Jack returned to London the next morning. The envelope of cash was still heavy in his jacket. He'd barely slept on the train, his mind racing through calculations, plans, possibilities.
Thirty thousand pounds in hand. Six thousand in savings. Potential for ten to fifteen thousand from the Brazilian sponsors. That was forty-six to fifty-one thousand—enough for Formula 3, a proper operation, and contingency funds.
But first, he needed to multiply it.
Robert Pembleton's office was in a nondescript building near Liverpool Street Station. Jack had got to know him through his son, Richard—the commodities broker he'd encountered at The Red Lion. After their conversation about gold futures, Richard had called his father "a proper broker who handles serious money, not pub chat," and given Jack the card.
Pembleton was in his fifties and balding. He had the shrewd eyes of someone who'd seen every financial scheme and scam in existence.
"Mr. Hartley," Pembleton said, gesturing to a chair. "Richard said you might be calling. You said on the phone you had capital to invest. How much are we talking about?"
"Forty thousand pounds," Jack said, his voice level. "I want to invest in gold futures."
Pembleton's eyebrows rose. "That's not a small amount for someone your age. Family money?"
"Something like that."
"And you want to go long on gold?" Pembleton pulled out a chart showing gold's price movement over the past year. "Current price is around $140 per ounce. The market's been volatile but generally trending up since we came off the gold standard. What's your thinking?"
Jack leaned forward, choosing his words. "I think there's significant upside potential in the next few months. Geopolitical instability, oil prices still uncertain after the crisis, currency fluctuations with floating exchange rates. The fundamentals suggest continued growth in the short term."
"That's the conventional wisdom, yes," Pembleton said, tapping his pen against the chart. "Richard mentioned you work at Brabham—Formula 1. Interesting career for someone playing commodities markets."
"I'm an engineer, not a trader. But I pay attention to the sponsors—the people funding our sport. You hear things."
"Things like what?"
Jack chose his words carefully. "Inflation concerns mostly. Central banks talking tough about monetary policy, but nobody believes they'll actually tighten effectively. Money's looking for somewhere that holds value."
Pembleton leaned back, studying Jack with the same analytical intensity he used on balance sheets. "You didn't come here to put forty thousand pounds into a conventional long position. Richard said you were asking about leverage. How much are you thinking?"
"Five times, if the margin requirements allow it."
Pembleton's expression hardened slightly. "Let me explain something about leverage, Mr. Hartley. With five-times leverage, you're controlling a two-hundred-thousand-pound position with forty thousand in capital. A ten percent move against you wipes out your capital. A fifteen percent move and you owe money."
"I understand the risk."
"Do you?" Pembleton pulled out a second document. "What's your experience with commodities markets? Currency trading? Options and futures?"
"Limited," Jack admitted. "I'm not betting on my trading expertise. I'm betting on a macroeconomic view."
"To you." Pembleton set down his pen. "Here's what I see: Young man, early twenties, glamorous job, comes into some money, thinks he can turn it into something bigger. You know what usually happens next?"
"I lose everything and have to explain it to my family."
"Exactly." Pembleton's voice was flat. "So before we go any further, I need to know—what's your real experience here? Have you traded anything before? Stocks, bonds, commodities?"
Jack pictured the betting slips from January, the capital carefully accumulated through sports betting. Not the same thing, no. But the principle was identical: calculated risk based on information.
"I've made calculated investments based on information analysis," Jack said carefully. "Different markets, but same fundamental principle. Assess probability, manage risk, execute when the odds favor you."
"That's a very diplomatic answer." Pembleton studied him, his gaze unwavering. "Let me be direct. The futures market isn't like placing bets at a bookmaker. Prices move every second. Margin calls can come any time. If gold drops fifteen percent overnight—and it can—you'll wake up to a margin call demanding more capital or facing automatic liquidation. Can you handle that kind of pressure?"
Jack thought of Howard's words, Margaret's tears, the crushing weight of the thirty thousand pounds in borrowed money.
"No," he said honestly. "I'm not comfortable with unlimited exposure to that kind of volatility. But I need to move quickly, and I believe the analysis is sound."
Something in Pembleton's expression shifted—not approval exactly, but perhaps a grudging respect for Jack's honesty.
"Alright. Here's what I'm willing to do. I'll set up the position with five-times leverage, but I'm adding protective conditions. First, mandatory monthly check-ins. You call me, we review the position, we discuss whether to hold or adjust. Miss a check-in, I reserve the right to close the position."
"I can accept that."
"Second, I'm setting a stop-loss at fifteen percent down from entry. Non-negotiable. If the market moves that far against you, I close the position automatically. You'll lose six thousand pounds, but you'll still have thirty-four thousand left. That's better than zero."
Jack nodded. The stop-loss actually made sense—it was protection against his own potential panic or a catastrophic market move he hadn't anticipated.
"Third—and this is important—I want you to give me parameters now for when you want to potentially exit the position. Not specific prices necessarily, but timeframes or profit targets. Because when the market is moving fast, when emotions are running high, that's when people make their worst decisions."
Jack tapped a finger on the table, considering. "I'm expecting significant appreciation through spring. March and April, particularly. If we see gains above thirty-five or forty percent, I'd want to review the position carefully and take profits if the momentum shows signs of shifting."
"That's sensible," Pembleton said, making notes. "Most people get greedy, ride positions too long waiting for the absolute top. What about the downside? If your thesis is wrong and gold starts dropping?"
"The stop-loss handles catastrophic moves. But if we see sustained weakness—not just daily volatility but a genuine trend reversal—I'd want to exit quickly... and open a short position."
Pembleton nodded. "I can work with that. One more thing—I need your authorization now to contact you immediately, any time of day or night, if I see something in the market that concerns me. Price action that suggests a major move, unusual volume, anything that might affect your position. Can you commit to being reachable?"
"I'll be in Italy for three weeks starting tomorrow," Jack said. "Working with Alfa Romeo. I'll give you the contact information for where I'm staying so they can reach me if something urgent comes up."
"Italy." Pembleton tapped his pen. "That's actually helpful. Different time zone means you won't be watching every tick of the market all day. Most of my clients would be better off if they couldn't check prices every five minutes."
He pulled out a thick stack of forms.
"Alright, Mr. Hartley. If we're doing this, we're doing it properly. I'll need proof of funds—you said cash, so we'll need to count and verify that. Then these risk disclosure forms, margin agreement, account opening documentation. We can execute the trade tomorrow morning if everything's in order."
They spent the next hour on documentation. Jack signed forms acknowledging risks and obligations; Pembleton, with the grim thoroughness of someone who'd seen too many disasters, explained margin calls and liquidation procedures. When they reached the section on position limits and leverage, Pembleton paused.
"One more thing I should mention. If this goes badly—if you lose a significant portion of this capital—I'm not going to help you chase your losses. I won't set up another heavily leveraged position, I won't let you double down hoping to recover. I've seen too many people destroy themselves that way. If you lose, you accept it and move on with whatever capital remains. Understood?"
"Understood."
"And Richard mentioned you were asking about shorting gold eventually. If your thesis plays out and we do see that peak you're expecting, we can discuss setting up a short position. But that's a separate decision, separate risk assessment. Don't assume we'll automatically flip the trade."
"Fair enough."
When they finished, Pembleton walked Jack to the door.
"Mr. Hartley," he said, "I hope you're right about this. I genuinely do. But remember—the market doesn't care about your plans or your obligations. It doesn't care that you need this money for something important. The stop-loss will protect you from complete disaster, but there's still a lot of room between success and catastrophe. Make sure you're prepared for outcomes that aren't exactly what you're hoping for."
Jack shook his hand. "I am. And thank you for the conditions. The stop-loss especially."
"That's not for you," Pembleton said with a slight smile. "That's for me. I don't like calling families to tell them their son just lost their life savings. It makes me feel complicit in the disaster."
.........
The British Airways flight to Milan departed the next morning at 8:45 AM. Jack sat by the window, watching England disappear beneath clouds as the plane climbed to cruising altitude.
His briefcase held Pembleton's paperwork confirming the gold futures position. Forty thousand pounds, leveraged five times, betting on gold to continue its upward trajectory through spring. The stop-loss at fifteen percent down meant he couldn't lose everything in a single catastrophic move, and Pembleton's authorization to call him about significant market movements gave him crucial protection against poor timing or panic.
In his wallet was the check from his parents for ten thousand pounds, still not cashed. He would deposit it upon returning from Italy, keep it separate, and ensure its return before year's end—regardless of the outcomes in trading or racing.
The flight attendant came by with drinks. Jack took a coffee, black, and returned his attention to the window.
If his memory was correct—and everything hinged on it now—gold would peak near $195-$200 in late April, followed by a long decline through summer. With Pembleton's help executing the exit and shorting after fall, forty thousand pounds leveraged five times could become three hundred thousand or more. Enough to return his parents' thirty thousand immediately with interest, fund a proper Formula 3 operation with real contingency capital, and prove he could build something without destroying the people who believed in him.
But if he was wrong, if his memory failed or the timeline diverged, Pembleton's stop-loss would trigger at six thousand pounds lost, leaving thirty-four thousand behind. Enough to return most of the money and seriously reconsider his plans. Not ideal, but not catastrophic.
Three weeks in Italy lay ahead, and Jack felt a flutter of anticipation thinking about where he was going. This wasn't just any car factory; this was Arese, the holy land of Italian motorsport. Alfa Romeo's legacy was the cornerstone upon which modern racing was built.
The marque wasn't merely a participant in Formula 1's birth—it had created F1's first dynasty, winning the inaugural two World Championships in 1950 and 1951 with the legendary Alfetta race cars and drivers like Nino Farina and Juan Manuel Fangio. Their dominance had established the very concept of the World Championship itself.
Even more remarkable, Alfa Romeo was the spiritual and literal birthplace of its greatest rival.
The company had employed a driven young racer named Enzo Ferrari in the 1920s, and his famed Scuderia Ferrari racing team had originally been founded as an Alfa Romeo satellite squad. The protégé had eventually broken away to build his own empire, but the roots remained.
Jack would be working with engineers who carried that lineage, learning from people who understood what it meant to build championship-winning engines.
The flat-12 he'd be studying represented the latest evolution of that engineering excellence, that fierce passione that had defined the sport from its glorious, thunderous beginning.
He thought about Howard's words: Make something that matters. Something that justifies the sacrifice.
Working with Alfa Romeo's engineers, understanding their approach to development, how they balanced innovation with reliability, how they maintained excellence across decades—that knowledge would be invaluable when he built his own team. This wasn't just about the Brabham project. It was about learning from masters, about understanding what separated legendary constructors from the hopefuls who'd tried and failed.
The racing season would begin in earnest after this. South Africa in March, then the long championship battle through summer and autumn. And through it all, gold futures ticking away, Pembleton monitoring the position, ready to call if something went wrong or if the moment came to exit. Every fractional price movement carrying his parents' mortgage payments and business loans and dreams.
Jack closed his eyes, Margaret's voice echoing in his memory: Don't work yourself to death trying to prove something. Prove you're wise. And Howard's voice beneath it: Make something that matters.
He was someone's son, carrying their hopes, accountable to the people who'd given him everything. That truth changed the calculation entirely. This wasn't about exploiting future knowledge for personal gain anymore. It was about honoring a promise, protecting a family, building something that justified the faith they'd placed in him.
The plane pushed through clouds toward Italy. Jack opened his eyes. The Alps lay below, snow-capped peaks stretching toward the horizon, beautiful and imposing in the morning light.
He would make them proud. He would prove that dreams, properly funded and carefully executed, could become reality. And he would do it without becoming someone he couldn't recognize, without losing sight of what mattered beyond the engineering and the racing and the ambition.
The weight of their expectations was almost unbearable. But it was also exactly what he needed to stay honest, to remember why he was doing this, to build something worthy of everything they'd risked.
Jack Hartley—truly, finally, completely himself—smiled and returned to his coffee. Ahead lay Arese and three weeks of learning from the masters. Ahead lay a racing season and financial gambles and the slow, careful construction of a future built on more than just memory and luck.
There was work to do. And for the first time since waking up in this younger body, in this second chance at life, Jack felt ready for all of it.