Joseph Bridgeman and the Silver Hunter Read online

  Vinny frowns when he sees my concern. ‘We stand out like a couple of numpties, Cash. It’s important we blend in.’

  I nod. ‘We shouldn’t be long, okay?’

  The shop is spacious, the clientele ultra-fashionable. Long display racks are lined with suits, shirts, trousers, dresses and coats. Eye-catching outfits are draped over dummies. A nearby stand has rings, belts, caps and berets. Compared to most of the generic clothes shops of the present, Lord John’s is an assault on the senses, it has genuine attitude.

  A sign reads “Leather overcoats, 24 guineas”. A short, rakish, thin man approaches us. I presume, from his expression, that he has taken pity on us. He’s wearing a cream suit, white shirt and polka dot tie. His hair is blonde like Andy Warhol. ‘Hmmm,’ he says, stroking his chin, ‘we need to get you decked out.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Vinny says.

  ‘Where are you boys from?’ he asks.

  ‘Out of town,’ I say, realising a number of people are looking at us. ‘And, we’re in a hurry, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well!’ He claps his hands, excitedly. ‘Let’s see... Your destiny, Sir, is that suit.’ He points at a purple velvet suit, twenty-five guineas and positively glowing against a wall of deep magenta.

  I turn to Vinny. ‘I’m not sure that’s exactly blending in…’

  The man frowns. ‘Why would you want to blend in?’

  ‘He’ll take it,’ Vinny announces. ‘Do you have anything for the larger gentleman?’

  Our Andy Warhol look-alike smiles happily. ‘I have just the thing.’

  We spend the next nine minutes of our precious time getting dressed up like a right couple of wallies. During this time I become increasingly angry and worried in equal measure. Angry that I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing and worried that bringing Vinny along was a bad idea. Time travelling is not supposed to be fun. I part with some of our cash, which is a drop in the ocean. WP was generous. I could probably buy a house with what I have in my pocket.

  We emerge from the shop and check our reflections in the shop window. ‘Vinny,’ I moan, ‘I look like a bloody Ken doll.’

  Vinny laughs. ‘No way. You look amazing!’

  I definitely don’t, but Vinny does. He’s sporting a dark grey pinstripe suit, finished with a purple and yellow cravat and some kind of trilby-style hat. Simply put, he looks magnificent.

  ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Blended in and ready for action.’

  I check my silver hunter again. 1 hour, 58 minutes. No change event.

  What do I do, Bill?

  I feel a tingling sensation travel from my fingertips to my elbow like a nibbling spark of electricity. I rotate the pocket watch. The compass needle spins like crazy. Even in sunlight, it’s clear the time crystals are glowing, sparkling beneath the display. A metal tab appears at the top of the watch and descends like a tiny piece of scenery onto a circular theatre stage.

  CHANGE EVENT

  I rotate the watch until the compass needle lines up with it.

  Vinny leans in. ‘Yes!’

  I nod and we head off, following the compass like kids on a treasure hunt. No one here could guess how common this sight will be in the future, people staring at a device as they navigate the streets via satellite as opposed to skill. We pass a blue police box and Vinny chuckles, eyes sparkling. ‘Well, at least we have our ride home sorted.’ He hums the Doctor Who theme tune.

  I laugh.

  Vinny shakes his head. ‘It’s so weird… They haven’t even invented Doctor Who yet.’ He sighs, whistling through his teeth. ‘This is amazing, Cash, the coolest thing I have ever done, no question.’

  I smile, which is becoming a habit. Having Vinny along for the ride – even if he does slow me down a bit – makes things better. We continue through a sea of fashionable people. Gradually, the needle becomes more responsive. The watch sends another pulsing vibration through me and I get the strangest sensation.

  The world seems to sharpen, the colours become brighter, the sounds crisper.

  ‘I think we’re close,’ I tell Vinny, knowing I’m right.

  Perhaps all this sixties optimism is rubbing off on me. I find myself strangely excited, positive even. Finally, I think I understand. A change event is an opportunity, an important moment in time where the course of a life can be influenced, a bad thing made good.

  We are about to alter time, to change things for the better.

  And that is the coolest thing ever.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  I stride ahead. ‘Up to the end of the street, then turn left.’

  Vinny is panting but doing well to keep up. We reach a palatial Art Deco building, three storeys high with a large entrance. Hundreds of people mill around it like ants that have discovered a rip in a bag of sugar. Halfway up the building, lit up in neon, is the word “DANCING” and below that “The Royal”.

  ‘Is this the place?’ Vinny asks, clearly excited.

  I glance at the watch and notice again how the crystals within the skeleton mechanism glow. I rotate the watch on its axis. The needle remains locked on the change event, which in turn seems fixed to the building. It’s almost as though I’m holding a magnet and the building is made of solid iron.

  I glance at Vinny, ‘I guess this is it. Let’s go in.’

  We cross the street, past a group of Elvis and James Dean wannabes on motorcycles. Vinny and I join a short queue, which moves quickly. We pass a poster that reads: ‘The Royal Hall. Everyone Swing Twist Stomp! Featuring the sensational “Peter and the Spirits”. All night dancing. 7:30 to 12.’

  We don’t talk. We try to blend in, which isn’t easy when you’re twice the age of most of the kids in the queue. Two girls in front of us keep turning around and giggling. A blonde and a brunette. Dusty Springfield and Jackie Onassis. I shove my hands in my pockets and stare at the floor. I feel like dad at the school disco.

  Vinny taps Dusty on the shoulder. ‘You think we’re a bit old for this, don’t you?’

  ‘No, not at all!’ She shares a mischievous giggle with her friend.

  ‘As far as I’m concerned,’ Vinny says with a huge smile, ‘if you’re still alive, then you can jive.’

  Their expression is a picture. First frozen in total surprise, then bursting into friendly laughter. My initial embarrassment fades. Everyone loves Vinny. It’s a universal law. We engage in friendly banter about their favourite bands. Vinny reels off a few and ends with, ‘...and The Beatles, obviously.’

  ‘Who?’ They look bemused.

  I frown. We’re a few months early. The Beatles don’t release their debut single, “Love Me Do”, till October.

  ‘You will hear about them soon,’ I tell them. ‘They’re pretty good.’

  Pretty good?

  Pah.

  The blonde girl smiles and says, ‘Marilyn Monroe is my idol.’

  Vinny and I share a look. Marilyn is still alive, but not for long. That thought keeps us quiet until we reach the door. The girls hand in their tickets, give us a wave and flutter inside. The bouncer, a tall, solid column of a man with quiffed black hair looks us up and down and hikes an eyebrow. ‘Tickets?’ he demands.

  ‘Can we pay cash?’ I ask.

  ‘Tickets only.’

  I feel someone nudge my back. The bouncer looks down the queue. ‘If you haven’t got a ticket, you can’t come in.’

  Crap. We’re about to fall at the first hurdle.

  I shove a ten pound note into his hand. ‘Take it.’

  The bouncer looks surprised. ‘Are you serious?’

  Vinny nods enthusiastically. ‘He loves Peter and the Spirits.’

  ‘And I love you.’ The bouncer smiles, takes the cash and waves us inside.

  I guess money talks in any era.

  We follow a herd of excited youngsters up a wide set of stairs and into a cavernous wood-panelled ballroom. It reminds me of an old town hall, the kind of place where I sat many highly depressing exams in my youth.

  The ceilin
g must be a hundred feet above us, and it’s supporting four massive chandeliers. Someone has made an effort to turn this drab building into something more welcoming though. Multicoloured crepe paper streamers hang across the ceiling like a psychedelic spiderweb. The hall is thrumming with teenagers, hundreds of them huddled into groups. The average age is about eighteen. All the lads are in suits, the girls starched petticoats and cardigans, their hair up in beehives, eyes cat-like with dark make-up. They are mixing and chatting, a few of them already dancing.

  I get a school-disco flashback, except at my school it was always boys in one corner and girls in the other. Here, they are mingling and excited, seemingly unaffected by convention.

  I touch Vinnie’s elbow. ‘Stay close, yeah?’

  ‘Will do.’

  We make our way to the corner of the room. At the far end of the hall is a stage, currently occupied by a young lad with spiky hair and dark glasses. He is dwarfed behind two record decks covered in sparkling silver paper. He rifles through a box of records and selects one with a flamboyant spin.

  The sound of “La Bamba” fills the ballroom, sending the whole place buzzing with excitement. A few kids instantly begin to rock ‘n’ roll like robots programmed to respond. The boys spin the girls under their arms, gyrating through a series of seemingly well-practiced moves.

  There are a lot of girls dancing with other girls, concentrating as they work through the steps. Occasionally they watch others. They seem shy but are also flirting with the boys who watch eagerly from the edges of the room.

  The sixties.

  An era I’ve thought about so often, and at times wished had been mine. I often felt short-changed in comparison. Now I’m here, it seems so simple, basic even. It’s not so much about what they had, as much as what they didn’t have. There are very few distractions here. No phones, no booze. People aren’t even allowed to smoke.

  Rock ’n’ roll is about to explode.

  You can feel it, like compressed oxygen desperate to blow. These kids want to scream, they want excitement, they want to rise above the humdrum, controlled lives of their parents. They want it all to mean something, they want to go crazy, to let rip. It’s no surprise that when The Beatles came along, they welcomed the hysteria with open arms.

  As John Lennon said (in hindsight, of course), the sixties wasn’t the answer, but it did give us a glimpse of the possibilities.

  I can tell from Vinny’s expression that he’s going through similar emotions. ‘You doing okay?’ I ask him, amazed at his ability to cope with the impossible.

  Vinny beams at me. ‘Apart from this being absolutely bloody mental, yeah, I’m doing more than okay.’ He turns to me. ‘This is amazing! It feels like a dream.’

  I nod and sigh. Bill may have me bent over the barrel but there’s no denying it, time travel is incredibly, mind-blowingly cool.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ I tell him.

  Vinny gazes out over the epitome of British culture and I can see the sparkle in his eyes. ‘Me too.’

  I get focused and scan the hall, slowly this time, cutting the space into sections, working methodically. Just as I think we’re out of luck I spot an Italian-looking woman, dark bobbed hair, big brown eyes, olive skin.

  Lucy Romano.

  Alive and well.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  I catch my breath. My mind goes tumbling back down the alleyway. The last time I saw Lucy, she was covered in blood, her desperate eyes searching mine as she took her final breath. Watching someone leave this earth stays with you. Seeing her alive again, here in this innocent environment, is so strange. It goes against everything our brain is wired to understand, to comprehend. Non-sequential time travel means death has been impossibly reversed.

  ‘That’s her,’ I tell Vinny, carefully pointing her out. Lucy is working behind a makeshift bar, which is basically a fold-up table with a red cloth thrown over it. A poster propped up on an easel advertises Sparkling Corona and Sarsaparilla for sale.

  A young man hauls wooden crates of clacking bottles onto the table and cracks the tops open. Lucy inserts straws, takes the money and hands them out. They are a good team and they are busy.

  ‘Right, then,’ Vinny says. ‘Guess you need to go and talk to her.’

  ‘It’s going to be difficult while she’s working,’ I tell Vinny, checking the watch. ‘And we’ve only got one hour and twenty-five minutes left.’

  Vinny nods as the room erupts in an excited cheer. We follow everyone’s gaze to a four-piece band strolling onto the stage. The DJ grabs the microphone. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for the sensational... Peter and the Spirits!’

  The band aren’t sure who they want to be. They look a bit like The Beatles in the early days, before the brightest man on the planet smartened them up. It doesn’t seem to matter, there’s a line of girls at the front of the stage, clearly groupies. The lead singer has a shock of dark curly hair and big glasses. A proper little Buddy Holly. The drummer is too cool for school. He curls his lips like Elvis, nods moodily at the girls who squeal with excitement. Girls always love the drummer. He slumps onto his stool and with four taps of his sticks the band launch into their set.

  Their first song is “The Wanderer”, by Dion. The band are rough around the edges but they are amplified well and tight enough to get the place moving. The music is loud, girls in pleated skirts dart and spin, smart shoes tap loudly on the floor. The lead singer smiles. I know that feeling, the relief of starting a performance. I used to play in a band. I was the quiet one behind the keyboards (obviously) while the front man, my mate Mark D’Stellar, rocked the joint. For an introvert, I actually enjoyed it and admit to a pang of envy as I watch this four-piece send sparks out into the room.

  Here is my opportunity to alter Lucy’s life, to see if I can set her on a different path, one that doesn’t lead to that alleyway a year from now. But the place is heaving and Lucy is swamped by a fresh row of thirsty teenagers. If I’m not careful, I’ll have nothing to show for our time here.

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ Vinny announces. ‘I’ll cause a diversion, you go and talk to Lucy.’

  ‘Vinny… what are you going to do?’

  He stares back at me. ‘I’m your sidekick. My job is to pop up and offer random ideas and assist you whenever I can.’ He tips his head forward and stares me down. ‘Trust me; this is one of those moments.’

  He’s got a point, I suppose. ‘But if we get split up… you could get stuck here.’

  Vinny raises a hand. ‘Don’t worry about me.’

  I make my way through the crowd of dancing kids. They don’t seem worried about getting the steps right anymore, they’re just letting themselves go. Maybe I need to do the same, try to go with the flow a bit more.

  A gentle cheer ripples through the crowd.

  I glance behind me to see Vinny standing in the centre of the hall, head bowed, one arm pointing to the ceiling. He looks like a really round John Travolta. He’s already caught the attention of a small group of people but that’s nothing compared to what I know is coming.

  I’ve seen Vinny dance; it’s transcendent. After winning the lottery (another casualty of change that never happened), we got drunk and Vinny told me I needed to let go. He danced with total and absolute abandon. He didn’t care what I might think, and it was utterly mesmerising.

  The chorus of the song kicks in and Vinny begins his routine. It’s improvised and would be fiercely impressive in the present, let alone here. He performs a mixture of Rock ‘n’ Roll, The Twist, The Jive and what can only be described as modern breakdancing, all the while miming perfectly to the lyrics of “The Wanderer”. A crowd of fascinated onlookers gathers around him, clapping. A few appear to be concerned, but most are simply in awe. These are the Children of the Sixties, after all, and they don’t want to miss a single moment, the chance to learn some new dance or craze.

  My sidekick has initiated his diversion brilliantly. Time for the hero to en
gage with the target.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  The queue disperses, and Lucy takes the opportunity to lean back against the wall and watch the unexpected proceedings. She’s alone. I approach, and when she notices me, I feel an intense wave of emotion. It’s relief, a deep gratitude this woman is alive.

  I smile and she returns the gesture. ‘Would you like a drink?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m okay, thanks.’ I nod towards Vinny, not wanting to freak her out. ‘He’s quite a mover, isn’t he?’

  She hikes an eyebrow and laughs. ‘Yes, he certainly is.’

  Lucy is petite yet solid in that brilliant Italian way. I notice dark rings under her eyes; she looks tired.

  The band play on.

  ‘So is he your friend?’ she asks, probably trying to figure out why I’ve approached her. She doesn’t like to make eye contact, she looks over my shoulder. I pick up on something, perhaps because I do this myself. She’s trying to blend in, hiding in plain sight. Lucy is afraid.

  A stocky man enters the hall from a side door. He is so broad his shoulders brush the frame on both sides. I recognise him instantly, the thug from the alleyway, the man who, in less than a year’s time, will end Lucy’s life on the order of Frankie Shaw.

  My ears ring, the music drifts away and all I hear is my heartbeat. My mouth was dry before, it’s a desert now. The man looks at me and frowns. He doesn’t recognise me of course, but he doesn’t look happy either.

  ‘Do you know him?’ I ask Lucy.

  She glances over at the man and then quickly back at me. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m not trying to hit on you,’ I assure her, ‘I just need to know if he’s with you or not.’

  She shakes her head. ‘He works for the owner, we all do.’

  ‘Frankie Shaw?’

  Her dark eyes widen, then her expression turns neutral. ‘Who are you?’

  I could tell her a pack of lies, I suppose, but what’s the point? For all I know this may be my only chance to save this woman and secure Amy’s future.