mind.

All those thoughts had to do was show up.

But where were they?

Where were the pointless thoughts that drove him nuts at two in the morning, when sleep mocked him? Where were those strange ideas, now that he begged the brain to comply?

‘Drinking Again’, one of the final tracks of a Best of Frank Sinatra CD, played on the mini silver coloured stereo system in his bedroom.

I'm havin' a few and wishin' that you were here.

It seemed to fit the situation well enough.

Bein' a fool just hopin' that you'll appear.

He turned around and glared at the stereo. Shut up Frank. What do you know?

The depressing words fit the dark reality like a glum glove.

That was enough of that. The rest of the lyrics weren’t heading anywhere cheerier.

He walked over to the stereo unit without uttering a word. He picked it up and yanked it as hard as he could away from its current position with all the fury of a drunk and angry man.

Its two speakers, connected only by flimsy speaker wires, tore free. They fell to the floor and broke in pieces, but he was too busy walking towards the balcony to notice.

He tossed the stereo out through the open doorway. It flew over the railing and dropped out of view. The sound of it smashing against the paving was muted by hard rain, pelting against the roof.

He certainly wouldn’t be hearing any more from Old Blue Eyes tonight.

He had just contaminated the crime scene below. Big deal. What did it matter? According to the police earlier that evening, there was nothing more to be learned from it anyway.

Still no distractions. Only that moment seemed to ever have existed.

It would fruitlessly replay over and over. He was doomed to a life of wishing with all his heart and mind that he could step into his memories and change everything, or even just to change something.

The clock read 23:47. Only thirteen minutes remained of the worst day of his life.

There was time for one last shout at the already violently raging thunderous sky, after which he'd call it a day.

Jake remembered vividly the day that was now ebbing out like old coals on a campfire.

He could see every moment in perfect clarity in his mind as if being displayed in ultra-high-definition crystal clarity on a giant screen directly in front of him. He did not even have to close his eyes to picture any of it.

He crossed the threshold for the final time. The first scene was right in front of him.

That same large digital clock with its bland LCD display had been his first sight of the day. It was almost always the first thing he would see every day, and the last thing he would see every night.

From there, every event of the day rushed to his mind, and he could do nothing to prevent the torrent of memories and their accompanying regrets.

CHAPTER 2

Friday 30th January 2004, 7:30am

The dreaded digits had appeared on that clock again.

Without really saying anything, they had said enough.

Another day of work. Another day of drudgery and boredom in the name of employment lay before him. But at least it was the end of the working week.

On the weekends, there might as well have been only one 7:30 in a day. That time on a Saturday was usually accompanied by the family gathering around the television set to watch their favourite show of the moment with a takeaway. The same time on a Sunday was dedicated to keeping the Monday Blues from striking early.

Weekends with his family were essential. A reminder that he worked to live. Who in their right minds would live to work?

Regular routines followed the sounding of the alarm. As a typical day, there was not even a hint of a reason for departing from the carefully crafted order of things.

Turn over. Look at the clock. Confirm the day and date on the bedside calendar, set the previous evening.

The reward for waking up? Turning over in bed and looking at his beautiful wife. He had been married to Amy for nine years. It would be ten in just a few weeks.

Maybe the initial signs pointed to this day being different to most, but it was not a cause for concern. Minor changes early on didn’t always translate to big problems later.

On this Friday morning as he turned over, his wife was not there. It wasn't long before she returned, and inexplicably climbed back into bed.

As she did so, she glanced over at Jake with a brief smile crossing her face. The ideal occasion to take it all in, to imprint on his mind his own good fortune.

A naturally beautiful woman at five and a half feet tall, she was shorter than Jake, but much easier on the eyes. She had a naturally pale complexion and dark brown hair the shade of mahogany.

She had a smile that could be the envy of a string of teenage girls and young-adult actresses.

Even first thing in the morning, she was stunning.

Make up had allegedly added something when occasion required. All of her beauty was neatly packaged with a humble, helpful, delightful personality.

Of course, no one was perfect. A less than angelic temper had potential to be explosive when pushed to its limit. But such moments were as rare as a solar eclipse.

A glance in a mirror was enough to remind Jake that his own list of failings was at least as long as both of his arms, and probably her arms as well. Thankfully, after almost ten years of marriage, she had been far better at overlooking inadequacies.

A quick shower in the en-suite bathroom, a few moments donning the usual workday suit, and he was almost done. He would then make his way downstairs to the smell of warm toast and the sound of spoons clinking against bowls, accompanying his family.

Amy was inventive enough to keep breakfast varied and free from cornflake fatigue, much to the relief of the three people soon to be heading out of the door.

Jake would slouch into the comfortable cream leather seats in his silver Mercedes, ready to drive the almost straight two miles along Yarm Road to the office. Even with the morning traffic, he was typically at his destination before either the heater or the air conditioning had taken full effect.

It was just over half an hour to walk the same route, but he didn't earn that money and have a nice car so he could walk into work and leave a fancy car sitting dormant on his driveway.

Besides, the modern office block was located just outside the town, in the relatively new Morton Park. New business parks weren’t really built for pedestrians. The car made sense. Especially this car.

A sigh and the flopping of his shoulders accompanied the phone ringing in his office, perhaps only seconds since he had walked in the door.

I’m sorry your washing machine isn’t working as you had expected. I’ll put you through to the warranty repair team.

He pressed a couple of buttons and sank back into his leather chair. It wasn’t the only thing for which he was sorry. Sorry you bought a rubbish, cheap item from one of the nation-wide chain stores providing Nannotek products. Sorry you were expecting German engineering from the brand name, but it’s actually built in Rotherham by minimum-wage factory workers.

Nannotek was still, though, not a household name. The name could have been better, or different, but the name with the suffix ‘tech’ was registered elsewhere. With a boss unwilling to let go of the name, it had stayed.

Sorry I still work here.

There was little that could be considered pleasurable about the job which Jake had endured for the past three years. He was overqualified and underpaid for the tasks he did. But who wasn’t?

Everyone had moments where they dreamed of switching jobs, changing career path, but how many actually ended up in anything worth that effort?

Sleet hammered hard against the window, forming a hundred mini rivers on the glass, each transporting quickly melting ice to the bottom in a hurry.

At least he had an office, and he worked indoors. Those people who lauded over others with their outdoor work were likely having the smiles washed from their impossibly tanned faces.

Tasks such as gardening, and house painting belonged to the great outdoors. Employment was best contained within walls and under a roof.

The expensive-looking desk and dull pictures on green pastel shade walls were supposed to be calming. They might have been, anywhere other than there.

Another call. Another apology. Another series of excuses.

Your delivery hasn’t arrived? It was due yesterday? I’ll chase up the delivery team, see if we can prioritise you, as a valued customer.

That had been enough to appease the initially irate man. He didn’t need to know that Jake had no power whatsoever to speed up a late delivery.

The company was large, but small-minded. It was a nationwide outfit, seemingly trying hard to be a cottage industry. Due to competitors fizzling out, they had accidentally become the biggest in their line of business in Europe.

How many more apologies could he think up, staring at the office walls, which felt closer than ever?

Sorry we survived because we were lucky to set up where the rent was cheaper.

If their three-thousand employees had worked out of a headquarters in London, they might have vanished like so many competitors had when times got tough. Also, Jake would never have worked for them.

Compartmentalisation was essential. None of it should be personal. Who knew why the company suggested otherwise?

He could shrug off the customers who were abusive or offensive, like the next woman.

I can see that you cancelled the order. For some reason, the finance department have not stopped the credit agreement.

He smirked through a scowl. I could stop it instantly if you treated me more like a human being, and less like a slug.

According to the screen, there were another three days before the financing of the unwanted and expensive double fridge-freezer kicked in. They could sweat a little more before he killed that one off. You’re welcome.

Was that what the bosses wanted when they suggested he be ‘more emotionally involved’?

30th January was just like any other day. The same daily headache was on the way.

The career change question wouldn’t leave without due consideration. Okay, so maybe he wouldn't find a job that he really enjoyed, but he must be able to find one he hated a little bit less.

Blue Monday, the alleged most depressing day, had only occurred a couple of weeks prior. Despite the logic behind the claim, it was nothing more than a ruse to encourage the booking of the next big sun-filled family holiday.

Sometimes just the fantasy of escape was enough to bring a little joy into a workday.

The phone started to ring again, preventing him from disappearing down that particular rabbit hole.

He answered with his usual insincere monologue, culminating in the typical How can I help you today?

I have a complaint to make.

He recognised the voice, but he only smiled.

I hardly see my husband much these days because he's always dealing with petty problems.

His wife, Amy had a habit of calling and making some semi-amusing comment.

Well, I’m afraid there's not much I can do about that, Madam, he said. "I only deal with the serious problems because I’m too emotionally distant."

She laughed, probably to be polite.

Hi gorgeous, what can I do for you?

He was sincere, for the first time today.

Do you realise you spend more hours per week with people that hate your company than you do with me? Amy said.

It was true enough. He had spent plenty of time away from the office, around the family, of course. But she needed more of that attention.

The joys of having two children. Uninterrupted moments for affection were pretty much consigned to the past.

"So, you think I have worked so hard recently that I (meaning you) deserve a bit of a break?"

That's exactly what I'm saying, she replied in a voice that meant she was smiling. We could both do with some time alone.

We have a big enough house, Jake said. "If we sit at opposite ends it would seem a bit like we're alone."

"You know what I mean. Alone time together, not alone alone time."

Without too much effort he could arrange for an early finish, and he could then consider possible plans for an evening out. The parental ‘date nights’ had been a staple of their relationship before they had become commonplace. They were overdue for the next one.

I'll be home by four. We could get our impromptu free baby-sitter to take the kids for the evening.

Your sister has a name, you know, Amy said.

Are you saying she’ll have something else to do?

That's harsh! She could have a date on a Friday night?

It's a reasonable assumption to make. She hasn't had a proper relationship for a good few years. It's like she lives the life of a parent vicariously through every nearby child.

It was a good job Lynn had not heard the conversation. It could spell a permanent end to their easy ride babysitting arrangements.

The conversation ended with the usual vocalisation of affection from Amy and an uncomfortable reciprocation by Jake.

Arrangements for an early finish extended as far as typing a draft email to send out as he was leaving his desk, and then leaving it open and staring at it until hitting the send button at his self-appointed finish time.

One phrase was key in the business world - It's easier to get forgiveness than it is to get permission.

It was a phrase worthy of some sort of important accolade or title. No truer words had ever been spoken in business, especially when it came to Nannotek.

CHAPTER 3

Friday 30th January 2004, 4:10pm

Jake glanced up at the large antique clock in the main hall. I hate that thing.

Smashing the old timepiece would be strange but sublime. If it distracted everyone enough to allow him to make a run for it, then it would be worth it.

The hands swiftly rushed around the face of the old timepiece, like the blades of a helicopter high on the wall. The heedless rush from one number to the next mocked his growing sense of urgency.

If any clock deserved a hit with a hammer, it was that one in his office. Throughout the rest of the day, the second hand of the clock had dragged itself unwillingly from one point of the clock face to another. Time went so slowly, but not now, apparently.

So why did it suddenly speed up when he was trying in vain to get away?

Apparently, it was possible to appear interested and entertained whilst grinding one’s teeth. Who knew? Why did I take the usual exit?

At this time of day there was always someone in that area, but they were rarely worth the effort of a coherent conversation. I should have snuck out the back door.

Frank, the head of the finance department, had collared him, obviously keen to avoid work for the last hour or so of his working week by just wandering the corridors with a couple of pieces of paper in his hand.

A need to be polite was more of a curse these days than a blessing. He couldn’t just walk on past a colleague and completely ignore him. Sadly.

But was it less rude to stand there, acting interested, when in fact he was ignoring him and watching the seconds tick away behind his overweight associate?

The longer the conversation went, the higher the chance of his fraud being discovered.

If asked, he could not repeat back more than a handful of words. What was he even complaining about? Payroll? The quality of lunchtime food offerings? The cleaners and their noisy contraptions? Not a clue.

Smiling and nodding at seemingly appropriate moments was enough to pull the wool over those giant bespectacled eyes, but they wouldn’t work for everyone.

It was the fault of his grandparents. More precisely, it was a method developed over the years in the company of grandparents and their long, repetitive stories. He could look completely absorbed and interested in what someone was telling him, whilst at the time completely switching off somewhere inside his mind.

Simple, and not unique. But Jake had found another level. He still managed to say the right thing at the right time, and sincerely enough that the conversation would not result in the other party saying, Are you listening to me?

There had to be a pause coming.

No one could talk for that long without needing to take a breath.

But the seconds kept ticking by, and nothing but monologue.

It was as if this guy had developed the technique of breathing in through his nose while speaking with his mouth, like he was an expert in playing the digeridoo or the bagpipes, thus allowing him to carry on talking without the inconvenience of stopping briefly to breathe in.

More seconds passed. The time was a quarter past four.

He had been talked at for about twenty minutes. Maybe instead of carrying around two sheets of paper, he could suggest Frank carries a chair for his unwitting conversation partners.

Had Jake come prepared, he might have made use of a set of discreet headphones and a decent playlist.

He could have done that and carried on nodding enthusiastically at whatever empty words were spilling from the mouth of his quite colossal colleague.

But there it was. A pause!

Frank had exhausted another subject within the vast encyclopaedic area that was accounting.

Jake took his opportunity and butted in.

Well, it was nice talking to you Frank, but I have somewhere else I need to be. A kinder outburst than any of the options that had been whizzing around his head for the past third of an hour.

My wife needs me home a little earlier today. One of the kids isn't doing so well. He hurried away. Quit while you’re ahead. Don’t say enough to be caught in a lie.

Powerwalking to the door, Jake tasted the freedom in the air. The taste would have been far sweeter if he had actually exited earlier than usual, instead of later.

He hurriedly put his briefcase in the back and climbed into the car. The engine started, and within minutes, he would be home to his family.

CHAPTER 4

Friday 30th January 2004, 4:10pm

Amy looked out of the living room window for probably the hundredth time in the last five minutes.

Beyond the empty road and driveway, the sun was setting and what little daylight remained was fading quickly.

She was not concerned.

It didn’t take a crystal ball or a magic mirror from one of the kids’ books to see what had become of Jake. One of Jake’s windbag colleagues was talking his ear off again.

How many times had they had that conversation? Be stern with them. Say you’re leaving.

Say you can’t talk, and that you’ll catch up with them next time. Even if you won’t. It’s what people do!

But Jake couldn’t do that. It was as infuriating as it was adorable.

He was so sweet and kind that they hadn't ever had a proper fight in nearly ten years of marriage. That was no small achievement these days.

With so many couples at each other’s throats all the time, home needed to be a place of calm, not confrontation.

Even so, if he kept metaphorically lying down and letting people talk all over him, he would never grow any kind of a backbone. He was a little too patient for his own good.

She was beginning to look at only two things around the house as she continued to wait, and each for only a couple of seconds.

First, she would look out of the window at the driveway, and then she would look to her left at the clock above the doorway leading to the dining room. As her gaze was shared between these two scenes, her eyes passed straight over the front door in between.

Almost twenty minutes late. It was not normal for Jake to be that polite when collared before leaving work. Surely, he would pull into the driveway at any minute.

Then there was a change in the light. A familiar-looking silver coloured car drove around the corner and slowed down on its approach to the red brick paved driveway.

She turned to face up the stairs. Kids, your father's home.

Within seconds a rumbling signalled the two small boys charging down the stairs from their bedrooms to greet their father.

Yes, it was a cheesy, typical movie-style greeting for a father returning home from work, but it was fun to watch.

She would open the front door; the kids would bolt out and run to the car to greet Jake as he stepped out and walked towards the house.

She always stood just beyond the covered porch area as he greeted their two sons, before he would walk towards the door and give her a kiss on his way through the doorway.

Whatever the weather, the same scene always followed that silver Mercedes pulling into the driveway.

The only variable was the closing of the front door behind her during the winter months. Jake was forever pointing out the expense and ineffectiveness of attempting to heat the great outdoors.

As she opened the door, the two little boys, aged six and eight, ran past her with enough force to knock over a medium-sized animal.

They reached the car and paused.

In the dimming light and over the bright car headlights, it wasn’t easy to see who was in the car.

But it wasn’t Jake.

Shadowy figures occupied both the driver and passenger seats.

Her eyes quickly lowered to the number plate. It was different. This wasn't their car.

Amy called out to the boys. Maybe the tremors in her voice weren’t obvious. Kids, get back in the house. That's not your father.

They didn't move. Jason, James, get back in the house this very minute.

Start with the oldest. Sound serious and they’ll know you’re serious.

They didn't need the final stage, which involved their full names and a direct order.

They turned around and started walking slowly back to the house.

Who is it, Mum? asked Jason, disappointed.

What do they want? added James with a frown.

Kids always seemed to think parents had the answer to everything. On this occasion, she came up short. Perhaps it was a new work colleague or a friend to whom she had never been introduced.

A tall,