Acme Time Travel Incorporated - Volume 2
Coca-Cola light Thursday 13th July 2017 9:15 pm

Clacton Pier

It was dusk, and the lights in Clacton-on-Sea were clicking on. It had been a warm day, but a light cloud had thickened up and the onshore breeze gave a chill to the air. Gabriel had cycled down to the pier, leaving his bicycle chained to the railings lining the promenade. The pier was closed at this time of evening, but the local kids could easily scale the security barriers, and often congregated there. Gabriel sat with his back to the wall, next to the entrance to the children’s ride called the Tea-Cup Enchantment. A Coca-Cola machine was placed next to the entrance, and it was still switched on. It was casting a pale pink glow onto the semi-dark pier, with its cobwebbed Victorian girders and peeling wooden slats.

“Are you alright, Gabriel?” Vicky asked.

Gabriel stared, seemingly transfixed by the Coca-Cola glow.

Gabriel hadn’t wanted to go back to his mum’s flat. He had needed somewhere quiet. Somewhere to have a private conversation. He had needed somewhere to begin to understand the ‘thing’, the ‘device’ that was strapped to his wrist.

NOTE if you are interested in how Gabriel came to have this ‘thing’ strapped to his wrist, please download a copy of Acme Time Travel Incorporated - Volume 1

“Gabriel ... are you alright?”

He had often come here. It was often quiet here. Sometimes other people turned up. Some were his friends, others not. Boys brought their girlfriends here. Drunks and druggies brought their own personal forms of entertainment. If you wanted space, you could replace it here.

“Gabriel ... if you are worried that someone else might hear me, I can provide you with a tiny ear-piece. Only you would hear me. Do you wish me to do that?”

Gabriel considered the suggestion. He hadn’t really given the idea any thought, but Vicky’s suggestion made sense.

“Yes please, Vicky. That would probably be a good idea.”

“Hold out your hand please, Gabriel, palm facing upwards.”

Gabriel did so, and instantly he felt as if something very tiny had been placed on his hand.

“Insert it into your ear, Gabriel ... either one. Whilst you are wearing it, I will be able to talk to you purely through that device.”

Gabriel picked up the tiny device. It felt like a piece of putty, soft and mouldable. Tentatively he pushed it into his right ear. He could feel it beginning to mould itself to the shape of his ear. Soon it felt very secure and not uncomfortable.

“Does that feel ok, Gabriel?” Vicky asked, her voice sounding very close and very distinct.

It felt as though he was wearing a set of expensive headphones.

“You won’t need to speak very loudly to me, Gabriel. I will be able to hear your faintest whisper,” advised Vicky.

“Yes, that’s great Vicky,” Gabriel replied, but he could feel the terseness in his own voice.

“Gabriel ... Gabriel. I sense that something is wrong. Is there a problem? Is it something that I can help with?”

“There’s something that you’re not telling me, Vicky.”

“I thought that John and I had explained everything. How I arrived, how John found me, how I cured him, why I am afraid to teleport, how I have helped him over the years, how ...”

“I think that is the bit that is missing,” interrupted Gabriel. “When John said that he wanted you to accompany me, you weren’t just upset at leaving a friend. There was something else. There is something else. What is it, Vicky?”

Vicky seemed to sigh.

“Unless I stay in physical contact with John, his medical condition will rapidly deteriorate; probably over a period of a few weeks. His original catatonia will probably return first, meaning that he will shortly lose the power of movement and speech. His mind will still be active, but with no power to act or react to stimulus. Then, when John is unable to move of his own volition, or communicate with those around him, it is likely that he will begin to suffer from the effects of dementia. I have kept it at bay for many years, but it will rapidly overtake him. He will become confused, forgetful, angry ...”

“And he won’t even be able to communicate his feelings to anyone, will he?” Gabriel said, horrified.

“No, he will not,” Vicky said.

“And he could be like that in a few weeks?”

“Did you know,” said Vicky, “that John’s wife, Mary, she herself suffered from dementia for many years? I could have helped her, staved off the illness, but it would have required for me to be permanently attached to her. It was both John and Mary’s tragedy that both needed me to be in permanent contact with them, to maintain their health. A decision needed to be taken; which one I should assist. John wanted me to help Mary, but Mary won in the end ... and I helped John. So, I helped John, and John watched Mary’s dementia take her away from him. He loved her and cared for her, past the point where she knew who he was. It ground his soul into the dust. I didn’t think that he would be able to bear it.”

“And now John has given himself up to that same fate,” said Gabriel.

“I think maybe he sees no better outcome,” said Vicky forlornly.

Gabriel stared into the pale glow from the Coca-Cola machine, as if looking for wisdom.

. . . . . . . .

“If he had had another device, another device such as yourself, Vicky, then both John and Mary could have been helped,” Gabriel mused.

“Maybe that’s true, Gabriel, but I would not have been able to request another STU device. I was designed with the facilities to request ‘equipment’, such as could be used by clients on their tours, but I could not request another STU. You should know that STUs are very expensive pieces of equipment, and each client is assigned one solely for their personal help whilst on a tour. We are not ‘given away free’ like a toy to a child.”

Gabriel pondered on Vicky’s words.

“But if your time travel function did work, then could you not have taken John to your future time? He could have asked for another STU for Mary.”

“Gabriel. You must understand that I am, in effect, an employee of a very large company who operates in the very high-end luxury market of personal time and space travel. The clients who go on the space/time tours are very very wealthy, and they pay vast sums of money for the privilege. I do not believe that ACME INC would give away a STU as a free medical assistance facility.”

“But ... maybe ...,” Gabriel said.

“Let me illustrate the point,” said Vicky. “I know of an occasion where an ACME client was on a tour when his son became very ill. The client’s wife and son had remained at home ... partly due to the boy’s ill-health. The boy became gravely ill, and the client’s wife contacted ACME, asking if they would allow her son to be cared for by ACME’s medical facilities. It was widely recognised that ACME had one of the best medical centres available anywhere. As she said, if anyone could save her son, it would be ACME’s MEDI-CARE facility.”

“So, what happened?” Gabriel said.

“ACME refused to allow her son to be cared for. They argued that contractually, the client, her husband, had full health cover with them, and if anything should happen to him whilst on tour, then ACME’s full medical resources would be put at his disposal. Unfortunately, his wife and son had no such covering agreement. ACME insisted that they were not prepared to provide medical services outside of their legally bound contract. They said that they feared for any legal repercussions in the event that they offered their services, but the patient died anyway. They refused to be moved on the issue.”

“And?”

“And the son died,” Vicky said.

“But ... surely ...,” Gabriel said.

“ACME was prepared to take a very strong stance on that issue,” Vicky explained, “to safeguard themselves against similar situations in the future. They knew that there would be a strong media back-lash, but they stayed firm. They stayed firm until the media frenzy died.”

“So, you think,” said Gabriel, “that even if it had been possible to safely teleport John into the future, that they would not have offered him a second STU?”

“On the evidence available, I would suggest that it would be highly unlikely that they would have given him a STU. The boy who died ... his mother ... she put forward a very strong case to ACME INC. She argued that they had the medical technology to help him. She had even managed to get one of ACME’s medical staff to confirm to her that ACME definitely had the equipment necessary to save her son. Even then, with that information, and with the weight of the media behind her, she was unable to get them to help her son.”

“Why on Earth would they choose not to ...?” Gabriel said, stopping as he heard footsteps on the pier’s wooden planking. He looked up to see Rebecca walking towards him. She was about his own age, but, if he hadn’t already known that, her heavy make-up would have made it difficult to guess her true age. She had on a tight low-cut top, with a short skirt and high heels that clicked on the wooden slats. She had two boys in tow, walking slightly behind her. Rebecca always had boys in tow. Gabriel recognised these two; Pete and Slammer. They were probably about Gabriel’s age. They were both big guys. They tended to work out a lot. He’d seen them about, but he’d never spoken to them. They both seemed to hang around playgrounds ... the ones grudgingly sited near grim tower blocks. They would haul themselves up and down on the climbing frames; building up impressive sets of muscles. Young girls, some very young, would stand around and admire them. Gabriel hadn’t seen them fight, but he reckoned they probably relied a lot on intimidation. The sort of exercises these guys did were good for lifting heavy weights, including themselves, but they didn’t necessarily improve your chances in a fight.

Unless they got in a lucky blow ... in which case you were probably fucked.

“Hiya Gabs,” called Rebecca, “watcha doing?”

“Just hangin’,” Gabriel called back.

Pete and Slammer caught up with Rebecca.

“Evening, nig,” Pete said.

Slammer chuckled to himself.

Gabriel didn’t really want to engage any of them in conversation. He found that in any prolonged conversation, Rebecca would eventually become abusive. And he could see from Pete’s opening words that he probably hadn’t had a fight all night and was probably looking for one now.

“Not seen ya about,” Rebecca sneered. “You too good for us, nar you gotta job then?”

Pete sidled up beside Rebecca and began stroking her bottom, looking up and sneering at Gabriel as he did so.

“Always pleased to see you, Rebecca,” Gabriel responded.

He was feeling strangely emboldened tonight. In such a situation he would typically have been tongue-tied by now. His nerves in front of girls would always get the better of him. In strange contrast, however, he had no nerves when confronted by guys looking for a fight. It was a learned response. He had been brought up ... well ... more dragged up, in some tough areas of London. He knew full well that an open display of nerves was only going to worsen the situation. And he knew he was a pretty fit guy; quick responses and light on his feet. And he knew the value of avoiding being hit; once you were down, it got a fuck sight worse after that point. He also knew from direct experience, if you got the chance, stop the other guy before he got one in. And then stop him from getting any more in.

“You’re not being a smart-arsed cunt are you, Gabs?” Rebecca said.

Gabriel heard a whispering in his ear – “Are you ok with this?” Vicky said.

“I’m fine,” Gabriel whispered back.

“Hey nig,” said Pete. “Don’t you know you should show some respect to white girls?”

Gabriel pondered on the fact that neither Pete nor Slammer had ever seen him fight. He and his mum had only moved up from London last November. They might well have seen Gabriel wandering about, but he guessed that they knew little about him.

Other than that he was mixed-race.

“I can help get you out of here,” Vicky said, with an air of worry in her voice.

“How are you gonna do that?” Gabriel said. “I thought you couldn’t ...”

“Talking to yourself ain’t gonna help you nig,” Pete said. “Not unless you think playing a moron’s gonna ...”

“Shut the fuck up, Pete,” Gabriel said. “I’m trying to listen to somebody.”

Pete turned to Slammer. They seemed to reach some unspoken agreement.

“I can ...,” Vicky said.

“I think it’ll have to wait,” Gabriel said.

Behind him he knew was a section of the pier that housed reels of cable, spare parts for the rides and old chairs waiting to be fixed. He turned and walked past the Coca-Cola machine and on into the darkened section of the pier beyond.

“Where the fuck you going then?” Rebecca quipped.

Gabriel’s boots crunched over the years of accumulated debris. He felt a cobweb brush against his face. He waited until his eyes got used to the darkness.

He heard footsteps behind him. Heavy footsteps.

At his feet was a metal bar, just over three feet long, about one inch thick. It was used, amongst other things, to pry the roller-coaster rides back onto the tracks.

He knelt down and picked it up.

He heard the footsteps behind him stop.

He turned. Pete was standing about three feet away from him. Slammer was standing to Pete’s left, and slightly behind. Gabriel reckoned that Slammer would wait to see what happened. It probably seemed to him like a forgone conclusion anyway, so he would probably be in no immediate hurry to join in.

Also, Slammer hadn’t actually joined in any of the banter thus far, which sometimes suggested no real desire to engage.

“Ok, nig ... let’s ...,” Pete said, taking a step forward.

Gabriel watched as Pete’s left leg came forwards. He saw Pete plant it firmly on the ground. It was maybe a foot in front of Gabriel. He was cocking his right arm back. He seemed to be taking his time about it. Pete was all about intimidation. He wanted you to know you were going to get hurt. It was, Gabriel guessed, intended to be the forerunner to a heavy roundhouse punch to Gabriel’s jaw.

Gabriel swung the metal bar into Pete’s solidly-planted left leg. He aimed for the knee. He felt the bar crunch into the bone. He let the bar’s momentum lose itself completely in Pete’s leg. Then he stepped back, bringing the bar up and diagonally across his chest, left hand low, right hand high.

Pete had collapsed to the ground. He was shrieking in pain. He didn’t seem to know whether to bend his leg against his chest or whether to keep it straight.

Gabriel ignored him.

Slammer hadn’t moved.

“Hit him, you fucker,” Rebecca shouted.

Gabriel assumed that this was a cue for Slammer.

Slammer smiled, more to himself than to anyone else.

“I should call it in,” Slammer said to Rebecca. “I think the show’s over for tonight.”

Slammer turned and walked away. “Catch you around, nig boy,” he said.

Gabriel heard him. He didn’t think Slammer was being abusive. Rather it sounded more like ... almost like a sense of respect.

“I’ll get you. I’ll fucking get you ... you cunt,” Pete snarled at Gabriel.

Gabriel looked down at Pete. He swung the metal bar again; a big, lazy strike.

It crunched down onto Pete’s right shin.

Rebecca stood watching, horrified.

Gabriel knelt and picked up some rags.

He wiped the bar down ... then threw it into the darkness.

He heard it crash down ... into the mounds of cables, chairs, broken rides.

He turned and walked away.

“You bastard,” he heard Rebecca shout.

Gabriel half-turned. “See you around, then, Rebecca,” he said. “Shame Slammer didn’t hang around, eh?”

“You ...,” she began.

“He thought the show was over,” Gabriel said, chuckling. “He didn’t realise there was going to be an encore.”