Tracks in Time follows Daniel, a man drifting through a life that looks fine from the outside but feels quietly unfinished on the inside. He can’t shake the sense that one moment—one unsaid sentence—sent everything down the wrong line. Then he meets Alf, an odd old man with a set of rules and an impossible offer: not a full rewind, but a handful of chances to step back onto key “tracks” in Daniel’s past and make one small, different choice.
As Daniel revisits the relationships and crossroads that shaped him, he discovers that changing the past isn’t about grand gestures—it’s about the brave, ordinary moments: showing up, staying kind, telling the truth, and not snatching at happiness when it finally appears. With each return, Daniel edges closer to the night he can’t remember and the answer he’s been avoiding. And when the final track comes into view, he must decide whether he’s ready to stop living in the what-ifs… and choose a life that moves forward, at last.
Tracks in Time follows Daniel, a man drifting through a life that looks fine from the outside but feels quietly unfinished on the inside. He can’t shake the sense that one moment—one unsaid sentence—sent everything down the wrong line. Then he meets Alf, an odd old man with a set of rules and an impossible offer: not a full rewind, but a handful of chances to step back onto key “tracks” in Daniel’s past and make one small, different choice.
As Daniel revisits the relationships and crossroads that shaped him, he discovers that changing the past isn’t about grand gestures—it’s about the brave, ordinary moments: showing up, staying kind, telling the truth, and not snatching at happiness when it finally appears. With each return, Daniel edges closer to the night he can’t remember and the answer he’s been avoiding. And when the final track comes into view, he must decide whether he’s ready to stop living in the what-ifs… and choose a life that moves forward, at last.
Finsbury Park Station, New Year’s Eve 1999
By half nine on New Year’s Eve, Finsbury Park already felt like the inside of someone else’s hangover.
He stepped off the escalator into it: warm lager breath, party hats at the wrong angle, glitter that was never going to come out of anyone’s coat. The tannoy crackled something about holiday services and delays, then gave up halfway through “We apologise for any—” like even it couldn’t be bothered.
He stopped under the big digital board. Northbound, ten past.
Twelve minutes.
Twelve whole minutes. Practically early.
“New year, new me,” he muttered. “Punctual and everything.”
No one cared. A group of lads in plastic “2000” glasses were trying to start a Mexican wave. A woman in a silver dress argued with a bloke in reindeer antlers about whether you could “count a minicab as public transport.” Someone had already let off a party popper; the crumpled shell lay in the middle of the concourse like tiny spent artillery.
He patted his coat: Travelcard, wallet, Nokia. The phone stayed stubbornly still. No new messages.
Of course not. His friends were already two stops up the line, probably three pints in and composing abuse about his timekeeping.
He headed down the stairs to the platform. The air was colder here, smelling of brake dust, deodorant and something fried drifting down from the café. The tiled walls made everything louder: laughter, the squeal of metal on metal, the echo of distant fireworks somewhere over the roofs.
He found a spot a safe distance back from the yellow line, near a metal bench that had seen better days. One leg didn’t quite reach the floor, so every time anyone sat or stood, it gave a hollow clank of protest.
Ten to.
Look at that, he thought, a small, secret swell of pride. I’ve actually beaten a train.
On the opposite platform, people stamped their feet and huffed into scarves. A kid in a paper crown did circuits around his mum, nearly taking out three commuters and a bin. A busker in a wool hat was bravely attempting “Auld Lang Syne,” the tune wandering up and down the scale like it couldn’t decide on a key.
The tannoy cleared its throat. “The next service on platform three is the… twenty-two-oh-eight service… calling at Highbury and Islington, Canonbury…”
“Not my one,” he murmured.
He rocked on his heels and tried not to think too hard about the fact that he was walking into a brand new millennium with exactly the same social life as the old one.
You can’t meet anyone if you don’t actually talk to anyone, a familiar voice in his head pointed out. It’s not a romcom. They’re not going to fling themselves across the carriage at you because you look ‘approachable in knitwear.’
He huffed a laugh and pulled his scarf tighter. Approachable in knitwear would do. It beat “looks permanently confused by the ticket system.”
The twenty-two-oh-eight rattled in, sighed, and rattled back out again with a wash of cold air. His train would be next. Ten past. Northbound. Friends, pub, sticky carpet, overpriced lager. Countdown on a fuzzy TV bolted high in the corner. The future, apparently.
He checked his watch again.
Two minutes.
A pack of lads barrelled down onto the platform, all aftershave and shouting and that particular brand of laughter that was mostly volume. Paper crowns crushed on their heads, one of them using his tie as a scarf. They spread along the yellow line like excitable meerkats, jostling and ignoring every safety sign.
Careful, he thought automatically. Do not start the new millennium by falling under a train. There are easier ways to dodge resolutions.
The train lights appeared in the tunnel: a faint glow, then two clear points. A gust of air rushed ahead of it, tugging at coats and discarded newspapers.
“Stand clear of the edge of the platform,” the tannoy instructed, sounding more worried than usual.
He took half a step back from the yellow line. Habit. He’d always been the cautious type. Other people ran into things and figured it out later; he preferred to mentally fill out a risk assessment.
The lads didn’t move. One of them, the smallest, twisted round to shout something down the platform, elbow flaring out.
It happened fast and slow at once.
The elbow clipped an older man in a long tweed overcoat who’d been edging through the crush. The coat swung. The man’s feet went out from under him. His shopping bag flew, oranges scattering like marbles.
For a fraction of a second he was weightless, horizontal above the platform.
Then he hit the tiles with a crack that went through the watching man like cold water.
The crowd gasped as one. Someone swore. The train, already committed, roared closer.
His body moved before his brain caught up.
He dropped his rucksack and lunged, boots skidding slightly. He got his hands under the old man’s shoulders at the last second, stopping him rolling towards the edge.
“Whoa, whoa—got you,” he heard himself say, breathless. His heart was beating hard enough to make him feel slightly sick.
The edge of the tweed coat was a hand’s width from the drop.
One of the lads yelled something that sounded like “Sorry!” and dissolved backwards into the crowd, suddenly fascinated by the timetable.
“Is he alright?” someone shouted, safely out of range of doing anything.
The old man wheezed. His face, already lined, creased further as he tried to focus.
“Don’t… don’t move,” the younger man said, more to himself than anything. A memory surfaced from a first-aid course he’d mostly attended for the biscuits. Check danger. Check response. Airway, breathing, circulation.
Right.
Danger: train. Response: groaning. Breathing: yes, but unimpressed.
He eased one hand away long enough to yank his folded jacket out of his rucksack and slide it under the man’s head. The tiles were icy under his own knuckles as his knees hit the floor.
Behind him, the train thundered into the station in a blur of yellow and white. Doors chimed. Brakes squealed. Sparks spat somewhere down the line.
He stayed where he was, kneeling on the concrete, feeling the rush of air tug at his hair.
Only when the train finally ground to a halt did he realise he’d been holding his breath.
“Sir?” He tried for calm and reassuring, like the TV doctors. “Can you hear me? You’ve had a bit of a fall, that’s all. You’re on the platform at Finsbury Park.”
The old man blinked slowly. His eyes were cloudy, but sharp enough to find the face above him.
“Bloody… millennium,” he managed, on a wheeze. “Should’ve stayed in with the telly.”
A short laugh escaped. “Honestly? Best advice I’ve heard all week.”
A voice nearby said, “I’ve got some water. Do you think he can take any?”
He looked up.
A woman had crouched down beside them. Red wool coat, big buttons, dark curls escaping from under a bobble hat. She held out a small bottle.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t want him to choke.”
“Alright, just his lips then,” she said. She poured a little water onto her fingers and dabbed it carefully at the man’s mouth. “There you go. You’re alright. Just breathe for us.”
The old man’s eyes flicked towards her, still confused but a fraction calmer.
“Thank you,” the younger man said, only just noticing that his own hands were shaking.
“Couldn’t just stand there,” she said. Up close, her cheeks were pink from the cold, eyes clear and steady. “You’re doing brilliantly. What happened?”
“Got knocked,” he said. “One of those lads. Elbow, gravity, bad timing.”
He gestured at the man on the floor, the scattered oranges, his jacket under a grey head.
A member of station staff skidded to a halt beside them, hi-vis flaring at the edge of his vision.
“What’s going on?” the guard asked, already reaching for the radio.
“Man fell,” the younger one said. “Hit his head, maybe. He’s breathing, talking. Just… rattled.”
The guard crouched, took one look and thumbed the radio. “Control, I’ve got one male, possible head injury, platform three,” he said. “Ambulance to Finsbury Park, please.”
The crowd murmured and shuffled. The lads had vanished, swallowed by bodies and helpful forgetfulness.
The younger man kept his hands steady on the fallen man’s shoulders. He could feel the tremor in the older body, the shallow rise and fall of each breath.
“Good job, mate,” the guard said quietly. “Most people would’ve looked the other way.”
“He basically fell in my lap,” he said. “Would’ve been a bit on the nose to step over him.”
The woman in the red coat snorted. “Imagine,” she said. “Happy New Year, mind your head.”
He gave a shaky smile. “Not really the brand I’m going for.”
Behind them, the train doors slid open. Warm air and music spilled out, along with what looked like half of north London in party mode.
He looked up.
And saw her.
Not the woman in the red coat—someone else. In the doorway of the third carriage, one hand on the rail, the other wrapped around a small diary and pen. Dark hair twisted into a loose knot that was already giving up. Cardigan over a neat dress. Sensible shoes.
She didn’t match the glitter and shouting around her. She looked like someone with a list folded in her bag: train times, addresses, contingency plans.
Her gaze drifted over the platform: the cluster of people, the oranges, the man on the ground. Then it found him.
Something jolted in his chest.
That odd, double-exposed feeling: stranger and familiar at once. Office, maybe? Some old temp job? A lecture hall? Or nowhere at all and his brain just desperate for something to be meaningful.
He frowned slightly, trying to place her, getting nothing.
“Ambulance is on its way,” the guard said. “Three minutes, they reckon. He still responding?”
“Yeah,” he said quickly, eyes dropping back to the tiles. “Yeah, he’s with us.”
The old man blinked again, as if to prove the point.
“You’ve… done enough,” the man wheezed. “No need to fuss.”
“Too late,” the younger man said. “I’ve committed to the fussing now.”
The woman in the red coat smiled, still dabbing water on his lips. “He’s bossy,” she told the old man. “You picked the right person to collapse in front of.”
Somewhere above, a siren wailed, growing louder.
The train doors beeped their warning. That high-pitched, nagging tune every Londoner knew.
His train.
He could feel the pull of it: mates at the pub, countdown on the telly, vague hope of a midnight kiss that wouldn’t be humiliating. All the tiny, ordinary things he’d been heading towards.
“Mate, if you’re getting on, you’ll need to go now,” the guard said, jerking his chin at the open doors.
He looked up again.
The woman with the diary was still in the doorway, one foot on the train, one foot on the world. The crowd jostled around her, but she stayed put. Her brow had furrowed; the diary was clutched a little tighter.
She was watching him. Not the drama. Him.
Their eyes met and held for one breath.
He had just enough time. He could pick up his rucksack, mutter an apology, and step onto the train. Stand just inside the doors and call back that help was coming. Be the decent person and still make it to his pint.
He didn’t move.
His knees were on cold tile. His hand was under a stranger’s head. The idea of stepping over him to save seven minutes made something twist hard in his stomach.
He didn’t want to be that person. Even if nobody else knew, he would.
The woman in the carriage tilted her head, the smallest movement, like she understood there was a decision being made.
The doors beeped again. The guard swore softly.
“We can’t hold it much longer,” he said into the radio. “Ambulance close?”
“Two minutes,” crackled back.
Two minutes.
You’re late, he told himself. Congratulations on your brand consistency.
He swallowed.
“Let it go,” he said. “We’re alright. I’ll stay with him.”
The guard hesitated, then nodded. “Train clear to depart,” he said into the radio. “Passenger stable, member of public remaining with him.”
The doors slid shut.
The woman in the doorway watched him until the last slice of glass disappeared. Just before the train moved, her expression softened, something warm passing between them he felt all the way down his spine.
Then the carriage lurched forward and carried her into the tunnel, her reflection stretching and breaking on the windows until the lights vanished.
He watched until there was only darkness and the fading rumble.
“Brave,” the woman in the red coat said quietly. “Letting your train go.”
He let out a breath. “Didn’t really fancy starting the future by stepping over someone to get to it.”
“That should be on a poster,” she said. “‘Don’t Step Over People To Get Where You’re Going.’”
“With a picture of a sunset,” he said. “Or this place. Very motivational.”
The siren was loud now. A minute later, paramedics in green appeared at the far end of the platform, bags swinging.
The woman in the red coat sat back on her heels. “There we go,” she murmured. “Proper grown-ups.”
He shuffled aside as the paramedics knelt where he’d been, unpacking cuffs and masks and clipboards.
“What happened?” one of them asked, already checking the man’s pulse.
“Got knocked,” he said. “Fell, hit the floor. He’s been talking. Breathing like that the whole time.”
“Right,” the paramedic said. “You did well keeping him still.”
He shrugged, although something in his chest loosened a notch. “Didn’t seem like a great night to start improvising.”
She gave him a quick half-smile. “He’s lucky you were nearby.”
The woman in the red coat stayed until one of the paramedics gently nudged her back. “We’ve got him now,” he said. “Thanks for the water.”
She capped the bottle and slipped it into her pocket. “I should get out of the way,” she said, standing. “You okay?”
“Bit jelly-legged,” he admitted. “And I think my jacket’s going to need counselling.”
“Worth it though,” she said.
He looked at the man, now wired to a small forest of tubes and bleeping things, and nodded. “Yeah. Worth it.”
“Happy New Year,” she added, almost apologetic.
“You too.”
Then she was gone, swallowed back into the station.
By the time they had the older man on a stretcher, the platform had emptied and refilled twice. New faces, new stories, same cold floor. Another northbound train came and went. He didn’t even glance at it.
When they finally began wheeling the stretcher towards the ramp, he forced his knees to unbend and stood.
“You going to be alright?” he asked, because people always asked that, even when they couldn’t possibly know.
The man’s hand emerged from under the blanket, fingers curling around his for one surprisingly strong squeeze.
“You’ve… done your bit,” he rasped through the mask. “Go and… see in your century.”
“Running a bit behind schedule,” he said. “But I’ll give it a go.”
The man’s eyes crinkled faintly. Then the paramedics pushed him up the ramp and out of sight.
For a moment the platform felt weirdly quiet. His knees hurt, his hands were tingling, his jacket was definitely not improved by recent events.
He checked his watch.
Twenty-two fourty-two.
Over half an hour since the train he’d meant to catch.
The tannoy announced another northbound service. This time, when the headlights appeared, he picked up his rucksack, shrugged into his jacket and stepped towards the edge.
The train sighed to a stop. Doors slid open. He hesitated only long enough to make sure no one else was about to keel over in front of him, then stepped on.
As the carriage pulled away, he found a space near the doors and leaned back against the cool glass. The station slid past: tiles, posters, a glimpse of the wobbly bench. Then tunnel, briefly reflected faces, his own pale one among them.
He saw, very clearly, the woman with the diary in his mind: one foot in, one foot out, lips pressed together like she wanted to say something but didn’t.
You’ll never see her again, he told himself. Random person on a random train.
Still, the thought sat oddly. Like closing a book halfway through the first page.
He shook his head as the train rattled on, trying to reassemble the evening in his mind: pub, friends, sticky carpet, warm lager. He could already hear the jokes.
You’re late. Obviously.
Did you get distracted buying crisps?
New millennium, same old you.
He half-smiled at the floor and felt his heart rate finally start to come down.
By the time he climbed the stairs out of the station near the pub, the night air felt different. Sharper. Fireworks already crackled somewhere overhead, painting brief, messy colours on the low clouds.
The pub was rammed. Condensation fogged the windows, and he could hear the roar of it from halfway down the street.
Inside, heat hit him like a wall. People crammed shoulder to shoulder, shouting over bad music. Streamers drooped from the ceiling. The TV in the corner showed some glossy London event, the sound drowned out by the noise in here.
He wedged his way through elbows and coats until he reached the table where his friends had colonised a corner. They were mid-argument about which song should be playing at midnight and had already built a small city of empty pint glasses.
“There he is!” one of them yelled. “Thought the millennium had started without you.”
“Late to the end of the world,” another said. “Classic.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He tugged off his scarf, suddenly aware of the smear on his jacket and the grit on his knees. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“For what?”
“For saving an old man and, by extension, the NHS several forms,” he said. “I missed a train for you lot.”
They laughed, assuming he was exaggerating. Someone shoved a pint into his hand. Someone else slung an arm round his shoulders and steered him toward the bar.
“Go on then,” his mate said. “Tell us. And if this story doesn’t end with you snogging someone, I’m going to be very disappointed.”
He opened his mouth, ready to turn the whole thing into something lighter, funnier, easier to tell.
“Fell over,” he began. “Right in front of me. Nearly killed him with my punctuality.”
They howled. The TV in the corner flashed up a countdown clock. Fifteen minutes to midnight. Somewhere in the crush of bodies, someone started a cheer too early and nobody minded.
As they drew him into the noise and heat and bad music, he let himself be pulled along, pint in hand, tried to slot back into the night he’d planned. It mostly worked.
But every now and then, as the minutes dragged them closer to the new year, an image floated up behind his eyes: a tiled platform, a hand gripping his, a woman in a red coat with a bottle of water, another woman in a train doorway with a diary clutched to her chest.
He was late. Obviously.
And yet, as the crowd started to count down—ten, nine, eight—he had the odd, quiet feeling that somewhere inside this slightly chaotic life of his, he’d arrived exactly when he was supposed to.
Tracks in Time is a novel about the moments we almost miss and how they can quietly transform our lives. It opens on New Year’s Eve 1999, where a split-second decision on a London underground platform becomes a moral hinge, echoing decades later in the life of Daniel, the protagonist. In that unique moment, the central theme is established: how small acts of attention, kindness, or hesitation can ripple far beyond their immediate context.
Daniel is a man who is competent and reliable, but deeply stuck in life. His life functions well on the surface with steady work and a robust support system. However, beneath that stability lies a persistent sense of hesitation for Daniel. Through careful observation, dry humour, and moments of striking clarity, the reader comes to understand not just what Daniel does, but how he avoids, defers, and quietly negotiates his own desires. The result is a deeply humane character whom readers instinctively connect with, not because he is extraordinary, but because he is so relatably ordinary.
The story’s strength lies in its honest core: the recognition that a life can be stable, safe, and still feel unfinished. Above all, it resists the familiar narrative of radical reinvention or dramatic escape. Instead, it offers a gentler suggestion that a meaningful life is built through attention and courage applied daily.
What makes Tracks in Time particularly resonant is its reminder that history does not tidy itself away. The author, Steve McCarthy, understands that adulthood is often shaped by the slow accumulation of choices deferred and risks not taken, rather than by dramatic turning points. He crafts a story that unfolds through showing up and the moral weight of small decisions rather than grand gestures. One minor weakness is the repeated return to Daniel’s former girlfriends and unresolved crushes, which at times feels overly familiar. While this repetition reinforces the message of deferred choice, it occasionally slows the narrative and dilutes its emotional impact.
Tracks in Time for anyone who has ever felt that their life was technically fine and still wanted more. Long after the final page, the book lingers with a profound question: What are you waiting for?