by Nick Jones
Mark folds his arms and shrugs. ‘Look. I’m older, you’re older. It’s a long time ago, but what’s done is done.’
‘It is, but something’s happened, something important.’
He sighs, his annoyance clear. ‘Joe, if you want my help then you need to stop being so cryptic.’
‘So you’re willing to help me?’
‘If this has something to do with Amy then, yes, of course.’
‘Okay then, but you’re going to think I’m crazy.’
He looks at me as though he already does. I try to remember how I was going to tell him but my mind is blank. I just start talking. I mean, how the hell do you tell someone you can time-travel? Words just begin pouring from me at rapid speed. ‘You always said my viewing was a gift, well I think you’re right. I went to see a hypnotherapist, to help me sleep.’ I look at him. ‘I haven’t been sleeping.’
Mark takes a sip of tea. ‘Go on.’
‘Right. Yeah. Well, anyway she put me under and then a weird thing happened.’
‘You saw Amy?’ Mark guesses. ‘You had a viewing, something you haven’t seen before.’
‘No, it was more than that.’ I swallow. ‘I time-travelled,’ I say and then wait.
Mark nods calmly, the look of a lecturer listening to an interesting theory. ‘You time-travelled,’ he says slowly, ‘you mean in your mind’.
‘No,’ I reply, ‘I actually time-travelled, Mark. I’ve done it a few times now.’
‘Joe,’ he says, quietly.
‘And if I can get back far enough then –’
‘Joe,’ he says, louder this time but I carry on, wanting him to hear me out.
‘I need your help,’ I say, ‘to make sense of all this, the rules, to explain why and how this is happening to me.’
‘Enough,’ Mark says, placing his cup down. ‘What the hell are you doing to yourself?’
‘I know it’s hard to believe but it’s real.’
‘Real?’ He gasps. ‘Real? Let me tell you what I know for sure, you need help and I’m sorry, but it isn’t my help you need.’ He stands and begins to pace. ‘Did you come all this way to tell me this? This Back to the Future bullshit?’
‘It’s not bullshit,’ I say. ‘You told me once that you believed viewing was given to me for a reason.’
‘Your viewing is one thing, this is completely different.’
‘No,’ I reply, ‘that’s the thing. They’re the same, they’re linked.’
‘Right.’ Mark sneers, folding his arms. He tilts his head, trying to figure me out. ‘By the way, just for the record, how did you find me?’
‘An article you wrote.’
‘Ahhhh.’ He sighs, as if everything now makes sense. ‘So you read that and made this story up, something you thought I might be interested in.’
‘What if I could prove it to you?’ I say.
‘You need help,’ Mark replies. ‘You need to work this stuff through with someone, a professional.’
‘Listen. If I can figure this out then I might be able to get back to her.’
‘Amy died Joe,’ Mark says firmly, ‘a long time ago.’
I stare back at him with determination. ‘But I can save her.’
Mark slams his hand down and looks as though he might launch himself at me. His eyes shine with anger but it’s mixed with pity, as though he’s caught the wrong animal in a trap and knows it’s done for. ‘Listen Joe,’ he says, ‘if you carry on like this you’re going to end up like your Dad.’
The air freezes between us. Memories claw from somewhere below the surface of my mind but I slap them down. ‘Don’t talk about him,’ I hiss, the words arriving long before thought has a chance. ‘Don’t you dare mention him.’
‘Another problem you haven’t dealt with,’ Mark parries back at me. ‘You need therapy, you need to face the truth, accept what’s lost and move on.’
‘But what if I can prove it to you?’ I say again. ‘What then?’
‘Prove that you can time-travel?’ Mark laughs.
‘Yes.’
He snorts loudly, a sarcastic smile spreading over his face, one that reminds me of the old him. ‘Joe,’ he says, pointing at a row of hooks that are piled high with coats. Hanging on one is a brown hat, the kind Indiana Jones might wear. ‘If you prove you can time-travel, then I will eat my hat.’
I smile. For once, I’m in control, I’m leading him. ‘Then I hope you’re hungry.’ I nod at the Fedora. ‘And in the meantime, you might want to hold onto that.’
6.
When I open my eyes I’m no longer in Mark’s kitchen. I’m sat on my bench in St. James’ Park. The sun is a little lower than when I was originally here but otherwise it feels the same. I check the bin next to me, heart racing, and smile as I pull out my newspaper – I know it’s mine, because I tore a corner from the front page – and stare at the date. 19th of December 2014. The same day.
I’m getting better at this.
I head for the park gate and ask a woman for the time. ‘Just gone two thirty,’ she replies. I thank her and smile. I’ve travelled back in time two hours, exactly as I intended. I’ve jumped short distances before but this is the first time I’ve controlled my landing. I planned to be here, aimed for this specific time.
I laugh. Right now, a version of me is having a conversation with Mark at the lecture theatre. Soon, they will travel to his house and he will watch me hypnotise myself and disappear. I head in the direction of Mark’s house with a spring in my step. I cannot wait to see his face.
After another taxi ride, I arrive at Mark’s house at around 4 p.m., just as it’s getting dark. His car is still in the drive. That’s good, after what he’s just seen, he might have gone straight to the hospital to get his head checked. I walk the driveway (again) and bang the knocker three times. I hear movement. ‘Who is it?’ Mark calls, voice cracking like a teenager.
‘It’s me, Joe.’
I hear him cry out. There’s more noise; heavy breathing and shuffling and then silence.
‘Mark?’ I say. ‘It’s me, can I come in?’
The letterbox flaps open, ‘Whu… Wha… you…’ He’s mumbling. ‘You, ahhhhh.’
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘Can you open the door?’
Eventually, he does, and I can tell instantly that I’ve accomplished the first stage of my mission. Mark’s expression is exactly like the guy in Jurassic Park when he first sees one of the newly created dinosaurs. His eyes shine like wet marbles, his mouth is hanging open, lips trembling as he attempts to speak. He’s flushed red and I realise his head is shaking in tiny left and right motions. Denial, denial, denial, it says, like the world’s smallest pendulum. He has a drink in hand and fresh sweat on his brow. He swallows and manages to say one word. Probably the word most of us would say if their friend had just vapourised in front of them.
‘Fuck,’ he whispers and then repeats it.
I smile and Mark collapses; not sideways, or staggering; he drops straight down, like a controlled explosion, knees buckling as he slips into a puddle of himself. I glance around nervously. Luckily, the street is quiet. I lean down, remove the glass from his hand – which is still upright and full – and step over him. I grab him under his arms, which are warm with nervous sweat and manage to drag him a few feet down the hallway, just enough to close the door. This isn’t easy, he’s built like a brick doggo house.
I look at the pictures again but this time it feels like they are judging me. One photo of Mark catches my attention and I realise that he’s a bit like me now. In the picture he’s smiling, unaware that soon the concept of time-travel will be proven to him. I look down at him lying on the floor. He’s breathing softly and seems much happier than he did a minute ago. I do my best to fold him into the recovery position but it makes him look like a murder victim, minus the chalk. I grab a cushion from the lounge and place it under his head, which only slightly improves the look.
I feel guilty. Should I have gone a bit easier on him? I head to
the kitchen and see a bottle of whiskey on the table. Poor Mark, I think, as I grab the Fedora from one of the coat hooks.
Should I have gone easier? Nah.
I need to crack on and people need to keep up, and anyway, if there’s one thing I know about Mark, it’s his absolute need for proof. Nothing is real unless you can prove it.
Well I’ve done that haven’t I? Good and proper.
He stirs, moaning. Still in the recovery position his eyes blink open and he assesses his situation. ‘Shit,’ he mumbles, voice thick and groggy. ‘Joe?’ He says, remembering I was there. ‘Is that you? What happened?’
‘You passed out,’ I say, cheerily.
He follows my voice, sits up and stares at me, confused, ‘Why are you wearing my hat?’
‘I’m keeping it warm for you,’ I say, ‘you know, until your ready to eat it.’
‘What are you…?’ He swallows. ‘Oh, my God you… you…’ He jerks suddenly, as if hit by an invisible cattle prod and scrambles to his feet. ‘What the hell?’ He’s disoriented, his eyes roll as he struggles to focus.
‘Calm down,’ I say, ‘it’s okay.’
‘Okay?’ He shouts. ‘Okay?’ His voice hoarse and high. ‘Which part? The part where you just vanished, in front of my bloody eyes?’
‘Technically, I didn’t vanish –’
‘You bloody teleported!’ Mark shouts, grabbing the bannister of the stairs like a crutch.
‘I time-travelled,’ I correct him, earnestly, tipping my hat. ‘And you’ve got some eating to do.’
Mark’s face contorts like putty as he no doubt struggles to find a box in his brain where all this new information fits.
‘I can time-travel,’ I repeat, more gently this time. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘You were here just now,’ he says, his voice a whispering, rambling mess, ‘you were sat in my kitchen, you disappeared man, just like that.’ He snaps his fingers. ‘Gone!’
He sounds like the Mark I once knew, after a gig, stoned and mellow, exploring philosophies and ideas on the universe.
‘Yes, I disappeared,’ I agree, ‘and I went back in time.’
‘How far?’
‘Oh, only a couple of hours.’
Mark nods sarcastically, like a mad man. ‘Where did you go?’
‘Only the park,’ I say.
‘You can move around too?’
‘Yes,’ I say, shrugging. ‘Sometimes, but that’s kind of new, although I’m getting the hang of it.’
Mark laughs, a manic, crazy kind of giggle. He mimics me, ‘Yeah, sure, sometimes… getting the hang of this whole time-travel thing,’
I place my hand on his shoulder. ‘Why don’t you come and sit down?’ I suggest.
His eyes meet mine and we finally connect. We stand like this for a while until he relaxes a little. ‘Joe,’ he whispers.
‘Yeah?’
‘This is messed up,’ he says, breaking into a thin smile, finally the right kind of smile.
‘It is,’ I agree.
We walk to the kitchen, I re-cork the whiskey and we sit. Mark stares out over his garden and beyond. ‘So you hypnotise yourself,’ he says, ‘you disappear and then re-appear back in time?’
‘Yes.’
He shakes his head, ‘But what about chronology protection conjecture, what about gravity, relativity?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t know about any of that stuff, but it doesn’t seem to matter.’
‘No,’ Mark says, ‘it doesn’t.’ He blinks rapidly and then clicks into scientist mode. ‘Right, so you materialised in the park, at what time?’
‘Two thirty.’
‘My God, it’s incredible.’ He raises a hand to the sky as though he’s suddenly remembered something obvious. ‘Shit!’
‘What is it?’
‘Why didn’t you let me record it?’
I look at him sternly. ‘We can’t tell anyone, that’s not why I’m here.’
‘No, no, of course not,’ Mark says, checking himself. His eyes dart around in deep thought, lips tightening in concentration. ‘How far back can you go?’
‘So far, about ten years.’
‘Ten years!’ He jumps up. ‘Ten flipping years!’
‘I know.’ I smile, instantly reminded of Doc Brown.
1.21 Gigawatts. 1.21 Gigawatts!
Mark’s eyes widen and he stares at me, eyes swimming. ‘Amy,’ he whispers eventually, goosebumps bristling visibly over his arms. ‘You could save her.’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.’
‘What can I do?’
‘You can help me make sense of this, help me understand it.’
‘Seems like you’re doing fine so far.’
‘But it’s random,’ I say. ‘Small jumps are getting a little easier, but when I go back further I don’t have control.’
‘How many times have you done this?’
‘Maybe ten,’ I say, ‘each time is different though. Sometimes I’m in the same place, sometimes not. Sometimes I go back an hour but if I’m not careful it could be ten years. Today I tried something new and it worked but it could be luck more than anything.’
‘Christ,’ Mark says.
‘And when I go back further I can’t stay very long. I need to learn the rules Mark, I need to figure –.’
‘Whoa! One thing at a time,’ he says. ‘What do you mean, you can’t stay very long? You mean you don’t get to decide when you come back?’
‘I wish I did, but no, when I travel the amount of time I get seems to be completely random, after a while my clothes go and then it feels like brain freeze and then bang, I’m back.’
He stares at me, ‘Clothes, brain freeze? What?’
I shrug, ‘Trust me, time-travelling sucks.’
Mark snorts through his nose and then begins to laugh, properly, belly deep.
‘What?’ I ask, joining in. ‘What?’
He shrugs, wiping his eyes. ‘Oh, you know, nothing. My best friend just turned up after God knows how long, and then he disappeared again, literally.’ I smile, all I heard was best friend. Mark continues, ‘And, he can time-travel but his clothes go pop and he gets brain freeze, apparently. So, I don’t know why I’m laughing really, perhaps because you always were weird and now the whole world has gone bat-shit.’ He sighs, smile fading, his expression darkening a little. I see what looks like a flash of guilt. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,’ he says, ‘but you understand right?’
‘I do,’ I say, removing his hat and handing it to him. ‘Now, come on, eat up.’
He takes it. ‘With pleasure, but first you’ve got some explaining to do.’
‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’
‘Fuck that,’ he says. ‘Whatever! I’m saying that if you want my help then you need to tell me everything. Start at the beginning and don’t miss out any details. Not one.’
‘Okay,’ I say, ‘what do you want to know?’
‘You said the amount of time you get in the past is random?’
‘Yeah, although it does seem to be less, the further back I go.’
He pulls the face of a teacher, wishing his student would try harder. ‘But you just said it was random.’
‘Well it feels random to me.’ I reach inside my pocket and hand him my notepad. ‘Does this help? It’s a record of my travels so far.’
Mark thumbs through it quickly and then flashes me an old-school grin. ‘Very good Joseph Bridgeman,’ he smiles. ‘We can work with this.’
‘You might want to make a copy of that, things tend to disappear.’
Mark sighs. ‘Yes, they do.’ He gets up, smacks me hard on the shoulder and says, ‘Now, come on, follow me.’
7.
My study at home is my man cave, my little slice of heaven. It contains many of the things that ground me, that remind me of how my life ticks. Mark has his own version, but on a much grander scale. One of the sheds I saw earlier in the garden is actually better described as a Norwegian-st
yle cabin, like something out of an ABBA video. The perspective from the kitchen was deceiving, it’s bloody huge.
‘This is where I come to work on stuff,’ Mark says excitedly, ‘you know, projects that need a bit of head space.’
‘Like my project,’ I suggest and we smile at the understatement of the year.
Inside I’m hit by the scent of fresh pine, mixed with the pleasing remains of an open fire. I spot a log-burner in the far corner, its shining silver flue snaking the height of the cabin. There are three good-sized windows, a sofa with big cushions and books are everywhere, rows of them, neatly organised. Mark begins stoking the fire. The cabin is tall and rises up to a triangular peak. I see a child-like ladder, leading to a small mezzanine with a single bed. Mark follows my eye-line. ‘Sometimes, I can’t leave here until I’m done,’ he shrugs, ‘you know what I’m like.’
I do. I remember him studying obsessively but also how he was when we were song-writing. He would sometimes go all night to make sure a certain section of a tune was done properly. I nod to an acoustic guitar, upright on its stand in the corner. ‘You still play?’ I ask.
Mark considers this for a moment. ‘Not so much, you?’
‘Same,’ I reply, ‘I guess those days are gone.’
We look at each other, sharing an unspoken understanding that any reference to time will be forever altered. Mark frowns.
‘What is it?’ I ask. ‘Apart from the obvious?’
‘I wanted to say sorry.’
‘For what?’ I ask.
‘For mentioning your Dad, it was out of order.’
I tell him it’s okay, and it is. More than ever I feel the weight of unsorted junk in my mind, and know that it’s my crap and no one else’s. I need to sort it out at some point.
‘Listen,’ I say, ‘how about we just focus on what we need to do.’
Mark agrees, hands me back my book and walks to a large white-board, which fills the wall opposite. It’s covered in mathematical equations. They’re just hieroglyphics to me. ‘Right,’ Mark says, clapping his hands together, ‘we start at the beginning, the first time you travelled, tell me everything, use the book, small details, everything.’
