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

by Nick Jones

  ‘I’ve got nothing to hide,’ I say.

  ‘Good,’ he says. ‘You can make your phone call, out of the goodness of my heart, and after that we’re going to take your DNA and fingerprints and they never lie.’

  3.

  ‘No, no, no!’ Mark repeats, exasperated.

  ‘But why not?’ I plead, my confidence seeping away like spilt coffee on the checked police station floor. I cover the hand-set and whisper, ‘I could, you know, just change it.’

  I cover the hand-set and ask a nearby officer if they record outgoing phone calls. He shrugs and then shakes his head, dismissing the idea of something so organised. Mark’s voice is loud so I press it to my ear, attempting to cushion his words from the nearby officer. ‘Joe, listen to me carefully,’ he says, ‘since you left I’ve been going crazy with this. You need to be careful okay? With great power comes great responsibility.’

  ‘That’s from Spiderman,’ I say, flatly. ‘And it’s a bit overused now.’

  ‘This isn’t a joke,’ Mark snaps. ‘You keep changing stuff and you’re going to come unstuck.’

  ‘I’m in a pretty sticky situation now to be honest,’ I hit back. ‘Depending on what Alexia says I could be arrested for kidnapping.’

  ‘But you won’t be, because you didn’t do it.’

  ‘Well, I know that, but God knows what she’s thinking.’

  ‘They didn’t publicise it and you didn’t do anything,’ Mark says with a droll kind of confidence. ‘Just keep your mouth shut and see what she says.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘You’re right.’

  Mark sighs, ‘Look, we don’t know how this works yet, you’re the first, maybe the only one.’ He laughs. ‘Christ. You can’t just start messing with it.’ He finally lowers his voice, ‘I was in shock before, but I should have told you this before you left. I get that you want to know what happened to Amy, I do, but right now you need to be super, super careful.’

  ‘Alright,’ I agree, reluctantly, ‘but if this gets any worse then I might have to, well, slip away.’

  The corridor was quiet but D.I. North, my arresting officer appears, flanked by two others. The three of them stop nearby and North stares at me suspiciously.

  ‘Joe,’ Mark asks, ‘are you listening to me?’

  ‘Yep, okay Mum.’ I smile, eyes to the ceiling in fake annoyance, ‘I know, it’s a pain, but I will be out of here soon.’

  North shakes his head, scowling at me.

  ‘I’ve just realised something else,’ Mark says, clearly ignoring the fact I called him my mother.

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask.

  ‘You dragged Finch through time with you.’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘So, you are back where you belong –’

  ‘But she isn’t,’ I finish for him.

  ‘Exactly,’ He says. ‘But nothing is free. Give it time and I bet you she will be. Just like you, the universe is going to want her back in her place too.’

  ‘But when is that?’

  ‘I would need to run the numbers, but my guess?’ He pauses, whistling through his teeth, ‘Within a few days.’

  ‘Will she go back to the nineteenth?’

  ‘Kind of, but I suspect, like you, the days she has spent here will get added on.’

  ‘Shit.’ I say, as North approaches.

  ‘Indeed.’ He smiles. ‘We’re going to take fingerprints and DNA, they never lie.’

  Unlike me. I’m making a bloody habit of it.

  * * *

  D.I. North and his crew are long gone but I can still smell the ink on my fingers as I walk (see also march) through the sterile corridors of the custody suite. I shit you not, it’s actually called a suite, like a hotel. The floor is brown vinyl, the stark white walls split at waist height by a thick black stripe. It looks like a liquorice all-sort, smooth and new, but smells like chemicals and sweat. I enter my cell. Just a bed, sink and toilet, and another bloody camera. What kind of hotel is this? No en-suite or television?

  ‘You want tea?’ The custody officer asks.

  ‘Yes, please,’ I say, staring at my bleached, vinyl cell.

  ‘Want a mince pie to go with it?’

  I turn to him, ‘Yes, that would be amazing.’

  ‘Yes it would.’ He laughs, loudly. ‘I’m kidding. It’s rich-tea if you’re lucky, even at Christmas.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ I say, stepping inside the cell. The door closes behind me and I stare up at the camera and wonder if Finch is watching me, being pressed for answers. What will she be telling them? That I’m a classic loner, lost my sister at a young age? That I stripped off in one of her therapy sessions? That I turned up with a look-a-likey and then everything went a bit fuzzy?

  Jeez. I sound guilty of something.

  Detective North’s interrogation has left me feeling uneasy, made me realise that Mark’s right, I need to be careful. If I jump back and try to fix this little issue, what else might I change? Plus, how far back would I go? There’s some stuff – like Mark and I connecting again and me winning the lottery – that suits me right now. I don’t want to undo those things…

  I decide I actually have a more pressing concern; Alexia Finch. At some point soon – if Mark’s right and, let’s face it, he always is – she’s going to get pulled back to where she belongs. I’m guessing that the best case would be she travels in her sleep, just like I did the first time, and wakes up, unharmed. Returned safely. Worst case, she gets pulled back in time straight into the path of a car or gets embedded in some random object that’s been moved a few feet from its original position. Time-travel itself isn’t where the danger lies, it’s the environment, the fact things move and change. So far, I’ve been lucky, have planned my jumps to a degree, but that risk has always been there, in the back of my mind. What if I land right in front of a truck, with just a few horrible seconds to realise what’s about to happen? Alexia can’t plan, she has no idea what’s going on and the more I think about it, the more convinced I become that she could be seriously injured or even killed when her time comes. I need to warn her, somehow. I have to.

  I spot something written on the wall and approach. It reads, Fuck the police, and then in smaller wording below, and fuck you too.

  I find myself agreeing with the sentiment entirely.

  4.

  ‘No comment,’ I say, but don’t risk a smile.

  D.I. North grits his teeth, the pencil in his hand straining, ready to snap. I’ve taken the wind out of his questioning with my vow of silence and hope it’s enough. He glances at a wall-mounted clock, one I’ve become acutely aware of. I’ve tried to keep my shields up but this place is starting to get to me now, seeping into my bones. There’s something about being incarcerated that just makes you feel guilty.

  P.C. Blake enters the room, breaking the thick silence. ‘Finch isn’t pressing charges,’ she says, deliberately ignoring me.

  North stares at his notepad and exhales loudly. ‘Okay, then… Mr Bridgeman you are free to go.’ He looks up and forces himself to smile, at least I think it’s a smile, it could easily be wind or a trapped nerve. His right eye twitches as he speaks, ‘You’re hiding something and you mark my words –’

  ‘Yep, you will be watching me,’ I interrupt, jovial, ‘I will slip up, I’m not in control etcetera, etcetera.’

  North goes an even deeper shade of yellow (weird, but that seems to be his palette, almost like a serious version of a minion), and I see a thick vein pulsing in his neck. He’s nodding, analysing me, hating me. ‘Have a nice Christmas,’ he says, bitter and sarcastic. ‘What’s left of it.’

  For a moment I feel sorry for him. It passes quickly, but I make a mental note; one of my resolutions for next year will be to not piss people off, especially those in authority and particularly those working public holidays.

  By the time I finally check out of the Custody Suite it’s gone 9 p.m. It’s stopped snowing, but without traffic or people the world is covered in a thick, pristine layer
of icing. The snow creaks underfoot as I walk the roads of Cheltenham, eerily silent and quite beautiful. I spot a man weaving his way home, wearing a Santa beard. He’s singing Christmas carols, his lone voice echoing in the stillness and I get my first pang of seasonal loneliness. But, like my pity for D.I. North, it passes quickly. This is just a crap time of year. Bah humbug.

  I stop. I know I should go home but I’m worried about Alexia and what might be about to happen to her. Against my better judgment I begin walking in the direction of her house.

  I crunch through snow, slowing as I reach the final row of terraced houses and her street. All of the homes are small two up, two down houses but each tells a story. They are filled with lights and colour, texture and family. I pull my collar against the cold night air and approach Alexia’s door. I can hear voices inside and see coloured tree lights casting their festive shadows on the ground. The door knocker is big, heavy and round. I knock it hard three times, as a friend might, one arriving after a long trip to be welcomed in with open arms.

  The door opens and a man appears, tall and smartly dressed in the expensive attire of a successful, retired gentleman; brown chinos, brogue shoes, a dark tan belt and Ralph Lauren shirt. There is a burgundy jumper tied loosely over his shoulders. He looks as though he has just stepped off a yacht; tanned and relaxed. He looks me up and down and says, ‘May I help you?’

  ‘I was hoping I could talk to Alexia.’

  ‘I’m her father,’ he announces with a confident smile and then waits.

  I almost tell him that he reminds me of Spiderman’s boss in the comics. Instead I say, ‘Very nice to meet you. Is she home?’

  His smile fades a touch and his leathery brown skin resumes what I am guessing is its default position; mild contempt. ‘Who should I say is calling?’

  Again, for some reason a multitude of possible answers ping around in my brain like popcorn waiting to be grabbed. I finally settle on, ‘Martin’. And then fix him with a beaming smile.

  ‘Daddy, who is it?’ Alexia calls, upstairs but unseen.

  ‘Martin,’ her Father calls back.

  Alexia pads down the stairs in large slippers and a white robe and then stops, ‘Mr Bridgeman, what are you doing here?’ She asks, her fear obvious.

  ‘Listen, I just want –’

  Mr Finch places a defensive hand on the door between us and takes a step forward. His eyes narrow into snake-like slits and he properly reminds me of J. Jonah Jameson, but without the moustache, or the well hidden but obvious kindness, or humour. ‘You!’ He roars. ‘I suggest you leave, before I call the police.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I say, nodding, ‘I just need to –’

  ‘You aren’t hearing me,’ Mr Finch booms, voice like a judge controlling a courtroom. ‘You’ve caused enough trouble already. My wife and I have been worried sick, we flew into the U.K. unsure if our daughter was even alive.’

  This is all a bit dramatic.

  He takes another step towards me and I take one back. It feels like we are dancing or playing chess, or actually – more realistically – sparring. I’ve been punched enough in my life to spot the signals.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, quickly, ‘I understand, I’m going to leave now.’

  Alexia braves two more steps down the stairs in order to get a decent look at me. She dips her head and our eyes connect for a brief moment. I see something. Fear? Or is it concern?

  ‘Alexia, you’re in danger,’ I shout. ‘You need to be careful, something happened, which –’

  The door slams closed with a wave of warm of air. I stare at the knocker and consider banging it again but know that would be like asking for a take-away nose-bleed. Instead I turn and walk away. I’m not sure what I expected. To be welcomed like Tiny Tim; a lonely unfortunate, taken in by a kind and wealthy family? Not likely. I’m the weirdo who just kidnapped their daughter and now I’m rambling on about danger.

  Nice. Move. Joe.

  By the time I arrive home, I’m freezing and there’s a bloody FOR SALE sign in my front garden, a thin shelf of snow sitting happily on top. Five minutes of wrenching, swearing, tugging and snapping and I’ve warmed up nicely. I drag the sign to the side of the house and throw it down dramatically. If anyone is going to buy this house, it’s me. I might even offer above the asking price. ‘And I might accept!’ I say loudly. Mad man? Moi?

  Luckily, my key still works. Apparently when you are evicted it’s still your responsibility to look after the place until it’s sold. Oh yes, the bastards are good like that. The house is dark and cold. It smells too. Musty and sour. Probably some fruit and vegetables, gone off. Guess I’ve been away longer than it feels. I flick on the hallway light and wince. When did I last sleep? Properly? I’m back to my old self it seems. Wandering like a knackered lemming between not much and sod all.

  Probably for the best. I’m shit at relationships, friendships and general interaction.

  The phone rings and I stare at it. It keeps ringing, annoyingly. Then it stops. Then it starts again. Christ. I pick it up. ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me,’ a breathy woman replies.

  At this point, with my various time-travelling antics in question, my mind warps with possibilities. Clearly the woman thinks I should know who she is.

  ‘Er, hi,’ I manage.

  A pause. ‘It’s Alexia Finch,’ she says.

  ‘Oh, hello.’

  Another long pause and some crackling on the line. ‘Are you there?’ She whispers.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Are you okay? Why are you whispering?’

  ‘I’m in the bathroom, if my Dad knew I was calling you…’ Yeah, I’ve met him. She continues, ‘Listen, don’t think this means everything is okay because it’s not, this doesn’t mean you can come here again or start phoning me, or texting me.’

  ‘No,’ I reply, ‘okay. What did you say to the police?’

  A click as she swallows and clears her throat. ‘They think you drugged me, said you had probably used Rohypnol, said there have been other women who have gone missing. They are going to keep you under surveillance.’

  ‘Jesus,’ I hiss.

  ‘They said you might be dangerous.’

  ‘And do you believe them?’ I ask, suddenly realising how important that question is.

  There is a long pause this time, ‘I don’t know what to believe,’ she sighs. ‘I know there is no way you can time-travel, no matter what you say, but Mr Bridgeman, you need –’

  ‘Please call me Joe.’

  ‘Okay then,’ she sniffs. ‘Joe, you said I was in danger.’ She swallows again, ‘Were you threatening me?’

  ‘No, God no!’ I gasp. ‘I was warning you.’

  ‘About what?’ The line muffles and I hear voices, hear Alexia reassuring someone that she won’t be long and that she’s fine. She’s back, ‘What do you think is going to happen to me, Joe?’

  I take a deep breath and say, ‘Just hear me out okay?’ Silence, which I take as a reluctant yes. ‘A few days from now, you are going to be re-located in time, back to where you are supposed to be, before I dragged you here. Anything you were wearing, your watch, your earrings, your dress, will all disappear before you go.’ I neglect to mention the fact that her underwear will also disappear. I carry on talking into the now silent receiver, ‘You need to watch out for that, those things will disappear and then you will feel weird and then you will go back.’

  I hear her laugh, the kind of sound you might make if you realised your spare tyre also had a puncture. ‘Are you serious?’ She yells. ‘Oh, you know what? Just leave me alone and don’t call me again!’

  There’s a clatter and then the buzzing of an empty line. I place the phone back in its cradle. ‘You called me,’ I murmur weakly into the empty hallway.

  I head upstairs and collapse, fully clothed, into bed and pull the cold covers over me. Sleep will come whether I like it or not. Although I’m where I am supposed to be, I actually feel out of time, unsettled and jet-lagged. As I drift from cons
ciousness I think again about changing all of this. Police surveillance, Finch hating me. Oddly, my last thought before blackness takes me is the chatty cabbie from Bristol, the one with the little book of Zen.

  Live in the moment, he almost sings, happy behind the wheel of his cab, the here and now.

  I agree, but it’s not that easy mate. Not for me.

  5.

  I’m the passenger in a battered white Peugeot 205, hurtling down the M5 motorway. There’s a rusting hole in the footwell the size of a football and my feet are pinned nervously either side of the deadly grey blur of tarmac. The driver is Chad. I met him in my second year at college and we just hit it off. He was new and I took pity on him, I guess. He looks like a Marine and drinks his own body weight in beer on a weekend, but makes me laugh hard and I need that sometimes. It’s summer, the windows are down and Oasis, ‘What’s the Story, Morning Glory’, is blasting out from the under-powered stereo. Chad is singing along at full volume, fighting with the high-pitched growl of the engine. His car is packed full. Bags filled with sour smelling washing, a framed oil painting, his mountain bike and also – I’m amazed he managed to fit it all in – his drum kit.

  ‘Twenty minutes to Cheltenham,’ Chad barks, a roll-up cigarette protruding from the gap in his long, curtain-like hair, ‘if I keep my foot flat down!’

  I nod and smile. Cheltenham. Home. I haven’t been back for over six months and feel bad about that; not terrible, but I know there will be some emotional bridges to cross, some awkward unseen membrane to break through before Mum and Dad will welcome me back fully.

  ‘How do you get on with your folks?’ Chad shouts, as if reading my mind.