Marty hurried out of his house, still dazed and in a state of shock. How could this have happened? What could he have done to make his life this way?

He stood on the pathway in front of the house, breathing heavily, his thoughts swirling. Doc. Right. Doc would know where his mother was. Doc would tell him what to do.

Even as he started to stride determinedly away from the house, he caught sight of a familiar figure walking up the street towards him. Jennifer! He quickly ducked down behind the dustbins, silently thanking God that his girlfriend was something that was still consistent in this reality. But he couldn't face her – not yet. Not like this.

Jennifer walked by without seeing him, and Marty breathed a sigh of relief. It would have been hard to explain why he was hiding behind a trash can from his girlfriend. He shifted to the side as she approached the front door. It opened several moments after she knocked on it.

'Oh, hi, Jennifer,' he heard Linda say. 'No, Marty's not here – he left just a minute ago. Didn't you see him?'

The words became indistinct as Jennifer disappeared inside the house and the door shut. Several minutes later she reappeared. She was frowning, looking confused. After she had walked away down the street, Marty scrambled out from his hiding place, feeling more than a little guilty. But it couldn't be helped.

He was just wondering whether he should go inside to fetch his skateboard and risk the enquiries from his family – what was left of it, anyway – about why Jennifer hadn't seen him outside, or to hoof it all the way to Doc's, when he heard three sonic booms rip through the tranquillity of the neighbourhood and the DeLorean appeared, ploughing straight into the trash cans that he had been hiding behind just moments before.

The gullwing door swung up and Doc clambered out.

'Doc?' said Marty in astonishment. The scientist was wearing the weirdest clothes he'd ever seen. 'What the hell are you wearing?'

'Marty!' gasped Doc, rushing forward to grab his shoulders. 'You've got to come back with me?'

'Where?' said Marty, utterly bewildered.

'Back to the future!'

'Back – whoa, wait Doc. I'm not going anywhere just now.'

'But your kids, Marty. Something has to be done about your kids!'

'My kids?' Marty pressed a hand to his forehead and paced down the driveway and back up again. 'I have kids? Jesus, Doc, can this wait?'

Doc seemed to calm down a bit. 'Well, I suppose. What's wrong?'

'My mom, Doc. Where is she? I gotta see her.'

'Your mother?' Doc looked at him strangely. 'You last told me she was living in Grass Valley.'

'Grass Valley. Right. I'm going there, now.'

'Marty! You hate your mother – ' Doc stopped. 'Oh. I see. You're just back from the past – you must have related to your mother as a teenager, and now you seek to reconcile with her – '

'No, Doc! Nothing like that! Only when I left my parents were together, and now that I'm back I find out she hates my guts!'

Doc's eyes boggled. 'You mean you sufficiently changed events in 1955 to create an alternate reality?'

'Er – if you mean where my dad and Dave and Linda and the house all look completely different and my mom hasn't seen me in years, then yeah!'

'Great SCOTT!' If Doc's eyes widened even more they were going to fall out of his head and roll away down the driveway. 'You mean before you went back to 1955 your mother and father were still together?'

'That's what I said, Doc!' Marty's patience was beginning to wear thin. 'Look, I gotta get to Grass Valley. I have to see Mom.'

'Ask her what went wrong,' said Doc urgently. 'Find out the reason why she left your father! Then we can go back to 1955 and repair the damage.'

'Go back.' Marty groaned. 'Fine. But can you drive me over to Grass Valley?'

Doc blinked. 'Well, of course. But why don't you take the truck?'

Marty looked at him. 'Truck?'

00000000000000000000000000000

'Lorraine?'

I glanced up from my book. John was poking his head round the door into the kitchen. 'I'm off to work. See you around dinnertime?'

I smiled at him. 'That'll be fine. I don't really feel like cooking tonight – will pizza be all right?'

John grinned back at me. 'Sounds great. I'll see you then.' A quick peck on the lips and he was gone. Several minutes later, I heard his car pulling out of the driveway. John always needed an early start, as he worked in Hill Valley and we lived in Grass Valley, twelve miles away. Of course, it would have made a lot more sense to live in Hill Valley, but I had requested that we live some way away. John hadn't really understood – still didn't – but he loved me, and respected my wishes. So here we were in Grass Valley, where every street didn't evoke a painful memory and where there wasn't as much chance of bumping into George, or worse…Marty.

Marty. The corners of my mouth twitched slightly upward in a sad smile. It had been so long since I'd seen him…did he still remember me? Did he hate me? I never brought up the subject with Dave and Linda, and they never mentioned him. The lack of his name in the conversation provoked tension between us, and I came away from each meeting filled with a terrible sorrow, knowing that things would never be the same again between my children and me.

I'd known, when I'd first laid eyes on my second son, that he was Marty. I hadn't thought so with Dave. I'd known he wasn't the one.

'What'll we call him, then?' said George, gazing down at the bundle in my arms with bright and happy eyes. 'He was always going to be called Marty, wasn't he? After Marty Klein.'

No, I thought, looking into my new baby's eyes. This isn't Marty.

'No,' I said aloud. 'We won't call this one Marty.'

George raised his eyebrows slightly at this one, but didn't comment. Instead, he said, 'Calvin, then?'

Neither of us liked the name Calvin much. We settled on David.

We were a happy family, and our happiness increased when Linda was born; obviously, there was no mention of her being named Marty. And then my third child came along, and looking into his bright blue baby eyes, I knew.

I wished I didn't know. I wished I didn't know anything. Though as each of Marty's birthdays passed by he bore more and more resemblance to the boy I'd first met in the 1950s, I still clung to the resolution that it was impossible, time travel was impossible – I'd just been delusional that night, believing every word that bastard said. I'd had a feeling, like I knew him, yes, but that was probably only the drink talking – even though I'd only had a sip…

I started to feel like I was going mad. Was it true? Could it possibly be true? Looking at my youngest child, I realised that I'd met him before he was even born, but he hadn't yet met me…thoughts like these were starting to drive me crazy. I began to grow restless, preoccupied. George was concerned but I brushed his worries away. Well, what was I supposed to do, tell him the truth?

Then the guilt started.

One day, as I hugged Marty, ruffled his soft brown hair, kissed the tip of his little snub nose, and as he grinned up at me with that cheeky smile, the guilt slammed into me all at once. I had kissed him back in 1955. I had tried to make out with my own son. I was no better than some sort of a child pervert.

'Stay away from me!' I cried suddenly, pushing him away so that he staggered backwards. He stumbled and tripped, falling to the ground.

'Lorraine!' George, who had been reading the paper in the corner, was there in an instant, scooping up Marty. My five-year-old son's expression was one of shock and hurt; his lips were only just beginning to tremble and his eyes to fill up. George was staring at me over the top of Marty's head. 'What the hell do you think you're doing?'

George rarely swore, but he sounded more shocked than angry. Tears came to my own eyes. 'I'm sorry,' I whispered, and fled the room just as Marty began to howl.

That was the turning point. I no longer felt comfortable with any sort of contact with Marty. I would hug and kiss Dave and Linda, but when Marty came over I would be cold and unresponsive. It grew worse, until finally I was shoving him away from me. I wouldn't speak to him or make eye contact with him; but sometimes I watched him while he was unawares. I wondered and wondered until I wanted to cry: did my son really bear resemblance to Marty Klein, was he Marty Klein, or was my mind just convincing me that he looked like him? And I did cry, many times, wondering was I going mad.

George was no fool – he could see something was bothering me, to say the least. 'Lorraine, do you think maybe you should see someone?' he suggested tentatively one night when the children had gone to bed.

He'd meant it kindly, of course, but I flared up immediately. 'What do you mean? See someone? I'm fine, George! Don't be ridiculous! I've never been better! What makes you think something's wrong? I'm fine! Everything's fine!'

'Mom?'

Marty, seven years old now, was standing in the doorway, sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired. My shouting must have woken him up.

'Marty, go back to bed,' said George sharply.

Marty was not about to be deterred so easily. 'Mom's cryin',' he insisted, and came over to wrap his arms comfortingly around my waist.

I gasped – memories flashing back – the smell of the leather interior of the car, the smell of him – soap – and his wide blue eyes…

'Have you ever been in a…situation…where you knew you had to do something, but when you came to it…you didn't think you could go through with it?'

'Oh, yeah, I think I know exactly what you mean.'

'You – you do?'

'Yeah. And do you know what I do in those situations?'

Marty looked nervous. I smiled mischievously.

'I don't think.'

The scent of his flesh, the texture of his skin against my cheek, my lips sliding over his…

I snapped back to the present and saw the same blue eyes that I had stared into twenty years ago looking up at me now. My child smelt of milk and innocence, his little warm body pressed close to mine.

'Don't touch me!' I screamed, shoving him away from me and slapping him across the face. He cried out in pain, one hand flying to his scarlet cheek.

George got up from his chair at the table so fast he sent it crashing to the ground. He grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. He was truly, truly furious this time. 'Don't you dare hit our child,' he roared at me. 'Don't you dare, Lorraine!'

'Stop it, George,' I pleaded, struggling in his grip.

He let go of me, but continued to shout. 'I don't know why you act this way towards Marty, but it's got to stop! And now you've started hitting him – I won't stand for it, Lorraine. If you ever lay a finger on him again – '

He broke off and turned away, but not before I saw the tears in his eyes. His back to me, he bent down and hefted Marty into his arms. My son peered at me over his father's shoulder, one side of his face bright red, tears slipping silently down his cheeks.

It was over then. I knew it, George knew it, but neither of us could bear to acknowledge it. We became cold and distant with each other after that, barely speaking. George now began to cuddle Marty more and spend more time with him – trying to make up the love that I had never given him. Marty became his special child, whereas I gave all my attention to Dave and Linda, the two family members that still loved me. The rifts within our household deepened.

One day, when Marty was eight years old, he set fire to the living room rug. After I had finished watching George and Dave yelling and struggling with the fire extinguisher, Linda screaming and throwing her possessions of her bedroom window, George shouting and Marty sobbing afterwards, I retreated to my room and sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling empty and drained of feeling.

'Oh…if one of your kids ever accidentally, when he's eight years old, sets fire to the living room rug – go easy on him, OK?'

The words had been accompanied with a special wink towards me. Now I knew it was true. Marty had travelled back to 1955. I had tried to make out with my own son. I was some sort of child pervert.

Some time after that, I left. George and I divorced. Two years later I met John, a good, kind man. We married, and moved into a nice house in Grass Valley. I occasionally saw Dave and Linda, although admittedly less and less; and I made it clear to George from the start that I never wanted to see Marty again. I didn't see George again, either. There was too much hurt between us, too much misunderstanding, and the knowledge of what both of us had had, and what we could have had, but what never came to pass.

I was content now, and I loved John, although the deep, aching sense of loss of George and my family was ever present. I wondered where Marty was now. I wondered if he had gone back in time yet. If he had, he probably hated me even more now for what I'd tried to do to him. Although I hadn't understood then, of course…

A sudden loud banging on the door startled me from my dwellings on the past. Frowning, I glanced out the window. A black truck was parked askew in the driveway. Who could that be?

The banging at the door grew more persistent. 'I'm coming!' I called impatiently, standing up. Dabbing at my eyes to remove any trace of tears, I hurried down the hall, reached out towards the handle, and opened the door.