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

by Nick Jones

  ‘Okay,’ she sighs, relieved. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say with renewed purpose, ‘but we’re going to find out and when I finally get back to her, we’re going to stop it.’

  4.

  We’re seated in my study in front of my ageing Apple desktop and I’m struggling to explain the current limitations of my time-travelling abilities and failing dismally. I have a sudden brainwave and open up an email Mark sent a few days ago, one with an attachment, entitled, “Time-travel-calculator.xls”.

  Alexia arches an eyebrow. ‘Are you kidding?’ She snorts, ‘A time-travel calculator!’

  I grin, ‘Yeah I know, Mark made this for me. To be fair, it’s the only spreadsheet I’ve ever enjoyed. It helps me figure out how long I can stay after I land in the past. I put today’s date in here.’ I point at the screen, leaving finger-prints on the shiny glass, ‘The date of arrival here, and then it spits out the amount of time I get to stay, here.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ Alexia grimaces, pointing at a very long string of numbers and letters to the left of the spreadsheet.

  ‘That’s data.’ I sigh, curling my lip in sarcasm. ‘The clever bit I will never understand.’ I tap a coloured area of the spreadsheet, ‘This is all that matters, it tells me how long I get to stay in days, hours and minutes. For example, in this scenario, I arrive in November 2005 and could stay about six hours before being pulled back.’

  Alexia squints at the screen, ‘And how did Mark figure this out?’

  ‘He compared all my jumps and made some assumptions.’ I shrug and fold my arms, ‘It isn’t perfect but it gives us a good idea.’

  ‘And, according to Mark the furthest you can go is 2001?’

  I nod, ‘And when I do manage to go that far, I’m pulled back in seconds, not hours.’

  Alexia draws in a slow breath, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. ‘So why not go back to 2005 – you get some time there after all – and try jumping again?’ She looks at me, quizzically, ‘Wouldn’t that work?’

  I shake my head, staring at the keyboard. ‘When I land, I’m like a drained battery.’ I pause, pursing my lips. ‘There’s no way I can time-travel again. No, if I do this, it will have to be in one jump, all the way, all or nothing.’

  ‘And you think the picture of Amy will help?’

  I turn to her, ‘Yes, I hope so.’

  Alexia nods but I can see she isn’t convinced. She stands, stretches and walks to one of the many freestanding shelves that are dotted around my study. They are a focal point and something I, too, am often drawn towards. They are filled with some of my favourite antiques and curiosities, a treasure trove for the inquisitive. Alexia picks up a pair of opera glasses, which are tainted gold encased in red leather and studies them. ‘Martin told me about your antiques business, said it was quite the going concern once.’

  ‘Yes,’ I admit with a sigh, ‘it was.’ I pause a beat, ‘Once.’

  ‘He said you had quite the gift.’

  ‘Hmmm?’ I ask, turning to her.

  Alexia peers through the opera glasses and then back at me. ‘He said you had a real knack for valuing objects.’

  I smile, wryly, ‘Valuing. Not really. I’m no expert, I don’t even have a specialism, but I do get…’ I pause, frowning, searching for the right words, ‘I do get a feeling from certain objects.’

  ‘A feeling,’ Alexia nods as though what she’s hearing is perfectly normal. ‘Do you think it’s linked to your time-travelling?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I admit, holding her eyes, narrowing my own. ‘Older objects do seem to hold more power, as though they have a story to tell.’

  Alexia rotates the glasses in her hand, ‘So what’s their story?’

  I wonder how much to tell her, but considering we’ve already been through the ‘Joe’s mad, oh no, wait a minute, he’s not’ thing, I decide to tell her the truth.

  ‘A girl was given those glasses by her father. He ran the Opera house. It burned down a few years later and those are one of about eight pairs still in existence. The girl must have lost them and she will want them back, and if fate decides, she’ll find them again.’ I blink, deep in thought and continue, quietly, almost to myself, ‘I think objects call to us, like the photographs in Vinny’s loft. They wait for us to find them.’

  ‘And you know all this just by touching them?’

  ‘Partly.’ I shrug, ‘Also by spending a bit of time with them, getting to know them.’

  Alexia places the glasses carefully back on the shelf. ‘No wonder your antiques business did well, people love a good story.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agree, remembering how I used to feel about my work. ‘I had a small shop. I could have expanded probably, but then the website came along.’

  Alexia looks confused, ‘Martin said you did well out of that, what happened?’

  ‘I did, initially,’ I say, ‘but it was the beginning of the end for the Bridgeman Antiques Empire.’ I manage a smile. ‘It meant I didn’t need to interact with anyone anymore. I could find objects and then sell them online.’ I sigh. ‘I just lost interest in most things really.’

  Alexia walks back to me and picks up the photograph of Amy. ‘And you think this will be enough for you to go further than you have before, to stay there longer?’

  I consider the question. ‘I’ve used objects to help me focus before, things like newspaper articles, tickets, anything to ground me in the moment I’m aiming for. It helped me hit specific dates, like Cheltenham races or the time I went to see Mark at his house, all of those jumps were way more accurate than before.’

  Alexia places the picture back down and smiles at me, complex and sincere. ‘Maybe something led you to that photograph,’ she offers.

  ‘Yes, it’s given me a new perspective and a strong connection to that night, something visual I can attach to.’ I take a breath and as I do my confidence begins to build. ‘It’s given me something else too, something I haven’t felt for a long time.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ Alexia asks, staring back at me.

  ‘Hope,’ I breathe. ‘It’s given me hope.’

  * * *

  The fabric of time. I’ve heard the phrase many times before but never really connected with it, never truly considered what it might mean. Now, it echoes through me as I phase and shift in what I thought was reality. I’ve spent my life believing that existence is solid, that it makes sense, but now all of that is in question. I am starting to wonder if reality might just be a thin veil, like a layer of painted silk that no-one dares touch but somehow wraps up and makes sense of our world. All of my jumps so far have been instant, a sudden landing in space and time.

  This one is different though; very different.

  I have Amy’s picture in my hand and its importance in my heart. As I reach further and further back in time I feel myself pushing through this fabric and find myself falling, drifting and alone, and realise with absolute horror that there may be nothing on the other side.

  Nothing.

  I call out but my voice is lost in a vacuum. Deathly silent. Falling, dropping deeper into nothing. Seconds become years as I try to remember who I am and where I came from, what I’m doing here. I’m no longer sure. Perhaps I’m dying, I wonder, when suddenly, out of the darkness, I see shapes. Images flickering around me like cards in a deck, dealt at great speed by invisible hands. Each an image of my life. I focus on one, sky, blue and black, pricked with stars and in the distance I see lights, a fairground. I remember. I’m Joseph Bridgeman and I’m here to save my sister. I reach for the fairground and hold it in my mind; teeth bared like a rabid dog.

  Amy!

  Focus.

  Amy, hold on!

  I’m so close. I feel my body return, hear the sounds and feel the warmth of summer flood over me. The smell of grass, the feel of it against my hands as I touch the ground. I’m on all fours; solid. I made it. I’m here!

  I look up and for one beautiful second I am in 1992, the
night Amy went missing. I try to stand but the pain is instant. My clothes disappear, I’m naked and then the blue veil of time descends over me and I’m catapulted back, hurled though time like a rag doll. I scream and when I open my eyes, I’m back to where I started, my spare room, 1992 close but as unreachable as ever.

  I didn’t connect, not enough.

  I’m alone, on all fours and naked. I stay that way for a while, shuddering, before dressing and heading downstairs. I find Alexia where I left her, in my study. She looks up at me and winces. ‘It didn’t work,’ she guesses, carefully.

  ‘No.’ I take a step towards her and wince. ‘I was close, but I couldn’t stay.’ I exhale loudly in frustration, tears banging a warning from the centre of my skull, ‘I couldn’t stay.’

  Alexia walks over to me and places a hand on my shoulder. ‘It’s alright, Joe,’ she says, softly. ‘It proves there’s a chance doesn’t it?’

  I shake my head. ‘It was instant, almost violent, it threw me back.’ I look up her, my body shaking. ‘It’s as though time was angry,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘Like it didn’t want me there.’

  Alexia lifts her chin, a look of defiance spreading over her, ‘Listen,’ she says, firmly, ‘you aren’t good at asking for help. You’re impatient, you want to run at this but you can’t.’ She stops, takes a moment and calms herself. ‘You need my help,’ she sighs, a gentle smile spreading over her, ‘and we need to do this my way.’

  I draw in a shaking breath and eventually nod. She’s a hypnotist. I have to do as she says. It’s the rules. I’m reminded of the other day, when she told me that if I had a nick-name for her I should keep it to myself.

  Never, I repeat, NEVER tell her she’s my Hypnotic Caramel Bunny.

  5.

  ‘It’s no use,’ I sigh, hating the grinding whinge of my own voice even more than usual, ‘Mark’s right, 2001 is as far as I can go.’ I clench my jaw and stare at nothing. ‘I finally understand how to time-travel, but I can’t reach Amy.’ I exhale, loudly and deliberately. ‘This is horrible, it’s like torture.’

  Alexia is standing at the lounge window, facing me but a dark silhouette against the daylight, her features impossible to read. She lifts her head and I hear her inhale. ‘Hmmm,’ she murmurs, slowly.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  She folds her arms and leans back on the window sill. ‘You once called me a stage hypnotist,’ she says. ‘Do you remember?’

  ‘Did I?’ I say, innocently, knowing damn well I did. I can’t see much of her face, but I recognise a scowl when I feel one. ‘Well, I didn’t mean it.’ I sigh, ‘It’s the only experience I’d had, that’s all.’

  ‘So, you’ve seen a stage show?’

  I nod, ‘Yeah, a while ago now, there was quite a buzz at Uni about it.’ I snort, ‘The guy was funny actually, he really understood his audience, you know, cracking jokes and finding out things about people, things he could use.’

  ‘And what kind of thing did he do?’ Alexia purrs.

  ‘Oh, silly stuff really, but quite funny.’ I think back but it’s all a bit of a blur, everything from that time was seen through thick beer goggles. ‘Actually I do remember one thing,’ I say, sitting up out of my funk, ‘he spoke to this girl, right at the beginning of the night and tried something on her that didn’t work, he explained that “sometimes it’s just like that” and then let her go back into the audience.’

  ‘Carry on,’ Alexia nods. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘He did his whole show, had people clucking like chickens and speaking in French accents, really stupid stuff that drunken students lapped up like tequila but then, right at the end, the girl – the one from the start of the night – suddenly jumped up on stage and started singing Staying Alive and dancing like John Travolta.’ I laugh though my nose and smile, ‘It was actually really funny and the crowd went berserk, she was properly into it too and the weirdest thing…’ I pause, trying to remember her name, which in itself is ironic because I can’t. ‘She was the quietest one in our year, really shy and reserved and here she was, going for it, big time.’

  Alexia walks towards me, her silhouetted hips swaying hypnotically. She grabs a chair and sits, eyes on mine. ‘It’s a programmed response,’ she says.

  ‘What, that made her dance?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. The stage hypnotist planted something in her mind at the start of the show and there it sat, waiting for him to do or say something that would trigger the response.’

  ‘I saw something like that on T.V.’

  Alexia nods and then dips her head, eyebrows hiked, waiting for something. I almost ask what, but then it lands, the reason she’s talking about this. I swallow and lick my lips. ‘You think you can do that to me don’t you.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she replies, voice low and breathy. ‘I’ve done similar things to do with stress or smoking or eating disorders,’ she pauses. ‘Okay, so not quite like this, but it’s the same principle.’ She leans in and I smell her shampoo again, clean and soapy. ‘We send you back and I program you to jump again.’

  ‘I like it,’ I admit, pinching my lips. ‘It’s ingenious, but it won’t work.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘Because the idea of jumping again, it’s like,’ I pause, frowning, ‘it’s like saying that because you just jumped a stream you can jump all the way to bloody France.’ I stare up at her and when she smiles, I find myself laughing a little. ‘Okay,’ I smirk, ‘it was a crap analogy but you get the idea. It would be days before I would be able to travel again.’ I shake my head. ‘Listen to me, talking about time-travelling like it’s a marathon or something.’

  Alexia leans in. ‘Now, that is an interesting analogy,’ she says. ‘When we think we can’t do something, it’s often our mind holding us back. People are capable of amazing things Joe, feats of strength, incredible endurance. It’s mind over matter.’ She stops and shrugs. ‘Maybe that’s something I can replicate, put you under, deeper than before, and convince your mind you can do this, ‘program’ you to jump again, all the way back to 1992.’

  Alexia’s eyes sparkle when she imagines things, I don’t mean they’re wet or shiny I mean they contain stars that swirl and catch the light like silver filings on a moonlit lake. I could get lost in there and not mind one bit. Seeing her excitement at this new idea brings a little hope, which is especially welcome after my recent trip to 2001; a stark reminder that time is a relentless bully, always waiting, ready to administer pain and judgement.

  ‘Do you really think it could work?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, and I can prove it to you,’ she says with a sudden and mischievous smile. ‘If I were to say the words… Step Ladder…’ She waits, eyes fixed on me.

  I feel mild panic set in. What the hell has she done, or more importantly, what am I about to do? What triggers have been buried, waiting for the Step Ladder to strike?

  She laughs, ‘I’m kidding Joe.’

  I glower at her. ‘That wasn’t funny.’

  She shrugs, knowing it was, ‘You said yourself that something needs to change, maybe this is it…’

  Mark told me to try small things, to look out for ways to alter my ability, to improve my distance. Perhaps the marathon analogy is a good one after all. Alexia is my new coach and she’s going to train me to push through the wall, to conquer my fears.

  Mind over matter.

  Rahhhhh!

  ‘You asked me to trust you,’ Alexia interrupts my personal mantra, ‘maybe now it’s your turn to trust me.

  I nod, realising I do trust her and that comes as something of a revelation. I stare at her, lost for a moment and then straight down at the floor.

  ‘What is it?’ She asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ I lie, not wanting to tell her that this is how my viewings usually start, by getting close and building trust. ‘It’s nothing,’ I repeat, voice flat, ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘Alright,’ she replies, ‘but you can talk to me Joe.’ Her voice is kind and soft as
silk. ‘If you want to.’

  I nod and realise that I could, for hours in fact, which is ironic of course because we don’t have time for this, and time waits for no man.

  Especially not me.

  6.

  I decide to time-travel from my study this time; a place rich in nostalgia and rooted deeply in my past. Alexia wanders around, leaning in occasionally to look at the various objects and antiques with a new sense of interest. ‘Have you decided on a location yet?’ She asks.

  I clear my throat. ‘I have, Your Honour,’ I answer with mock seriousness.

  She looks up, smiling, ‘Go on.’

  ‘Cheltenham Science Fair, 2005.’

  ‘Okay,’ she nods, ‘that’s a good year to aim for.’

  ‘Yep,’ I agree. ‘A good mid-way point between the present and 1992, I get a good few hours before being pulled back.’

  ‘Why then?’ She asks, ‘Why the Science Fair?’

  I hold up my slightly frayed ticket from the event, ‘I didn’t go out much then, but the theme of this caught my eye.’ I pass her the ticket.

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ She gasps, laughing. ‘Time-travel?’

  ‘I know,’ I smirk. ‘Ironic isn’t it?’

  I’ve chosen this because it’s a very strong memory for me. It could have been the theme I suppose, but I suspect it has more to do with the host, an attractive Spanish woman. She was utterly mesmerising, which is a detail I decide not to share with Alexia.

  Alexia hands me back the ticket, ‘And you have your other focus items?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply, thumbing the front page from a newspaper from the day and a copy of Amy’s photograph that Alexia has printed for me. I stare at my sister’s image, feel its power and the pull of time.

  ‘And you have money for a taxi?’ Alexia asks. ‘Nothing after 2005, remember.’

  I nod, ‘You can’t be too careful.’