by Nick Jones
Our kiss eventually breaks but our eyes stay locked for a while. ‘Was that for luck?’ I ask her playfully, with a confidence I could never have imagined before meeting her.
‘Yes,’ she replies.
I pull her close again and we hug. I whisper in her ear, ‘And this is the part where you re-focus me and tell me I need to concentrate.’
‘It is,’ she nods, ‘and you re-assure me you will come back safely.’
We kiss once more and then I take a step back and travel. I leave again for 1992 – for what I hope will be the last time – and I do so, thanks to Alexia, with something akin to hope.
11.
I feel the familiar sensation of gravity departing, my body lifting and the mass of the world dropping away.
Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. We’re expecting a little turbulence and would recommend for your own comfort and safety that you return to your seats and strap the hell in. This is going to get rough.
Except it doesn’t. I’m in a dark void again, with images of my past spinning around me, but this is different, I feel more grounded somehow. I don’t have anything like the same confusion or nausea I suffered before. I stare up at memories orbiting around me and laugh as I realise what this reminds me of. A Victorian Zoetrope, a decorated cylinder with slits cut vertically into the sides that, when spun, gives the illusion of movement. Seems my mind has decided to use one of these as a metaphor for travelling.
The name – like many of my favourite words – has its roots in Greek. Zoe, meaning “life” and tropos, meaning “turning”, and the version I see before me is my life turning; college days, lectures, halls of residence, drunken nights out, Chad crashing his car. I watch them flicker by, the same images returning every twenty seconds or so and realise that everything is from the same year. 2002. Why is that? The last time I travelled I focussed on the fairground sifting through a host of random memories, willing myself to Amy, pushing back to 1992. Why am I stuck here? The thought sends a shiver through me. What if this is as far as it goes now? Did I really believe that I could just keep popping back to 1992 and tweaking the past to suit me?
Pure fear tightens around me and, for a moment, I’m teetering on the edge of despair, the needle of my sanity, dangerously close to the edge. But then Alexia’s voice soothes me. ‘Perhaps, this isn’t different at all,’ she says, soft but clear. ‘Maybe you’re just seeing it differently, getting better at this time-travel thing.
I draw in a deep breath and focus – pushing my fear aside as best as I can – and see something I hadn’t noticed before. In between each image – each scrapbook style memory from my college years – is a slitted gap, and through that gap I see other spinning shapes in the darkness. More Zoetropes! If I time my step carefully perhaps I can jump from 2002 to the next one and so on.
I count, timing the spaces and when I’m sure I’m in rhythm I jump. 2002 is gone and I’m surrounded by new faces and locations that are clearly 2001. I know this because I was twenty-three years old in 2001 and I joined another band, this time as a keyboard player and backing singer. I see myself on stage, a few times, early gigs and memories flickering by. I don’t allow myself to become distracted though. I repeat the process of jumping through the years, again and again, until I reach 1993 and my luck finally runs out.
It’s my fifteenth birthday party, a year after Amy went missing. I remember this day clearly, how my parents tried so hard to still celebrate, in spite of all the pain. My memories are clear but the images here are faded and disjointed. I stare frantically between the gaps of what’s left but I can’t see any more Zoetropes after this one.
I cry out in frustration, peering into the blackness for any sign of the fairground and then everything stops. I can’t breathe and my heart is still. I see something, faded and paper thin, the colours only just visible against the jet black world around me. I think my mind is playing tricks on me but then I see it again, a glimmer of colour, like oil on a wet road. I squint, terrified that if I take my eyes away for a second it will disappear for good.
I step between and beyond the images of 1993, and enter the final Zoetrope – for what I suspect will be the last time – and see the lights of the Ferris Wheel, one single image left on this final carousel. I suck in a huge breath, my heart catching up on the beats missed and spring towards it, covering my face as I leap into the past. I can make it, my hearts sings, but my mind disagrees and perhaps that’s why – when I open my eyes – I find myself in 1992 but fifty feet above the fairground with the weight of the world suddenly pushing me to the ground.
The last time I landed here, I was the vinyl equivalent of Neil Armstrong. One small step for Joe, etc. Well, this time, it’s one giant leap for mankind and I don’t think I have ever been so glad to see a bouncy castle. I fall, accelerating and screaming like a man being eaten alive and then hit the rubber, watching in horror as five kids – who had been happily leaping and bouncing around before my unexpected arrival – are launched into the air. One almost reaches the top of the castle, before returning and bouncing onto his head and then out onto the entrance ramp. All of the kids are screaming. So am I. The shock of falling so far and counter-bouncing a load of kids is compounded by a crowd of angry parents who just witnessed the whole, crazy thing. Luckily none of them were looking up at the time of my appearance – why would they be? – and all I can do is apologise wholeheartedly. The parents growl and tend to their little darlings, who – thank goodness – all seem fine. In fact one kid, a boy of around six, looks up at me with a smile that says, ‘Can we do it again?’
I don’t think so kid, I shrug back. I don’t think I’m ever getting here again and that, along with a good hard bite of brain freeze, sharpens me up. This is my last chance and I had better make it count. In my favour, 1992 doesn’t have the same culture-shock factor as before. It means I adjust quicker and I’m running, the fear of losing Amy again pushing me along. I have a plan and if I’m going save her this time, it needs to work. I catch up with myself by the caravans taking a Michael Jackson BAD t-shirt.
‘Pssst.’ I whisper.
Other Joe turns and jumps at least a foot backwards. ‘Jesus Christ!’ He hisses, face contorted in absolute shock. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘It’s a long story,’ I explain, ‘but you need to do something for me.’
Other Joe snorts, ‘Why is it always me? Why do I have to do what you say?’
Well, there’s a paradox in itself.
‘Because I’ve been here before,’ I reply, angrily, ‘I’m you remember, and what you’re about to do tonight doesn’t work, you don’t save her.’
Other Joe takes a step towards me now, eyes tightening, ‘What do you mean, what happens?’
I get a flash of Amy screaming in the icy water but banish it from my mind. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I try to assure him, ‘you just need to do exactly as I say and everything will be alright.’
Other Joe tilts his head and studies me, ‘Who takes her?’
I almost tell him that he’s the one who takes Amy (in one version of events anyway) but think better of it, ‘I don’t know who took her, but I know how to save her.’ I glance over his shoulder, ‘Pass me a t-shirt and jeans will you?’
Other Joe shakes his head, as if the world will never make sense to him and grabs some clothes off the line. He passes them to me and I open the t-shirt up. It’s Madonna Into the Groove. I almost hand it back, wondering what the security guard would make of my new outfit but instead ask him to pass me a plain red hoodie.
‘It won’t fit you,’ Other Joe replies.
Christ, he’s like a teenager. ‘Just grab it will you.’
He tuts, hands me the hoodie – which fits just fine – and we sneak away with our respective stolen clothing. ‘Right,’ I say, as we walk. ‘Listen carefully, and do exactly as I say.’
12.
Other Joe has been briefed and I’ve positioned myself strategically at the side of a bu
rger stand, which offers a decent view of the rifle range, the Dodgems and the wood. I can see Other Joe, near the rifle range, being questioned (bang on time) by the tall security guard, the one with the gold lettering on his shirt. Watching myself is still a very strange experience. Seeing how I move, how I react, how awkward I look. It’s not something you ever get used to but, to be fair, Other Joe is doing a pretty good job of sticking to the plan. The guard finishes questioning him and then runs off to tackle some kids who are smoking. So far, so similar.
I glance over at the rifle range and see my fourteen-year-old self and Amy discussing my shooting prowess. There are now three of me here. Teenage Joe, Other Joe and yours truly. It could get bloody crowded if I kept coming back but deep down I know that could never happen. This will be my last trip, whether I like it or not.
The first ding of a target being struck rings out, and on cue the other man arrives, the busy body, the suspicious one. Seeing him again sends a ripple of dread through me, the fact I feel I know him scratches at my subconscious. He moves slowly and deliberately towards other Joe and they begin talking. The conversation seems to last a little longer than our original one – although it’s hard to tell, as I was crapping myself – but it ends up exactly the same. Other Joe clenches his fist and swings a good hard punch, knocking the man to the floor. I watch Other Joe run, except this time he doesn’t head for the Dodgems, this time he whoops and shouts and taunts the crowd before running off in the opposite direction to me and, more importantly, the opposite direction to the wood.
If you want a job doing properly, I congratulate us both, then do it yourself.
I seize my chance and move, hoping that this time Other Joe’s diversion will buy me enough time with Amy. As the third air-rifle shot lands I see Amy drift away from the stall and I follow her, keeping a safe distance of twenty feet or so. She moves through the crowd, occasionally looking back, but doesn’t seem bothered by me. I suspect she’s looking for her brother and not this impossibly old version walking behind her.
As we reach the edge of the fair I risk one more look behind me. As far as I can tell we aren’t being followed, not this time, and although I can feel its early chill, brain freeze hasn’t bitten down yet. I’ve managed to get here quicker and estimate I have at least twenty minutes before I’m dragged back. That’s a lot more than I had the last time and plenty to persuade Amy to trust me and do things differently. I turn back and peer into the darkness of the field, which is suddenly illuminated by the flash of a camera. I see Amy running, and also Vinny and the band posing for their shots. The photograph, except I wasn’t in it this time, which sets me wondering if everything will be back to how it was in the present. Holy Paradoxes, Batman! I shake my head and break into a run.
‘Please Don’t Go’ by KWS starts up (again) somewhere in the distance. I call Amy’s name but she doesn’t stop. I run faster and when I catch up to her I’m doubly careful not to scare her. I need to gain her trust and I have an idea how to do just that.
‘Amy,’ I say, ‘your brother, Joe, is looking for you, he sent me to ask you to come back to the fair.’
There. That’s pretty much ten lines of our previous conversation distilled into one. Perhaps time is on my side after all.
Amy studies me carefully, just as she did before, with nervous curiosity, ‘My Daddy says I mustn’t talk to strangers.’
‘And he’s right,’ I agree softly, ‘but I’m not a stranger, I’m a good friend of Joe’s and you can trust me.’ I stay perfectly still. ‘He’s very sorry he lost you and if you come back, it will make him really happy.’ I crouch down and meet her eyes and wait until she looks at me before I speak again, ‘Why don’t you come back with me now, find your brother and –’
‘I can’t.’ Amy sniffs, glancing behind her. ‘I have to go.’
‘Has someone scared you? Did a man ask you to come here?’ I’m guessing now, clutching at one of a thousand straws that have grown in my brain over the years. ‘If you tell me, I promise I won’t tell anyone else.’ Amy bites at her bottom lip, blinking rapidly and I can tell I’ve almost got her. ‘Pinky Swear,’ I whisper, a term we shared years ago, a secret bond. Suspicion drops from Amy’s face in an avalanche of emotion and she stares at me, calm and intrigued all of a sudden, ‘Who are you?’
‘A friend,’ I say, ‘and I’m here to help, but you need to tell me what’s going on.’
‘I’ve seen you before,’ she murmurs. ‘You’re like me?’
‘What do you mean?’
Her eyes glaze over, the life behind them dimming somehow and when she speaks again her voice is flatter and colder, as though she’s suddenly accepted some dark fate. ‘It doesn’t matter now. It’s happening,’ she murmurs, ‘I’m going soon.’
She turns and begins to run, leaving me crouched on the ground, mouth agape and head spinning. I wince, rubbing my forehead – not because of brain freeze, that’s still way off – but because it feels like some elusive truth is trapped in my head like a genie in a lamp.
Seen you before. You’re like me. Going soon.
And then, in an almighty rush of understanding it all makes sense.
My sister, Amy Bridgeman, is a time-traveller, like me.
13.
‘Amy!’ I shout, deciding to risk it all. ‘I know why you’re running away. You sometimes find yourself in strange places don’t you?’ I pull myself to my feet. ‘With no idea how you got there.’
Amy stops, her head low. She’s biting her bottom lip again, ‘How do you know?’
‘Because it happens to me too,’ I confide, desperately searching for angles that might make sense to a frightened seven-year-old. ‘And it’s scary isn’t it?’
Amy looks as though she might be about to cry. ‘Yes.’
I walk very slowly towards her as I speak, ‘Tell me what happens to you.’
She nods and I see relief as she starts talking, her words like the fizz that escapes the first twist of a bottle top, ‘I can’t control it, it just happens. I feel dizzy but then it’s okay because I kind of stop being here.’ She blinks rapidly, closing her eyes. ‘And when I wake up I’m in the same place but it’s different, really, really different.’ She opens her eyes again. ‘I see Mummy sometimes, she’s got grey hair, and I’ve seen you there too.’
I nod, trying to hide my emotions as the elusive, and now completed, puzzle finally reveals itself. Amy is a time-traveller, but I was wrong about her being just like me. Amy travels forwards into the future. The last time we were here I thought I dragged Amy back to 2005, but it was the opposite. When I grabbed her, she dragged me and she’s going there again, soon.
‘Amy, do you want to know something really cool?’ I ask, trying to keep her calm, trying to keep her focus on me.
‘What?’ She frowns.
‘I can come with you if you like.’
She stares at me, suspiciously, ‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ I nod, confidently. ‘All we need to do is hold hands.’
She tries to speak but doesn’t seem able to, her throat moves and bobs and as her eyes swell with tears I clock that she’s not just scared, she’s embarrassed too. ‘But I don’t want you to see me,’ she snaps, ‘I don’t want anyone to know that…’ She pauses, about to cry, and it breaks my heart. Time-travel has side effects, which are bad enough as an adult, but must be utterly petrifying as a seven-year-old. Alone and in an unknown world, Amy finds herself naked too.
No wonder she’s been so scared. No wonder she didn’t want to tell anyone.
I need to think quickly, but if I get this wrong, I lose her again. ‘It’s the same for me you know,’ I say as softly as I can. ‘I end up in crazy places and then my clothes disappear and I have to find new ones.’ Amy stares at me, her mouth and eyes so wide I almost laugh. I don’t of course, this is serious and I sense an opening here, some chance to connect in this dark, shared embarrassment between brother and sister.
Amy sniffs, rubbing tears angrily from her eyes.
‘It’s horrible,’ she snaps.
I nod and pull at my t-shirt. ‘Do you think I chose these clothes?’ I smile. Amy looks me up and down and manages something akin to a smirk. ‘Once, when I travelled, I appeared on stage and another time right in the middle of a racecourse with horses jumping over me!’ Amy giggles, wiping the last of her tears away as I continue. ‘So, yes, I understand and will make sure you’re safe and covered up but listen,’ I tip my head forward and fix her with a friendly but firm stare, ‘I know where you’re going next and I need to come too.’
Amy seems to forget the worries that a minute ago owned her so completely – such is the gift of children I guess – and narrows her brow, ‘You know where I’m going?’
‘Yes, and I want to come too, so I can make sure you’re safe.’ I raise both hands, palms flat. ‘I want you to trust me now.’ Amy finally relents. She nods twice and raises her trembling hands to meet mine. I inch my hands carefully to her wrists and gently grip them. I don’t want to scare her but I need to make sure that when we hit water, I can hold her tightly enough. ‘You know when you jump into a pool on a warm day but the water is cold and it makes you scream?’
‘Yes.’ Amy nods, listening intently.
‘This is going to be a bit like that, but don’t be scared because I’m with you.’
It wasn’t my fault that Amy drowned the last time. The lake has always been her fate, but not this time. This time, I’m going to save her. Amy’s eyes glaze over again. ‘I’m going now,’ she says, her voice flat and without emotion.
‘Okay,’ I say, preparing myself as best I can without panicking her, ‘and I’m going with you. On the count of three we hold our breath.’ I begin to count and Amy joins in. ‘One, two, three. Huuuuup.’
14.
Knowing I’m about to hit dark, icy water means I’m less disorientated this time but, apart from that, it’s just as horrendous as before. Simply knowing what’s happening doesn’t change your body’s reaction one bit. Freezing, churning water shocks me rigid as I scream, silvery bubbles escaping my mouth in a cascade of desperation. Luckily, I’ve had the wherewithal to maintain my grip on Amy and feel her hands squeezing mine.
