by Nick Jones
Since leaving Mark, a plan has formed, one that will require a precise time jump and a planned return velocity. I’m strangely confident though, lifted by my short but controlled jump in St. James’ Park. I can do this. Data is power after all.
My mind is jammed full of ideas and the journey home passes easily, but a strange thing happens when I close the front door behind me. Usually, it’s a relief, but recently I’ve interacted with more people than I have in years, so much so that, now I’m home alone, the solitude feels like a weight around me.
I’ve bought a bag of groceries; vegetables, fruit and goji berries, which are a super fruit apparently, which is kind of funny because they look shrivelled and old to me. I blast them all up, take a sip and then something catches my eye in the hallway, a blinking red light. I walk to the phone and stare at it. I realise it’s the indicator light for messages. First time for everything, I think and press the button.
‘You have two messages,’ the robo-woman advises me.
Ooooooh.
‘Message One,’ she says, followed by a piercing beep. ‘Cash, it’s Vinny. Good news and bad news mate. The good news is, we won the lottery, the bad news is, I’m keeping it all.’ Vinny breaks into a deep, wracking cough, which I realise is actually a laugh. I smile and take another sip of my sludge-like smoothie. Looks gross, tastes divine. Vinny composes himself, ‘Sorry Joe, couldn’t resist that one. Right. The good news really is, the money has cleared and I’ve transferred half into your bank account. There is some bad news though, well you know, relatively speaking.’ More laughing. ‘You said we would win twelve million but we only won six. We had to share it with some other woman.’ He chuckles to himself. ‘Funny thing is, she said her Granny had put the same numbers on for years, anyway the Granny died recently but she kept plugging away with the same numbers, her Granny’s lucky numbers she called them. Bit like me, Cash! Same bloody numbers for years!’
Visions of 2002 consume me, the turtle-looking lady from the newsagent’s, clear as crystal in my mind. ‘You look lucky to me,’ she called out as I ran from the shop.
Vinny continues, ‘Anyway mate, the tax-man is going to want a whack-load of that, but I split it down the middle, just like you said, you know, fifty-fifty.’ Vinny clears his throat and the line crackles, ‘And listen Joe. I just wanted to say again, you’re a top bloke and if there’s anything you need, any way I can help with you know what, just ask. Okay?’ A pause. ‘Right I’m off to the gym.’ Another pause, longer this time and then a sudden burst of laughter that goes on and on, ‘Just kidding.’ Vinny laughs, ‘Adios.’
Click. Buzz.
I smile and swallow the lump that has been pushing at my throat. My arms are pricked with gooseflesh. Three million quid. Same for Vinny and the other six million for some girl I’ve never met, the daughter of the Granny lucky enough to be behind me that day.
‘Message two,’ the woman announces. I cover my ears against the beep. ‘Joseph, it’s Martin,’ his voice is serious like a formal complaint. ‘Some reminders,’ he barks. ‘Firstly, it’s my party tonight and I would really like you to come, don’t forget, Alexia Finch is also coming –’
I press another button, Message deleted, and then study the machine for a while, smiling. Answer phones are like a weird sort of time machine. Messages from the past, played out in the present.
Martin didn’t need to remind me. I know his party is tonight and I have plans, lots of them, although they aren’t particularly exciting. I have to stay here for the whole evening, waiting in my house for something that hasn’t happened yet but will, soon.
You can wrap yourself up in knots with all this time-travel stuff but I have it worked out – well, scribbled loosely in my pad – and the math works. I had a good teacher, the best in fact. I shower, shave, dress for going out, and then stay in. My Beatles mono box set is going to get a good hammering tonight.
* * *
Saturday 20th December 2014.
I get up early and I’m out of the house by seven. I feel good. It seems that time-travelling (even short trips) can be an excellent cure for insomnia. I slept like a milk-filled baby. No viewing, no dreams, nothing. Considering the people I’ve met recently that in itself is a miracle. I consider going to see Liv or Vinny or doing something else in line with my usual routine but my guts say no. I need to focus on my destination and that alone. In my hand is a leather satchel and inside that, everything I need for my trip.
Pittville Park is quiet this time of day, just the usual culprits. Joggers, council workers and squirrels. No one is likely notice a shadow like me disappearing in a puff of nothingness. Perhaps the squirrels will take notice, but what are they going do about it? Tell the birds?
I sit on a bench that’s tucked away beside a cluster of trees and take a deep breath. It’s 10 degrees but feels more like 2. I exhale, and think about how strange my breath will look rising from an empty bench. I pull the straps of my dark-red leather satchel and remove my print-outs, my focus items.
The internet is amazing. Once upon a time I would have had to go to the library or endured a long montage of research activities. These days, in about five minutes, you can find everything you need. I had printed out various news articles, blogs and features created last Saturday, the 13th of December. I want to travel to this day, the afternoon to be exact and one of the pages, specifically, gives me confidence that I can do just that.
I close my eyes and open them again, beginning my now familiar routine. I think about the day, about the space around me, about the way that all things are connected by a single thread. My vision of a pin, pushing into a board is replaced this time by a needle. It’s like vinyl, I think. I’m the stylus and if time has been recorded – if it’s happened already – then I can select the track and jump wherever I like. This visualisation does the trick and I feel myself rising up and away from the here and now and placing myself with deep intent into the past.
10.
My arrival is instant, a glorious rush of light and then nothing but the moment. I see the grass beneath my feet and feel the same cool air on my skin. Somehow – perhaps it’s instinctive – I just know it’s mid afternoon, I can feel it, which means that, presuming I have landed on the right day, then I’m definitely getting better at this.
There’s no bench though, I realise. I’m standing, and the trees that were next to me have grown gnarly and tall. Just as I’m beginning to wonder what year it might be, I hear a sound, a deep rumbling roar, like a hundred approaching war drums in the distance. I’m stood facing what were the trees and when I turn around I see a long stretch of grass ahead of me. To my left is a huge grandstand, dotted with people, but the details are unclear due to the sun, which is directly in my field of vision. I laugh nervously, a mixture of panic and relief but this is quickly followed by fear. The thundering sound has built to a deafening crescendo and I realise, with absolute horror that twenty or so horses are about to descend on me. I clutch my satchel to my chest and lean in as low and tight as I can to the fence which is actually a jump or, to be precise, a hurdle.
Instantly, the sun is blocked out as dark shapes, accompanied by shouting and neighing, fill the sky. The air thickens with bitter sweat as heat and a sea of black and brown roars over me, dotted with the odd, colourful blur of silk. It’s a good job the horses are so loud, I’m screaming like a pig having its tail pulled. Not a good sound, not something I’m proud of. During this onslaught, I am still, somehow, able to smile. The article that helped me focus on this day was an event, one offering an exciting day of winter horse-racing action; The International at Cheltenham Racecourse: Saturday 13th December 2014. I obviously focussed a little too hard on the racecourse itself though. Mental note, archived for future use.
As the sound subsides and I watch the pack race towards the next fence, one jockey flicks his head back, twice. I think he’s shouting something but I can’t make it out, which is probably a good thing. I doubt it’s friendly. I work my way across the
length of the fence towards white railings, my knees threatening to buckle. Now I know what those people feel like who lay down under motorbikes, or perhaps how the rats in the underground feel as tube trains cover their world in screeching steel.
I make my way through a crowd of race-goers. Luckily, it seems no one spotted the sudden appearance of a spectator at the last but one fence. Well, maybe one jockey has an interesting story to tell but I think I got away with it. Fingers crossed it wasn’t televised.
In town I buy a complete outfit. Shirt, jeans, shoes and underwear and a warm coat. I stuff the clothes I was wearing on my arrival into my satchel, along with the news printouts. I have a plan to avoid losing them for good. We will see if it works. Today is Saturday December 13th. If Mark’s calculations are correct then my belongings and clothes will return on the 16th, followed by me on the 19th.
I decide to try a Bed and Breakfast called ‘Mount Pleasant’, which sounds a bit like a knocking shop but looks nice on the website. Knocking shop couldn’t be further from the truth. Mrs Wiggins, a delightful old lady who runs the place, does so with an expert eye for cleanliness, manners and overt chintz. She studies me, as if the establishment is a members only club before smiling and checking me into Room 5. I shower and take a CD from my satchel. I place it in the cheap in-room portable, press play and lay on the bed.
Spanish: Lesson One begins and I close my eyes. I’ve got six days to kill and nothing to do but wait. I might as well do something useful.
Sólo se vive una vez, (You only live once) after all.
11.
Mrs Wiggins does an excellent full English breakfast, I clean the last of my eggs with a slice of buttered toast and lean back, full and happy. I’m the only guest this morning, although the other four tables in the small dining area are laid out neatly. That’s how she rolls. Neat and precise. The wallpaper, napkins, place-mats and crockery all match, a flower print that’s almost strong enough to kick-start my hay-fever. There are various photographs of Cheltenham as well as illustrations of hunting dogs and men in red coats on horseback. As Mrs Wiggins enters the room and pours my third coffee she hands me a newspaper, The Gloucestershire Echo, the local rag.
She tuts loudly, shaking her head, ‘An idiotic man ran out onto the racecourse yesterday, nearly got himself killed.’ She raises her eyebrows and points at the paper, ‘Page four.’
I turn the page and see the article, along with a photograph of said idiot, crouching down, horses jumping over him. The picture is poor quality, you can’t make out it’s me, but my bag is quite distinctive. Thank God, they weren’t televising it. I clear my throat and mirror her disapproval, ‘I wonder why someone would do that?’
‘The world is a strange place Mr Bridgeman,’ she says, pouring milk from a tiny jug. ‘Will you be staying for dinner?’
‘You do dinner?’
‘Of course,’ she says, as if the world wouldn’t be right unless she did.
‘Then, yes, I am,’ I smile, ‘that would be great.’
* * *
By the time the 19th finally comes around, I’m sure of a couple of things at least. I’m a lot heavier (Mrs Wiggins doesn’t believe in a calorie controlled diet) and also my time-travel calculations (©Mark D’Stellar) are bang on. The first sign of brain freeze came in the night and the sensation is growing stronger by the hour. I take two paracetamol and two ibuprofen and plan to repeat this every four hours to ensure I can at least function. I’ve got work to do.
As the afternoon sun gives way to the bluish tones of evening I check out of my temporary abode. It’s not a bad thing, my jeans have begun to pinch my middle. Mrs Wiggins says she will be sorry to see me go. I agree. I could get used to it, I tell her, and actually, I could. I’m a millionaire now but all I really want is somewhere to eat, shower and lay my head. I do miss my vinyl though, that and my blender. Mental note. Might need to start running.
I walk and the nearer I get to my house the more nervous I become. I’ve been here once already. Sneaked here on the morning of the 16th to hide my satchel – full of the stuff I brought with me – inside my garden shed. I want to see if it makes the trip back to the future in the same place. That day, I was careful not to see anyone - especially myself - but this time, that’s exactly who I am here to see. My nerves jangle as I knock loudly on my front door. The lights are on and I see movement and when the door opens and I see myself, a familiar sensation creeps over me. It’s as if the world knows that this is as wrong as it gets. The same two people sharing the same space. Other Joe is in front of me. He’s wearing what I remember wearing on this night, and his expression is an exact mirror of my own. An awkward kind of acceptance.
‘Hi Joe,’ I say, skin crawling.
My reflection smiles, but I can see this is hard for him too. This is the ‘Uneventful Evening’. The one where I stayed in and did nothing, but it’s different now. It’s been interrupted by me.
‘Mr Bond,’ he says, ‘I have been expecting you.’
The joke eases the mood slightly but it’s also weird. You see, somewhere, just under my immediate thoughts, a similar line was waiting. My mind is his mind after all, and when I smile back at him, it’s with an odd sense of pity. I feel embarrassed, almost sorry for him.
‘This is really bloody weird,’ I say.
He agrees, ‘It is.’
‘Do you know why I’m here?’ I ask.
‘Of course,’ he replies. ‘It was my idea.’
I frown, folding my arms. ‘Well, that could be argued until we are both blue in the face.’
‘Well, Other Joe,’ he says, stepping back, ‘you’d better come in.’
‘What?’ I snort. ‘No, no, you’re Other Joe.’
Our eyes lock and we stare at each other, waiting for the other to crack, knowing we won’t.
‘Okay,’ I relent, ‘I will be Other Joe, this time, but next time it’s your turn.’
Joe smiles back at me, ‘Do you want to come in or not?’
‘No, we don’t have time you need to –’
‘Get to Alexia Finch’s house,’ he interrupts.
‘Alright –’
‘Clever clogs,’ he finishes for me.
God help me.
I mean us.
Argghhhhh.
12.
The stars glimmer on a silk blanket of deep black. The cold night air is no match for the icy knife stabbing at the base of my skull. Brain freeze is a bitch that just keeps on giving. Hurry up, Joe. Hurry.
We’re outside Alexia Finch’s house. I’m crouched behind a car, mugger style, watching her and Joe in deep conversation. I see her backing away from him, and Joe’s hands upturned in a deliberate gesture. That’s my signal. I step out from the car and approach.
Alexia Finch is dressed in a black dress and heels, all ready for Martin’s party. She’s wearing make-up and the closer I get the less I recognise her. She looks stunning, she’s transformed. She turns to me and says, ‘What’s going on? I don’t…’ Then she pauses, her mouth hanging open.
‘Hello, Alexia,’ I say, doing my best not to sound like a serial killer.
Joe says, ‘This is me,’ nodding in my direction. ‘But to keep things simple, I call him Other Joe.’
I smile, but I’m still pissed off about that. Why do I have to be Other Joe?
‘He’s me,’ Joe says. ‘A few days from now I travel back in time, to this night. Other Joe is me and he’s here because we need your help.’
Alexia Finch swallows, blinks and then swallows again. Time drags out and eventually I ask Joe, ‘Well, aren’t you going to say something?’
‘This was your idea,’ he shrugs, ‘you say something.’
‘What do you hope to achieve with this little stunt of yours?’ Finch asks, folding her arms.
‘Stunt?’ We say in unison and then scowl at each other.
‘Yes,’ Finch snaps. ‘Clearly you two are…’ She pauses and then chews at the words angrily, ‘Twins! You’re twins and you share so
me sick fascination with winding people up, what the hell is all this rubbish about time-travel.’ She heads towards her car. ‘And you can forget what I said about meeting Martin and sorting this out, just leave me alone. Both of you!’
I didn’t see this particular scenario playing out quite like this. I had managed to convince myself that when Finch saw us together she would accept our story.
Joe is staring at me, ‘Well you didn’t see that coming did you?’
‘No, I didn’t, did you?’
‘Well, it was your idea and it didn’t work.’ He shrugs.
‘Next time,’ I say, angrily, ‘you’re going to be Other Joe and I will be in charge.’
‘Jesus,’ Finch mutters, ‘just go home and don’t bother me again.’
A sword of ice slams into my back. ‘Wait,’ I cry out, falling to me knees, teeth gritted in a rictus of pain. ‘Just wait a few minutes.’
Finch pauses, car door open, keys in hand. ‘What’s wrong with him?’ She asks Joe.
‘Oh, he’s about to go back to the future,’ he says, without a hint of irony. I grab the base of my skull and cry out again, an involuntary sound born of a deep rooted pain. ‘Just watch,’ I manage, to say, ‘don’t leave.’
I’m on my knees in the road. My body wants to curl up into a ball. I fight and lift my head to see Joe looking down on me. I swear he’s smirking. Is he enjoying this?
Finch appears in my narrowing field of vision as a blue cast descends over the scene. She seems to be torn between concern and suspicion. ‘Is this another of your tricks?’ She asks. ‘I’m not going to fall for this, okay?’
