The Unexpected Gift of Joseph Bridgeman (The Downstream Diaries Book 1) Page 10

  Roll up.

  Roll up for the time-travel tour.

  I sink back in my chair, bottle in hand and begin. I stare at the ceiling, blinking and whispering my countdown from a hundred. The music takes me away and you know what? I think the booze might be helping. I feel remarkably relaxed. The Beatles, alcohol and hypnosis. Who the hell needs a Tardis?

  Hmmm. This might take longer than I thought.

  I fell asleep.

  Bollocks.

  I stare at the bottle in my hand. Maybe vodka isn’t such a good idea after all. I head to the kitchen and spot a fresh bottle on the kitchen island. Huh? I’ve got an identical one in my hand, except mine has some missing. I see light spilling from the open cellar door and noises coming from below. I check the clock and that’s when the penny drops.

  Holy flipping pancakes. It worked.

  I’ve actually gone back, but this time – and I have no idea why – I only managed to go back about twenty minutes! Other Joe is currently in the cellar looking for a mixer and any second will be back up to crack open the vodka. I look again at the bottle in my hand. There are now two identical bottles of vodka existing in the same moment, the same place. I mean, two of the same bottle. Brain. Overload.

  Wait a minute? Why is that weird? Why am I focussing on the bloody vodka. There’s two of me for God’s sake… Now that is weird!

  Other Joe is walking up the cellar steps. Shit! I really don’t want to find out what happens if I meet myself – space time continuum, universe imploding etc. – so I sneak into the lounge and hide behind the same bloody curtain as last time.

  My heart is banging but I’m not scared; at all. I actually feel charged, as though I’m stood beneath a buzzing pylon, drawing its power. I’m excited! I listen to Other Joe clink some ice into a glass and start his ‘pacing the kitchen’ routine and smile. I hear Mark again.

  ‘Nice work Mr Bridgeman,’ he assures me in his best prof voice. ‘You’ve replicated your experiment and your predictions were correct. Now you need to analyse the data and decide on next steps.’

  Analyse data? Yeah, whatever. I hear Other Joe enter the study and begin his preparations for departure. Possibilities are tumbling from my subconscious like coins in one of those Penny Pusher games at the fair. My smile widens because I can’t deny it any longer, don’t have to because the proof was just drinking shots in my kitchen. I may be a socially inept, vinyl-loving oddball but I’m also a time-traveller! And this isn’t some far-fetched movie either. It’s real. This could be the very reason for my viewing and potentially a way for me to use it. Initially, I thought I was losing my mind, but it turns out to be quite the opposite. I’m not losing my mind after all. I’m finding it and if I can travel back one day then maybe, just maybe, I could go further.

  ‘Magical Mystery Tour’ begins (again) and Other Joe travels Back to the Vodka.

  Mark D’Stellar sums it up for me, ‘Time to get to work, Joe.’

  Yes indeed Marky boy, and I know exactly where to start.

  Part Three - Day Tripper

  1.

  It’s gone midnight and although the summer air feels warm, a chill runs through me. People begin spilling out of the bar opposite and I spot him, Scott Tyler, dressed smartly in a blue shirt, cream trousers and brown shoes. He flirts with a girl for a while but it doesn’t lead to anything. Eventually, they go their separate ways and I follow him, keeping my distance. I was beginning to think the girl would be an excellent excuse to not go through with it tonight. Now, it’s just me and him. I swallow and steel my resolve.

  We near his home, a modern basement flat in Charlton Kings. He crosses the street, glances back in my direction, but doesn’t seem to notice me. I’m not exactly an intimidating figure. I hide behind a large oak tree, fumble in my pocket and pull out a balaclava. Acid fills my mouth, my knees feel like jelly and I’m suddenly weak and nauseous.

  Come on Joe, this is it, don’t wimp out on me now.

  I remind myself why I’m doing this, that I don’t really have a choice. I pull on my balaclava and sneak a look. The full moon easily illuminates the scene and I see him walking down his garden path. I force my legs to move and follow him into the shadows. My breath is hot against the woollen mask and my vision impaired. I catch him before he descends the wide stone steps that lead to his back door.

  ‘Scott.’ I say. My voice is as firm and deep as I can manage considering my heart is turning over like an old engine.

  He spins around, ‘Fucking hell!’ He’s frowning and backing away, ‘Who the hell are you?’

  I point towards the garden, dark and quiet. ‘We need to talk.’

  He tilts his head sideways, an inquisitive expression, ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘No.’ I say, defensively.

  ‘What’s with the mask?’ He scowls, ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  It’s a good question, and – unlike the movies I watched for inspiration – my victim doesn’t appear to be afraid. I pull my gun awkwardly from my pocket and point it, hand noticeably shaking.

  ‘Do as you’re told,’ I say.

  ‘Alright mate,’ Tyler raises his hands and finally, thankfully, sounds nervous. ‘There’s no need for that,’ he says, circling me slowly. He’s inching towards the garden, his eyes locked with mine. ‘So, come on, what’s this all about?’ He asks, almost conversationally, ‘Is this a mugging or what?’

  ‘No,’ I growl, ‘it’s much worse.’ That line sounded much scarier when I practised it at home. Tyler stares back at me, rubbing his chin. He pulls a face, one that says, I’m not sure about any of this. ‘Who are you?’ He asks, ‘Why are you hiding your face?’

  ‘I’m your worst fear.’ I say, in a voice that sounds exactly the opposite.

  ‘Oh yeah Batman, I’m scared.’ He bares his teeth and I see that familiar smirk, the one he pulls before he hurts her. ‘That isn’t even a real gun is it?’ He sneers at me.

  Well, this couldn’t be going much worse, and now my hand is shaking so badly I’m more likely to shoot myself than anything else. Although, he’s right, the gun isn’t real, the worst I could do with it is pinch my finger in its plastic hammer. ‘I know about you.’ I say thinly, ‘I know what you’ve done.’

  He takes a step towards me and laughs, ‘Oh yeah? Well, if you know what I’ve done, then it’s you who should be scared.’ He rushes, knocking the gun from my hand and before I know what’s happening he’s on top of me, his full weight pressed on my middle, legs pinning my arms. He pulls my mask free and leans in, breath hot and bitter, ‘Who are you?’ He hisses, clearly confused that he doesn’t know me.

  When I look up I don’t see Scott Tyler. I see Shane Rammage. Luckily, rather than distracting me, that image reminds me exactly why I’m here, what Tyler has done. ‘This is about Liv,’ I say slowly and firmly, finally using the anger that’s been building up. ‘You’ve hurt her for the last time. You leave her alone.’

  ‘Liv?’ He laughs. ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’

  ‘Were you kidding when you broke her wrist?’

  A predatory glare flashes over him and he changes instantly. The sudden shift is deeply unsettling. I see his anger building, a rage that won’t stop, and I know that he’s about to start punching. I’m experienced in such matters. ‘Wait!’ I shout, ‘I know about the money, about the cash you’ve stolen from your company!’

  This stops him. Tyler narrows his beady eyes and peers down at me in disbelief. I see his teeth again, shining in the moonlight. ‘You’re full of shit.’ He grabs my wrists and tightens his grip, ‘You don’t know anything!’

  ‘I know you recently stole two grand, spent it on a nice holiday and before that it was nearly four and we know where that went don’t we?’

  He releases his grip slightly and I take my chance. I push him away and scramble to my feet. We face each other. At last I have his attention and, for the first time, I see genuine fear in his eyes.

  ‘Listen to me,’ Tyler says, voice shakin
g. ‘You just listen to me.’

  ‘No!’ I shout, my words at last coming easily and quickly, ‘I know everything about you, and this is the part where you shut the fuck up and listen to me.’

  He assesses me, literally looking me up and down, ‘Is this Tom?’ He asks, voice high and searching. ‘Did he put you up to this?’ Tom is Scott’s unfortunate business partner, the one he’s ripping off. ‘No,’ I assure him, ‘Tom doesn’t know - yet - and if you want it to stay that way –’

  ‘You’re blackmailing me?’ He whispers.

  ‘Yes.’ I smile, ‘You’re a fast leaner Scott, I like that.’

  ‘I don’t care.’ He fires back, anger building again, ‘You’re full of shit, you can tell him, he won’t believe you.’

  ‘I know about the fund you’ve set up too,’ I say this quietly but clearly. ‘I know where you’re hiding the money.’

  Scott sighs, shaking his head. ‘Jesus, I’m fucked,’ he whispers.

  ‘Yep.’ I agree, ‘You are.’

  I think at this point the truth finally sinks in. ‘What do you want? Money?’

  ‘I’ve already told you what I want.’

  ‘Huh?’ His eyes search mine desperately.

  ‘I’ve seen what you do to Liv, what you’re capable of when that temper of yours flares up. You think no one is looking but I’m watching you and always will be.’ I step forward and he flinches. ‘It stops,’ I say. ‘You leave her alone.’

  Tyler stares at the floor and when he finally looks up, his voice is a mere whisper, ‘What’s she been saying to you?’

  ‘Liv hasn’t said a thing, she doesn’t need to. I’m watching you, remember?’

  ‘I guess you two are seeing each other?’ His tone is bitter but defeated and weak.

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Think of me as her guardian angel,’ I say, ‘and Scott?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re going to break up with her and never see her again.’

  ‘What?’ He gasps.

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘But, I like her, why would I –’

  ‘Men who like their girlfriends don’t beat them up when they’ve had a bad day.’

  ‘Shit,’ he whispers, eyes dead.

  ‘Yeah,’ I agree. ‘You are. Do you know how long you will get in prison for the money laundering? It’s a while. And for the record, guys in there love a woman beater.’

  ‘Listen,’ he says, ‘I didn’t mean to hurt her, I just get –’

  ‘Leave her!’ I say firmly, ‘Or Tom gets enough evidence to bury you forever.’ I lean in and whisper gently in his ear, ‘I will always be watching you. If you see Liv again, if you mention me and what happened here, your life will turn to crap faster than shit in a blender.’

  I pick up my balaclava and toy gun and walk away without looking back. My hands are shaking and I’m sure I’m going to puke but I don’t, and after ten minutes or so I surprise myself by actually laughing.

  Shit in a blender? That makes no sense! Man, where do I get this stuff? I think of Liv and hope that what I’ve done will bring an end to his abuse. I hope I stopped him before he did permanent damage to her confidence, and then I pray that now I will stop viewing that slimy, evil bastard’s life. I got to know Liv and then I started viewing Scott, as him, inside his head. It’s the curse that keeps on giving and taking and taking. Being near him tonight was horrible, but viewing as him? That was much worse, especially when he was hurting Liv.

  ‘I did okay,’ I whisper to the empty street, trying to settle my racing heart, ‘I did good.’

  2.

  My sleep was so broken I decided to get up early and walk. I’ve been up three hours. It’s just gone 6, and I’m strolling through Pittville Park. The viewing of my botched turn as a vigilante doesn’t come often but, when I consider the options, it isn’t the worst. It often comes if I’ve seen Liv and I’m reminded of how I helped her. She never found out, and I’m glad about that and I’m quietly proud of what I did, of my poor, but effective impression of Mark D’Stellar. Mark saved me from a bully, I saved Liv, which is maybe how it works. Who knows? Buddhists would call it karma, I’m not sure what I would call it, but it does feel like the universe sometimes needs balancing, and with Liv it was my turn to act, my turn to even the score.

  But, that’s all history. Liv is okay and Scott Tyler never bothered her again. Right now, I have more pressing matters. I’m attempting to make sense of the last few days and my journeys into the past, the actual past. The park is quiet, just dog walkers and joggers who go round and round to quote Blur. It’s funny, they’re like the thoughts in my head, constantly treading the same routes. I need to stick to the facts – which are based on assumptions, of course – but I have to settle on something. I don’t feel like I’m going mad, in fact I feel pretty sane, which could be the first sign of madness I suppose.

  Well, whatever, if I’m going crazy I might as well get on with it.

  I have time-travelled – twice now – by hypnotising myself and somehow ‘thinking’ my way back. This is obviously linked to my viewing in some way. Also, there is another factor that doesn’t make sense to me yet. The first time I travelled I went back a day. I heard a noise in my house and then saw myself. I then waited and watched my other self begin that loop by hypnotising himself and disappearing. That was weird enough, but then, for some unknown reason, after a serious bout of brain freeze I ended up travelling forward a day or, more accurately, totally missing it. Like a needle, jumping a track on an L.P.

  I watch a man throwing a red ball for his jack russell. The dog repeatedly brings it back, tail wagging. They are silhouetted like golden statues against a thin white mist, hanging over the park and lake. The small shape bounces up at his owner who holds the ball high before throwing it again, sending the dog racing off excitedly. I let my mind wander. I think about the second time I travelled. The vodka jump. That time, I only managed twenty minutes or so, which could be useful for when I say something insensitive, but it’s not exactly progress is it? I mean, I time-travelled. Yay. But if I can travel a day, then twenty minutes seems a bit lame in comparison. Also, I presume, at some point I will go forwards twenty minutes? You know, to balance things out again? I wince at the thought of me suddenly pinging around the park.

  Shit. It’s bonkers.

  There is a meaning to this, a structure, but it’s right on the edge of my mind, like a name on the tip of your tongue. I’m just too thick for this, I decide, definitely should have tried harder at school.

  When I arrive home, Martin is waiting. He is seated at the kitchen table, surrounded by neat piles of paperwork and recently opened envelopes. It seems he’s attacked my increasingly large and secret pile of mail. I can tell by the look on his face he is the bearer of more bad news.

  ‘Go on then,’ I say, ‘cheer me up.’

  He shrugs, stands and fills the kettle, ‘When were you going to tell me about the mail you’ve been hoarding?’

  I pull my mouth down and look up, emulating deep thought.

  Martin observes me coolly. ‘It’s worse than I realised, Joe,’ he says, with a look of genuine worry.

  I compute my worst case scenario. ‘Is it Mum?’ I ask.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What then?’ I shrug. ‘Are we out of coffee?’

  Martin frowns, ‘They aren’t asking anymore.’ He swallows, seemingly pushing the words out against his will, ‘They’re going to re-possess your house.’

  ‘Yeah, you told me that.’

  ‘No, I told you they wanted to use the house as an asset to pay for your Mother’s care. That was going to be a long battle, one I was prepared for.’ He sighs. ‘This is different Joe, this is your lender, your bank, forcing you out.’

  ‘They can’t just do that.’ I stare out of the window at the morning traffic, ‘I have rights.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’ Martin says, ‘That’s why we applied for a possession order
, it’s why you were given a court hearing.’

  I nod enthusiastically, ‘Okay then, well, once that’s done we can –’

  ‘The hearing was two months ago.’ Martin shakes a letter at me, ‘You hid this and now you’ve missed.’ He sighs again, heavier this time, ‘The bailiffs have set a date, there’s nothing I can do.’

  ‘Bailiffs?’ A thickness is forming in my throat ‘When?’

  ‘Monday.’

  ‘Which Monday, this coming Monday?’ My voice is high, ‘As in Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Shit-day?’

  ‘No, Monday 22nd.’

  Nice, just in time for Christmas.

  Martin hands me a steaming mug of tea and I immediately pile in two large sugars, stirring slowly in a daze. He clears his throat, ‘Joe, listen, we talked, and with the girls and my Mother-in-law,’ he pauses, scratching the back of his head, ‘it’s just too difficult at the moment.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I said it’s too difficult.’

  I suddenly understand why a pained expression has fallen over him. ‘Jesus, Martin,’ I say, ‘I know you can’t take me in, this isn’t your fault.’

  He nods, the pain still etched over his face, ‘It doesn’t make it easy though.’

  I agree. It doesn’t and for once I don’t want to be hard on Martin. My paperwork has been a car-crash waiting to happen, and this pile-up of shit is no one’s fault but my own. I find myself accepting my fate and even catch myself thinking, what’s done is done.

  That’s when I remind myself that I’m a time-traveller. Okay, so I’m rubbish at it, a complete learner, but I can do it. An idea that started to take shape yesterday returns to me, fully formed, crystal clear, floating in front of me like a shiny gem in a computer game.