The Unexpected Gift of Joseph Bridgeman (The Downstream Diaries Book 1)

by Nick Jones

  ‘Joe?’ Martin asks gingerly, eyes now wide with concern, ‘Are you okay?’

  I realise I’m grinning, and probably look loopy loo. ‘I will be,’ I say, winking and then uncharacteristically slapping his shoulder.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Martin says, noticeably shaken and confused.

  ‘You’ll find out.’ I smile.

  Which is ironic because, if my plan works, he won’t find out at all and he won’t even remember this conversation because it will never happen.

  3.

  There’s a T.V. show called Family Fortunes. It’s actually based on an American show called Family Feud. I don’t know if it’s still being made, because I don’t watch television, but in the show, families are asked to guess the results of a survey. ‘We asked 100 people’ etc.’ I remember my family crowding around the telly, guessing the answers. The ultra glossy, well groomed host smiles at the audience. ‘We asked 100 people. If they could go back in time what would they do?’ The opposing families whisper and debate. The studio audience and the millions at home all feel they know the most popular answer.

  Our survey says:

  Kill Hitler.

  Save Kennedy.

  Stop 9/11.

  These are all good answers of course – very decent answers in fact – but they are unattainable to me. They involve going back a long way, to a specific time and specific location.

  Let’s ask that question again, but this time let’s introduce some parameters, let’s introduce a time limit.

  ‘If you could go back just one day what would you do?’

  There’s an obvious answer of course, one that would come top of any list. No question. I’m sure you were way ahead of me. It took me a while – I’ve had a few things on my mind – but I’m there now. It’s obvious. Win the Lottery. I may have bigger fish to fry but before I do, I need to pay for the oil and keep the lights on.

  Come on, don’t deny it, you would if you could.

  4.

  It’s Saturday, 13th December, just gone 8 a.m. I’m up and out, walking the streets of Cheltenham. The sun is a brilliant yellow ball against a chalk blue sky, so clear it looks almost painted. I breathe deeply, cold air filling my lungs. A woman smiles as she passes me, a knowing gesture that somehow says, You’re in your own world, I know the feeling! I turn, she looks back and we smile again and I feel a rare connection. It feels good to be alive and that’s a new vibe for me. Well, maybe not new, but so forgotten it feels like it.

  I decide it’s probably because I have a new purpose, one that may be unorthodox but it’s given me a renewed sense of belonging. Tonight, if all goes well, I am going to travel back a day and win the Lottery.

  I look at the crowds of people and realise that I might do all of this again, this walk through Cheltenham, this beautiful morning, except the second time I do, I will know six numbers that will change my life forever. Next time, I might even say ‘good morning’ to that beautiful woman that just passed me. I must remember to look out for her.

  My most successful time jump was my first, a whole day. Replicating that was harder than I thought though. Jump two worked but it was short, a vodka induced trip of just twenty minutes. Not great. I suppose a few hours might be just enough to win the Lottery but a day should be my target; my benchmark. I wonder if the second time I travelled I wanted it too much. People who meditate talk about searching for a singular moment, a thoughtless kind of peace. The problem with that is that as soon as you think ‘Oh, wow, I reckon I’ve got it!’ then you haven’t, because you’ve thought about it. It’s a paradox of sorts. You can’t enjoy your thoughtless moment, your oneness, because you shouldn’t really be aware of it.

  I stop walking and look up. I think back to Finch and the techniques and advice she gave me. That’s what started all of this. That’s what converted my ability to view into time-travel itself. I need to replicate everything I did on that very first jump. The bath, the candles, the lack of any expectations or vodka.

  A voice I recognise cuts through my thoughts, ‘You look like you’re in your own little world there.’ A man says, happily.

  I shield my eyes from the sun and see an unmistakable silhouette. ‘Vinny,’ I say, ‘I was just on my way to see you.’

  I’m not used to seeing Vinny like this, out of the shop, walking the streets. He has a place in my world and fits neatly into a box. This feels a little strange.

  ‘You were miles away.’ Vinny chuckles.

  ‘Yeah,’ I reply, ‘got a few things on my mind, I guess.’

  ‘Me too,’ he says seriously. ‘Quite a lot actually.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Vinny pats his considerable tummy and nods. ‘Yep. Bacon, eggs, sausages, toast, hash browns.’

  ‘Ahhh,’ I laugh. ‘Of course!’

  Like me, Vinny has his own routine, but his version is a greasy spoon café, the kind of place you can consume your weekly amount of calories in one go. Vinny probably ought to have shares.

  ‘You popping into the shop later?’ He asks, scratching his bald head.

  I think about my routine and how it seems to relate to my furthest jump. ‘Yes, absolutely,’ I say.

  ‘Alrighty then,’ Vinny replies. ‘See you later, hunger calls.’

  He walks away but I call him back. ‘How about I buy you breakfast and we eat it in the park?’ I suggest.

  Vinny’s face contorts and I suspect he’s calculating the quality and volume of a park-based meal.

  ‘A full English baguette,’ I add, ‘and a large builders’ tea from that new place you said you liked the look of?’

  A smile as big as the sun spreads across his face. ‘Lovely jubbly.’ Vinny says, patting his tummy.

  It’s too cold to sit, so we walk slowly around the edge of the park. People dart across its middle, busy as cars at an intersection. Vinny bites into his sandwich, which looks more like a caveman’s wooden club and groans with pleasure as ketchup oozes from its edges. He talks as he chews. ‘This was a good idea, Cash,’ he smiles and swallows hard. ‘Damn good idea.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I say, biting into my comparatively tiny croissant.

  ‘You buttering me up for some hard to find vinyl or something?’ Vinny asks.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Vinny tilts his head, ‘I reckon this is the longest conversation we’ve ever had. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice and all, but you don’t usually want to shoot the breeze.’

  I nod, he’s right of course. I’ve often fancied doing just that, shooting the breeze, but usually don’t risk it. However, his question makes me realise why I suggested this in the first place, why I want to talk to him. The subconscious works in mysterious ways.

  ‘How long have you had the shop?’ I ask as we walk, or in Vinny’s case, shuffle. ‘It’s a long time right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Vinny grunts, slurping his tea, ‘nearly twenty years now. Seen vinyl come and go, in and out of fashion, been there the whole time.’ He snorts, ‘Irony is, now vinyl’s back in fashion the kids want the new stuff and all the shops, you know the ones that ditched vinyl back in the day, they’re all like, ooooh, vinyl is cool again, get it at the front, sell it by the bucket load.’

  ‘You love it though, right?’

  Vinny sighs and considers, ‘Yeah, I guess I do.’

  ‘Would you still do it, even if you didn’t have to?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ He asks.

  ‘I mean, if you won the Lottery or something, would you still own the shop, still go to work every day?’

  He pauses, takes a massive bite of his calorie bomb and chews it like a cow in no hurry. Eventually he says, ‘Well, I would pay off my debts, sort my daughter out, you know holidays and college and that.’ He swallows a huge amount and looks in pain but then shrugs happily. ‘Yeah, I reckon I would just carry on as normal. Life’s okay, I love that old shop.’ He stares at me with intensity, as though an honest calculation is being made and he wants to get it right. ‘Winning a mill wouldn’t ch
ange me,’ he says, sternly, ‘I really feel that. I can’t deny it would be a laugh, would remove a load of worry, but I don’t think anything would change me really.’

  I nod and we stroll.

  ‘Why you asking, Cash?’ He gives my shoulder a playful nudge, ‘Is this the part when you tell me you’ve won the Lottery? That you’re one of those secret millionaires?’

  I smile, ‘No, I’m afraid not, I’m just interested that’s all.’

  My conscious mind finally catches up and understands what’s really going on. ‘And what if you knew the numbers?’ I ask.

  Vinny laughs loudly, his considerable frame providing a resonance I hope I never manage, ‘Oh man, you have that dream too?’ His eyes are gleaming with excitement, ‘Can you imagine, actually knowing?!’

  I shrug, ‘It would be amazing wouldn’t it, but would it be wrong?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Would it be theft if you knew the numbers, if you could somehow cheat the system.’

  ‘Cash,’ Vinny says, deliberately accentuating his nick-name for me. ‘They make plenty out of it. I wouldn’t think about it for a second. Anyway, you could always give some to charity or something.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I agree. ‘That would be okay wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Totally.’ Vinny raises his eyebrows, ‘I never bother with the Lottery but you got me thinking, I might give it a go tonight.’

  ‘Why not?’ I smile, decision made. ‘Why the hell not?’

  5.

  The Lottery show goes though its motions. The balls jostle around in the named Perspex tumbler, no doubt released by that smartly dressed man with gloves, the one who looks like a snooker referee. The music kicks in and a beamingly optimistic voice calls out the winning numbers. The coloured balls travel, light and bouncy, to their resting place. The draw is done and as the numbers are announced in numerical order I write them down, hand shaking.

  18 - 30 - 33 - 34 - 38 - 48

  I consider them, these numbers that are now fixed in time. All those thirties… 30, 33, 34, 38. I would never have chosen those. They just don’t seem random enough, but I will choose them because now we are friends, those numbers and I. Rather than rely on paper alone, I write them on my hand for good measure. I also begin to repeat them over and over in my mind. Those lovely numbers, those random and weird digits that are going to bring an end to my financial woes. I’m not excited in the way most people would be. This win means one thing to me. Time. Ironically. It just buys me some thinking time and that’s all I need; time to think, to stop this merry-go-round.

  Drinking piña coladas on a beach somewhere would be nice, I guess, but it’s not for me. This is a necessary act. One step in a much bigger plan that, so far, is on track.

  I popped into Vinny’s on the way home because that’s what I did on the day I travelled back the furthest. Chamomile tea; Check. Bath running; Check. Candles; Likewise. Repeating the procedure is paramount and, as I slip into my blindingly hot bath (making sure I don’t wash the numbers off), I focus on the feelings I had on the first day I travelled. All I wanted to do then was sleep. I also remember Finch asking me to think about safe places, about happier times. I try that too. I think about Amy and the few untainted memories I have of that time. They are as warm and welcoming as the water that covers me. By the time I finally crawl into bed I am feeling remarkably tired. I lay in darkness and begin my countdown, blinking on the odd numbers and focussing on going back to this morning, before those Lottery numbers were drawn. I think of meeting Vinny in the park and the warm sun. I imagine the duvet sinking without me to hold it up, like it did when I watched Other Joe disappear.

  It’s going to happen, I can feel it. I know it.

  6.

  It’s morning. I’m awake and it doesn’t take long for me to find out it’s Sunday. I’m aware that I dreamt, abstract ideas and images, disjointed conversations. Usually, dreaming rather than viewing is a rare and beautiful thing, but today it sucks the big one. I look at the numbers written in blue pen on my hand and curse. They are useless now, printed in every paper and on multiple websites. Anyone could write them on their hand today.

  Shit.

  I’m not sure what I expected. Did I really think I could just jump at will? No, I think deep down I knew it wasn’t going to work. Why would it? What makes me the expert all of a sudden? Practice makes perfect, my Mum always said, but it isn’t easy with the bomb of my eviction ticking all around me. Sure, I can wait until the next Lottery draw and just try again but a decent percentage of my fear is nagging at me. It’s telling me I’ve had my chance, that I will never be able to do it again. I feel like the man who thinks he’s just accidently burned his winning ticket, or washed it, or ripped it up by mistake. That would be horrible.

  Shit. Shit.

  I shower, dress and check the fridge. Apart from two apples on a mission to become cider, it’s empty. My stomach rolls. No Lottery winning caviar and champagne for me. Not even a bagel. I fold my arms and lean against a work-top. This isn’t good. What if it’s true, what if I’ve lost my ability to time-travel?

  A thought occurs to me, one that pushes me deeper into my increasingly grey depression. What if it’s like the genie in the lamp and you only get a set number of goes at this? I’ve already had two, which means that my next – if there is a next – might be my last.

  * * *

  9:01 a.m., Monday morning, I’m on the phone to Alexia Finch, begging her for an emergency appointment. She finally agrees.

  Emergency Hypnotherapy. I know, it was a stretch but actually, this is kind of an emergency. If I don’t get this sorted I’m out on my ear with no hope and no reason to carry on. We all need something to aim for, some point to all of this, don’t we? Travelling back again is mine, and I’m determined to figure out how to do it again, and why I’ve suddenly become better at sleeping than anything else. I’m like a bloody teenager for Pete’s sake. Who is Pete I wonder? Probably hanging out with Gordon Bennett and Bob, your Uncle.

  * * *

  Finch is seated opposite me. I’m lying back on the nutty chair, the reclining one out of the movies. Her glasses are perched on the end of her nose and she has a note-pad in hand. ‘Tell me, Mr Bridgeman,’ she purrs in her Caramel bunny voice, ‘how have you been since I saw you last?’

  She doesn’t say ‘since you barged in on me’, and for that I’m grateful.

  ‘I can’t sleep,’ I lie, which is hard because her voice is enough to make me feel sleepy again.

  Finch nods, ‘Did the techniques I showed you help at all?’

  ‘Yes, they did,’ I say, ‘for the first couple of days, but now I’m back to my old self again.’

  ‘I see.’ She makes notes and frowns. ‘And that’s why you wanted to see me urgently, you aren’t sleeping at all.’

  ‘Not at all.’ I rub my eyes for effect but I feel wide-awake, probably because I’ve had too much sleep. I never thought I would get to say that. Oh, the irony if I end up with narcolepsy after all I’ve been through.

  Finch rolls her pen deftly between her fingers, ‘Mr Bridgeman, often when we are having trouble sleeping it’s because things are bothering us, issues that sometimes we aren’t even aware of ourselves,’ she pauses and looks straight at me. ‘Things that our subconscious might be wrestling with.’

  Her eyes are bright and searching and I imagine them spinning and drawing me in like the hypnotic snake from Jungle Book. ‘I don’t think that’s it,’ I mumble, lamely, ‘I think I just need more of the stuff you showed me.’

  Her eyes narrow slightly, not a deliberate gesture I suspect, but she is studying me. I’m aware (not) that therapists love it when you tell them what to do.

  She manages a smile, ‘Have you ever heard of regression?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say without thinking, ‘it’s when you take me back to a string of past lives, where I’m a Pharaoh in Egypt and then King of England.’

  Her smile widens, ‘Yes. Well, I don’t do that!’ She ob
serves me coolly. ‘What I do is more grounded in reality, the here and now and how we perceive our past.’ She becomes slightly more animated as she speaks, as though she is addressing a room of hungry students. ‘Regression therapy can unearth forgotten or repressed experiences but can also reactivate positive feelings, and in your case perhaps the ability to sleep well.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘Could we just try more of the techniques you taught me the last time, you know like the breathing one?’ I sit up a little, and notice for the first time how pretty Alexia Finch is. Not attractive as such but definitely pretty. She’s plain in almost every sense of the word but that isn’t as bad as it sounds. It just means that nothing shouts about her. Her skin is soft and clear, her mousey hair is up and not bothering anyone. Her glasses are unobtrusive and lack any specific style. Her clothes are safe. Everything is just so, yet she exudes a kind of peacefulness, a graceful quality that I associate with nature, with birds or lions or –

  ‘Mr Bridgeman?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You drifted off I think,’ she says tenderly. ‘Probably your lack of sleep getting to you. It’s hard to concentrate.’

  I nod, desperately trying not to flush red. ‘Listen,’ I say, ‘I’m not sure about the regression thing.’

  ‘And that’s absolutely fine, you must feel comfortable. We can try it another time maybe.’ She breaks into another smile, which remains while she talks, ‘It can be a great tool for winding back the clock to a point where potential damage occurred. It’s a really safe way to explore things in a safe environment.’

  ‘Winding back the clock?’ I whisper.

  ‘Yes.’ Finch nods. ‘But, perhaps today we should try something gentle, see if we can guide your subconscious a little, get it to at least settle down. Not sleeping is often a learned behaviour, we learn that bed-time means not sleeping and then it becomes habit.’