Time Twins

Time Twins

by

Melvyn J Ford

Published in 2015 by FeedARead

Copyright © The author as named on the book cover.

First Edition

The author has asserted their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

QUOTE

DEDICATIONS

CHAPTER 1: A Step Too Far

CHAPTER 2: Those Early Years

CHAPTER 3: The Question of Souls

CHAPTER 4: The Twins Reunited

CHAPTER 5: Silent Visionaries

CHAPTER 6: The Breakthroughs

CHAPTER 7: Novices of Time

CHAPTER 8: Delivering Priorities

CHAPTER 9: Time to Spend A Little

CHAPTER 10: Changing the World

CHAPTER 11: The Future in Our Eyes

CHAPTER 12: The Unexpected Result

AUTHOR’S POSTSCRIPT

‘I was puzzled though, as wherever he was it was not clear at all and everything was very blurred and fuzzy. It started to clear a little and soon it was like a canvass of a famous artist (I couldn’t think who) with a white background and multi-coloured flashes of colour everywhere’.

Cover Artwork: Matilde Ford, 3-and-half years old

Titles : Zeena Kammoona – work colleague

Dedications….

To Olly: We’ll find the answer

To Mum and Lynn: Never forgotten

To Dad: Continue watching over us

To All My family: We always have each other

To Lali:

His life was so brief, too short for us to see

the beautiful little boy he was meant to be.

Why did this happen? We really don’t know.

Some higher Creator maybe deciding it so.

He filled us with love, he brought us joy,

we saw his tiny face, such a sweet little boy.

And then as the miracle started to grow,

we felt his silence, the fear we both know.

He’ll not be forgotten and stay in our hearts,

a life taken tragically before it could start.

Now through the olives his soul will remain,

Our Squogi, Our Family, reunited again…

Mogmi

CHAPTER 1

A Step Too Far

Professor Richard Pashilk, you’re here today before the Marylebone Magistrates Court charged with the joint counts of kidnap with intent and holding victims hostage with extreme prejudice. How do you plead, sir?

A burst of loud chatting from the gallery mixed with sobbing and cries of, Shame on you, buzzed around the Court in an air of heightened tension. In the circumstances, the Magistrate thought she should allow this brief interlude.

It was a steamy, energy-sapping day in the record-breaking English summer of 1976. With inadequate ventilation the court room was immersed in a turgid smell of body odour.

Silence in the Court, ladies and gentlemen, silence. Please allow the Accused to answer the questions put before him.

A mumbled, barely audible voice stated, Guilty.

What say you professor? Please speak up, I can’t hear you.

A sharper response echoed, Guilty, Madame. I’m guilty of all charges and I’m so sorry; I’m so terribly sorry. I never intended to hurt anyone and only meant to innocently...

The Magistrate interceded before Professor Pashilk could finish his remorseful plea of regret.

Court Registrar, enter a plea of guilty on all counts stated by the Accused. Professor Pashilk, do remain standing. Everyone else, sit and remain silent please.

A door suddenly slammed shut as a reporter rushed into the room to take his seat in the gallery, no doubts anxious to record that day’s news headlines. Then there was hush again as everyone settled down to hear what came next.

Professor Pashilk, you have today pleaded guilty to what I can honestly say are some of the most wicked and detestable crimes I’ve ever heard of in my entire 30 years of legal service.

The fact they involve four totally innocent and helpless victims ranging from the ages of one-month to one-year old, I believe is unprecedented in any jurisdiction in the world.

Not only have you severely scarred these four poor, young innocents for the rest of their lives, you have psychologically damaged their families for life too and caused incalculable stress and worry to so many in the process.

As a mother of three, myself, I can’t begin to imagine the mental suffering they’ve all gone through. In fact, it beggars belief.

You’re obviously in control of all your faculties and by all reports you’re a distinguished, learned man with a sound reputation as an academic and university professor. You’ve no previous criminal record either during your entire life.

People sat there with perplexed looks as they wondered exactly what had occurred with these children.

Professor Pashilk, before I send you down for sentencing, do you have anything you’d like to say to this Court? Remember what you do say will be a matter of record and may be held against you later in any further consideration.

The accused looked around the Court and saw the looks of hate and despair amongst those present. He waited a while, steadied himself and then replied in a shaky and somewhat babbled tone, Yes I do, Madame. I’d like to say something, please. He raised his head, whilst tightly gripping the handrail in front of him.

What I can say in my defence is none of the victims suffered any physical pain, not at all. I looked after and catered for them in every respect. I meant no harm and only wanted to use them for a brief experiment to prove a hypothesis I believe will not only benefit all mankind but will forever change and improve the lives of every living person on earth. Something so incredible, it seemed well worth the risk to separate these children from their families for a short while.

I was desperate to prove my research, Madame, and having had all my previous requests from adoption and foster homes rejected, I followed the only path I felt I could in the circumstances.

I decided to borrow these children temporarily, you might say, with the intention to return them safely at a later date. I couldn’t tell anyone they were safe for fear of being caught. Then when my theories had been demonstrated and verified, the world would see it as an acceptable, soft crime in the circumstances, committed for the good of everyone.

Of course, in retrospect, I now realise I went too far, crossed too many lines and let my obsession with this subject get the better of me. I’ve caused too many to suffer, which at the time my fanaticism prevented me from seeing.

He turned and faced the victims and all their families.

For this, I’ll be eternally sorry and can only ask you for your forgiveness. I don’t expect to get it, but I must ask you anyway. He turned back, dropped his head and stared down at the floor.

Further louder cries of, "Shame on you," resonated around the stuffy, seemingly hollow room as a brief uproar broke out in the Court.

Order, order! the Magistrate shouted.

Ms Irene Blackburn QC responded, So it shall be, Professor Pashilk. I now ask the Bailiff to take you from here and hold you without recourse to bail to await your sentencing. Till then, God rest your soul. Bailiff, take him away. Next case please….

* * *

The following month Professor Pashilk, at the age of 64, was sentenced to 18-years imprisonment with no possibility of parole. To a man of his advanced age, that was practically a life sentence.

Strangely, no details of what he actually did were ever released to the public, although rumours said he’d experimented with the minds of his victims through some sort of hypnotic process.

They suggested he was trying to prove his theory that even at immediate birth all humans are born with a store of knowledge they inherit from previous souls. Such knowledge if somehow accessed could almost certainly transform mankind’s intelligence to a much higher level. This was all unconfirmed of course.

CHAPTER 2

Those Early Years

Jack and Gil went up the hill to fetch a pale of water. Jack fell down and broke his crown and Gil came tumbling after... Only for Gil to pick his brother up, rush him home to be attended to, quickly create a plausible excuse for an expected irate father, then return to collect their belongings at the scene of the incident which was, as always, caused by his twin brother, Jack, acting the fool and pushing Gil down the hill, only to land-up falling down more heavily himself.

Meet me, Gil Winchester, one of two non-identical twins, the youngest pair of six children, born in Greenwich, South East London, 29th February 1964, to a father from a relatively wealthy family and a mother from a decidedly poorer one.

For many years, right through to my late twenties, it baffled me just how my parents had ever met, let alone got married; such were the vast differences between them and especially their backgrounds.

That was until one day later in life my eldest sister confided in me that my father had in fact been married before to another wealthy young lady. She had an affair and after being found out left home abruptly, devastating my poor father in the process.

Incidentally, in case you’re wondering why the extract from the above well-known nursery rhyme states my name as Gil and not Jill, well, besides the fact I’m a boy and not a girl (although that was not always obvious as I’ll explain later), this is the actual spelling used by the original author. From the earliest known surviving reprint of John Newbery’s Mother Goose from the year of 1765, a section therein included a rhyme depicting two twin brothers called Jacke and Gil. They were the original perpetrators of this acclaimed accident and to this day they’re repeatedly misspelt in books all over the world and misquoted by many a school teacher who refers to them as a boy and girl. Whilst I’ll admit this is a pretty useless piece of information to most people, it was undeniably invaluable to me. It provided me the explanation for every kid who insisted on calling me Jill, which were many and always very embarrassing for me.

My twin brother nick-named me Fishy, in an obvious reference to gills, and my early existence was all about Jack teasing and terrorizing me and generally making my life hell. Even at our birth, after his delivery in super quick-time, the labouring to get me out lasted another five painful (at least for mum) hours. This is what I’m constantly reminded of by Jack, who suggests this is the reason why he’s so intelligent and I’m rather dumb by comparison. Then at precisely 13 minutes past 1pm, I eventually arrived after one last desperate push by my poor mother. There again, when I started emerging into daylight, I’m pretty sure someone’s inconveniently placed foot was blocking my exit.

The funny thing is, if you ever saw Jack and me you’d never guess we were even from the same world, let alone the same parents and even more so actual twins. He’s short, podgy, straight-haired, has the looks of the wicked-witch-of-the-east (poor thing) and generally is coarse, rude and the proverbial joker. I, on the other hand, am tall, slim, curly-haired, good looking (I might add modest here), well mannered, a gentleman and funny within reason. We’re like chalk and cheese me and Jack; he’s the rough chalk and me the smoothest cheese. He’s the poor relation everyone would rather not meet and I’m the popular want-to-be-with brother. At least that’s how I always saw it and, of course, I must be right.

From what I remember in those early years we were a relatively poor family, at least compared to those around us. We lived in a house by the side of Greenwich Park near the Thames, a famous maritime area best known for the Cutty Sark Tea Clipper. Yet even living there was a curse for me, as I often landed up at the bottom of the ‘pits’ on the adjoining Blackheath Common in a painful mess after being pushed down by my elder brother. This of course was his highly intelligent re-enactment of the famous rhyme which he felt should be repeated as often as possible. It was due, I believe, to his everlasting jealousy of me being Dad’s favourite, at least in his mind anyway.

Today though, as I look back, they were still fun-filled times in Greenwich, even with my two brothers making my life hell so often. Plus of course, the relative few years we spent in that house with its bordering nightmare ‘pits’ were not to last that long anyway, as we were soon to move on due to unpleasant circumstances.

I believe we were evicted, but for what reason I never knew, but I remember when I was around 4 years old the family of eight moved to another house in Thornsbeach Road, Catford. It was a relatively modest three-bedroom terraced house which my father along with me and my youngest sister modernised with an ‘American Kitchen’, as he told everyone proudly. Many a time I was told to clear away the debris my sister had caused from knocking hell out of a wall, or creep along under the floor boards with a cable in my mouth to put in a new electrical ring-main. I was never sure why we were the only ones chosen to assist my Dad in this work but, apart from my Mum telling us we would get our rewards one day, looking back I suppose it helped me in my later career in construction.

However, the real fun for me in this house was having three sisters, a brother and a twin and the undeniably hilarious manic times we enjoyed together, sometimes almost to the point of complete madness. The things we did, the mess we made, the damage we caused and the chaos we created would make a fascinating book and film one day should any one of us ever feel the urge to write it all down. We got away with things then you’d never tell your own children for fear of starting a whole new generation of crazy-mad Winchesters. Although on reflection, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing and I’m sure it’s better than the electronic distractions kids have today.

As a close-knit family doing everything together, we were in and out of the local hospitals so regularly with one accident or another the various duty nurses all seemed to know us on first-name terms. We were often greeted by Ok, which one is it this time and what have they done now? as we entered the lobby. My mother was usually clutching the culprit in question while the rest of us looked sheepish and nervous, that familiar hospital smell reminding us of all our own past injury and illness episodes there. In fact, we probably spent more time in either Greenwich or Lewisham hospital A&E departments than we ever did at home.

Yet amidst all the chaos and confusion of those days, I don’t ever remember my Mum really losing her temper badly with any of us. Except Jack, maybe, who could singularly test the patience of Job. It’s as if she accepted us for what we all were, realised there was no point in trying to over-control us and just let us get on with it.

She knew we’d eventually tire and drop like flies, allowing peace to be restored to the Winchester household, at least for a while anyway. That was until Dad got home to read us the riot act and send us all off to bed with a severe lecture on behaviour. This then allowed Mum to enjoy her daily practice of sitting in front of our small black-and-white TV, watching Coronation Street while sucking a Murray Mint and smoking her one cigarette a day.

My father, on the other hand, was from a completely different kettle of fish altogether. He was Victorian in his ways (he was born in 1908), extremely strict (apparently due to his mother’s upbringing), regimental in behaviour (his father was an army officer), believed in corporal punishment and most of the time we were all scared shitless of him. He was strong-willed, uncompromising, straight to the point, highly opinionated, used every cliché in the book and with us children was no stranger to lashing out with a firm smack or the stick if really upset. Yet along the way, he taught us values, good manners, politeness and instilled a feeling of self-belief and determination in us, regularly saying, If someone else can do it, then so can you. Except, that is, in Jack’s case – from quite early on Dad seemed to give up on him and confine all his normal standards and expectations on the rest of us, principally ‘moi’.

Even though Dad worked all-the-hours God sent to enable him to buy our first house, he still somehow managed to turn up at my every important event. In particular, from the age of ten I played football for my school team and he would get out of work on a Saturday morning and be there to goad me on with his ranting and raving. I say goad rather than support because he spent most of the time screaming insults at me, which of course were intended to make me a better football player as well as scare the opposition players in the bargain. Most of the time it worked too; both ways.

Jack on the other hand was not exactly my Dad’s blue-eyed-boy in anything, let alone football. He did play for the school team occasionally, but spending most of his time propping up one of the goal-posts whilst smoking a cigarette did not go down too well with my father. Dad would loudly proclaim Jack as an embarrassment to himself and the team and tell him to go back to the changing rooms, in more colourful language than I could ever write here.

Yet all-in-all, my Mum and Dad were both equal in my eyes and together encouraged and inspired me to be who I am today. I never really knew either of them that well, as with so many brothers and sisters we rarely had any individual time, especially with Dad so busy working. All I know is that during my childhood I felt safe, protected, looked after and loved, if not in any demonstrable way.

* * *

I remember one spring day back in early April 1982 when I was sitting outside in the backyard laying on the single broken down deckchair that had somehow survived years of Winchester abuse. It was a Friday afternoon, the school week was finished and we were just hearing about the Argie’s invasion of the Falkland Islands. Maggie was up in arms and threatening to squash this little upstart country into oblivion for having the bare-faced nerve to enter British sovereign territory. She’d immediately dispatched a naval task force to get them back and kick the buggers out. Suddenly from these rallying calls around Britain everyone became instant nationalists and everywhere you went, every TV news programme you listened to and every paper you read was all about this subject. Yet somehow at 18-years old I was not so interested and thought the whole thing would only last a week anyway and blow over when the Argies did a runner.

What ya doing ‘ere, Fishy? Jack asked as I lay lost in my thoughts. Why ain't ya watching the TV? That Maggie’s givin em a piece of ‘er mind and it’s quite funny to watch. Silly cow, she should be at ‘ome cooking dinner or somefing.

To be honest Jack, I can’t be bothered with all that just now. I’ve got better things to think about. Screw the bloody Argies.

Oh yeeeaah, so what betta fings ‘ave ya got Fishy?

Well dear brother, I was laying here thinking about you and me and all the great times we’ve had together since we were kids. You know me, I always prefer to look at the past. In fact Jack, if there’s one thing I’m going to do in the future it’s to find a way to go back in time. I don’t know how, but I’m gonna do it one day, you’ll see. I’ve so many things running through my mind about the past.

Ya’ve always been a bit weird when it comes ta the past, yet some’ow Fishy, I think ya will do that mate.

I’ve been reading about stuff lately Jack on this subject and it’s fascinating, with so many unanswered questions.

I could see Jack was bored with this topic already so I allowed him to slump himself down next to me on this barely standing bed. He pushed me over to get more room and quietly whispered, We’ve ‘ad some gooduns aint we bruvver. Some real laughs along the way.

We sure have Jack. Whatever else I say about having you as a brother, experiencing an uneventful life is something I could never say has happened with you around. In fact sometimes, I still wonder how we survived on some occasions.

For example, do you remember when we were five-years old playing in the dining room, fighting as Knights of the Round Table? Suddenly, you pushed me so hard I fell backwards and landed up smashing my arse through the French-windows, miraculously avoiding any cuts but taking a large pane of glass out. The crash scared me, made you laugh out loud and shocked poor Mum rigid. I mean, I could have been decapitated, for Christ’s sake!

Ah yeh Fishy, I remember that one well. When Dad got ‘ome we were ‘iding upstairs in different bedrooms, but as usual ‘e found us quickly and pulled us out in front of ‘im.

That’s right Jack. He asked us who caused the accident and when we both pointed to the other he did what he always said in those days, Then I’ll smack both of you so I know I’ve got the right one." What about the wrong one? I remember thinking so often then.

And what about the time you were reading in class, Jack, and Mrs Thomas tried to correct your pronunciation of ‘thimble’. You could never say ‘th’ properly, could you? You’ve always had a terrible cockney accent, as if trying to have some street-cred or something. I think you’re a throw-back to Mum’s origins, but why I really don’t know. Why do you speak like that Jack?

Cause I don’t wanna sound posh like you bruvver he quickly responded. It’s cool and nifty ta speak like what I does.

Whatever you say, Jack. Anyway, I remember after trying several times the teacher asked you to go to the blackboard and write the word so she could show you how to say it phonetically, and you wrote ‘fimble’ with an ‘f’. We all laughed out loud at you Jack, even the teacher herself. And you were completely lost as to why.

We then continued and chatted about a time later after starting secondary school, when we were scrambling back from the local park. We were stopped at the main gate by a school prefect, or Nazi-bastard as Jack called him. We were late because we’d been doing what we did a lot that particular year: stealing nudey-books from the local newsagent, reading them in the park and then selling them to the junk shop down the road the next day. It was a profitable business and Jack and I were pretty flushed to buy sweets. Anyway, we weren’t in the mood to be told-off by this prefect, who was a complete arse-licker, and especially as he was about to put us both on his report card, meaning we’d have to stay on for detention after school hours the next day. We looked at each other and without a word picked this poor boy up and swung him over the fence, hearing him landing with a scary-sounding thud on the grass field the other side. The problem was he’d caught his trousers on the wire fence as he went over and this had completely shredded them down one side. So we ran off as fast as we could and sneaked quietly back into our classroom.

Then, about 20 minutes later, the headmaster knocked on our door to take us off to his room where he gave us six strokes of the stick and after a stern lecture put us both into the dreaded ‘black-book’. Mum and Dad were told about the incident, our next six months pocket money paid for the trousers and Dad decided the joint stick and book-of-shame entry had provided the necessary deterrent.

Great times they were in those days Fishy, Jack sighed.

Yeah, but looking back, I wonder now if that bloke in the junk shop was some kind of pervert Jack. He was very iffy looking.

"’Oo gives a shit. ‘E nevva touched