The Long Second (The Cole Trilogy, Part 1)

By Marshall Buckley

"Possibly the best ending to a book I have ever read" Our Book Reviews Online

Fraud, betrayal, drugs, love. Time-travel.

That's a lot for Tony Cole to deal with.

If you could travel back in time, you'd win the lottery, right? If only it were that easy. Even time-travel has to obey some rules, but as nobody seems to have written them down, Tony is going to have to work them out for himself. And he doesn't always get it right.

On the surface of it, his family is perfect, but scratch away the glossy coating and you'll find a family on the edge of disaster. Tony can try to fix all this, but every time he plasters over one hole, he uncovers another. Faced with his brother's betrayal he has to decide whether his life is worth saving, but even one death can have far-reaching consequences.

A thriller in the mould of Dean Koontz's Odd Thomas which will keep you guessing right to the last page.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marshall Buckley
• Release date: Jun 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458107688

Marshall Buckley

Marshall Buckley lives near London, UK and in Newfoundland, Canada. At the same time. He has a total of five children, three dogs, five cats and some small fish. These numbers change regularly. He is not as tired as you might imagine because he achieves all this by being two people. In March 2009 an innocent-looking Facebook post stated "I've an idea for a book, who wants to help me write it?" and, after a flurry of posts and emails, Marshall Buckley was born; very soon after, the result (which bears only a passing resemblance to that original idea) was The Long Second. The sequel, Broken, followed a few months later. The final part of the trilogy - Chronostasis - was published in March 2013. Playing Adam's Game is not part of the trilogy. Only Douglas Adams is allowed a trilogy of more than three parts. Work on the next book is well underway, though it has no definitive schedule. Its current title (which may change) is "The Dreams In Which I'm Dying".

Book preview

Chapter 1

It was one of those ‘Holy Shit!’ moments, an absolute revelation, a real ‘Why didn’t I think of this before?’ thing.

I’m not a greedy man; I don’t want to screw the world too much, so I figured I’d go for a simple £10 win. Nobody these days bothers with the Wednesday draw so I thought I’d do that one. Not that the National Lottery company are exactly struggling or anything, but I thought I’d help them out a bit. Except I wouldn’t really, not financially. I’d be helping their sales figures, if not their profits.

I don’t usually watch the draw, the presenters drive me mad. So chummy, so happy. Still, they presumably don’t bother doing the lottery themselves. I assume they don’t need to, being paid stupidly high salaries. They probably wouldn’t be allowed anyway – one of those disclaimer clauses you see everywhere these days:

‘May contain nuts’;

‘Your home is at risk if you do not keep up repayments’;

‘May cause drowsiness, do not drive or operate machinery if affected’;

‘Typical APR 0%’;

...And so on. But their contracts probably do say ‘Employees or agents of National Lottery may not claim prizes’ or some such.

But, tonight, I have to. It’s pretty torturous, but I endure it. The six numbers – plus the bonus – come out, and I choose just three of them in order to win £10. Then I wait…

Ti…

Okay, here we go. Entry closes at 7:30pm, need a bit of time to fill in the draw slip and pay. Don’t really want to do the rest of the day again, though, so not too much time. Seven o’clock will do. There’s a retailer down the street, I can get there in time.

…ck

Seven. Spot on. Ten minutes to walk down the road so plenty of time. We don’t typically buy tickets – why would we, when Dad has been bringing in so much money? That would have been pretty selfish. A bit like those people who win millions and claim it won’t change them and that they’ll be back at work on Monday. To hell with that! Why bother doing the lottery if it’s not going to change you? Why go back to work? You think your workmates are going to treat you the same? Unlikely, I’d say. And your job could go to someone else, someone who really needs it.

If you do the lottery, you do it precisely because you do want it to change you – or at least change your financial outlook. And, no matter that they say that money can’t buy you happiness, it sure can buy you security. You might say you’d rather be poor and happy than rich and unhappy, but that’s missing the point. Wouldn’t you rather be rich and happy? How come no-one ever mentions that option?

So, I can hardly pop out claiming I’m off to buy lottery tickets. Not that I need an excuse to leave the house, of course, but it’s courtesy to say ‘Bye’ as you leave, and if you’re going to be returning pretty soon, then someone is going to think ‘that’s odd…’

I check the fridge and notice we’re a little low on milk. Not desperately so, Manuela is good at keeping on top of that (amongst other things) but a little low. Just to be sure, I pour myself a glass, just to make it look more genuine.

Ah, ice cold milk. Fabulous. I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed cold milk. It’s not something you drink much as an adult. Just to be rebellious, I take a swig directly from the carton. Mum hates that, and Manuela would go mad if she caught me, but I’m feeling brave tonight.

There’s still some milk left, obviously. There would be all sorts of questions raised if we actually ran out. For Manuela it would be a matter of pride, a failing to undertake her duties with her normal efficiency. Not that anyone else is likely to be concerned. Well, except Cal, but then he’d just make a fuss for the hell of it.

The minutes are ticking by, but it’s okay, still plenty of time. I check my wallet. Shit! No cash – how awkward would that have been? Okay, not exactly the end of the world, I could have waited until Saturday and tried again, but if you’re anything like me, when you get an idea you want to do it there and then, not wait another four days.

There’s usually an amusingly named ‘emergency fund’ in the kitchen, but I can’t find it. I suppose recent events have become the aforementioned emergency – my need for lottery tickets hardly comes under the same classification.

Up in my room – now very aware of the time ticking past – I dig through various trouser and jacket pockets and – yes! – find a long-forgotten tenner and a fist full of change. Right, let’s go.

Just off to get some milk! I call, before running out of the house. I’ve got about ten minutes to get to the shop before the draw closes, and the shop is about ten minutes away. And the door has just closed behind me. And I don’t have my keys so can’t just jump in the car. Damn! I’m going to have to run, and I don’t – as a rule – do running.

Seven minutes later I’m at the shop and frighteningly out of breath. Mental note: need more exercise.

My plan is to buy ten tickets at £1 each: spend £10, win £10 on one line, break even, prove the theory. No-one loses out. If I didn’t buy the ticket, I wouldn’t win, and they would be ten pounds up; if I buy one ticket and win, they’re £9 down – but if I buy ten tickets and win ten pounds, then we’re even. Seems fair to me.

Right, milk: done. Lottery ticket: nine lucky dips and one line from earlier: 3, 11, 12, 21, 39, 48 – only three of those numbers actually came up, so that should be an easy £10.

I just about make it to the pay-point in time – who would have thought there would be a queue this time of the evening?

Thankfully, I can walk home at a steady pace. That’s a good thing as I’m feeling really tired. Shocking.

I’ve a couple of hours until the draw. I know that I have to try, as much as possible, to keep things the same as before. The more time I have to cover, the harder that is, but when I’m at home it’s not too difficult. There’s always the risk I’ll accidentally affect something, I suppose, but as far as I know it hasn’t happened yet.

It had been an uneventful evening, in truth. Cal was out, Debs in her room doing her homework or on the computer, Dad still at work, and Mum watching TV. Easy enough to recreate. Just get the milk into the fridge and carry on as before.

Mind if we watch the lottery draw?

Why? You haven’t bought tickets have you?

Just one, I was feeling lucky today.

That’s a mug’s game, but if you want, there’s nothing else on.

The presenter is, as expected, annoying. Come on, get on with it. At least the ball announcer is professional, though how he gathers the information on each ball is beyond me.

That’s number 29. Sixtieth time as a main ball, last drawn nine weeks ago when the jackpot was a double-rollover.

I hit mute. I don’t need the waffle, just the numbers.

After 29 comes 10 then 22. Three balls, no matches. I hope I haven’t messed this up. Mind you, they were the other 3 numbers I’d noted down earlier, just not the ones I picked for my ticket.

Next ball: 48. That’s one. Then 3 – second number. Final ball: 12. Yes! Three balls, £10. It works. Fantastic.

Hey, I won £10! I hope my surprise sounds genuine.

That’s nice. Don’t spend it all at once, love. There’s just a hint of sadness there, as if she had hoped (against her better judgement, and she would never have admitted it) that I might actually win the jackpot. That would certainly solve a lot of problems. A lot of problems.

But maybe, just maybe, I can do that.

Saturday’s draw is always bigger. There are plenty of people who don’t agree with the midweek draw, seeing it as a cynical attempt to take more money from the desperate and the hopeful – which it clearly is.

Those that criticise the midweek draw will often be those who participate on Saturday though. Clearly that is neither desperate nor hopeful.

By chance, and something I didn’t notice when I watched Wednesday’s draw both times, this Saturday’s draw is double-rollover. This means nobody matched all six numbers on Wednesday or last Saturday, and so the jackpot is much bigger than usual. As I said, I’m not greedy, but a bigger than usual prize would be pretty useful right now.

While we don’t usually watch the Wednesday draw, we do watch the Saturday one, but only because they make more of an effort to make the show entertaining. The presenter is still irritating, but he’s slightly more tolerable.

The draw is announced. This week we are using machine ‘Dekdu’ and set of balls number 3, chosen by Piotr Kasowsky of Shillingworth earlier today.

Shillingworth? That’s just down the road. Not that I know Piotr, though.

The balls come out – 29-5-17-12-33-7 – a couple from earlier in the week! I make a note and leave the room.

It appeals to me to buy the tickets in Shillingworth. It’s not far.

I check the time and wait…

Ti…

It’s 5pm; Shillingworth is about a 20 minute drive, so plenty of time, but Wednesday’s experience taught me not to cut the timings too close, even if that means reliving some of the day.

…ck

It’s a bright, sunny day, and the drive is cross-country so it’s quite a treat – especially to be away from the oppressive atmosphere in the house at the moment. I know it’s inevitable, everyone is under pressure; the rug has suddenly been pulled. After years of living the carefree high-life this has come hard to everyone. But it’s okay, the solution is in my hands, and it’s so easy I’m amazed I’ve been able to stop myself from laughing.

Shillingworth is busier than I expected considering it’s so late in the afternoon, and I have trouble getting parked. Eventually I see a space and jump in – but it appears another guy had his eye on it. I’m pretty sure I saw it first, but still he seems pretty unhappy.

As I get out of the car I hear what sounds like sukinsyn being shouted at me. I’ve no idea what that means, and choose to ignore it, but he glares as he roars past, driving faster than is safe or necessary in the cramped car park.

On my way to the newsagent I see a small crowd of people, and I realise that these must be the lottery representatives, about to find Piotr and have him pick the machine and balls, and realise I need to stay away. In fact, now I think about it, coming here was a mistake – a rollover winner buying his ticket in the same place the draw machine was chosen? Sure, that could just be a coincidence, but would that arouse suspicion? I’m pretty sure there’s nothing they could do, there’s obviously no evidence of any wrong-doing, but I really don’t want the hassle of any level of questioning.

No. Coming here was wrong. I need to leave and buy my tickets elsewhere.

It’s not yet six o’clock so I still have plenty of time. Back at the car, the abusive man has gone – either he managed to get parked or he just went home. I figure I’ll drive for half an hour or so, find a big supermarket and get the ticket there. I’ll buy a couple, just to make sure it doesn’t look suspicious, and then we’re done.

Back at home in time for dinner – again. Another of Manuela’s specialities: espetadas followed by pão de ló (Manuela sometimes writes down what we’re having so we know what to expect, but fundamentally it’s some sort of kebabs followed by little cakes). Thankfully, this is one of her smaller dishes. That’s one of the problems: having to eat multiple meals. I swear I gain pounds every time I jump.

When the draw comes on I’m trying my hardest to be nonchalant. I’m about to turn this family around – or, at least, to start the process – and it’s hard to be cool and calm under those circumstances. With money – real money – behind us, we can start to fix things. I hope.

I’m only really half watching, trying hard to stay calm. Mum notices I have a ticket again.

Feeling lucky again, Tony?

Yeah. I know it’s stupid really, but someone has to win, so why not us? We could sure use it right now.

Oh, listen, they chose the machine in Shillingworth. Maybe that’ll be lucky for us.

Let’s hope so.

She smiles, and it’s a sad, thin smile. She needs this win. Hang on, Mum, not long now.

And the first ball is… number 29. One down.

Ball two… number 23. Yes! Hang on… no! No? 23?

Ball number 3 is… number 18.

And so it went on… next came 4, then 11 and finally 44.

I only had one number.

How could that happen?

Did we win, Tony?

No, sorry, not even close. Only one number.

Never mind. Never mind… Her voice trails off. Just for a moment there, she believed. I think she really believed.

Up in my room, I don’t understand what went wrong. As soon as I saw the lottery people in Shillingworth, I left. It would have been weird to have stayed – and I might have interfered with the process.

No. Something bigger is at play here. Maybe there’s something I haven’t learned yet. Maybe, just maybe, this was too easy. There are no easy answers. You can’t just win your way back on track. On Wednesday, I spent ten pounds and won ten pounds – all in balance, nobody loses. Today I spent two pounds trying to win £12 million. A bit of an imbalance there.

Could that be it? Could ‘karma’ be at play here?

If I win the lottery, that doesn’t excuse what Dad did, but it would go a long way to compensating all those who lost out. It wouldn’t have solved everything, but it would have been a start.

But it was too easy. Much too easy. It can’t work like that. Damn!

2008

Friday 12 December

Chapter 2

It’s another beautiful, fresh December morning out there. It’s now 8 o’clock and time for the news with Mike Stephens.

Starting once again with the stock markets. After another volatile day yesterday, the FTSE this morning has opened slightly higher…

Stock Markets? On a Saturday?

Oh, shit! It’s not Saturday, it’s Friday. I hate it when that happens. I know it’s like wishing your life away, but those first few seconds after you wake up, and then realise it’s not the day you were hoping for, well… I’m just not very good at mornings.

Still, at least being Friday, it’s a short day. We do 9 to 5 Monday to Thursday, but only 9 to 3 on Fridays. POETS Day we call it – Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. Or ‘Push Off’ if there are ladies present. We’re not all uncouth on the factory floor, you know.

After a couple of failed attempts I manage to find the ‘Off’ button on the alarm, and the perpetual doom and gloom of the newsreader is silenced. Frankly, I’m tired of hearing about it; it wasn’t that many months ago that the media were all bemoaning that house prices were rising too fast, that we were all spending too much, and basically enjoying ourselves more than we should. God forbid that we should enjoy ourselves! Now that their dreams have come true and house prices are sliding and nobody is spending any money (except Mum, obviously) it’s like Armageddon has struck.

Talk about media-induced frenzy. They absolutely love it.

Sure, it had to come to a stop eventually, but the suddenness of it all, exacerbated by the second-by-second accounts that are now available on-line and on 24-hour TV mean that there is never time for anyone to take a breath, take stock (but not buy stock!), and consider their position. It used to be that you had to wait for tomorrow’s Financial Times before you found out how the markets – and your personal portfolio – were performing. Now you can find out almost in real-time, which means that the daily fluctuations which you wouldn’t have seen can now look like you’re about to either win or lose big, depending on how fast you can react.

To be honest, I’m not even that interested, but years of listening to Dad’s mutterings mean it must have sunk in after all. Except I’ve never invested a single penny.

I sit up in bed and wipe the sleep from my eyes, have the obligatory scratch of all the appropriate places and run my fingers through my hair. A quick glance in the small mirror which Laura insists on leaving there confirms I’m not a pretty sight: red eyes, messy hair long overdue for a cut and stubble which is never quite long enough to look designer, but always long enough to look scruffy. Scruffy: now there’s a word that pretty much defines me. Even when ‘scrubbed up’ I still look scruffy. I’m only comfortable in messy, loose, ill-fitting clothes (ideally shorts, but baggy jeans or track pants will do), t-shirts, trainers. I’d be the epitome of a ‘sk8tr-boi’ if I had any balance. I like to wear as few layers as possible, even in winter. And never, under any circumstances – not even funerals and weddings – a tie. I’ll wear a suit if I really have to, under extreme duress, but nothing will get a tie around my neck. Stupid things.

I like my hat though; shapeless woollen thing, I think it’s called a tuque; a friend bought it back from Canada when he went skiing. I don’t go anywhere without it. If nothing else, it means I don’t have to worry too much about my haircut. Not until Laura complains, anyway.

Stumbling, still half-asleep, across my room, I reach the door and am about to head for the shower when it occurs to me that I ought to put something on, just in case I run into Debs. A quick scout around finds yesterday’s discarded boxers. A quick sniff: yeah, they’ll do.

A quick wash and brush, followed by an equally quick breakfast and I’m out the door. Parked outside is my pride and joy – my little white van complete with sharp black graphics, white wheels, blackened windows and chrome exhaust. None of which change the fact that it runs like a dog, but it looks great when it’s parked or when I’m cruisin’. One of these days I’ll actually spend some money on the mechanicals, but seeing as nobody ever sees those, it seems a bit of a waste.

When the radio in the car comes on it’s all about the markets again; the FTSE has already dropped after its initial gains this morning. Yawn. Move on.

Before I know it – and certainly far too soon after I woke up – I’m at the factory gates. Already the smell of brick is in the air – actually it’s pretty prevalent all around town, but especially strong this time of the morning in the staff car park. It looks like the wind is blowing against us today so by the time I leave this evening the car will be covered in a fine layer of red dust.

There’s a fair amount of camaraderie walking in; it’s one of the few occasions in the day when the factory staff can actually talk normally to each other as the machinery on the floor is a little too loud for easy conversation – and the radio is, therefore, even louder so that it can be heard. Usually somebody is the butt of the latest joke; you can usually spot the victim a mile off – they have that cowed, beaten look to them. Not a good way to start the day.

There’s always a buzz in the locker room, though; anybody who’s been picked on in the car park is let off the hook by the time we’re all in there, and once we’re all changed into our overalls there’s a bit of a queue for the coffee machine. Though ‘coffee’ is stretching the definition a bit. It’s brown and it’s hot, but that’s about as far as it goes; it’s the last chance we’ll get for a couple of hours to have any kind of drink. It’s dusty out on the factory floor; you need to make sure you have plenty of fluids before you get out there.

To be fair, the next tea break has the drinks brought out to us, and then we obviously get the lunch break, but considering the amount of dust in the air it’s probably not enough, and the very nature of most of our jobs makes it difficult to just get up and walk away. In fact, difficult is understating it: it’s virtually impossible. In many cases, an unexpected absence can actually bring the line to a halt.

So there’s only really one way to get through the day – in between the various breaks – and that's to disappear into your own internal little world.

You have to understand that my job in the brick factory is the most tedious, mind numbing, soul destroying job in the world. All I do all day is line up the bricks as they come along the conveyor to make sure they can be stacked on the pallets correctly. It’s the same thing, hour after hour, day after day, week after week.

It pays only just above minimum wage, and that’s only because I’ve been there so long that I think they felt obliged to increase my salary a little. Every day I finish covered in dust and smelling of clay; it gets under your nails, in your hair, up your nose and ingrained into your skin. You smell brick, smell of brick, taste brick and sneeze brick.

And I absolutely love it.

Why?

For all the reasons above, and more. There are some people who work to live: they have no choice, they have bills to pay and mouths to feed. Others live to work: they enjoy the whole work-ethic and their days are filled with completing their every task to the best of their ability, to making others’ days better or easier or just making people happy. And then there’s me. I work because… it gives me time to think.

I don’t actually have to work, not really. I could get by on an allowance from Mum and Dad; they certainly have the cash to spare. I never would, though, and I’m pretty sure that Mum would soon get fed up of having me under her feet all the time.

You’d imagine that if I just wanted to ‘think’ I could do it at home, but it’s never seemed to work out that way for me. Home is full of interruptions and distractions, constant cups of tea, summons of ‘just come and see this’, that sort of thing.

At work, I can do this job with my eyes closed. Probably even single-handed with one tied behind my back. It’s utterly predictable and monotonous. Which gives me all the time in the world to think.

Well, I say ‘think’, what I really mean is I day-dream.

What do I dream about? Anything and everything. Women, obviously, though don’t tell Laura. Cars; my car in particular: what the next customisation will be. Another bolt-on (though I don’t think there are any areas left for new ones, maybe I’ll have to replace some of the existing kit with different parts); new graphics; a new paint-job perhaps. New wheels. Mechanical stuff, like… well, mechanical stuff.

It’s a bit telling that I’m more absorbed in the car thing than women. That’ll be Laura’s influence. If she ever found out I was spending even a tiny fraction of my time thinking about other women, my life wouldn’t be worth living. Not that it stops me, oh no, I’m just careful not to mention it.

I’m still a big kid, though, so I think about big kid stuff. Who doesn’t? I’m always wondering what the next game will be for my console; not that I’m any good at games, but I live in hope that one day someone will make one that even I can complete, given my chronic lack of hand-eye co-ordination. They haven’t yet, though, which leads me to think there’s an untapped market there.

And I think about super-powers. Just like everybody does, right? Do you remember as kids you used to ask each other what your super-power would be, if you could have anything? Most kids went for stuff like the ability to fly (pretty cool I admit), or super strength or speed (never interested me). Some went for obscure ones like being able to summon fire or ice – I could never work out the appeal of those, except as a bit of a party piece.

Me? I always went for invisibility. I wasn’t the only one; I’d say it was the third or fourth most popular. Thing is, none of us could ever actually come up with any decent justifiable use for it. We all knew why we wanted the power, but nobody would ever admit to it. I mean, we were teenage boys, of course we wanted to be able to stand, unseen, in the girls’ changing rooms. And if I’m honest, I’d still quite like to be able to stand unseen in the ladies’ changing rooms. That’s why we all wanted to be invisible.

Oh, and not forgetting time travel, though I could never really decide if that was classed as a super-power or not. It’d still be pretty cool, though, but again it was one of those ‘what would you do with it’ questions that I never seemed to have a good answer for. You always had some smart-Alec who would come up with ‘kill Hitler’, but (I think I read this somewhere), how do you know that doing that wouldn’t somehow make the whole thing worse? Maybe there was an even more evil dictator lying in the wings, who just never got his break because Adolf got there first.

I tend to clock-watch when I’m working/day-dreaming. It’s not so much that I’m waiting for the day to finish, as making sure I don’t miss the breaks or going home time. I mean, I like the job, tedium and all, but I certainly don’t have the desire to spend any more time here than I have to. Not on the money I get.

It was during one of these clock-watching moments that I first saw it. I can’t remember what I was thinking about (best guess is cars or women) but when I saw it, I sort of did a mental ‘eh?’ and then it was gone, so I put it down to my over active imagination and forgot about it.

A while later I saw it again. While glancing up at the clock it seemed as if the second-hand stopped. Yes, I know that strictly speaking it does stop, every second, but this seemed longer than that. Not much, just enough to register, turning one second into, I don’t know, 1.1 seconds, something like that.

Once I’d noticed it the first time, I seemed to see it constantly. Not all the time, but frequently. You should try it some time. You’ll need a watch or clock with a second-hand, obviously, though it works just as well with digital displays. Try to be casual about it, though, if you try to hard you won’t see it. Then, just look at the clock, with the intention of checking the time, nothing more.

Do you see it? Do you see the long second? No? Ah, must just be me then.

The other distraction is the radio. They have the radio on loud in the factory; it has to be loud to be heard over the machinery. I love listening to music, but I hate listening to this radio station. It’s so inane, so middle-of-the-road it ought to have a white line painted on it. I swear I could set my watch (if I wore one, they’re not allowed on the factory floor for health and safety reasons) by the times they play songs each day. A restricted playlist doesn’t even come close to describing it.

I get to hear odd snippets of gossip and information too. It’s as if they think that we can’t hear because we’re so absorbed in our work, and they’ll discuss anything. I’ve heard people talking about who’s having an affair with whom, who has money troubles, who might get a promotion (and whether they deserve it). And that’s just from the men.

You get to hear factory news too. I used to hear talk of training courses, career advancement and jobs for life, but more recently it’s been about cutbacks, belt-tightening, challenging conditions and, my personal favourite, leveraging our resources. It’s not pleasant, and I tend to keep those to myself.

I tend to keep my head down, to be honest. I’ve no desire to be a resource that is suddenly found to be surplus to requirements. So I sit there, lining up the bricks, listening to the radio and day-dreaming.

I checked the clock, and there it was again: a long second. That got me thinking – what if I could do something in that time, what would I do?

Did the rest of the world stop? It’s not easy to tell because you never have time to notice anything else. Before you have a chance to think about it, it’s passed. But if the world did stop, what could you do?

If you could make use of those long seconds, what would you do? What could you do? How long would you have? Could you take that fraction of a second and mould it, make it your own, stretch it for as long as you needed it, and then return back to where you were while everyone around you was oblivious to your absence, even if they were looking right at you and you at them? Gone in less than the blink of an eye, and back again.

Would you be selfish? Would you be honest? Could you change the world? Would you change the world, even if you could? Would you resist the urge to pry, to peep, to steal or to play pranks? Oh, come on, you know you would, at least once. Or twice. Three times tops. And what of the consequences? If you changed something, would anyone notice? Would they suddenly find the pen in their left hand instead of their right and know it had been moved, or would they simply wonder what it was doing there, or would their mind be fooled into thinking they were actually left-handed all along? Could you, literally, change other people’s minds? Would it drive them mad? Would it drive you mad?

Could you actually change the world, one step at a time? A very small cog in an enormous machine with the power to shift into another gear. But what if – as the saying goes – you trod on a butterfly? Could it really cause a tidal wave on the other side of the world? Could you live with the repercussions?

Could you travel in time? Which way would you go – forwards or backwards? How far? Fancy seeing the dinosaurs? No problem! Fancy seeing your great, great, great grand-daughter? Absolutely! But then you get into that paradox thing – what happens if you travel in time and bump into yourself? If you could travel in time, wouldn’t you already have met yourself, unless you can only go forwards? Argh! That makes my head hurt. Forwards would be cool, but I think backwards would be better – you’d have to be careful not to change anything major though. I wouldn’t want any tidal waves on my conscience.

Maybe you could go back and meet your parents before they started getting all crabby with each other – work out exactly what it was they saw in each other, find out when it started going so wrong. Mind you, that really would be fraught with danger, what if your mum ended up fancying you? Argh! Nightmare! And if you accidentally broke them up would you just disappear, vanish, without even having the chance to fix it, like in that film? No, time travel is too scary I reckon.

Tony! TONY!

I jumped and winced at the shout. Had I been too deep into the day-dream? Had I missed some bricks? Had I been spotted not paying attention? I glanced around hastily, looking and feeling very guilty, but saw only the amused face of Dave.

Hello? Is anybody home? He mocked.

Ha ha. What?

I dunno about you, mate, but the rest of us are going home. It’s three o’clock.

That was a surprise. At three the siren sounds, and it’s been said that it’s loud enough to wake the dead. But not loud enough to penetrate my day-dreams apparently. And if the siren didn’t alert me to the fact that it was home time, the sudden silence that follows the shutting down of the machines ought to have. It was quite eerie, actually, to be standing there in almost silence after all the noise. Even the radio had been switched off, mercifully.

Friday, three o’clock finish. Home time! Bring on the weekend!

First, of course, off to the accounts office to pick up my pay. Say what you like about this job – plenty do, and not much of it complimentary either – but there’s something to be said for being paid weekly and in cash. You can have it paid into your bank monthly, but while that might have been a good idea a couple of years ago, I’m not sure I trust the banks much these days. And monthly? How can you make a wage last a month? I like the feel of the cash in my hands, it’s tangible, real. Of course, it’s easier to spend when it’s burning a hole in your wallet, or so Dad keeps telling me – he always seems to look a little disappointed that I haven’t inherited his innate financial acumen – but why should I be thinking about saving at my age? What for? I’m living for now – or, to be exact, I’m living for the weekends and, no matter what, that always means money. Not that I’ve ever gone short – Mum sees to that, courtesy of Dad I’m sure, seeing as she has no independent income that I’m aware of. Not that he seems to have much choice in the matter.

I don’t take much from her, not often, only on special occasions, big weekends when Laura is going to wring every last penny