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

by Nick Jones

  ‘Sian told me what happened.’

  ‘Shit,’ I whisper.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Sorry mate, come in.’

  He runs a hand through his damp hair. ‘You sure about that?’ His voice is sharp, clipped.

  Those words float around in my mind. They make no sense, have nothing to attach to. ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, ‘Of course I’m sure.’

  Mark whispers under his breath, ‘There’s no smoke without fire.’ He pulls a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, flicks one forward and out – like they do in the movies – and lights up.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Mark takes a long drag, the red glow of his cigarette revealing the depth of his stare. He’s searching me, searching to see if I’m going to crack.

  ‘Mark, what’s going on?’ I ask.

  ‘You tell me,’ he replies.

  ‘Come in, tell me what’s going on.’

  I feel an unusual sense of fear as I turn and climb the stairs. Mark follows. I head to the kitchen, flick on the lights and – as all Brits do in a crisis – fill the kettle. Tea, for some reason, solves almost anything. Mark and I lived here for six years, he moved out four years ago to live with Sian. I stayed and it’s got messier by the month. Mark doesn’t seem to notice, he’s focussed on me. He sighs heavily, takes another long draw on his cigarette and exhales blue smoke like a dragon about to strike.

  ‘Sian told me what happened, Joe,’ he says, sharp and quick, ‘you need to start talking.’

  His eyes are red and sunken. He gave up smoking years ago but I guess finding out about Sian has bought back old habits. I can smell alcohol too, spirits.

  ‘I didn’t want it to happen mate,’ I say, as if I have to remind him of my viewings, of my curse, ‘but you know I can’t control it.’

  His mouth pulls back in a grim smile. ‘You’ve always loved her haven’t you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard,’ he snaps. ‘You’ve always been jealous of us, always wanted what we’ve got.’

  ‘Mark, I don’t –’

  He takes a step towards me. ‘Be careful, Joe. She told me everything, about how you asked to meet, how you came onto her, how you told her you loved her.’

  The room swells as my mind races to catch up. Then, the pennies fall and they fall like hail. Sian Burrows, my high-school crush, the young girl has become a woman, and a woman scorned at that.

  I stare back at him in amazement. ‘You’re kidding? You don’t actually believe her do you?’

  ‘Did you meet her or not?’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘Stay away from her Joe.’

  ‘Listen, you don’t understand, I don’t love her, I didn’t say those things.’

  Mark’s face has become a statue, frozen in dark thoughts, ‘You know things have been hard, that things haven’t been good between us.’

  ‘I didn’t, not really, to be honest when Sian told me –’

  ‘We’re working on it,’ he interrupts, gritting his teeth. ‘Fucking hell Joe, I trusted you.’

  ‘This isn’t about me, this is about –’

  ‘What?’ Mark shouts, ‘What’s this about Joe?’

  I want to speak, I want to tell him about her affair. I want to explain that Sian is a survivor, that she’s brilliantly and expertly forced this fight between us, but I can’t. All I see are his daughters’ faces. Chloé, aged two and Ella, aged four. Whatever I do right now, whatever I say, will impact them. This is what I was trying to avoid in the first place, this is why I went to Sian.

  Mark’s blood is up, he’s shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Of all the people,’ he says, taking a purposeful step towards me, eyes blazing. ‘Why did it have to be you?’

  * * *

  Someone is shaking me, firmly on my right shoulder. My eyes snap open. I sit bolt upright in my seat. Leaning over me is a business man, middle aged and immaculately groomed. He offers a sympathetic smile. ‘You fell asleep,’ he says, ‘we’re here.’

  To confirm this, a bored voice, barely audible above the squeal of brakes, announces our arrival at Bristol Temple Meads.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, wiping saliva from my mouth. ‘Was I talking?’

  He smiles, a worried parody of concern. ‘Yes. You were talking, dreaming I think.’

  No, not dreaming. Viewing. Dreams are lovely, they drift away quickly, fading to the side of reality. Viewings on the other hand are pin sharp replays of the past and after they come, they stay, echoing emotions and feelings that should be long buried.

  ‘You kept saying a name,’ the man offers.

  ‘Amy?’ I ask, knowing the answer.

  ‘That was it.’ He nods. ‘Amy.’

  Next to us a young boy is crying, asking his mother to give him back a bag of confiscated sweets. He’s red-faced, arms crossed tightly, eyes wild with too much sugar. More sweets are the last thing he needs. As the train slows, he continually presses her, finally reaching for the bag. His mother smacks his hand and he recoils, seething.

  The man opposite me raises his eyebrows and leans in. ‘You can’t always get what you want,’ he says with a cheerful smile.

  I nod. ‘You’re a Rolling Stones fan?’

  ‘Of course,’ he replies, almost mocking the question. ‘Aren’t we all?’

  I shrug, ‘More of a Beatles fan myself.’

  ‘Ah yes, the old rivalry, Beatles or Stones. That was always the question.’

  The train stops and people stand, grabbing their belongings. I’m obviously glad I didn’t miss my stop, but mainly thankful for the reprieve. In my viewing, Mark was about to lose it and hit me, and I remember that really, really hurt. There’s no smoke without fire, Mark said, and I suppose, in a weird kind of way, he was right. I thank the man again for waking me.

  ‘Not at all,’ he replies, briefcase and umbrella in hand. ‘I hope you have a good day.’ He pauses, eyes down in thought, and then says, ‘Also, I hope that, well, that it all works out.’

  He has a very British awkwardness about him but I feel, or maybe sense, that he means well. I’m guessing that when he says he hopes things work out that he’s referring to Amy, and whatever else I let slip while talking in my sleep.

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply, ‘I hope so too.’

  My heart tightens but it’s not Amy I’m thinking about. It’s Mark. He’s a Professor now, a lecturer, probably has a beard and leather patches on his jacket. I’m nervous about seeing him again, about his reaction to me just turning up, but I remind myself that whenever I needed to understand the impossible, Mark D’Stellar was the man. He always was.

  4.

  The train is gone. I stand on the platform, soaking in a white triangle of sunshine that will soon be stolen by heavy, dark clouds. The warmth on my face is welcome and in this moment of peace I realise that asking for Mark’s help isn’t the only reason I’m here. The events of the last month have kicked me up the arse it seems, snapped me out of my endless daze. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that if I die in some bizarre, time-travelling accident (train, car, concrete, sheet of glass, etc.) then I wouldn’t want to leave things the way they are.

  Outside the station I see a row of taxis. The one in front pulls up. The driver looks a bit like a young Keith Richards but when he opens his mouth he’s every bit the Cabbie. ‘Alright mate, wanna lift?’

  No, I was hoping you could help me with a little time-travel issue.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, hopping in the back, ‘Bristol University, Pagett Lecture Theatre, please.’

  ‘Huh?’

  I show him a map and he nods, pulling away. ‘You go the Uni do ya?’

  ‘Er, no,’ I say.

  His eyes study me through the rear-view mirror. ‘Got kids? I’ve got three. Two, four and seven.’

  ‘Quite a handful,’ I say, leaning back in the seat and closing my eyes. I don’t need a full run-down of his life. It’s nothing personal, he seems like a decent bloke, but I struggle with small talk. Actu
ally, even if he was Keith Richards I reckon I would still find it hard to appear interested.

  ‘You from Bristol?’ He asks, speaking loudly to compensate for the fact my eyes are closed.

  I shake my head.

  ‘London?’

  Oh Christ. ‘Cheltenham,’ I say.

  ‘I love Cheltenham, beautiful place, been to the races ‘ave ya? I won a shit load there once, blew the lot on a once in a lifetime trip.’ He pauses. ‘Won’t be doing that again.’

  I smile.

  ‘Once in a lifetime trip,’ he repeats, ‘I won’t be doing that again.’ He laughs at his own joke.

  I open my eyes and smile. His happiness is annoyingly infectious.

  The cabbie smiles back, ‘That’s more like it, look!’ He almost shouts. ‘The sun has come out, you see, all ya gotta do is smile and everything is betta. I’m reading a book, about livin’ in the moment. Those Buddhist monks loved it, the whole one with everything thing.’

  I’m not sure he totally gets it, but he seems happy enough. He continues on, ‘We’re all so distracted these days ain’t we, don’t ya think?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  He laughs. ‘I said, we’re all so bloody distracted!’ He blasts his horn, swears loudly and jams his taxi into a long line of waiting cars. ‘It’s like now, we’re stuck in traffic, lights are red. It’s all shit, right?’

  I nod enthusiastically. ‘Yeah, you could say that.’

  ‘But it ain’t, see.’ He taps the side of his head as though all the world’s secrets are contained within. ‘It’s life, we’re here, you and me, now. We need to be in the moment, even when we’re washing dishes or picking up doggo, or getting it in the neck from our missus.’

  I gaze out of the cab window at the bustling City around us. People race like ants, busy, most of them either talking on their phone or looking at it. I frown. Actually, nearly everyone is looking at their phone.

  ‘Live each moment,’ the cabbie advises me.

  I nod, but ironically, my mind is elsewhere. I’m thinking back to when I accidentally jumped from my lounge to the Park. I travelled through space and time. I thought it was just bad luck but I’m wondering now, what if it has something to do with connection, with the moment, like my cabbie is saying.

  ‘Yes,’ I agree, ‘I think you’re right.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, snapping out of my thoughts, ‘something you just said made me realise something.’

  ‘Nice.’ He holds up a small book of Zen Philosophy quotes. ‘It’s all in ‘ere,’ he announces happily, ‘and you have just had a moment of enlightenment.’

  I’m not sure it’s as big as that, but it does make sense. What if the reason I travelled to the Park is because I had been there with Vinny that morning. He and I had breakfast together, we talked, I enjoyed it. Maybe that stuck somehow, like a pin in a board, something to grab hold of, a beacon in time.

  ‘Can we make a stop before the University?’

  ‘Your cash,’ the cabbie replies.

  I think of Vinny. He may have helped more than he knows.

  We stop outside a newsagent’s. I run in, buy a copy of the local paper and instruct the cabbie to take me to St. James’ Park. He chats the whole way, more life lessons from his concise book of philosophy. I don’t listen anymore but I nod occasionally and fake interest. I like him. He’s a good guy, but I don’t want to focus on him. I have an idea, a plan, and I’m becoming increasingly convinced it’s going to work.

  We arrive at St. James’ Park and I ask him to wait for half an hour. ‘Sweet,’ he says, sliding a large brown cap over his eyes. ‘Meter’s running!’ He shouts as I walk into the park.

  I spend my time on a bench, soaking in the moment, listening to the trees swaying noisily. Kids shout and play. Birds sing. A distant plane rumbles over-head. I stare at the date on my newspaper. 19th December. I imagine myself as a pin, pushing into the cork-board of this park, being in the moment. I smile. My cabbie would be proud.

  I do this for half an hour. Sit on my bench. My bench. To the side of me is a bin. It’s almost empty. I guess it will stay that way until the morning. That’s fine. I drop my paper into it and return to my cabbie who is snoring loudly. He wakes with startling efficiency, like a dog who has just heard walkies. We are off again. I stare out of the rear window at my bench until it’s swallowed by trees. ‘See you later,’ I whisper and focus on the feeling of sitting there alone.

  We arrive at the lecture theatre twenty minutes later. I pay the cabbie – plus a healthy tip – and step out onto a side street in the heart of Bristol.

  ‘Hey,’ he calls, ‘I hope you find what you’re lookin’ for, yeah?’

  ‘Thanks,’ I smile, ‘you’ve been great.’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ he says with absolute sincerity. The light on top of his black cab glows orange and he pulls away. I smile again. It’s surprising what happens when you talk to people.

  I check a nearby campus map and head in the direction of the lecture theatre. It’s an old building set behind a lawned area framed by trees and surrounded by an old stone-wall. Students roam, talking and rushing. Not many on their phones, I note.

  It’s just gone 2:30 p.m. My heart rate increases and I take a long, deep breath. Mark is teaching here today and due to finish his lecture soon but I’m beginning to wonder about the wisdom of my plan. How will I find him in these crowds? What if the information I found on the web this morning is wrong? It’s the last day of term, he could easily have changed his plans. These questions swirl around in my head but then disappear in a mighty rush. I see Mark. He’s walking in my direction. It’s unmistakably him, tall, striking and with an air of easy confidence. His black hair is a little longer now, flecked with grey, and he’s a few pounds heavier, but it’s him alright. He glances at me and looks as though he might walk straight past but then stops a few feet away, shaking his head.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he says. ‘What are you doing here?’

  It’s not an accusing tone, if anything it’s friendly, almost as though we’ve bumped into each other in some far flung airport somewhere.

  I clear my throat, ‘Hi Mark.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ He asks, firmer this time.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  He dips his head, catching my eye, ‘Are you okay? Are you ill?’

  ‘No, it’s nothing like that.’

  He narrows his stare, ‘Listen Joe, you know the deal, what’s done is done, you can’t just –’

  ‘I’m not here about that,’ I say, ‘I’m here about Amy.’

  ‘Amy?’ He says, studying me with suspicion. ‘What about her?’ Then, his expression flattens, his defences melt away. ‘Oh shit Joe,’ he whispers apologetically, ‘I’m sorry, did they find her?’

  By find her, he means her body. It’s a fair assumption. She’s been missing for over twenty years after all. ‘No,’ I say, ‘it’s not that.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I can’t tell you here.’

  Mark sighs heavily, ‘Look, you know we can’t do this, Sian would kill me if she knew I was even talking to you.’

  ‘Listen, all I’m asking is for one hour. You hear me out and then, if you want, I will leave and never bother you again.’

  He looks at his watch and then back at me, ‘I’ve got lectures, stuff going on.’

  ‘Please Mark, for old times’ sake?’

  He shakes his head and then – being careful that no students hear him– he swears under his breath. ‘You’ve got one hour,’ he snaps. ‘For old times’ sake.’

  5.

  We arrive at Mark’s house at 3:35 p.m. It’s an old house, has character and was probably described by the estate agent as a charming Victorian property, which means I like it immediately. I get out of his car – some German high specced thing – and we walk the gravel driveway together. I make a mental note of the address.

  ‘Sian’s away,’ he assures me, reading my expression, ‘she’
s taken the girls for a pre-Christmas holiday, won’t be home until Sunday night.’

  I nod. ‘Okay.’

  As we enter the house I wonder how much you need to earn to justify a pre-Christmas holiday? It’s obvious the D’Stellars are doing well. The hallway is covered in glossy family pictures. I have some like this too, from before Amy went missing but I can’t look at them anymore, they contain innocent, smiling people who didn’t know what was about to happen. Mark’s family portraits aren’t laced with such darkness. I focus on one specific picture. His daughters, wearing smart, matching uniforms. It looks to be– for one of them anyway – the first day of school.

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ I say.

  Mark takes off his coat and glances at the picture. ‘Yeah, they are,’ he says with the ease of a busy father. ‘Do you want tea then?’

  ‘Great, thanks.’ It’s a long way from the beer I suggested but I’m happy to be here. I follow him into the kitchen, which looks a bit like a show-home, crossed with the set of a cookery show. There are more pictures here, including a large canvas of the family with obligatory dog; one of those white studio set-ups that costs a bomb and looks like heaven. I stare at it, more sure than ever, that although I screwed everything up I did the right thing by not telling Mark all those years ago. Sian made a mistake but as a family they’ve made it.

  We sit at his kitchen table, which overlooks their garden. It’s huge, there’s a fully kitted out children’s play area, two sheds and what looks like a vast vegetable plot.

  ‘So, come on, what’s this all about?’ Mark asks. ‘You said it had something to do with Amy.’

  The years may have separated us but when I finally look at him I’m back at school, looking up at my hero.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘and I want to make things right between us.’