Charlie Jackson was in the pub with his friends. Every Friday night they would flock to the Nag’s Head, their local pub. They would laugh and talk and drink before staggering home to bed to sleep off the booze. They were all in their early twenties and had such busy social lives. There always seemed to be somewhere to be, a party to be had. He enjoyed the social life. 

He was at the bar getting the next round of drinks in, it was his round. He placed the drinks on the tray and was about to move, when a man approached the bar. Charlie had to stop suddenly to avoid bumping into him. He just about managed to avoid the drinks being spilled, the glasses swaying precariously on the tray.

The man who had nearly caused the spillage seemed oblivious. The old timer was somewhere in his early eighties, with a flat cap and a scarf knotted around his neck. The guy ordered a pint of bitter, and was counting out his coins to pay for the drink.

‘Oi, mate, you really should watch where you’re going.’ Charlie snapped.

The man said he was sorry, before continuing to copper up his coins. Charlie shook his head in disgust.

‘Shouldn’t you be at home at this time, anyway? Time of a hot chocolate and bed for you, grandad.’ 

The old feller said nothing, not wanting to get into an argument. Charlie was just getting started. You couldn’t disrespect someone like him and get away with it. What a liberty. 

‘I think you owe me a drink. That’s the least you can do.’

The man held up the coins in his hand.

‘I don’t think I have enough money for that.’ He said.

‘Watch where you’re going next time, you silly old duffer.’ Charlie said.

‘Time passes so quickly. It doesn’t seem five minutes since I was your age.’ the man said.

‘What are you rambling on about, grandad? If you bump into me again, I’ll knock your false teeth out.’ 

Still shaking his head and grumbling to himself, Charlie crossed the pub and joined his friends. 

Just before midnight, Charlie trudged the walk home, heading down the pavement, the glow of the streetlights doing little to penetrate the darkness. Someone stepped out in front of him blocking his path. Charlie couldn’t believe this. An old man was standing right in front of him. What was it with these guys?

‘Can you move out of my way, please? What is it with you lot today? It is pension day?’ Charlie called out.

The man didn’t move, simply stood rooted to the spot, his flat cap pulled low over his eyes. This was just too much. What was the matter with these old fellers? Charlie wouldn’t stand for this. He reach out to push the guy out of the way. 

As he moved, the guy grabbed hold of Charlie’s wrist, his grip strong and ice cold. Charlie tried to pull away but the guy held him firm. His hand freezing cold against his wrist. Charlie was surprised at the strength of the man. 

Charlie started to feel ill, really weak and woozy. He felt light-headed but he knew it was not from the beer he’d drunk that evening. He sensed he was about to pass out, to faint right there on the pavement. 

Without saying another word the guy released him from his grip, faded into the shadows. Charlie felt dizzy and couldn’t think straight.

Charlie staggered home on weak, trembling legs, on auto-pilot, instinctively finding his way. When he reached the front door, he struggled to navigate his key in the front door. Finally he crashed through the door.

‘Is that you, Chaz?’ his mother called from the living room.

He stumbled through to where his mum and his brother were watching late-night television. When his mother saw him, she screamed in horror. His brother looked on in complete shock.

‘What has happened to you?’ His mother cried.

Charlie turned to check his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace.

Staring back was his own features, but now old, so very old, wrinkled and aged, his hair suddenly grey-white and wispy. Charlie couldn’t make sense of what was going on. He was really struggling to concentrate. The thoughts just wouldn’t come.

As his mother sobbed hysterically, saying she was going to phone an ambulance, his brother came to his side, unable to tear his gaze from him, fear in his eyes.

‘What happened?’ He asked.

When Charlie went to speak, his voice was a hoarse croak.

‘It doesn’t seem five minutes since I was your age.’ He managed.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom