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

  ‘Alexia,’ I say, carefully.

  She jumps and stifles a scream, her eyes flick between me, her house and the car. ‘Mr Bridgeman!’ She exclaims. ‘What an earth are you doing? Why were you hiding behind that car?’

  ‘I need to see you,’ I say, my words tumbling over each-other. ‘I’m sorry I made you jump.’

  I’m reminded of the first time I met her. Like then, I have rehearsed this moment – a lot – but it doesn’t make it easier. My words feel trapped inside my mouth, unwilling to come out and play in the cold night air.

  Finch tugs her coat inward and stares at me. I see her clearly now beneath the streetlight, her make-up (another first; for me anyway) is subtle but it accentuates her cheekbones and eyes. She says, ‘You can’t just turn up like this, at my home.’ Her voice is calm as always, but there’s a seriousness. She’s clearly shaken by my sudden appearance.

  I nod, staying put, ‘I know, but you wouldn’t answer my calls and this is very important.’

  She takes a nervous step back.

  ‘Listen,’ I say, ‘I can explain everything.’

  ‘You don’t need to Mr Bridgeman, not to me anyway. It’s –’

  ‘Joe,’ I say.

  ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘You can call me Joe.’

  She frowns, ‘Okay, but I don’t think your hearing me, Mr…’ She pauses, her warm breath drifting away, ‘Listen Joe, I think you need a different kind of help, someone who can –’

  ‘I want to show you something,’ I say. ‘Something you are going to find very hard to understand.’

  ‘Oh God,’ she whimpers, taking a step towards her car, fumbling in her bag. ‘Please keep your clothes on.’

  ‘They are staying on,’ I say, ‘I promise.’ She continues searching her bag and for the first time I wonder if it’s just her keys that she’s looking for. Her obvious fear makes me feel guilty as hell. ‘Alexia,’ I say, my voice only just above a whisper. ‘Twenty-two years ago my sister went missing and it tore me apart. Her name was Amy, and we never saw her again. Do you understand what that can do to a family?’ Finch doesn’t say anything, she just looks at me, her eyes glassy with uncertainty. I continue, ‘Since I was young I’ve had an ability, I see the past, clear as the sky tonight. Whatever you did, whatever you’ve done to me, it enabled something, unlocked it.’

  ‘Unlocked what?’ She asks, nervously.

  ‘There’s no easy way of saying this so I’m just going to come out with it.’ I swallow hard. ‘I can time-travel.’

  Time seems to slow and we just stare at each other. Those words sit in the cold air between us like a madness.

  Eventually Finch says, ‘Joe?’ Her voice is calm again, and soft, ‘I’m going to get in my car and go, and I want you to do the same, okay? And then on Monday morning, you, Martin and I are going to meet to discuss this.’ She nods slowly, as if telling a small child to put the knife down.

  I glance to my left and I’m relieved to see he’s here, on time and right on cue. What I see isn’t something you can really prepare yourself for. It warps your mind, bends it out of shape in a way that can never go back to how it was.

  Finch follows my gaze and sees the approaching man. ‘What’s going on?’ She asks me. ‘I don’t…’ She stops, her mouth hanging open.

  ‘Hello Alexia,’ the man says.

  She turns back to me and I aim for a reassuring smile, ‘This is me,’ I say, nodding sideways at our new arrival. My doppelgänger, dressed like me and looking like me, nods back. ‘But to keep things simple,’ I say, ‘I call him Other Joe.’

  Other Joe grins at us both.

  ‘He’s me,’ I say. ‘A few days from now I travel back in time, to this night. Other Joe is me and he’s here because we need your help.’

  Part Four - Get Back

  1.

  August 2005

  Apart from a few tired looking vehicles that I suspect belong to staff, the car-park of T.G.I. Friday’s is empty. It finally makes sense why she wanted to meet here. It’s Tuesday. The place is dead. It isn’t Thank God it’s Tuesday’s after all. And also, our crowd moved on from this kind of place years ago. No one will see us here, no one who matters anyway.

  My Rado hangs reassuringly heavy on my wrist. 1:28. I’m on time. I’ve been awake since five practicing my lines but I still feel woefully under-prepared. I try to reassure myself that no amount of planning will make this any easier. At the entrance, my hand hovers on the long brass door handle for an age but eventually I find the courage to enter.

  Rock and roll tunes play to a few lunchtime stragglers, but other than that, it’s quiet – as expected. I scan the room and although she has her back to me I spot her easily. It’s the hair, she always did have amazing hair. An enthusiastic waitress appears and I explain that I’m meeting the woman in the corner for lunch. She smiles and tells me she will be with us shortly to take our order. I nod and make my way through the restaurant. The smell of greasy, high calorie food turns my stomach. Breathe Joe, deep breaths, stay calm.

  I clear my throat and say, ‘Hello Sian.’

  She turns, offering me a tentative smile. ‘Hi Joe,’ she gestures to the empty chair opposite, ‘have a seat.’

  I sit. Even though I was determined not to, I can feel I’ve flushed a deep red, matching the tablecloths and curtains that seem to be everywhere. I look at the ceiling and then the floor but they don’t offer me any assistance. Eventually I look at her, at Sian Burrows. She’s twenty-nine years old now – as I am – yet I see the girl from my early teens, the Julia Roberts look-alike who stole my heart. Seeing her takes me back to the fair, back to the night Amy went missing. I can smell the candy sweet air mixed with diesel and cheap perfume. Sian watched me as I raised my rifle and shot targets. I was distracted, wasn’t looking after Amy. Why didn’t I check? I was lost in my own world though, I remember thinking Sian and I would kiss that night and that she would be my girlfriend, my first love.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ She asks, ‘Want to order food?’ Her eyes are big and brown and have a searching quality that draws me in. My heart bangs in my chest as I search for my reply. It’s stupid really. It feels like I haven’t seen her since we were kids, which isn’t true at all. I see her often, but this is the first time I’ve met her alone, and what we need to talk about isn’t going to sit well.

  The waitress appears like an eager, coiled spring and immediately breaks into a song and dance about the menu. Sian already has a drink and doesn’t want food. I raise my hand and ask for a large sparkling water and nothing else. I’m direct and maybe even a little rude – I find it hard to tell these days – but the waitress skips away with a harmless shrug. I face Sian again but this time the past has been stripped away and I see her as she is now. Sian D’Stellar, my best friend’s wife.

  ‘Mark doesn’t know I’m meeting you,’ she says, ‘I think he would find it a bit weird if I’m honest.’ Her expression is one of concern.

  Technically, the last time we saw each other was a month ago at a barbecue hosted by Guy Foley and his wife. Guy was one of our crowd at University. I like him, but we weren’t close. He and his wife Chrissy own a huge house with a massive garden and a barbecue big enough for a buffalo. The party was advertised as a child-friendly gathering so, as you can imagine, I was dreading it. There were about ten grown-ups from the old days, outnumbered horribly by kids, but against all expectations I did actually enjoy myself. Mark and I had a rare opportunity to chat about old times – that’s not always easy for me – but we drank beers and ended up singing and playing guitars. It was fun and for the first time in years I forgot about things.

  ‘Look Joe,’ Sian says, ‘I think I know why we’re here.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes,’ she smiles, as if she feels a little sorry for me. ‘I don’t know what you think you saw but there’s nothing to talk about, nothing happened. Guy and I were just venting, you know how it is.’

  Venting. The moment she’s referring to
came as the evening of the barbecue drew to a close. I was searching the many corridors of Guy’s huge house for a toilet and stumbled upon them. Sian and Guy, away from the party. They were standing close, in deep conversation. They weren’t touching, or kissing each other but something about the scene wasn’t right. It’s hard to explain but there was something between them, an energy, a moment. They were startled and awkward, more than just two friends venting. And, that was all it took. Three days later, my viewings of Sian started. I swallow and take a deep breath. ‘Did Mark ever tell you about what I can do? About what I see?’

  She tilts her head and her smile fades. ‘He told me you used to get visions, if that’s what you mean?’

  I wasn’t sure Mark would have told her anything, but she’s playing dumb I think. Visions. That’s the kind of word you use when someone is hallucinating, or drugged or mentally ill. It’s only a few notches away from delusions on the mad stick. I shift in my seat and chew nervously on the side of my cheek, eventually I say, ‘I see things, the past, things people have done.’

  She doesn’t flinch, her eyes remain fixed on me. Her lips tighten and her jaw flexes. This time, when she speaks, she does so slowly. It’s a new version of her, a tougher one. ‘Whatever you think you know, before you go any further, let me give you some advice Joe, you get your facts straight before you start accusing me of anything.’ She glances at the door and then at her bag, which is by her side.

  ‘I wish I didn’t see things,’ I say, ‘really I do.’

  She scowls at me. ‘What if these things you see aren’t real? What if they’re all in your head? Did you ever think of that?’

  ‘It doesn’t work that way.’ I lean back in my seat. ‘I wish it did.’

  Sian lifts her head defiantly. ‘Poor Joe,’ she sighs nastily. ‘I’m sorry about Amy, about the damage its done to you, but you can’t go around accusing –’

  ‘Don’t mess it up with Mark,’ I interrupt her, before she embarrasses herself any further, ‘you two have a good thing.’

  She studies me like a bird of prey, and places her hands flat down onto the table. I notice her throat bob in a heavy swallow and her jaw tighten again. ‘What are you doing Joe?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Have you been following me?’ She snaps. ‘Are you watching me?’

  Yes, but not in the conventional sense.

  ‘Of course not,’ I say. ‘But I can’t help what I see.’

  She bares her teeth in a sarcastic smile. ‘Ah, yes, your visions.’ Her eyes flick to the ceiling and she laughs.

  ‘If you stop I won’t say anything.’

  Her laugh ceases abruptly and she leans in. ‘Are you threatening me?’ She asks slowly, a new sinister edge to her voice.

  I manage somehow to hold her stare. ‘No, I’m not, but Mark is my friend and I want you to think about what you’re doing.’

  Sian shakes her head, scowling. ‘And what do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Believe me, I didn’t want to get invol –’

  ‘Didn’t want to get involved?’ She leans back. ‘That’s brilliant, just fucking brilliant! You already are Joe, you’re already involved, snooping about in our lives.’ She wipes away a single tear and then whispers, ‘The answer to your questions is yes, Mark told me about your freaky ability and you know what I think?’ She pauses and I can feel hatred pouring out of her. ‘I think there’s something wrong with you, really wrong, you need help Joe.’

  I expected this – guilty people get angry – but it still hurts to feel such venom. ‘He doesn’t deserve it,’ I say, my voice flat. ‘You guys are good together,’

  She laughs, a sorrowful and hollow sound. ‘You don’t know him Joe, you think you do, but you don’t.’ Her smile is back but it’s worn at the edges. ‘He’s always been mister perfect in your eyes.’ She sniffs and wipes away another tear with the back of her hand, smearing mascara. ‘Well, he isn’t.’

  I can feel what little confidence I had on my arrival waning, being replaced by uncertainty. What was I thinking? I came here to do the right thing but now I’m not sure what that is.

  ‘It’s not like I have to tell you anything,’ Sian says, eyes cold, ‘but for the record, Mark and I have been going through a rough patch.’ Her voice wavers, brittle and thin. ‘It’s since we had the girls. Mark struggled with it I think, the whole family thing.’ She says ‘family thing’ as though it’s a subject they’ve wrestled with many times. Sian stares at the table for a while, avoiding eye contact. ‘He’s often away, and when he’s home he’s not really there.’ She pauses, picking at a napkin on the table. ‘But we’re working on it,’ she sniffs, looking up, ‘we’re working hard to make it right.’

  My recent viewings of her and Guy come back to me. They meet often, they are in love, but now, with her version of events jumbling around in my mind, things seem more confusing than ever. Who am I to judge? Who made me the good Samaritan?

  Sian stands, leans over me and in a quiet, determined voice says, ‘You stay away from us. Do you hear me? This has nothing to do with you.’

  My mouth opens but words don’t come. I watch her walk away, stride to her car and then screech out onto the main road in a cloud of dust. I consider what she said, the angles she offered. She accused me of believing Mark was Mister Perfect and I admit she’s probably right. Maybe I do wear rose tinted specs, maybe he isn’t a great husband to her, but does he really deserve this?

  I considered telling him first, but when that scenario played out in my mind, it didn’t end well. Mark wouldn’t stand for cheating. I know him. He would leave her and that would make me the one responsible for breaking up his marriage. Me; the one who sees things he shouldn’t. That’s why I came to Sian first, to give her a chance to make it right. I did that. Now it’s up to her.

  2.

  Friday 19th December, 2014.

  I don’t believe in fate but sometimes I’m forced to question things. Sometimes, pieces of an unseen puzzle appear to fall into place and I look skyward and ask, ‘Really?’ and then, higher pitched, ‘I mean, really?’

  I did, last night. I picked up a magazine – which was in a pile of unread stuff on my kitchen table – and got myself well and truly hooked into an article. It was entitled, ‘A numbers game: Considering the role of infinity in our understanding of the Universe’. Sounds heavy right? Sounds boring. Well, it wasn’t. It managed to grip me for the entirety of its four pages. It talked of Aristotle, infinity and multiple dimensions and yet somehow, I managed to stay with it. The illustrations helped, and I suppose my recent time-travelling means I have a new found interest in the subject, but still, I was amazed, until I got the end and saw who had written the article. Mark D’Stellar, Professor of Mathematical Sciences, Bristol University.

  Really?

  Yes, really, and if that isn’t a sign, what is?

  * * *

  The morning rush is over. Cheltenham Spa Train Station has swallowed and delivered its business travellers and is now quiet and serene. I am joined on Platform one by two pensioners and three student types. The train to Bristol Temple Meads arrives and I board, easily finding a seat to myself. Multiple doors slam, a whistle blows and, as we pull away, I realise I left Cheltenham on a whim, didn’t plan or stress about breaking my routine. I just bought a ticket on spec and here I am. It’s been years since I’ve done something like this. I lean my head against the window and allow the scenery to blur. The urban sprawl bleeds into countryside, shrouded in fine mist. It feels liberating to be on the move, even if this trip is likely to be a difficult one.

  I haven’t seen Mark in over ten years, but when I read that article I knew it was him I needed to see next. I also knew it had to be face to face. Sometimes it’s the only way.

  A train thunders past, a pocket of air booming against the glass window, shaking my head. I don’t flinch. The vibrations are comforting in a way, they block out my thoughts. The more I think about what to say to Mark the more muddled I ge
t. I often look back and wonder how different my life would be if he was still in it. We were best friends for so long, shared a flat, went through University together, formed numerous bands and felt unstoppable, but all that got blown away by the biggest mistake of my life. Telling Sian.

  Towns become fields, telegraph poles flick past like the spokes within a wheel. I count them and then stop. Christ Joe, be careful. The last thing I need is to time-travel. I might land arse first on the track and get hit by another train five years ago. I close my eyes and concentrate on not slipping into a hypnotic state. I succeed in that but am consumed by a viewing instead, an incident that occurred not long after I had told Sian. Mark came to see me.

  3.

  It’s late and I’m woken by a banging on the front door of my flat. It’s right in the centre of Loughborough, so I expect noise at any hour, but this is different. This is purposeful and loud. I sit up, mind searching the darkness for clues. I stagger to the door and call out, asking who’s there.

  ‘It’s me,’ Mark says, ‘let me in.’

  Why wouldn’t I?

  I open the door. Mark looks different. It’s dark, raining a little and he looks almost skeletal in the shadow of orange street light, but it’s not that. It’s not how he looks, it’s how he feels. His aura, maybe. Have you ever noticed how sometimes people feel different? It isn’t just body language, it’s something in the air. I take a step back and ask him what’s up. He shakes his head and for a brief moment I think he’s going to burst into tears. He doesn’t, luckily, but what he says makes my heart sink.