The Unexpected Gift of Joseph Bridgeman (The Downstream Diaries Book 1) Page 12

  I get a sense of genuine empathy from her, stronger this time. I think she’s forgiven me for barging in last week. I feel bad though, she’s filling me with all this advice on sleeping and all I really need are tips on time-travel. Sleeping might be a problem but unbelievably, it’s not the lack of.

  Finch pulls an unseen lever and the chair gently reclines with a tired hiss. ‘Why don’t we get you relaxed,’ she says, ‘and then I can help you with some suggestions, things to help you to practice at home. Does that sound good?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, ‘more of the tricks you showed me last time.’

  ‘Tricks.’ She laughs, ‘I like that.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I wince, immediately feeling like an idiot, ‘for the record I know you aren’t a stage hypnotist.’

  ‘Only on the weekends.’ She smiles, makes more notes and then places the pad down beside her, pushing her glasses to the bridge of her nose again. ‘Now, lie back and let’s see what we can do.’

  Finch manages to put me under easily, quickly this time. I hear her voice and gentle music, pipes or flutes, something that sounds almost Indian. There is a waterfall too, I think, rumbling on forever in the distance. Her words drift and flow around me, seeming to go through me.

  ‘Relaxation will come easily to you,’ her voice is soft and silky, ‘all you have to do is allow it to, just let it come, like the tide, a warm sea lapping at your feet.’

  I like it here, in her office that’s now by the sea. It’s relaxing and nothing bad can happen to me here. I feel the water she describes, pleasant and natural and, like my bath, it consumes me. Her voice drifts in and out of my mind. ‘You are in control Mr Bridgeman and if you want to sleep, that’s okay, sleep is something we –’

  Suddenly – and by that I mean, instantly – her voice is gone and with it the music, and, unbelievably the super-duper reclining chair too. I fall, banging hard onto the floor, the lower three vertebrae in my spine howl in disgust. Finch’s office – previously a dark and chocolatey cave - is suddenly bathed in sunlight. I cry out in shock as much as anything else and struggle to my feet.

  I glance around. It’s Finch’s office but it’s not hers anymore. The space is the same but the decor, furniture, everything, has changed. There are three desks, covered with piles of paperwork, each has a phone and a table lamp. Her office – and this identical one in the twilight zone – has two doors; a main one and another smaller, internal one. I hear voices coming from the smaller door and walk towards it. My heart is in my throat and my legs feel as though they’re melting. Where is Finch? Where am I? And perhaps more importantly - when am I?

  I twist the handle and open the door. It’s a boardroom. Seated around a large conference table are five people. Three women, two men, all dressed in business attire. Standing at a white-board is another man, suited and tall. There are garish colours projected onto the board and also, partially over him, a blue pie-chart gives his face a cartoon like quality.

  ‘Can I help you?’ He asks.

  The people around the desk all turn and stare. My mouth is hanging open and although I try to speak, nothing comes. Their initial blank looks become mild annoyance.

  ‘Sir?’ The man says.

  ‘I, I think I’m in the wrong place.’ I manage, and that’s when my clothes disappear. I don’t mean they fade out, I mean they just go pop. As in gone. As in completely naked, starkers. A Rudie Nudie as my Grandma used to say.

  One of the women screams. Another drops tea straight down her front and one the men cries out, ‘For God’s sake! What the hell are you doing?’

  I back out of the room, one hand reaching for the door the frame, the other covering my groin and the only shred of dignity I have left.

  ‘You had better get out of here before I call the police.’ The man at the white-board suggests forcibly.

  That won’t be necessary, I think. I know this because ‘brain freeze’ as strong as all the ice-cream in all the freezers in Gloucestershire smashes into my skull and I am plunged into darkness.

  If feels like the opposite of being born, and just like that I’m back in Finch’s office; the one I recognise, the one in the present. The icy pain leaches from my head in an exquisite, warm rush. My eyes re-adjust to the gloom of the present. I see Alexia Finch, seated at her desk, making notes. She is, apparently, completely unaware of my short excursion into the twilight zone. On the floor behind me, in front of the boardroom door I see my clothes, positioned in a comedic pile as though someone has just stepped out of them. Seconds, I think, I was only gone for a few seconds. I swallow and begin creeping backwards.

  Finch looks up.

  ‘Mr Bridgeman!’ She screams, ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  ‘I can explain,’ I say quickly, instinctively raising my hands in a defensive gesture.

  She screams again and I realise I can’t explain. As far as she’s concerned I’m a pervert who has just stripped off in her office. Emergency Appointment indeed.

  Balls. Big fat, hairy ones.

  Literally.

  7.

  Persuading Alexia Finch to not call the police was harder than I thought. Her calm, cool exterior hides a determined, confident woman, one that remains focussed under pressure. I tried to assure her that I had no intention or recollection of de-robing in her office but she simply averted her gaze and repeatedly asked me to get dressed, the phone cradled to her ear, her finger hovering over the keypad.

  My plan – if you could really call it that – had been to learn some new stuff so I could practice time-travelling in the safety of my own home. Well, if ending up butt naked is part of the deal then I am now exclusively a home shopper. From now on these four walls are going to be my time machine, well, you know until the Government and the bank have their little tug of war with me tied up in the middle.

  I dust off an old coffee machine and find some pre-ground stuff that’s out of date by nearly six months. It tastes crappy but it’s better than nothing. I decide I’m never going out again. I’m not safe. I scare women.

  I travelled back in time, that much I do know, but how far, I’m not sure. My time there was brief, but I’m guessing it must have been before Finch set up shop there. I drink the last of my luke-warm coffee and visualise the scene. The man at a white-board, the woman who spilt her tea as I suddenly posed for my still life. I see the board clearly in my mind’s eye, covered in writing but I can’t make the detail, it was all so quick and when you find yourself naked you don’t notice things like that. I remember the desks in the main room, paperwork and lamps, pretty retro.

  I hear a sound emanating from the middle of the house somewhere. A thud. Oh, this is excellent. My life is just one brilliant surprise after another. It’s midday and I’m still in my dressing gown and slippers. If it’s Martin he will berate me for slobbing about, but then I realise it’s not Martin I’m worried about. I creep into the hallway and head to the lounge. The velvet curtains, big and heavy – my regular hiding place from myself – are drawn. The room is dark and quiet. I stare at the curtains and they twitch. Did I just imagine that? My heart dances and my throat dries immediately.

  What if Other Joe is here?

  What if a version of me in the future has come back to this moment for some reason? Does he have something to tell me? Is he here to warn me to not eat the salmon mousse?

  I can’t stand it any longer. I grab the edge of the curtain and pull it hard and, as I do, an involuntary sound escapes me, ‘Yaaaaa!’ I scream, like a kid desperately smacking a tired horse. My temples throb and my vision blurs for a second but then I calm down. There isn’t anyone, it was all in my imagination.

  ‘Christ,’ I whimper, and head back to the kitchen in search of vodka.

  I do one shot, to calm my nerves. It doesn’t taste bad, and I feel its warmth spread over my chest and then into my gut. I can see why Russians bang them down, even if it does mean their mortality rate is in the low fifties. Imagining Other Joe hiding behind every shadow isn’t su
rprising when you think about it. I could be anywhere.

  The buzz of vodka clears my mind just long enough for me to realise what I need to do. Ten minutes on Google is all it takes to learn how long Alexia Finch has been trading from her current address. The date sends my mind into a fresh spin. She took on the lease over a year ago, before that, it was a chartered accountants.

  I know, I think, I paid them a visit. They looked like accountants, boring and serious (no offence to accountants). The facts stack up in my mind like the paperwork on their desks. I went back to at least 2013.

  That’s one whole year. A year, for God’s sake.

  I shake my head in deep contemplation. If I can go back that far, then surely…

  The phone rings and I jump in the air, arms flailing. I curse as I pick up the handset. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack!’ I hiss.

  ‘Joe,’ Martin says, ignoring me, voice calm. ‘Listen, it’s a quick one okay. I know things are tough at the moment and you have a lot on your mind but I wanted to remind you about the drinks do at mine on Friday.’

  My head is still in the past. Martin’s voice is muffled by the weight of it.

  ‘Joe?’ He says, ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here.’ I whisper.

  ‘I think it might do you some good, so, look I just wanted to say, even though there’s a lot going –’

  ‘Martin,’ I interrupt him, ‘I’m not sure I’m going to make it.’ My words drift slowly from me, ‘It kind of depends on something else, I have this thing going on at the moment.’ I tail off.

  ‘Joe, are you okay?’ Martin’s voice is clearer now but my mind is pedalling fast in the opposite direction. ‘Are you alright?’ He asks.

  ‘Sorry, yeah. I have to go though, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Alexia Finch is going to be there.’ Martin sounds as though one of my favourite cartoon characters has confirmed their attendance. From this I deduce two things. Finch hasn’t told him about my preference for naked therapy, and also, she is unlikely to go to the party. In her mind, she’s scared I might be there, the stripping lunatic friend of the host; Doctor Who and the Chippendales etc.

  I clear my throat, ‘Ah, yeah, things didn’t really work out too well with her,’ I say, my voice thready.

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I agree.

  Martin sighs, and I suddenly realise what he’s been up to the whole time. He was hoping that Finch and I might…

  ‘– Well look, if you change your mind,’ he offers, ‘just come along. Okay?’

  ‘Sure,’ I lie. ‘Absolutely.’

  He hangs up and our conversation drifts away like warm breath on an icy morning, important but quickly forgotten. I trace the phone line to the wall and pull hard. The cable snaps free of the connector and whips up in the air. No more distractions. I have work to do.

  My ability to travel further than I originally thought possible is obviously exciting. However, when I went back, it was a short vacation; eventful yes, but woefully short. Whatever the reason for that, and whatever I decide to do next, it’s clear that a number of factors are key to my success. Time-travel is a complicated blend of hypnosis, focus and relaxation. Not easy. I stare at the vodka bottle and add ‘remaining sober’ to my list of winning ways.

  Going back a year is impressive but I still have a more urgent problem that needs my attention. My home. If I don’t sort that out, I’m going to lose it and that’s just the kind of distraction I could do without. My home is my castle, my refuge in which I will hone my skills.

  A new tactic is required. I need to set myself a realistic goal, achieve a short and controlled jump. Why not? If I can manage a day and a whole year then I’m sure with laser focus I can go back just a few days. I need to stick to this plan. Focus on last Saturday morning, my conversation with Vinny in the park. That, I decide, will be my target. Try again and go back four days, back to last Saturday so I can win the Lottery. I’m a time-traveller after all.

  8.

  I blink my eyes open, shielding them from the brilliant sunshine that is suddenly beating down on me, filling my vision.

  Holy, crapping, shit on a stick! How the hell did I get here?!

  I look down and exhale, loudly. I’m clothed; thank the stars, I’m clothed. I’m in a park. People are everywhere. It’s warm, which is lucky because I haven’t exactly dressed for the occasion. I guess it’s late afternoon. This is like waking inside a dream, one that arrived instantly and transported me without warning, straight to Oz, no tornado, no build up. Just Snap! Here I am.

  There are many things wrong with my current situation, but two stand out particularly. The first is that when I left the present it was early evening and nearly dark outside, the second is that I was in my lounge, deeply relaxed and drifting in a hypnotic state. Now I am seated on a bench in Pittville Park, wide awake and time-travelling. Yes. Oh yes. Not only have I travelled back in time, I have also travelled in space too.

  New and scary.

  My mind bends, wobbles and threatens to implode. I stand and try walking, but my legs feel deep in marshmallow. I realise, with considerable relief, that I am currently without brain freeze. This is good news. At least it means my clothes are staying on, for now at least. This makes me smile. The rules of time-travel, I act as though they are absolute, as though I am getting my head around them. Dream on, Joe, I remind myself. Dream on.

  A couple approach, walking towards me on a path that winds around the edge of the park. I ask if they have the time.

  ‘Just gone four,’ the man replies and continues on.

  ‘It’s Saturday right?’ I ask, as though it’s slipped my mind and I’m not mad at all.

  He laughs, ‘Not quite. Weekend’s nearly here though.’

  I stare at him, shaking my head and he stares back, the joviality fading from his face. ‘Er. It’s Wednesday.’ Then he adds with a hint of sarcasm, ‘All day.’

  ‘Wednesday,’ I whisper under my breath. Christ. I made it back to Wednesday. I stare at the numbers written on my hand. It doesn’t matter of course. I’m just a few days early. I can still enter Saturday’s draw. Right, focus Joe, focus on achieving your goal and nothing else. No dilly-dallying, no mucking around. Just get the job done and let’s ping the hell out of here.

  There is a newsagent’s nearby, I can see it from here, tucked behind a hedgerow on the street corner ahead of me. They do the Lottery. I can enter, hide the winning ticket somewhere safe and then pick it up in the present. Easy peasy.

  I break into a run. It feels good and also seems to stave off the cool tingle that has just begun in the base of my skull. I run faster, out of the park, over the road and into the newsagent’s. It’s quiet, which is a relief. I nod at the shop owner, a thin bald gentleman, and locate the Lottery ticket stand. I write the first number but there’s nothing, just an indentation pressed into the paper. I drop the pen and it skids across the Lottery stand on its bungee cord. I feel the first proper bite of cold in my head, spreading out from the centre like spilt milk. Hurry up Joe, I tell myself. Focus. I begin hopping from one foot to the other, like a child desperate for the toilet.

  My brain is cold, the roof of my mouth too, really cold.

  There’s one more pen, and it works, thank God. I copy the numbers from my hand to the paper carefully and then check them, speaking them aloud to be absolutely sure.

  ‘You always pick the same ones do you?’ A voice beside me says.

  I jump and almost shout, ‘Do you always creep up on people?’ but I don’t, I just stare in disbelief at the woman who appeared from nowhere like some kind of ninja pensioner. She is impossibly old and very short and looks like a turtle in a pale blue raincoat. She is wearing a thick woolly hat too, which would boil me, and under that I see her thin white hair, tinged purple. Why do oldies do that? Teenagers and old people. Purple hair. Really?

  She smiles a toothless grin and waves her ticket at me. ‘I’m with you,’ she cackles. ‘You look lucky t
o me.’

  I smile, awkwardly, and make my way to the counter, vaguely aware of the woman shuffling behind me. She is still talking to me but I can’t hear her anymore. Brain freeze has kicked in big time and it hurts. My heart pulses in my ears, my vision contracts and the shop becomes a fish bowl. I stare at the man behind the till, my lips pulled back over my teeth like a grinning cat. ‘For Saturday please,’ I hiss and hand over my ticket. Next to the counter is a rotating stand of items, housing things like inflatable sleeping pillows, sunglasses and hair clips. I spot something I might need; a cheap raincoat, the kind that scrunches up into its own bag. I buy that too.

  The shop assistant rings them through without looking up. I stare at my Lottery ticket and through icy pain manage a weak smile. I did it, but I don’t have time to celebrate just yet, I need to get the ticket somewhere safe. The idea of it being found by some lucky passer-by after I boing from existence is just too much to bear. I leave the shop and hear the old lady calling after me, wishing us both luck.

  9.

  Familiarity is a strange thing. How often do you look at the people and places around you? I mean really look? I can say for sure that I don’t. I see what I want to see I guess, but sometimes it’s the things that are missing that make us look again. I’m running. I’m focussed, fearful, expecting at any moment to lose my clothes, yet somehow, something does just that; snaps me into the moment. In fact, it stops me dead in my tracks, banging at my eyeballs like a hammer. I’d already run the Promenade and half of the high street before I realised something wasn’t right, in fact something was very wrong.

  I was so focussed on my Lottery mission, so utterly blinkered that I have missed what now seems completely obvious. I wonder – for a brief moment - if I could have made it all the way home without properly looking, but it’s too late now. I’ve seen it and it’s slapped me awake. The sight in question is a high street bank. ‘Abbey’ to be precise. Its bright red branding is screaming at me. My subconscious knows they’ve been taken over by ‘Santander’. It just knows. I look around me and see that all the shops are different. They are either gone, in the wrong place or completely the wrong style, shape and colour. I am suddenly seeing with new eyes. It’s an assault on my senses.