‘Better than letters warning people,’ I suggested.

  ‘Much,’ Jimmy carefully mouthed. ‘In the future, people watch the TV news – about some idiot behaving like an idiot - go online and complain about it, and an hour later the idiot stops doing what he’s doing; real democracy in action.

  ‘But in the future jobs are still crap, the tube is still crap, British Rail is still crap, plane flights are the same, cars are the same, houses are expensive as fuck – ten times the average salary, and night life goes to shit.’

  ‘Whooa there, buddy. Nightlife does what?’

  ‘They relax the licensing laws, so anyplace can stay open and put some music on, dance floor in a corner at the back. No more nightclubs, no one going out in suits after … say 1993. It’s all jeans and t-shirts.’

  ‘Jeans and t-shirts … in a fucking nightclub?’ I was staggered.

  Jimmy nodded reluctantly. ‘It’s why we’ll open our own.’

  ‘I knew there was a reason I hired you,’ I said loudly. We laughed. ‘Our own nightclub. Yes!’ I broached the subject of Jimmy’s fondness for the ladies. ‘If you’re, you know, so old – young looking with the wonder drugs and all – then mentally, you know, you’re old –’

  ‘Yes?’ Jimmy slowly let out, his brow pleated.

  ‘Then … inside … you’re old, yet you still like the young ladies–’

  ‘And … so?’

  ‘Well, there’s … you know … quite an age gap,’ I delicately suggested.

  ‘And you’re wondering why an old man would go for the young ladies instead of … what … a fine fifty-year-old. How do you think I would look with a fifty-year-old woman?’

  ‘Well, a bit silly really.’

  ‘Exactly, dopey.’ He sipped his beer and took a reflective moment. ‘When I got to Canada I was fifty, knackered and despondent – women were the last thing on my mind. The conditions were harsh and I grew old quickly; you do in those circumstances. When I became the Commissioner for European Refugees, some five years later, I had some power … and better food and living conditions than most. After a year or so I entertained the odd young lady, paid for in food like the rest, but it was not a priority. It felt … not right. So much death and starvation, it just doesn’t do anything for your libido. At least it didn’t for me at the age I was at.

  ‘The young men raped regularly, punished when they were caught – typically a week in solitary. Others used prostitutes, although it was fair to say that all women there would lift their skirts for extra rations; when you’re starving, all other considerations go out the window. People here don’t understand that because they’ve never lived through it, but the Second World War generation would understand.

  ‘There was one woman, a doctor under my command - Elizabeth her name was, who spent a great deal of time with me. I suppose you could say that she was a girlfriend. But one day she went to an outlying region and never came back - that happened a lot. And now … now I have to be very careful –’

  ‘Why?’ I stupidly asked.

  ‘Why do you think, Dumbo?’

  I shrugged. ‘So you don’t slip up and say who you really are?’

  ‘And what else?’ he prompted.

  ‘Er … you don’t like commitment?’ I toyed.

  ‘Never did when I was a mere mortal, stuck four years once. But what would happen if I did marry someone?’

  ‘You’d … need to find a big-fitting tuxedo?’

  He smiled. ‘What else? What would happen to the lady in twenty years time? And the kids?’

  ‘Ah, they’d grow old,’ I realised. ‘Your kids would grow up and go down the pub with you, looking more like brothers and sisters.’

  ‘And don’t you think that might be a bit … odd?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ I agreed. ‘You’re right. What you should do – to make up for the heavy heartache of not being able to marry – is to shag loads a pretty girls without commitment. Console yourself.’ We laughed, toasting each other with our drinks.

  ‘The job’s not all bad,’ he said with a glint in his eye.

  We spoke till the small hours, made some plans, and ordered-in a curry like normal. When I woke the next day I was Dr. Who’s assistant, but without the large breasts. After a coffee by myself I went to see my mum, and gave her a big hug. She was so surprised she thought I’d made some girl pregnant or lost my job. It took a whole hour to convince her that I just missed her, and even then she was suspicious.

  2035

  I put down the keyboard, letting out a tired sigh. ‘Computer. Off.’

  “Closing down” came a pleasant voice, followed by a chime as I stretched out on my bunk. My back was aching from sitting hunched for so long and my eyes closed themselves, fatigued with concentrating on the screen.

  The door burst open, the patter of small feet followed by a heavy four year old landing on my stomach, air bursting from my lungs.

  ‘God, you’re getting heavy,’ I whispered as my youngest granddaughter snuggled up. Reaching down, I put an arm around her, finding her well-worn teddy; they were inseparable. Adult footsteps caused me to open an eye briefly, my youngest daughter stood with hands on hips, an expression of motherly disappointment and exasperation. She stepped closer, reached over and pulled a blanket up, covering her disobedient offspring. I heard the door click shut a moment later.

  There would be gentle nagging in the morning about letting my granddaughter snuggle up, again, but I didn’t care. I didn’t see that much of them, so they could snuggle up anytime they wanted. It took me back, back to when my own daughters slept in the bed with me and my wife. My ex-wife.

  As I lay there, I thought back to the day Jimmy revealed who he was, well – part revealed the story. It seemed like a million years ago, it seemed like yesterday. Now Jimmy was gone, missing for almost four years. The search had been extensive, large rewards offered. Some believed he had gone backwards or forwards through time, even some of the politicians firmly believed that, but I knew different, and I kept the secret. It was his wish, and I would honour that wish. The need for some sleep robbed me of further thought on the matter.

  1986. First name terms

  Jack Donohue was worried, being summoned to No. 10 early one morning. He adjusted his tie as he entered through the rear, ushered quickly to the COBRA meeting. Everyone was staring at him, especially Deputy Director Sykes. Gingerly, Jack sat as directed. ‘Morning,’ he offered, just before the Prime Minister entered.

  The P.M. sat and studied Jack for a moment. ‘First, the Americans have admitted, finally, that they also receive letters. Those letters, posted to their Ambassador here in London, are just about identical to those that we receive. We could not say, at this juncture, that they get anything more than we do. They’ve received a few specific warnings of mishaps in The States. Question is, do the Russians and Chinese get letters?’

  The head of MI5 answered, ‘We intercepted a letter to the Russian Ambassador, but then sent it on its way the same day. It was a warning about a fire at a chemical plant.’ He pulled a face and shrugged.

  ‘Then we received today’s letter,’ the Prime Minister announced, opening the file she had brought in. Paraphrasing, she read, ‘It was a good idea of Jack’s -’ Everyone focussed on Jack, the P.M. lowering her gaze to the letter. ‘- about the other letters. Just for the record, the international community receives warnings of disasters where I feel my tip-offs may do some good.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Keep your panties on, luv.’

  She took a moment as people shifted uneasily in their seats. Continuing, she read, ‘I am British, and you can be assured of my loyalty of purpose to state and crown. Tell Jack that I do not bet the races.’

  Jack tried, and failed, not to smile.

  The Prime Minister continued reading, ‘If you wish to send me a message, use the personals in The Sun newspaper, messages to … Big Wobbly Bertha. We will not meet for many years to come, nor should you disclose these letters, since it would most certainly be unseemly for the Prime Minister of our great country to be seen to take seriously the advice of clairvoyants.

  ‘P.S. If the nice gentlemen –’ She glanced about the assembled men. ‘- intercept letters to foreign embassies I will know about it, and direct such letters by alternate means. Kindly remember who you are dealing with.

  ‘P.P.S. Jack will eventually figure out more about me. How about an office with a window for the poor fella?’ She focused on Jack. ‘We carefully checked the signature, just in case it was you … who sent the letter.’ Faces creased. ‘Fortunately, it stops short of suggesting a pay rise or promotion for you.’

  That afternoon, Jack received a visit from his departmental manager, Wilson, a sour-faced man with little hair, little patience, and even less in the charm department. He scanned Jack’s office without a word, then sat. ‘Despite your fondness for your new pet pen pal, I don’t share your views that this guy is a benefit to anyone.’

  Jack’s brow creased. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘He’s not just a clairvoyant, he’s a seer – someone capable of remote viewing.’

  ‘Remote … viewing?’ Jack repeated, despite the fact that he had recently read a dozen books in the subject.

  Wilson flicked dust off his knee. ‘The CIA experimented with it, probably still do. They’re people who can see into the USSR at some missile base and draw a picture of the layout. Uncanny, some of the stuff they could do but, overall, very inconsistent. Every time the Yanks used them for real missions they screwed up.’ He jabbed an angry finger towards Jack. ‘And so will your boy.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘He’s dangerous. He should be behind bars, or in a psych’ ward where he belongs.’ Jack did not agree with that sentiment, but held his tongue. Wilson continued, ‘If he can see into this office, if he knows what we’re up to, he can also see into other areas. That kind of power cannot be left unchecked. So I want you to find him. Use the newspaper message system, arrange a meet, tell him you’re not well or something – since he seems to have an affinity for you. Just find him.’ He stood. ‘Or else!’

  A knock at the door preceded two senior police officers stepping in. ‘Mr Wilson,’ the first stated. It was not a question.

  Wilson was caught off guard. ‘Yes. Who the hell are you?’

  ‘We … are the nice gentlemen who’d like to talk about the death of a young lady you were seeing in college, 1958.’

  Wilson stood rigidly shocked.

  ‘If you’ll come with us, please.’ They led him out, one officer remaining. Jack was on his feet, his mouth hanging open.

  The officer neared. ‘Mr Magestic said to say hello.’

  ‘How … how do you know about him, it’s top secret?’

  ‘I’ve been getting letters for years - our clean-up rate is through the roof.’ He smiled and winked, letting himself out.

  For ten minutes Jack stared at the door with a contended smirk. Despite Magestic’s suggestion, no new office had been forthcoming. Still, it was time for a little celebration. He opened a side drawer and took out a packet of Bourbons biscuits. No, this was a special occasion. He replaced the packet and retrieved a Kitkat.

  Kenya

  Our first trip was to Kenya a month later, landing at Nairobi airport. My first impression was … what a dump. And the heat was intense. The paint was cracking off the terminal walls, fans on worn bearings competing to see which could emit the most annoying sound - I guessed they were trying to attract mosquitoes, and the staff all stank. Unlike Jimmy, I was not in love with Kenya in particular, or Africa in general.

  A local stood with a sign saying ‘Silo’ and directed us to a cab that had seen better days, a Ford Cortina like my dad used to drive. The driver put our luggage into the boot, eventually getting it to close, and we settled in, Jimmy telling the man which hotel we wanted in the man’s own regional dialect. To say the fella was surprised would be an understatement, and we were tooted from behind to get a move on.

  Jimmy tipped the puzzled driver well, thanking him again in his own tongue. At least the hotel looked half decent. The staff, dressed in green waistcoats and funny hats, took our luggage and directed us into an air-conditioned interior with lots of white folk milling around; I guessed that it was the local tourist trap. Jimmy signed us in, talking in French to the dark skinned local, who questioned our nationality when the passports were handed over. Jimmy offered him a few words in another dialect, pleasing the man. The rooms were nice enough, good views of the city centre, but Jimmy nodded his head towards the door.

  ‘Follow me,’ he enigmatically stated.

  We took the lift up to the top floor, opening to a roof garden with a small pool and a good sized bar. We sat, Jimmy ordering drinks in some weird dialect. He checked his watch, so I checked mine. 5.45pm.

  ‘Sunset over Nairobi,’ Jimmy let out with a contented sigh. ‘It’s been … many years since I was here last.’

  With cool beers in hand, we sat on sun beds by the pool, several nice ladies swimming lengths and clocking us, the sun going down to the west, the way we were facing. Fair enough, it was very pleasant, and two French ladies joined us, doctors with some agency linked to the Red Cross. Despite Jimmy’s strange knowledge of local dialects, his French was limited, the two lady doctors conversing in near perfect English.

  I was lost after ten minutes, Jimmy amazing them by knowing more about their mission in Africa than they did. He even told them when their project would end, something they had not yet been informed of. Hairy armpits aside, four hours of slow drinking resulted in Michelle dragging me to my room, thinking I was twenty-nine. Kenya was growing on me.

  The next day we were up early, kicking out our guests and telling them we would be back in a week. We hadn’t even unpacked. We hired a taxi, making the driver very happy by booking him for three full days, expecting him to stay overnight with us. Jimmy negotiated a rate equal to a month’s pay for the fella, about a hundred pounds, with petrol on top. Off we set to some place with a long name. After two hours, I was back to my original thought: what a dump. I made allowances because it was Africa, but God was it dusty and dirty, the roadsides littered with tatty shacks and naked kids.

  We eventually left civilisation behind and hit the countryside proper, stopping to let a lion run across our path. An hour later and we arrived at the place with the long name, a small lodge of sorts that looked like a cluster of Canadian log cabins, albeit dusty and dirty. Jimmy booked us in, speaking in German to the German owner - a room for the taxi driver arranged - then he tipped his head for me to follow. On the veranda of a well-stocked bar we sat, cold beers placed down, and we peered out across pure African countryside; a gentle slope down to a winding river, all sorts of animals milling about, forest in the distance and hills beyond, the sun setting. Whoever had positioned the bar had done so deliberately.

  Jimmy pointed. Following his finger, I could see my first herd of Elephants, lolling about at the river’s edge. After saying something in German, a man brought Jimmy two pairs of binoculars and we peered through.

  ‘David Attenborough, eat your bleeding heart out,’ I said.

  ‘Met him many times,’ Jimmy idly commented. ‘Great man.’

  And for the next four hours we sat there. Sundown, sunset, afterglow and pitch black, roars of unseen animals echoing through the dark. Not to mention the million flying insects buzzing about the bar’s lights.

  The next morning we ate an acceptable breakfast in a communal hall, a few German guests present, before hiring a private guide and two wardens to take us on a jeep trek. A dated and uncomfortable green Land Rover bounced us along, but we stopped many times, whenever Jimmy uttered some odd words to the driver. My first lion family was a joy; we could not have been more than twenty yards from mum and cubs at one point. We got up close to an Armadillo that seemed to just ignore us, then found a herd of Elephants the other side of a stream. We sat quietly, and they looked us over a few times, the youngsters frolicking in the water. Must have stayed there for an hour, but I was not complaining, I was starting to really enjoy the experience. Further on we spotted Cheetahs, Zebras in the distance, before pulling into what looked like a farm. And there started one of the great loves of my life.

  It was not a farm, but an animal sanctuary for injured or orphaned animals that the rangers and wardens found. The German staff greeted Jimmy, who offered them ten thousand in dollars towards their costs. Fair to say we got the run of the place after that. A teenage girl with a lopsided hat and cute smile took me to one side and sat me down against a wall, re-appearing with a bottle of milk and a bundle of blankets. She handed me the bottle and unwrapped the bundle; a lion cub with its eyes still closed. And for the next hour or so I fed numerous lion cubs, a Cheetah cub, and a baby monkey with wrinkly pink skin and an improvised nappy. I was hooked. As she knelt next to me, making sure I was playing mum correctly, her khaki green shirt fell forwards and revealed her small breasts. Then she began talking about nipples and teats. I got her back onto the subject several times.

  They cooked us a meal, not least because of the ten grand they’d received, and we all got along like old friends. Jimmy’s knowledge of animals and the country amazed them, so he explained it away by telling them he had visited many times before. Good job they didn’t check his passport.

  During the meal Jimmy took a sandwich out to the black driver, who seemed not to be allowed inside. When Jimmy returned, the family avoided eye contact for five minutes.

  As we sat at their kitchen table, the sun going down, a variety of animals wandered in. A fully-grown Cheetah forcing its nose under my armpit and pinching my food was a shock. Not the table manners, but the fact that it was a grown Cheetah. Second time around I stroked its chin and head and it seemed to like that more than my meal. Guess he had tried the hostess’s cooking before. A fully-grown lion caused me to stand and look worried, Jimmy grinning at my discomfort.