Past Imperfect

by Graham Debenham

part 6 of 10

During the walk down to the visitor’s area, Nigel’s mind was in overdrive mode. In the last couple of hours he had gone back forty years, changed his past and then shot forward another decade in order to see what a monumental stuff-up he had made of his life the second time around. Whoever was responsible for this so-called second chance had a very warped sense of humour.

The most annoying thing was that he was only around long enough to provide the catalyst for the change. As soon as he stood up to Tommy Wellard — as an adult in a child’s body — he changed his past, but he wasn’t there long enough to monitor those changes. As soon as he moved on, so to speak, the child took over again and, without the maturity to differentiate between good and bad, chose the easy option.

Six years of being the underdog in primary school, and now he was king of the schoolyard. It would have been enough to turn any eleven-year old’s head.

He considered his options. He was now — in this existence — twenty something years of age. He assumed that he would remain here until he made another change in his past. Unfortunately, not knowing the outcome of this particular past, he had no way of knowing how to change it for better of for worse.

For better or for worse.

He remembered saying those very words on his wedding day.

His wedding day.

That would have been around this time, in his own existence. He couldn’t imagine that Cynthia would have waited for him to complete three prison terms, no matter how brief. In fact she probably gave him up as a lost cause as soon as he became the head honcho at Taplow Street Comprehensive.

It was losing Cynthia that made this whole episode such a waste of time. Even if he had managed to control his new-found power as a child and turned his new inner strength into a tool for good rather than evil, it would all have been for nothing without Cynthia.

And now, he had probably lost her for good. She would have gravitated towards the more studious students — maybe even Terry — and would have been totally turned off by Nigel’s new-found bravado, not to mention his new circle of friends.

She would have gone on to university and probably gone out with Roddy Millington. He didn’t think that she would have married him. Roddy wasn’t the marrying type. But then again, in his own existence, Nigel wasn’t the criminal type either.

He stopped outside the visitor’s area. There was only one way out of this unusual predicament. He had to change the past back to the way it was. Well, not exactly the way it was, but close enough so that he and Cynthia might at least have a chance to meet again and rekindle their relationship. It wouldn’t be easy; after all, he now had an extensive criminal history, but he had to try or the whole exercise was a waste of time.

He opened the door. Inside was a small ante-room with a desk, behind which sat a prison officer. A second officer stood next to a door opposite.

The first officer was writing on a sheet of paper. He looked up as Nigel entered. “Name?”

“Compton.”

The officer looked up slowly. “Forgotten our manners, have we?”

“Sorry. Compton, sir.”

The man smiled. “Number, name, then the honorific if you don’t mind.”

Nigel panicked. He had no idea what his number was. He looked around at the other officer, who just smiled and shook his head.

The first officer put his pen on the desk and leaned back, folding his arms. “You know Jim,” he said, addressing the other officer, his gaze fixed on Nigel, “it never ceases to amaze me why we go to all the trouble of dehumanizing these people by giving them numbers, when they can’t even remember them.”

“I know what you mean,” Jim said. “We even have the numbers sewn on the front of their nice clothes, and they still can’t remember.”

Nigel glanced down at the front of his prison-issue grey shirt. Over the right breast pocket was a grey rectangular patch with a number stenciled in black.

He looked up again. “13679, Compton, sir.”

The first officer leaned forward and picked up his pen. He held out his hand. “Authority?”

Nigel handed over the sheet of paper that Miss Crawley had given him.

The officer perused the document for several seconds before copying several details onto the sheet in front of him. He initialed the authority and put it on to a pile of similar sheets in a tray on the desk. “Number three.” He said, indicating the other door.

Jim opened the door indicated off to the left. On the other side of the door was a narrow passage running from left to right. Running along the opposite wall was a row of cubicles. each of these was open at the back and facing a clear glass window. There was a chair in each cubicle, and a small shelf under each window. At the edge of the windows, on each side of the glass was a telephone handset.

Most of the cubicles were in darkness. Only those in use were illuminated by a low wattage light bulb on each side of the glass. Nigel walked down the row of cubicles until he reached number three. He entered, sat down on the chair and looked at his visitor.

The blonde woman on the other side of the glass picked up her handset and held it to her right ear. Nigel did likewise.

“Hello, Nigel,” she said flatly.

Nigel looked at her through the glass and his eyes misted over. “Hello, Cynthia.”

* * *