The Unexpected Gift of Joseph Bridgeman (The Downstream Diaries Book 1) Page 18

  And that’s what I do. Mark clears the board and as I talk he writes formulae and equations in coloured marker pens, and it feels good; for me anyway. Good to be telling him, but mainly because his considerable brain is now engaged. While he works, the fire roars and the room becomes warm and pleasant. I wish I could be of more use, but there isn’t much I can do now except watch the maestro at work. For half an hour Mark chews through the problem and I realise how much I’ve missed him. He was always a ball of energy and I can feel that again, his positivity, his drive and focus to achieve something. I finally break the spell when I tell him about the most embarrassing side-effect of time-travel.

  ‘Shit,’ Mark says, ‘what did you do?’

  I think back to the pink raincoat with yellow ducklings, running through the high street naked, police in pursuit like some kind of Benny Hill sketch from the eighties. ‘I managed, but I buy clothes on arrival now.’

  ‘I bet you do.’ Mark smiles and continues to question me, ‘So after that, you won the lottery?’

  ‘Yes,’ I sigh, ‘but only to get myself out of a jam, it’s not because –‘

  ‘Joe,’ Mark says, ‘you’re a time-traveller, it’s the law to go back and win the lottery.’

  It’s a relief. Even though our friendship has broken down, I don’t want him to be disappointed in me. ‘If you need anything,’ I say, ‘I would be happy to –’

  Mark waves this away as though it’s the most stupid idea he’s ever heard. ‘You’ve already given me the best thing I could wish for,’ he says.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Proof that time-travel is real, that it’s possible,’ he says. ‘I can die a happy man.’

  ‘Mark, you know we can’t share this, right?’ I ask carefully.

  ‘Of course,’ he says, continuing to write. He pauses for a while, tapping his pen between his teeth. ‘It’s weird, your clothes go back exactly half way through.’

  ‘Half way through what?’

  He ignores my question. ‘Tell me again,’ he says, voice drifting in thought, ‘when you went back to win the lottery, you ended up when, exactly?’

  ‘2002,’ I say, the date on the ticket fully embedded in my mind.

  ‘Month?’

  ‘Er, not sure, but it was mid-summer.’

  ‘And you stayed how long?’

  ‘A few hours I guess.’

  ‘No,’ Mark’s back is to me, head flicking around the board, ‘try to be more accurate.’

  I think back. I arrived in the park, got my ticket, ended up naked, then ran to Vinny’s. ‘I reckon three or four hours,’ I say. ‘But it’s a guess.’

  Mark nods. ‘It will do.’ He’s writing years, days and jumps, equations, curves, graphs, and other things that seem to make sense to him but look like a maths nightmare to me. We are on our second coffee when he suddenly cries out, clapping his hands, laughing.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  He turns to me, eyes dancing with tears. ‘It’s amazing Joe, it’s brilliant!’ He begins furiously erasing a portion of the board. In the centre he draws an axis – I recognise this from distant maths lessons – he draws a curve from the top left to bottom right; a sloping line that flattens out to almost nothing. He writes ‘duration’ on the left hand side and ‘distance’ below the curve. ‘It isn’t random at all,’ he says, ‘it’s exactly as it should be.’

  I stare at the graph and nod. ‘Sure,’ I say, ‘and that means what exactly?’

  He laughs, smacking his forehead. ‘Shit, sorry.’ He taps the top of the curve. ‘It’s a logarithmic graph, each jump can be mapped to this.’ He shakes his head. ‘I mean, the data you’ve given me is rough, this wouldn’t stand up in any kind of –’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I assure him. ‘We don’t need it to be precise, just give me the basics, in English.’

  ‘Sure, exactly.’ Mark swallows, and takes another large gulp of coffee. ‘Basically, it’s like you said, the further you go back, the less time you get to stay there.’ He begins plotting my various jumps onto the curve using dots, writing the years and duration I stayed next to them. ‘It’s as though the universe is watching you, observing you.’ He pauses. ‘Actually, it’s more like the universe loses track of you for a while and then, when it finds you again, drags you back to where you’re supposed to be.’

  ‘Where I’m supposed to be?’

  ‘Yeah, think about it. It adds the time you’ve been away back on, when you return.’ He places his pen on the coffee table between us, neatly against the edge of a book. ‘You are here,’ he says, ‘then, you jump back.’ He grabs the pen and moves it six inches to his left. ‘But the thing is, while you’re in the past, time’s arrow is moving on without you.’ He flattens his hand on the table and slides it to the right. ‘It’s always moving and the universe likes balance, it’s entropy or something.’ He shrugs. ‘Well, maybe not entropy but it takes a while, and when it finds you it knows you don’t belong there so it evicts you.’ He grabs the pen and places it down, a little further from the edge of the book this time. ‘You go back ten years, that gives you roughly eleven hours in the past so you arrive home eleven hours after you left.’

  The last few weeks of my life begin to make sense. It’s not so random after all. I stare at the board and follow Mark’s line down to the very right hand bottom corner. He’s written something there, next to a dot. ‘What’s that one?’ I ask.

  ‘You need to appreciate, I don’t have accurate data, so I’m guessing, but I think that was your trip to the accountant’s, the one when you accidentally went back in your hypnotherapy session?’ He taps the dot.

  ‘How can you be sure?’ I ask.

  ‘Because you only stayed a few minutes that time.’

  I lean back, eyes wide and exhale loudly.

  ‘I recognise that expression,’ Mark laughs. ‘Okay, let me try explaining it this way.’ He searches a shelf and finds what he’s looking for; a large, red elastic band. He places it on opposing forefingers like a fan belt. He wiggles his right finger, ‘This is you, in the present, now.’ Then he moves his left finger away, tightening the band slightly. ‘This is you in the past.’ He stretches the band. ‘The further you go back, the tighter the band.’

  A little light goes ping in my head. I have visions of people on bungee ropes, of yo-yos and tension. Mark continues, ‘Like I said, it’s rough but you’ve given me enough to map out some assumptions.’

  He joins me on the sofa and we stare at the board for a while. Mark keeps shaking his head and laughing, but the shape of the curve bothers me, the way it flattens out near the end and stays that way.

  ‘How far back is the last one?’ I ask, staring at the final dot. ‘The accountant’s.’

  Mark jumps up and walks to the board, ‘Well, based on the others it’s roughly…’ He writes an equation that’s so long I think he’s taking the piss. ‘Four thousand, nine hundred and nineteen days,’ he’s mumbling now, ‘which is seven million, eighty three thousand minutes –’

  ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘Oh, sorry, that’s how far you travelled,’ he sketches something out and turns to me, pointing at the board. ‘When you jumped back to the accountant’s office you stayed in the past for roughly three minutes – this is very close to your maximum jump distance – which I estimate to be May, 2001.’ He stops and shakes his head. ‘Holy shit dude, you went back to 2001!’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, based on the data you’ve given me. If you go further than that, it will be seconds before you’re pulled back.’

  I stare at him, the facts crushing me.

  ‘What is it?’ Mark frowns.

  He’s been so caught up in the details, so obsessed with the machinations, that he’s forgotten why I came here.

  ‘It’s not far enough,’ I say.

  His shoulders fall, ‘Amy.’

  I nod. I have managed to convince myself that she’s the reason I can time-travel, that somehow my viewing and
fate have joined forces, offering me a chance to save her.

  Mark stares at the base of the curve. ‘Shit,’ he sighs. ‘You’re right, 2001, it’s nowhere near far enough.’

  8.

  Amy went missing in 1992. Mark’s curved diagrams and his brilliant elastic band analogy taunt me, You are nine years out, they chant like a pack of bullies, nine years… nine years. Mark is up and drawing again. ‘Are there any other jumps?’ He asks, rubbing out an equation. ‘Anything you haven’t told me?’

  I wrack my brains, squeezing every detail from the past, ‘That’s all of them,’ I say, ‘I’ve told you everything.’

  ‘When you arrive in the past, have you tried jumping a second time?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s no way.’

  ‘You’ve tried it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  I fold my arms. ‘It’s like pressing the accelerator of a car when it’s turned off. There is literally nothing, not even a vague sense of power. It’s like I’m drained, empty.’

  ‘Maybe you can re-charge somehow?’

  ‘But that takes time and the further back I go the less time I get.’ I sigh. ‘It’s no use, I’m miles out.’

  Mark leans down and catches my eye. ‘Joe, how long have you been viewing?’

  ‘Since I was a teenager, why?’

  ‘And how long have you been time-travelling?’

  I see where he’s going. ‘It doesn’t change the fact that I can only go back to 2001.’

  ‘It might,’ he says. ‘The data you’ve given me is based on your first few attempts at time-travel.’

  ‘But I can’t get further than 2001,’ I say, pointing at the graph.

  Mark nods, ‘All I’m saying is, that if you were able to tweak something, alter the conditions in some way, who knows what could happen, you might be able to go further.’

  He feels guilty, that much is obvious. His brilliant brain has honed in on the details – as I knew it would – and burst my bubble. Mark’s analysis sinks into the pit of my stomach and unexpectedly a face appears in my mind. It’s the man from the rifle-range at the fair, the Artful Dodger from years ago. His eyes sparkle with mischief and a deep rooted nastiness that wasn’t there originally. ‘Hey buddy, fancy your chances,’ he cackles, his voice taking on an inhuman slowness. ‘Roll up, roll up!’ he shouts, eyes rolling all the way back until they are nothing but a yellowish glaze in their sockets. ‘The world famous, eagle-eyed legend, burning Joseph bridges is taking the stand.’

  ‘Joe?’ Mark’s voice snaps me out of it, ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, shaking the vision away. ‘What’s the use of time-travelling if I can’t reach her?’

  ‘Data,’ Mark offers. ‘It’s the most important thing. You came here, thinking your time-travel was random. But it isn’t. There’s data weaved all through it. If you land in July 2005 we can now calculate – almost to the minute – how long you will have there.’

  ‘So?’ I curl my lip like a petulant child. ‘How does that help?’

  ‘Data is power, it’s progress. The next time you jump back, you will know exactly how long you have before you return, how long you have to figure out your second jump. That needs to be your focus.’

  His enthusiasm is building again but he doesn’t understand, hasn’t felt the electrifying sensation of time-travel leaching from him like water from a punctured can, or the all-consuming freeze of an imminent return. A second jump is impossible.

  ‘Come on, Joe,’ Mark says. ‘You need to stay positive, for Amy. If there’s a way, I know you will find it.’

  I manage a weak smile. I’m reminded of the past, of the torturous hours spent before a gig. I would often be back-stage, bent over puking, the sound of the audience ringing in my ears. Mark would be there, telling me it would all be okay, that we would rock. And we always did. The Dark Angels always rocked.

  ‘You have done something,’ he marvels, ‘that no other person on this planet has even achieved, you can bloody time-travel.’

  I nod, shrugging awkwardly, ‘It is pretty awesome I guess.’

  ‘Pretty awesome?’ He rasps. ‘It’s Phenomenal! I mean, you could change things, stop terrorist attacks, warn people about air disasters, you could –’

  ‘No,’ I say, firmly.

  ‘Are you worried about changing things?’ Mark asks. ‘The butterfly effect?’

  ‘No, I mean, maybe, but if I do any of those things, if I ever do anything like that, then it’s later, it comes after Amy.’

  Mark processes my resolve and nods solemnly. ‘Of course mate.’

  ‘This has to mean something Mark, it has to about saving her.’

  ‘I get it Joe,’ he says, but I’m not sure he does, not completely. Perhaps only I could ever understand why it has to be that way. He sits beside me, places his hand on my shoulder and says, ‘Listen to me now. It’s early days. You have discovered something amazing, but this is likely to be just the beginning.’

  ‘The beginning?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mark’s eyes glisten with excitement. ‘When scientists figure something out, it’s usually a bloody accident! They will have been searching and testing for years and suddenly they say, What’s that? Why did that just happen?’ He laughs. ‘I mean come on, Penicillin, Microwaves, Viagra for God’s sake!’ I laugh with him. I’ve heard the story of Viagra, the little blue pill; created for chest pain but with interesting and profitable side-effects. ‘What I’m saying is,’ Mark continues, ‘you need to carry on and look for the variables, go right back to the reason you can do this and look again, with fresh eyes. Something will happen, a Eureka moment that will set you on a new course.’

  A Eureka moment. I wonder if he’s right. He seems so sure. I can imagine him, holding court, hundreds of students in the palm of his hand. Rugby Captain, lead singer, lecturer. It doesn’t seem to matter. They are all the same. He’s a born leader and part of me, albeit a small part, believes him.

  ‘Thanks, Mark,’ I say.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he replies, and after a short pause asks, ‘So, what will you do next?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘What about the hypnotherapist?’

  ‘Alexia Finch?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘she’s the one who unlocked your ability in the first place, even if she doesn’t know it.’ Mark taps the side of his head, ‘It’s all up here mate, whichever way you do this, getting better at travelling should be your top priority.’

  I frown at the board. ‘Can you write that down for me?’ I ask. ‘But in English, you know time-travel for dummies.’

  Mark laughs, ‘We will make a fortune.’ He sniggers but then corrects himself, ‘Oh, wait a minute, you already did that.’

  ‘Yeah, about the Lottery, I don’t need it all, I want to give you some.’

  ‘No way, José,’ Mark scowls, using a nick-name I haven’t heard in years. ‘Absolutely no way. I don’t need it, it would only mess me up anyway.’

  ‘We wouldn’t have to tell anyone,’ I offer, but he’s adamant. I decide to drop it for now. Mark is up again, stood at his board, a lecturer through and through. ‘So, come on, what are you going to do?’ He asks.

  ‘Start again,’ I answer obediently, ‘somehow persuade Alexia Finch to help me.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Mark says. ‘Get her on-board, repeat the experiment, but only change one factor at a time, keep all the other conditions the same.’

  ‘Look out for my Eureka moment.’

  ‘Good.’ Mark smiles. ‘To the top to the class Mr Bridgeman and don’t forget, continue to keep those notes for Uncle Mark.’

  I agree and we sit in silence for a while. For the first time since arriving – but probably the hundredth time in my life – I consider telling him what actually happened with Sian.

  ‘Mark?’ I say quietly.

  ‘I know,’ he says, ‘it’s good to see you too.’

  ‘I may be a time-traveller,’ I laugh, ‘but you’re a bloo
dy mind reader!’

  ‘Which is a gift in itself.’ He shrugs. ‘Do you feel better though, about things?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘you’ve helped a lot, thank you.’

  ‘It’s my job,’ he says. ‘Although I’m not sure life is ever going to be the same after seeing you teleport,’ he corrects himself, ‘sorry, I mean time-travel.’

  ‘You’ll get used to it.’

  ‘But I still can’t believe it,’ he replies. ‘Everything I thought I knew… It’s all wrong. How the hell am I supposed to carry on as normal knowing this is possible?’

  ‘You have to,’ I say firmly. ‘You can’t tell anyone.’

  ‘I get it,’ he nods, clearly frustrated but resigned to my request. ‘I know.’

  Another silence as Mark navigates his next question carefully. ‘Joe, I know we’ve talked about it a lot, but what do you think happened to Amy?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. I can only view what I saw that night, and it’s not enough, I don’t see her go, don’t see where she went.’ I purse my lips, consider his question further and then say, ‘My heart tells me she was taken.’

  ‘And you could go back and stop them,’ he says with determination. ‘You can finally discover what happened, who took her.’

  ‘That’s what I intend to do,’ I say, but stop myself from elaborating.

  Mark unexpectedly holds out his hand. I take it in mine and we shake hands for the first time in years. Our eyes lock and I know this doesn’t make it right between us, but it’s a start, the first rung on the ladder to reconciliation.

  ‘You can’t disappear again, Joe,’ Mark says, ‘I mean in the normal sense. This is bigger than you and me, bigger than our problems, this is the most important thing in the world.’

  I agree, albeit silently. The most important thing in the world.

  Yes, she was, I think, she really was.

  9.

  Maths. I’ve always hated it, never been good at it, yet my train journey home is spent calculating the duration of possible time jumps and I love it. It reminds me of hyper-space calculations in sci-fi films, of Han Solo barking at C3PO, ‘Never tell me the odds!’ Well, being the coolest in the Galaxy is great but I’m actually with the droid on this one. It’s good to know, preparation is key.