WHEN Keith Banks returns to the town where he spent his teenage years it is, he tells himself, for no other reason than to attend the funeral of a family friend.
But finding himself in such familiar surroundings awakens memories of a time when growing up in Britain had been the greatest of fun. Life for a teenager had never been better than in ‘the decade that style forgot’.
It was loud and brash, no one seemed short of money and, despite the strikes, the IRA bombs and rampant inflation, life was a rich, exotic kaleidoscope.
Television was in colour – if you could get it in your region – kids played football at the recreation ground, cricket in the park and tennis on the municipal courts. Some of them even tried to sneak into X-
When Keith extends his stay in the town to do some sightseeing, he rediscovers his love of the dirt track sport but, in doing so, finds that the past and the present maintain a startling proximity.
As he struggles with the ideas of quantum physics to try and come to terms with the apparently inexplicable, he finds it raises more questions than answers.
Just who is Dr Roweholm? Is it possible to talk to yourself and get a reply? And can something that happened in the past really be undone?
IN NO TME AT ALL is Michael Hansen’s most unusual novel yet. Expect the unexpected as Keith Banks seeks to make sense of the events that overtake him. Just when you think you might have understood, up pops another explanation that alters the picture entirely.
It’s a complete game changer but don’t get too comfortable with it. Even at the very end, Hansen throws in another twist that may send you right back to square one.
I could see it, too. That turquoise-
I caught a bus from Golden Square. The bus station was another landmark that had disappeared from the high street.
The people here were not dressed like those in the dining room. The women had on skirts, blouses and some wore cardigans. The men wore jackets, the hair of the younger ones was long, their trousers were tight and flared. Noses and ears were not pierced and there wasn’t a tattoo in sight.
I reached into an inside pocket and pulled out a small 50-
‘What’s that?’ He asked me.
‘It’s Tweedmouth harbour … in 1970. Do you remember the name of the ship?’
‘Kerstin Eva,’ he replied without hesitation.
Cam was on top of him almost at once and, in panic, tried to lay down his bike. He made a mess of the manoeuvre but let go of the JAP which struck Jive’s machine at high speed, bounced into the air and flew over the safety fence.
We curved gently round to the right and I caught sight of the house we used to live in. I felt that sense of loss again, as if something was slipping from my grasp.
As closing time approached, I had ordered £25-
I bought myself a Kodak Instamatic 33. It cost me £4-