Joseph Bridgeman and the Silver Hunter Read online

  Joseph Bridgeman and the Silver Hunter

  A Time Travel Adventure

  Nick Jones

  Contents

  I. Baby You’re a Rich Man

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  II. Help!

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  III. A Little Help from My Friends

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  IV. Can’t Buy Me Love

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  V. I Should Have Known Better

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  VI. Don’t Let Me Down

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  VII. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Acknowledgments

  Part I

  Baby You’re a Rich Man

  Chapter One

  Welcome back to this week’s thrilling episode of Keeping Up With the Bridgemans. After persuading the sexiest woman ever to NOT have sex with me, I didn’t think my day could get much worse.

  I was wrong.

  A cold bead of sweat trickles down my spine. Thunderstorms and I have a history. I’m not feeling a huge urge to head downstairs, but a story isn’t very compelling if the hero stays put.

  Hmm. I may be the hero, but I’m far from heroic.

  Slowly I descend, fingers creeping along the wall, eyes adjusting to the gloom. The last step is confirmed by repeatedly tapping my toes on the floor. Cartoon style.

  By day, Bridgeman Antiques is a warm, welcoming place. By night, it’s Stephen King’s favourite shop of horrors.

  The wind howls, shaking the front door like an angry ghost. Rain hammers the huge bay windows. A streetlight bathes the shop in a sick, aqua light, transforming channels of rain into swaying seaweed, dancing playfully over dark, ominous shapes.

  It’s mesmerising and also spooky as hell.

  I fumble for the light switch, click it up and down a few times and sigh. Nothing.

  Dubious shadows reach out like broken fingers waiting to drag me into the darkness. It’s crazy how quickly your mind goes into creative-destruct mode, filling in the gaps with demons and monsters.

  Come on… fuse box.

  A weird light flickers near the front of the shop, like static on an old television. I hear buzzing too, like overhead electric cables crackling with power.

  ‘Is there someone there?’ I call out, voice weak and trembling. ‘Joe?’

  I know it sounds nuts but, once you’ve time travelled, you half expect to meet yourself in situations like this.

  Thunder booms, threatening to blow the front door off its hinges. Lightning flashes on its tail, burning orange shapes onto my retina. It strikes again, illuminating a grizzly bear with jagged teeth like deadly knives.

  ‘Yaaaaaarrr!’ I shriek.

  The bear isn’t real, of course. Along with a suit of armour, it’s one of the creepier pieces in my shop and an ideal candidate for an episode of Scooby Doo. Fresh sweat races down my spine. My heart returns from the ceiling. I blame WP Brown for all of this. He properly freaked me out this morning, with all his talk of time-travelling adventures and – what did he call it again? Oh, yeah – ‘The Untethering’.

  Pah! Makes me sound like a goat!

  Time travel is the last bloody thing I want to do. And anyway, it doesn’t matter.

  I’m retired.

  The wind howls an ominous warning as distant thunder attacks Cheltenham like a bombing raid. ‘Come on, Joe,’ I say, ‘it’s just a storm, the fuse has tripped, no big deal.’

  My heart stops as I realise the flickering is coming from one of my display cabinets. Cabinet 22, the one Bill found so fascinating. It was closed, but it’s open now, glowing white and surrounded by swirling dry ice.

  Dry flipping ice!

  It plumes out, like a scene from a crap eighties pop video. I can just imagine Cher, prancing around, performing air-grabs and belting out, ‘If I could turn back time’.

  Mental note: I must at some point phone the eighties and ask for my soul back.

  Static electricity ripples over my skin as though the mysterious Cabinet 22 is conducting the storm, using its power to lure me in.

  ‘Bollocks,’ I tell the room. ‘There is a perfectly rational explanation for all of this.’

  The cabinet probably blew the fuse and the stuff that looks like dry ice is actually smoke. On cue, lightning banishes the dark. It helps me trace the power lead from the back of Cabinet 22, along the floor to an upturned plug a few metres from the wall.

  Oh.

  It isn’t plugged in.

  I wonder – not for the first time – if someone spiked my drink. The light emanating from my very own Zoltar machine is remarkably pretty. The objects displayed on the glass shelves within glow like pearls.

  I’m drawn to it.

  The sound of the storm fades and what I thought was static becomes a tuning sound, the whistle and whine of a radio scanning the airwaves.

  That’s when I notice it: a Roberts radio. Cherry red and brand new, the round dials white and gleaming, the grille polished, the waveband display clear and well-lit. And how it glows! Vibrant and rich. All the other items in the cabinet dull in comparison.

  I glide towards it like a man in a dream, obeying its undeniable allure. My mouth hangs open, my head leans to one side. It’s not a good look but I can’t help it. My focus is on the radio. Then, if this wasn’t peculiar enough already, the dial begins to turn, all by itself.

  ‘Jeez Louise,’ I murmur, unable to tear my gaze away. ‘Definitely something in that drink...’

  The ghostly dial locks onto a strong signal and the whole world
fills with the sound of deafening rock and roll. A fast tremolo guitar riff. A minor into a G, a progression I recognise instantly.

  ‘Runaway’ by Del Shannon.

  Now, I love sixties music (massive Beatles fan), and ‘Runaway’ is a great pop song, but mix it with Paranormal Activity and Close Encounters and turn it up to eleven? Not so much.

  Del croons out in his famous falsetto…‘Why?’ He wails over and over again before he wonders if ‘...she will stay-ay, my little runaway. My run, run… run, run, run, runaway.’

  The keyboard solo rips through the air. The song is getting louder, building to an almighty crescendo.

  I reach for the volume dial and then pause, raw power crackling between my fingers and the radio. It’s deafening now; I have to stop it.

  As my finger connects with the dial, there is a loud, shattering pop, like a room of lightbulbs blowing in unison. The world becomes a blinding ball of light and Bridgeman Antiques is no more.

  Chapter Two

  Earlier that day…

  WP Brown admires a cabinet filled with ornate glass objects like he has all the time in the world. The mysterious time traveller arrived in my shop this morning. I’m wary because he’s been following me through time, and because he’s the only one – apart from Amy – who knows what really happened.

  I clear my throat. ‘Mr Brown, when you said –’

  ‘Please! My friends call me Bill.’

  ‘Okay – er, Bill. What did you mean when you asked if I was ready for the Magical Mystery Tour?’

  WP Brown pulls his pocket watch out of his waistcoat and flips it open. ‘Mmm-hmm,’ he murmurs to himself and smiles back at me with easy confidence, ‘I’m here to teach you, Joseph. I am your mentor!’

  This is the part where I’m supposed to hear a rousing crescendo of strings and we chest bump or high-five or something. But I don’t feel anything, other than slightly embarrassed. I’m British, which means I find enthusiasm something to be avoided at all costs.

  ‘Er, my mentor?’ I reply, tone flat. ‘For what?’

  Bill pulls a small meerschaum pipe from his jacket pocket and lights up. He puffs on the mouthpiece, encouraging the dried leaves to singe and char, and a comforting waft of cherry tobacco reaches my nostrils.

  ‘Sorry, but I don’t think you can smoke in here,’ I tell him. I don’t know why I’m apologising – he’s the one polluting my shop. Although to be fair, I’m not sure about the rules, because it’s not really my shop. It belongs to a previous version of me, one I replaced. Let’s call him ‘Previous Joe’ because it sounds so much better than ‘the bloke I unintentionally murdered last week’.

  WP waves his pipe at me cheerily and leans towards me. ‘Do you know how many people actually succeed in using time travel to change something in their own lives, like you did?’

  I shake my head. ‘No. I don’t.’

  I’ve always been a bit of a hermit and it didn’t occur to me that other people might be able to time travel. All I cared about was saving my sister, Amy. She was seven when she died but I went back to 1992 and saved her. Bill was there during some of my jumps, seemed to be following me. And now, three days after I get home, he turns up again. It’s why I’m nervous of him. What does he want?

  ‘Only 6 percent of those who try actually manage to change their past,’ he says. ‘That already makes you special.’

  ‘Er, thank you,’ I reply.

  He scrutinises me with such intensity, I feel as though he’s trying to look through my eyes and into my soul. ‘You, Joseph Bridgeman, completed a double-jump. That’s very rare indeed. Ingenious, in fact,’ he breathes, eyes burning bright.

  ‘Right. Thanks…’

  ‘And now, here we are. The Magical Mystery Tour begins, my boy! I’m going to teach you everything you need to know to become a fully-fledged time traveller.’ He beams at me.

  I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. For a few seconds, the only sound in the room is the clocks on the wall ticking out of rhythm with one another.

  Bill has an undeniable charisma, and I like him. But this is bonkers. There’s no question that time travel is cool, and the idea of learning how to do it properly, maybe travelling further back in time… it’s tempting. But after everything I’ve just been through, it’s the last thing I want to do.

  Bill has wandered away and is admiring a cabinet in the corner of the shop. All the cabinets in my shop are numbered, and this one is marked 22. It’s slim and around six feet tall, its glass chipped here and there, bronze edges rounded with age. It houses the most peculiar collection of items.

  Bill turns back and looks at me. He seems hopeful, excited even. ‘Fascinating,’ he murmurs.

  I’m usually a good judge of character, and I get the feeling he’s not threatening. Weird, yes. But dangerous? I don’t think so. I might just need to let him down gently.

  I move over to the entrance and turn the sign on the door of Bridgeman Antiques to CLOSED.

  ‘I’m sorry, Bill, but I’m done with time travelling.’

  He nods patiently.

  ‘What?’ I frown. ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been in a similar situation. I understand how you feel.’

  ‘And how’s that?’ I ask.

  ‘The life of a time traveller is tough, and the challenges upon your return can be difficult to surmount,’ he says knowingly. He walks back towards me and leans against the desk. He’s been sucking on the empty pipe; he starts to fill it with fresh tobacco. ‘And now, you’re home. You have things just how you want them. Hoping for a quiet life. Am I right?’

  ‘Well, something like that,’ I admit.

  I’m not so much after a quiet life; I had one of those, and it was rubbish. (Unlike Previous Joe’s life, which seemed to be much happier and way more successful than mine. Until I vaporised him of course.)

  Now I’m back, I have stuff to work on. Specifically: getting to know my sister, building bridges with my family and persuading Alexia to fall in love with me again. To cut a long story short, I need to be here, in the present.

  I notice I’ve crossed my arms. My whole body is screaming “no!”

  ‘You have much to learn, Joseph, but you don’t need to face the untethering alone,’ Bill continues, apparently unaware of my body language.

  ‘The untethering?’ I ask, despite myself.

  ‘Indeed,’ he says. ‘Yes. Like all Travellers, your first jump was tethered, restricted by your own timeline. There was only so far you could jump. But when you saved Amy, you broke free of the bonds of time. Now, you are untethered, which means for a start, that you can travel much, much further…’

  Further?! My stomach clenches at the thought. 1992 was quite far enough, and that nearly killed me! The last thing I need is Obi-Wan dragging me off on adventures into the distant past.

  ‘It doesn’t make any difference, Bill… I’m not going to travel again. I mean, why would I?’

  Bill carries on. ‘The untethering comes with new rules, some of which are beneficial. Objects, including your clothes, won’t disappear anymore, I’m sure you’ll be relieved to hear.’

  ‘Bill, listen, please,’ I implore him. ‘What you don’t seem to be getting is that I belong here, in the present. I am totally done with time travel.’

  He points his pipe at me. ‘That’s as may be, Joseph. But what you don’t seem to be getting is that time travel is not done with you.’

  At this, I start to feel the tiniest bit uncomfortable.

  He fixes me with his wild eyes, and when he speaks his voice is deep, confident and laced with excitement. ‘You are a time traveller, my boy,’ he says, pausing just long enough to grin, ‘and saving Amy was just the beginning.’

  Chapter Three

  I’m just about to go back at him, explaining that time travel is a choice, when he stops abruptly and winces, rubbing at his temple.

  ‘Brain freeze?’ I ask, recognising the signs.

  ‘Ye
s… although the pain is less. Another bonus of untethering,’ he says.

  He pulls out a small, highly polished wooden box, flips it open, taps his pipe out into it, closes the lid, and pops it back in his jacket pocket.

  His watch beeps. He checks it and straightens his coat. ‘As always,’ he continues, ‘time is against us. Let me give you my calling card.’ He hands me a small, thick glossy card. On the upper side is Bill’s full name in a bold, flourishing font:

  William Peter Brown

  ‘Now listen,’ Bill says, ‘this is vital, Joe. If you get lost, call me. The number reads as “lost-and-found” on a telephone keypad so you won’t forget. It’s on the back. Take a look.’