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

by Nick Jones

  The past comes rushing back, all the years I wanted to tell Mark that his wife was having an affair and all the years since, wondering if I should have done things differently. ‘What will you do?’ I ask.

  He shrugs, ‘It’s a long time ago and at the moment…’ He pauses, finding a sad smile, ‘We’re doing okay actually, things are good.’ He stares at me, blinking, ‘Sometimes the right thing to do is nothing.’

  I nod. ‘That feels right mate,’ I say, ‘but not for me, not for Amy.’

  Mark holds my stare, ‘Of course. If you need Alexia Finch then maybe I can persuade her to help you.’ He clenches his jaw, ‘Will you let me try?’

  I’m locked into the tractor beam of Mark D’Stellar’s persuasion. ‘You might as well,’ I murmur, ‘I think I’m going to be stuck here for a while.’

  He nods and an hour later I’m alone.

  Stuck here, but not for too long, Joe.

  I can feel the heavy weight of time beneath me. My analogy of the ocean and its depth, haunting me, the past growing more distant with each and every moment.

  12.

  Two weeks. Fourteen days. Ugh. Week one, they flushed me full of antibiotics and various people in white coats prodded, scanned, and stroked their chins. Week 2 – I was up and walking again, also see hobbling – some police bloke who reminded me a bit of Kiefer Sutherland paid me a visit. He seemed suspicious as hell, but left with nothing but a headache. In the end, all their questions led to the same conclusions. There was no way to make sense of my barbed wire disappearing trick, and no legal reason to detain me in hospital. So, today, I simply discharged myself and limped out of there. The metal from the fence caused some scarring of the muscle on the inside of my right thigh. That still aches like hell, but apart from that the only evidence of my torture are the circular scabs left by the exit wounds. They itch, which I think means they’re healing. Oh, and my new walking style, which has all the painful-to-watch qualities of a chiropractic patient leaving the ministry of funny walks.

  It may hurt, but when you’ve been bed ridden, being mobile again is a huge pleasure. I shuffle along the road to Alexia Finch’s house, a wooden walking stick – shaped like Charlie Chaplin’s cane – in my right hand for balance. I glance up at the late January sky, which is angry and dark, and as I knock on Alexia’s door hear the first spats of rain on the path behind me. It reminds me of the day Alexia arrived at my house, calling up to my window, telling me she believed me.

  Alexia opens the door, eyeing me carefully over her dark, thick-rimmed glasses. She’s dressed in dark jeans and a grey jumper that crosses over her chest in thick layers. Her hair is up and neatly bound in a complicated arrangement of circles. I haven’t seen or spoken to her since she left the hospital, since she told me she couldn’t help me anymore. She looks me up and down and then welcomes me in with a smile. I follow her, shuffling into her kitchen, embarrassingly out of breath. That’s when I’m hit by a cacophony of aromas; tomato soup, fresh basil, celery, warm bread. My stomach clenches and spins.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ She asks, offering me seat.

  ‘Okay actually,’ I reply, sliding carefully down into the kitchen chair, leaning on my walking stick as I do. ‘Never better.’ I sniff the air, enthusiastically, ‘Hmmm. Smells good.’

  ‘I thought you might need it after all that hospital food,’ she says, heading to the oven and then aggressively stirring a large saucepan on the hob. I’ve seen her house before. It’s immaculate, tidy as a show home, but her kitchen is the exact opposite. It’s cluttered with spices, books and ingredients, clearly a place for the soul. Alexia returns with two steaming bowls of soup and a large warm loaf, which she tears open allowing clouds of steam to escape. The smell is divine and we eat; small talk and good food enough for a while.

  Eventually Alexia says, ‘Mark came to see me.’ She doesn’t look up, she begins wiping her bowl clean with a small chunk of bread.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ I admit.

  She looks up, ‘He tried to persuade me to help you.’

  ‘And did he?’ I ask, a little too quickly.

  Alexia tilts her head in thought, ‘I’m scared, Joe. You got hurt but it could have been so much worse.’

  I nod, my time in hospital ensuring I’m prepared for this conversation. ‘I’m not asking you to take responsibility Alexia. It’s my life and I’m willing to risk it to save my sister.’ I fold my arms, ‘You must understand that?’

  She stares at me intently, ‘I do, but it doesn’t change the fact that if you get horribly injured again, or even die, I will have helped.’ She sighs. ‘I’m sorry Joe but I can’t be part of that.’

  She’s afraid; she cares about me and under different circumstances that would mean something. But, right now, in this moment, her concerns are just a hurdle, an obstacle to be overcome. Mark got close, but Plan A hasn’t worked and even though I know this will be hard on us both I decide to move to Plan B. I offer Alexia a thin, understanding smile. ‘You know, I’ve blamed myself for Amy’s disappearance over and over again but I think I finally understand.’ I pause, leaning in. ‘It isn’t my fault.’

  Alexia studies me, her face a complicated canvas of emotions. She begins nodding, her lips gently pursed in approval. ‘That’s good, Joe,’ she replies, soft and caring, ‘really good.’

  I pull out my Father’s diary and place it on the kitchen table between us. ‘We blame ourselves, but sometimes it’s just the world, it can be cruel and unfair.’ I tap the diary, feeling the power of the words within. ‘Reading this made me realise that Amy’s death has been a poisoned baton, handed down to every member of my family.’ I wait, allowing my words the space they need to land. ‘And I refuse to hold that baton anymore, refuse to play my part.’

  Alexia frowns, uncertain, suspicious. ‘So you’re going to let it go?’ She asks, tentatively, ‘Accept the past and move on?’

  ‘No,’ I say simply. ‘Don’t you see? You were right. I was afraid of failing. But I’m not anymore, in fact the only thing I’m afraid of is not trying. I’m going to save Amy and all I ask of you is that you come with me on the first step of that journey, get me to base camp, help me reach that. Then, it’s down to me to climb the mountain alone.’ I pick up the diary and turn to a bookmarked page.

  ‘Joe,’ Alexia murmurs, eyes glistening with concern, ‘you don’t have to read if –’

  ‘Yes,’ I cut in, determined, ‘I do.’

  13.

  MARCH 1996

  Every day I wake and it’s the same; a few blissful seconds of life before the dark wave pulls me under and reminds me that Amy, my beautiful daughter, is gone.

  Four years. Yet it feels more like a thousand, and still so many questions, unanswerable questions, that repeat over and over in my mind. They gnaw on some delicate, sensitive part of my brain, day and night – especially night – they burrow in and there they stay, never letting go. Ever.

  Memories of happiness haunt me. How am I supposed to cope with this?

  I built a family. Something good, and if things went wrong, I fixed them. I always fixed them. But I can’t this time. Life is broken. Permanently.

  And the worst thing of all, the thing that scares me the most, is that I don’t care anymore.

  – – –

  I stop reading, aware of a pain in my throat; a tightness that feels as though I’ve swallowed a large tablet without water. I glance up at Alexia who is staring down at her hands, her expression impossible to read. She looks up. ‘Have you read this before?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Just once.’

  She nods, ‘You’re using it to persuade me aren’t you?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I reply, ‘but you need to hear it. You need to understand why I have to do this.’

  ‘But it’s emotional blackmail Joe.’ She glowers at me. ‘That’s not fair.’

  Alexia’s right of course. I came here with an agenda, and I’m using my Father’s words like weapons; cutting through her final defences. I’m no
t proud of myself, I can’t deny that seeing her again and eating together has been good, really good in fact, but time doesn’t sleep, time doesn’t enjoy company.

  I clear my throat and move to my Father’s last diary entry. I try to read the words rather than feel them. It’s the only way I will get through this.

  JULY 1999

  I first heard it around six months ago. A whisper at first, barely audible, calling my name.

  Thomas… Thomas.

  I would search the house, convinced I would find someone playing a nasty trick on me. I never did of course, because the voice wasn’t real, but that didn’t matter. It kept going and that’s when it started asking me the same question, over and over again. ‘Do you know?’ it would hiss. I had no idea what it was asking me. I would call out, asking for more, asking what it meant.

  And then the voice would tut and even laugh and then disappear for while, leaving me sobbing, frustrated. Judy asked me to go to the doctor and I did. I took their drugs and nodded and, for a while, all was quiet but then it started again.

  ‘Do you know?’ the ghoul would taunt me, whispering slowly ‘Do you know?’

  ‘Know what for God’s sake?’ I would cry out and then wait, shivering.

  Looking back, I realise now that the voice was trying to help me. You see, all the questions I had after Amy disappeared, in the end actually boiled down to just one. The voice kept asking ‘Do you know?’ and I finally figured out what it meant. It was asking if I knew whether she was alive!

  ‘I know,’ I told it eventually, smiling and crying.

  ‘Good,’ the voice whispered in reply. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘She’s dead,’ I managed, voice shaking.

  ‘Yeeesssss,’ came the slow reply, ‘and you know what you must do.’

  I cried for days, finally accepting that Amy was gone. I have no idea how I knew, whether she was kidnapped, assaulted and then murdered but, either way, she was dead and in the end, the ‘how’ makes no difference, which I appreciate may sound cold but it’s true, for me.

  She’s dead and she’s never coming back. I don’t expect anyone to comprehend why this knowledge brings me peace. Only those who have been through what I have could possibly understand that. But it does. Somehow.

  I only hope that my family will understand.

  The voice is calling me again, it’s time you see. Time to go. I cannot remain here. I need to be with Amy.

  My life here is done. It had a purpose. Once. But not anymore.

  Forgive me. I love you both very much.

  _ _ _

  I close the book and feel tears gathering, the buzzing of grief at the back my throat again. I grimace and rub at my eyes with the back of my hand, ‘Sometimes,’ I begin, my voice slow and wavering, ‘things happen and we accept them, but not this, I can change this, lift this awful curse on my family, undo all this pain.’

  Alexia glowers back at me, ‘Joe, this isn’t fair.’ But the fire has gone out of her resolve.

  ‘What is fair?’ I ask, ‘A seven year old girl missing? Lost and never seen again? Is that fair? My Father was a good man Alexia, he looked after us, cared for us, but in the end he went mad, voices told him to kill himself and he listened because he felt the world was against him.’ I lift the book and shake it in my hand, like a preacher and as I do a photograph dances to the floor, sliding like a leaf through the air before landing at my feet. It’s a picture of Amy and my Father, perhaps six months before she went missing. It must have been pushed hard into the back of his diary because I hadn’t spotted it before. I pick it up and stare at the ghosts of my family, happy and unsuspecting victims of a dark future. I lose myself in it for a while, sigh heavily and then hand it to Alexia.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ Alexia says, softly.

  ‘Yes,’ I agree, ‘and if we save her, we save him too.’

  Alexia looks up at me, frowning, ‘You can’t know that.’

  Again I raise the diary, ‘Losing Amy drove him mad. Remove that reason and he won’t kill himself. It’s simple as that.’ I pace the kitchen, my limp almost gone, ‘And I meant what I said before, in the hospital. I can feel time running away from me, the past becoming darker each day. We need to do this Alexia.’ I stop and lift up my head. ‘We need to do it now.’

  She stares at the picture and then up at me, eyes alight with something new. Her frown softens and eventually, seemingly reluctantly, she nods.

  ‘Is that a yes?’ I ask.

  She nods again, ‘But we need to do this quickly, before I change my mind.’

  14.

  ‘Will this be enough?’ Alexia asks carefully.

  I fan the items out over the floor of my study; newspaper articles – some original, some printed out, police reports of Amy’s disappearance and various photographs. My focus items, my links to the past. ‘Yes,’ I reply, ‘I think so. I’ve spent the last few hours soaking them in.’

  ‘And you’re sure about the landing this time?’

  I nod, ‘Super safe as Mark would say.’

  ‘Did you talk to him?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I nod. ‘He wished us both luck.’

  She nods and flashes me a quick smile, ‘Okay. So, the plan is we both travel to 2005 and then I send you back to 1992.’

  ‘Yep,’ I say easily, as if we’re discussing flight times. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘And in 2005, we don’t need to worry about our clothes disappearing or brain freeze pulling you back.’

  ‘I’ve triple checked it on Mark’s spreadsheet. The first jump is ten years. Presuming we get that right and land in 2005, we will have twelve hours to prepare for the second jump.’

  ‘Plenty,’ Alexia nods. ‘But what then?’ She asks. ‘What about when you get back to 1992, how long will you have there? Does it reset? Is it the same rules?’

  ‘I’ve done a few calculations.’ I shrug. ‘My second jump will be thirteen years back in time, if the rules reset, then I get an hour, tops.’

  Alexia’s eyes narrow a little and she offers the briefest of smiles. ‘It’s enough,’ she assures me and then walks across the room towards my vinyl collection. She finds something and when she looks back at me I’m struck by her natural beauty. Her hair is up and plaited today. She’s dressed in a green jumper and jeans with flat shoes and hardly any make-up, and yet she’s truly beautiful. For a second I almost tell her, but suspect these emotions are typical for someone about to make a dangerous journey. I’m sure that plenty of men going to war fell in love in a heartbeat.

  ‘How about this one?’ She asks, lifting an album and raising her eyebrows.

  She’s holding a classical record, one I don’t even recognise.

  ‘Hmmm,’ I reply, as politely as I can, as if I’m actually considering it. She nods and tells me to close my eyes, a mischievous look in hers. I sit, crossed legs on the rug in the centre of my study and do as I’m told. I close my eyes and wait and when I hear the needle descend and the music begins, I smile. It’s perfect.

  The Beatles have played an important role in my life. Taught me about unity, passion and ability. They have been my soundtrack. Why would that change now? I don’t need hippy trippy mellowness, I need confidence, bravado and a good old dose of British rock.

  ‘Tomorrow Never Knows’ spills from my speakers and fills me; its futuristic drum beat and vocals transcend time itself. Lennon sings of floating Downstream, compels me to turn off my mind.

  I’m listening, John. I’m with you mate.

  I open my eyes and Alexia is now opposite me, also cross legged. The music is loud and she smiles, shaking her head. ‘This isn’t quite what I had in mind,’ she shouts.

  ‘But you like it?’

  ‘Of course!’ She scowls. ‘I love it! It’s the Beatles!’

  I’m reminded of the man I met on the train on my way to Bristol. He was right after all. You’re either a Beatles or a Rolling Stones fan. Never both.

  Alexia takes my hand, ‘You’ve carried this your whole life, the w
eight of Amy and your father.’ She leans forward, ‘It’s important you let go of it all.’

  John sings of ‘surrendering to the void’ and I draw in a long, deep breath. ‘Fear,’ I say.

  She nods, ‘You’ve been given an opportunity to go back and change things, to save Amy.’ She pauses again, eyes locked on mine. ‘If you’re going to do this you need to let go of fear. I know you’re brave, that you would do anything to save her. Just don’t be afraid to fail or it will hold you back.’

  She’s right – as always – and I feel lighter than I have for years, and as Tomorrow Never Knows reaches its midway point I feel my whole body tingle with nervous excitement.

  It’s all going to be okay.

  ‘You’re falling into a deep sleep, Joe,’ Alexia purrs. ‘Completely relaxed and totally under my control.’

  ‘Totally,’ I reply, her hands warm and soft in mine. I feel the pull of time, can visualise the shape of 2005 and the place I have chosen for us to land. I get an overwhelming sense that Alexia is meant to be with me, she is supposed to do this, and feel the present sliding away like an avalanche as Alexia and I cease to be.

  15.

  It’s darker and a little cooler than it just was. My eyes remain closed but I feel nature and the gentle push of a late evening breeze on my skin. I open my eyes and take in my new surroundings.

  ‘Is this right, Joe?’ Alexia asks, ‘Is this okay?’

  I look around and nod. ‘This is Leckhampton Hill,’ I say, smiling. ‘I used to walk here a lot when I was younger, it has a great view of the whole of Cheltenham.’