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

by Nick Jones

  Alexia is kneeling opposite me, holding my right hand. She stands and I follow her, walking towards the edge of the hill, our hands locked together. We look out over the town, a sparkling mass of white and golden lights.

  I point. ‘You see there? That’s the fairground.’ I shrug, ‘Well, where they held it back in ’92.’

  ‘And that’s why you came here, because you can see it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, nodding. ‘It helps to visualise exactly where I want to land and from up here, I can see it all. Plus, this hill is somewhere safe, somewhere I have good memories.’

  ‘And we’re definitely in 2005?’ She asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I think so. It feels like it.’

  She continues to peer out over Cheltenham, ‘But how do you know?’

  ‘Brain freeze is part of it – and I don’t feel that yet – but I’m starting to get my bearings with all of this time-travelling I think, starting to get a sense of where I am in the overall picture.’

  The moon is full and high and there isn’t much traffic on the roads. The night air is cool but pleasant. I estimate that morning will be here within an hour or two and am hit with a feeling I haven’t felt for a long time. The wondrous, magical sense of nature and being connected with it while everyone else sleeps.

  Christ. I am a hippy after all.

  Before meeting Alexia and becoming the time-travelling weirdo I am now, I was a different kind of weirdo. I used to get up at 3 a.m. and walk around Cheltenham. It suited me because no one was around. The feeling you get on an empty beach or in a forest so dense with trees you can’t imagine buildings. There’s something wonderful about being awake, while the world sleeps. Animals and creatures exploring around you. I realise something else too, something new. I realise that it’s good to have someone to share it with.

  ‘Joe,’ Alexia says, ‘I know we don’t have long but I wanted to tell you something.’

  I turn to her. ‘Okay,’ I say, nervously.

  She swallows, looks down and then back up at me, her eyes glistening in the moonlight, ‘I’ve enjoyed getting to know you and I want you to come back safely.’ She pauses and frowns as though she’s done a very bad of job of something extremely simple.

  Her hand is still in mine and I give it a jovial shake. ‘I will,’ I say laughing and then manage to stop myself before saying something really stupid.

  Alexia bites her bottom lip and then leans in and I have absolutely no idea what to do. I freeze. Her head is close to mine and she kisses my right cheek as I stare over her shoulder, mouth agape. I feel the amazing warmth of her lips, pressing against my skin, the sweet smell of her hair. She holds the kiss for a few seconds and then pulls back, smiling, with an awkward shrug. ‘That was for luck,’ she says.

  ‘Thank you,’ I manage, glad of the darkness and hoping it hides my shock, ‘I needed it.’

  ‘Right.’ Alexia sighs. ‘Come on, we need to concentrate, we need get you back, Joe.’

  I nod and focus on the site of the fairground, in particular the field next to it. I soak in the space around me, the date, the evening. I don’t think about losing Amy, or failing, I focus on finding her, on saving her.

  ‘And you’re sure you don’t want me to come back with you?’

  I turn to her with a scowl, ‘We talked about this.’

  ‘I know,’ she admits, giving me an awkward look. ‘But now we’re here I guess I –’

  ‘No, Alexia,’ I say firmly, ‘I cannot put you in danger like that. Your job is to send me to 1992.’

  ‘But I might be able to help,’ she pleads.

  I give her hand one final squeeze and then carefully let go. ‘Trust me, this is right, this stage of the journey is mine and mine alone.’

  She nods her reluctant agreement and I breathe a quiet sigh of relief. I told her what she needed to hear and left out how fierce and dangerous the last jump was. There’s no way I would take her with me, but the fact that she would even consider it makes me glow inside.

  ‘You’ll be okay,’ she assures me. ‘Just stay relaxed.’

  John Lennon was right. Love is all, and he got it spot on when he said, love is everyone. I can hear him still, ‘Tomorrow Never Knows’ playing in my mind and when Alexia speaks, her voice somehow harmonises with his.

  ‘Let go of your worries and thoughts Joe, just let go.’ Her voice is silky, yet sparkling like Diamonds. Alexia in the sky with Diamonds. My smile widens, I can feel 1992, so close I can almost touch it.

  ‘Nothing bad can happen to you, Joe,’ she assures me. ‘You’re going to find Amy and save her.’

  ‘This is not dying’, John sings and I think, You’re right, this is living. Putting right that which is wrong. I close my eyes, listen to Alexia’s voice and time slips away. She is gone. I focus, breathing slowly and with purpose, knowing that this time will be different to the last. I am in control now. There is no barbed wire, there is no way that’s going to happen again. I clench at the thought though, the pain still raw and fresh in my mind. Why the hell am I thinking about barbed wire?! My heartbeat increases and I sense gravity around me, like the moment at the very crest of a rollercoaster, just before the drop. I feel that falling sensation now and moan as I open my eyes.

  I can see places, mashed together in a distant and endless landscape, one I don’t belong in yet. The passage of time distorts, splintering, speeding up and spinning around me like paintings drawn into a huge whirlpool. I look at my hands and arms. My skin is silvery, translucent and shiny and I see my blood pumping beneath the surface. I’m phasing again; in and out of existence. ‘No!’ I cry, but my scream is distant and weak, garbled like digital interference. I am dough being stretched by the hands of a million hours. This is worse than before; day becoming night at impossible speed. Panic bites at me. I close my eyes again, the pressing sensation of gravity and motion sending waves of nausea through me. I breathe and, in the midst of the storm, do what I can to draw in the calmness that Alexia brings.

  Don’t let it in Joe. I hear her say.

  It’s fear. Let go of fear.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. I see Amy and my Dad. I see Shane Rammage, Liv and her abusive boyfriend, and I see myself and the years spent alone.

  I’ve been surrounded by fear.

  When I open my eyes again, the rotating imagery has slowed a little, just enough to see the field next to the fairground. It passes by me quickly though, like a passing truck on a motorway. I see people in the distance, the Ferris wheel, lit up and brilliant. But, then it’s gone, replaced by Cheltenham High Street during the day and then an unknown office, people working, God knows when. I could land in any one of these snapshots and be miles from Amy and my goal, not to mention months away from the night she went missing.

  I see the fairground come around again and then it hits me. Suddenly. And it all makes sense. Revolutions per minute. RPM. 33 RPM. The world is vinyl, and time is song, etched forever into its surface. John Lennon may have been the Walrus, but I am the needle at the end of a tone arm and all I have to do – if I am to listen to the right track – is land right in the gap between the songs. The slower I drop and the more careful I am, the smoother the listen, the neater the entry.

  I hold this imagery in my mind and smile. Sometimes what we need is right in front of us, we just have to connect the dots and embrace what we already know. The fairground arrives again and I descend, gliding down into the nearby field with a newfound confidence and control. Silently and slowly I sink down, static drawing me towards the rotating Earth. There are people near me, but they can’t see me; not yet. I’m catching up with time and when my feet finally touch the ground I feel the undulating rotation of the Earth itself and the brakes of the universe pushing up through me, grounding me.

  Houston.

  The needle has landed.

  I breathe and laugh as sound floods into me; the fair, traffic, voices, music. The present becomes the now. 1992; the night Amy went missing. I take in my new, yet very old an
d familiar surroundings. I remember this night as a fourteen year old boy, walking here with Amy, the sky, candy pink and orange. She loved it. I glance to the horizon now and see the burning red glow of a setting sun and above me the dark blue of early evening. Amy and I arrived just as the fairground lights came on. I turn and watch them again flicker into life as a crowd roars its appreciation. Not far from here, Amy and I have just arrived. That thought triggers the first bite of brain freeze at the top of my spine. It passes but I estimate I have thirty minutes.

  It’s okay though. Half an hour is enough to save her.

  I’m coming Amy, I’m coming…

  Part Seven - Got To Get You Into My Life

  1.

  This time, my landing in 1992 – compared to my previous barbed wire massacre – was smooth and controlled. I appeared out of no-where, landed in a field next to the fairground like a stylus onto vinyl and none of the people around me noticed my arrival. It’s almost as though they were hypnotised; programmed not to notice a man suddenly popping into view. Or perhaps, we only see what we can comprehend or understand. Either way, I’m here and no one is screaming, which in my book of time-travelling shenanigans is a positive result. I remain still for a few seconds, breathing and soaking in 1992.

  Part of me doubted I would ever make it this far, another part always knew I would and is currently whooping and cheering and congratulating. I roll my shoulders and frown, aware that I have nothing to celebrate. I may be near Amy in the practical sense but I’m still no-where near saving her. As if to remind me – for the second time since my awesome arrival – I feel the chilling bite of time nibbling at the nape of my neck. I estimate I have thirty minutes here – I’m getting better at this so I think I’m pretty accurate – and need to make every one of them count.

  I draw in one more long, controlled breath and then head towards the entrance, a giant horseshoe-shaped sign, illuminated against the ink blue sky by a string of light bulbs. It reads: ‘WELCOME TO KING’S FUNFAIR!’

  A shudder of familiarity runs over my entire body like surf. It’s one thing to remember a place in time, but it’s completely different to actually relive it; especially as an adult. I remember passing under this sign with Amy, a lifetime ago. As I enter the fairground, walking between stalls and rides, the sweet smell of candy, mixed with the bitterness of diesel generators I realise I’m smiling. My mission is to save Amy and I am focussed on that, but there is a wonder to time-travel that’s impossible to ignore. It’s raw and powerful and dare I say it’s even addictive.

  My thoughts are broken by another cheer as the black outline of the Ferris Wheel bursts into life, multicoloured lights travelling its spokes in a quick, hypnotic rhythm. I’m reminded of my last conversation with Alexia. She made me plan and I’m glad of that now. 1992 is a retro, sensory overload and I need to stay focussed. Amy is here but I don’t know exactly where at this moment in time. I’ve viewed this event many times of course – strapped-in, like a rollercoaster – but now I’m here, I can’t seem get my bearings, in place or time. Frustration kicks in; I knew that it would. I just want to scream Amy’s name, grab her and run, but that could cause a scene – which could change things of course – but I need to be smarter than that. Mark’s warnings are still raw in my mind. I don’t want to create new problems in this timeline if I can help it. Plus, this may be my only chance; so I need to be smart. I’m going to head to the rifle range, try to talk to Amy after she wanders off and perhaps distract her long enough so she doesn’t go to the woods in the first place. Sounds simple enough. But. Before any of that I have my usual priority, the same thorn in my backside as always.

  Clothing.

  I have thirty minutes here, which means my current clothes will go pop in fifteen. It’s the rules. I didn’t make them, but I know one thing for sure; a naked, middle-aged man won’t last long at a funfair. I need to find something to wear. Pronto.

  A song starts to play in the distance, accompanied by screams as one of the rides begins its trade. KWS; Please Don’t Go. I remember it; an ear worm of a tune and agree with the sentiment entirely as brain freeze nips at the base of my neck again, chilling my spine. That’s when I see a girl, about Amy’s age, holding hands with a man. I freeze, unable to take my eyes from them.

  Jesus. Is that…?

  ‘Can I help you sir?’ A basso voice to my right asks, making me physically jump.

  I turn and face a man much taller than me, a few pounds heavier and – I would guess – around half my age. SECURITY is embroidered on his shirt in gold FBI style lettering. He’s chewing gum, head cocked to the side, blue eyes piercing into me.

  I look back at the girl who isn’t Amy after all. She’s a little older and happily holding what appears to be her Father’s hand. I exhale loudly, my heart starting back up with a jolt. ‘Er, no I’m good,’ I manage to say to the security guard. ‘Er, thanks though.’

  The guard narrows his stare, ‘Interesting choice of clothing.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I laugh, a little too loudly. ‘It’s a dare. You know what kids are like.’

  He glances over at the girl, the one I seemed so interested in and folds his arms. ‘Hmmmm,’ he mumbles, suspiciously. ‘I’m watching you.’ He holds my stare and is about to continue his questioning when he’s distracted by a group of kids who look way too young to be smoking. He heads off towards them, shouting and pumping his fist as I let out a huge sigh of relief.

  I got away with it but I’m burning minutes here, can feel the weight of every second. I walk purposefully towards the perimeter of the fairground, praying I don’t suddenly end up in my birthday suit.

  2.

  I duck under a fence and sneak into the ‘staff only’ section of the fairground. I’m moving as quietly as I can but don’t have the luxury or time to sneak. There are around twenty caravans and motorhomes here of various sizes, the temporary abodes of the fairground workers. Most are locked and have nothing outside and I’m just beginning to give up hope when I hit the jackpot. There’s a washing line hanging between two of the biggest caravans and it’s loaded with dry clothes. I hear voices and music seeping from inside them so grab the nearest items that look as though they might fit, and fall back into the shadows. Beggars can’t be choosers, my mother used to say. She also used to say, Lying and stealing are next door neighbours.

  As I sneak away – t-shirt and jeans in hand – I strike lucky on a pair of flip-flops, left on a step outside. I grab those too and head for the outer perimeter of the workers’ enclosure. I find a good changing spot behind a generator and under the cover of a large tree. I strip, hiding my soon to be gone clothes and pull on my new jeans. They are stone-washed, baggy around the leg, tight at the waist and too short. But, they’re better than nothing. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for the t-shirt. As I pull it over my head and down I’m horrified to discover it doesn’t reach much further than my belly button. I pull it hard with both hands until the fabric begins to tear. I let go and sigh in frustration as it crawls back up, revealing a good two inches of my torso. I complete my ‘Definitely a weirdo’ outfit with the flip-flops and dread to think how I might look. I spare a moment to hate time-travel but know I can’t wallow. I need to make a plan. Quickly.

  Get to the rifle range, watch Amy and follow her.

  I jog quickly back towards the fair, icicles forming in my skull, the lights and sounds making me feel queasy with anticipation and worry. I reach the main drag. I’ve been in this time for ten minutes or so but it’s busier already, darker too and packed full of people. I catch my reflection, squashed and distorted in a mirror designed to make you look like a munchkin. It isn’t funny though. I look like some kind of Kids from Fame reject. My t-shirt is white, cropped at the waist and has an image of Michael Jackson in black leather. Under it, sprayed in red letters is the name of his album, BAD.

  Yep. I couldn’t agree more. I look really, really bad.

  Although, to be fair, most of the people around me are freaks to
o. I’ve seen this fair in my viewings and imagined time-travelling here many times, but nothing could have prepared me for actually being here. The weirdness, the culture shock of familiarity, impossibly mixed with newness; the depth of my past seen through adult eyes. And, unlike my viewings, I can interact now and everywhere I look I see new memories. Kids wearing crazy looking clothes, which to me look retro but are, of course, not at all. Music that belongs on a ‘90s classic radio station playing out, confident, fresh and new. Adults look as though they have walked in from some terribly over the top sit-com. Even their features look odd, as though they have been shaped from a mould very different to the people I left behind. They cut an irregular shape in the world and I realise – smiling again – that it’s their hair. For starters there’s a lot of it; horrendous fashion mistakes; perms (Julia Roberts has a lot to answer for), quiffs and flat-tops; all of them misguided horrors. And there’s something else different too. Everyone has their heads up. Either looking at each other or, at the very least, where they’re going. They seem… present.

  No mobile phones.

  I laugh. I can’t help it. 1992 is (and was) wrong in so many ways, yet there’s a big part of me that remembers liking it immensely. I was fourteen; the future was all there for the taking. My smile fades as I realise this very night was probably the last time I felt that way.

  I assure myself that if I change this, if I save Amy then it might also change other things for the better too. That thought sends gooseflesh bursting over me, running hot up my back and cold over my shoulders.

  Save Amy and I change it all.

  3.

  That’s when I see Vinny, chatting enthusiastically to the lads in the band who are sauntering, moody and serious, through the crowd. I have to stop myself from calling out to my friend who won’t know me for another twenty-odd years. I notice Vinny has his camera out and realise they must be heading for their photo shoot. Is it that time already? Shit. I need to move. I’m guessing they are heading near the rifle range but I need to be sure. As they pass me, I ask two teenage boys where it is and they look me up and down. One sneers and then points behind him. ‘Down there, past the ghost train,’ he says, then spits and they both begin to laugh. I run, not caring one bit how I look or what anyone thinks of me.