The Unexpected Gift of Joseph Bridgeman (The Downstream Diaries Book 1) Page 2

  3.

  I like routine. I may be moderately depressed and a reclusive insomniac but that doesn’t mean I don’t make plans. I have stuff to do, places to go, people to avoid. For the second time today, I shower, scrubbing my skin with a medicated soap that has a kind of wiry mesh buried inside it. I’m under the nearly boiling water for thirty minutes. As I step out and grab a towel, I catch my reflection. I look like a bullied lobster after his first tough day at school; red and scratched. I dress, grab my coat and keys and am about to head out, but pause for a moment.

  The grandfather clock chimes and I gaze at my drab, messy, but wonderfully familiar, living room and wonder how long this house will protect me. I re-play my conversation with Martin. My business is an on-line antiques website. I am good at predicting which items will be desirable, will be worth something in the future, but it’s difficult to concentrate on two hours’ sleep a night, and that’s if I’m lucky.

  The site www.bridgemanantiques.com is still up (as far as I know) but my heart hasn’t been in it lately. Not connecting with others is a skill I have honed over the last ten years or so – perfected, you might say – but if Martin is right, it won’t be long before I’m out on the street, and that scares the crap out of me.

  Not because of the cold, hunger and general miserable nature of poverty but because, for someone with my unfortunate abilities, interaction doesn’t end well.

  4.

  The streets are busy and it’s cold. I hunch down and drift along making no eye contact. I love to walk, but now is one of my least favourite times. People are everywhere. The best time for me is 4 a.m. The sun is approaching but night is still in charge. Most people are sound asleep and animals, the ones you don’t normally see, like foxes and badgers (moving ones, not roadkill), own the precious few hours before the noise of man returns.

  I arrive outside the coffee shop. It’s busy, nearly lunch-time, and the place is filling up with hungry looking office workers. It’s not a chain. I hate brands, every high-street looks the same to me now. This is a privately owned business, they have good coffee beans and the espresso (note it’s not Ex-presso) has excellent crema. Do you know about crema? It’s the Holy Grail, the Guinness effect. Anyway, look it up.

  A woman I recognise approaches me. She’s in her forties I’m guessing, with make-up applied in thick, dark layers over her pitted complexion. It gives her the look of a grilled satsuma. Her hair is dyed a dark ginger, a strange choice considering the aforementioned skin issue. She smiles, her oily red lips stretching open to reveal brilliantly white teeth. She somehow fits into her brown uniform and also manages – against my better judgement – to make me crave a branded experience.

  ‘Well, hello there Mark Ruffalo,’ she squawks loudly. A few people turn quickly and look at me. I have no idea who Mark Ruffalo is, but people seem disappointed that I’m not him. I look beyond the orange woman, desperately searching for my preferred waitress.

  ‘Ahhhhh.’ The walking satsuma frowns, ‘Olivia isn’t here, she finished about ten minutes ago.’

  Orange proceeds to vigorously wipe down one of the tall circular tables, re-arranging three padded stools around it. She glances over at the sandwiches and bottled drinks in a nearby chiller cabinet. ‘You can always, you know, help yourself to something?’ Her tone suggests she gets me, that she knows about me and my ways.

  I manage a brief smile, the kind that says: “Thanks, but I don’t need your help, now F-off and leave me alone.” I am a master at cramming those kind of details into a look. She stares at me and then says, ‘He’s an actor, you look a bit like him but you sure as hell don’t act like him.’ I shrug and she continues, ‘Jesus. I was just trying to be nice!’

  This is pretty much how most of my “conversations” go.

  I leave the café, realising I’m going to go hungry, again. I could have bought a sandwich but I’m down to my last few notes and have plans. Although, if I continue to eat like this – badly or not at all – I’m worried my complexion may end up like the orange waitress’s, like a bloody citrus fruit.

  5.

  Olivia – or, as she often corrects me, Liv – is the one exception to my ‘Connect with no one’ rule. She works the early shift, when the café is quieter, and knows what I like; two croissants, blackberry jam, real butter and a flat-white. We don’t talk much, aren’t what you would call friends and have never dated or anything like that. I just helped her once, and now, when I see her at work without the bruises, I feel a strange sense of pride.

  Usually my affliction pushes people away and I end up with a broken nose or worse, but Liv was different. She’s wary of me now of course, and what happened with her was a one-off, but I’m still glad I did what I did.

  A more typical example of my affliction screwing things up would be Mark D’Stellar. He was a good friend at school and an even better friend through college. I tried so hard to not mess up with him, but in the end things always play out the same.

  Mark was one of the few people I told. He believed (initially anyway) that what I could do was a gift, something I could nurture and develop. Others, like my parents and the various specialists they hired, knew there was something very different about me, but they all came to the same conclusion: My unique ability was an abnormality, something I would grow out of.

  Turns out they were all wrong.

  6.

  I take a detour. There’s one more place I want to go before I return home. A few turns and a few side streets later, I am outside Vinny’s Vinyl. The shop’s namesake is a chatty, shaven-headed Londoner whose passion for all things analogue draws me to him. You don’t need an ability like mine to know about Vinny’s past. He shares it often - with anyone who will listen. I like him. He seems to like me, although it’s probably because I appear to be listening and also because I keep him in business. Well, I did anyway, until now. Apparently I’m broke.

  I step inside and the reassuring odour of ageing protective paper, roll-ups and Vinny’s funk hits me. The records are stacked neatly in multiple rows. Classic album covers by artists like Pink Floyd, The Stones and Bob Dylan are plastered on every available wall space. Vinny loves old things, and therefore I like Vinny, but he also stocks new vinyl. Apparently, artists who are true musicians and audio purists get the fact that vinyl is still where it’s at. 2013 was a monumental year for all things black and round. 780,000 vinyl albums were sold in the U.K., that’s what Vinny says anyway. I just nod. I’m not so much into the brand new stuff. Although I did buy ‘This Is It’ by The Strokes last week. That sounds amazing played through a decent valve amplifier. I begin to make plans for my evening’s entertainment.

  I smell menthol, bitter like an ointment rather than pleasant like a vapour rub, and sweat that is a few days old. ‘Well, if it isn’t cash,’ Vinny shouts. ‘How you doin’ mate?’

  He calls me Cash because I don’t do cards, and for the record (get it?) Vinny shouts everything and ends ninety percent of sentences with mate.

  ‘I’m okay.’ I say, thumbing through the nearest rack.

  Vinny smiles. He weighs around twenty stone, I would guess. His t-shirt today is ‘The Clash’ and I wonder, not for the first time, if it’s an original or ‘new made to look old’. I think it’s the latter. Surely they didn’t make XXXL in the old days. His jeans, once black, are now grey, frayed and turned up to reveal Doc Martens. He absently flicks the ash from a roll-up cigarette onto the floor - a sticky purple carpet that reminds me of a pub - and then pops it into the corner of his mouth. I’ve seen some of his past, some of his older memories and, like me, Vinny’s life was very different once. I found the difference to be quite sad and try not to open my mind to him anymore. Life can change in an instant, whether we like it or not and time marches on regardless of how we feel about it. Vinny is a lot like me, a reluctant loner with private passions that drive him, only he is twice as heavy and probably due a heart attack soon.

  ‘What you after today mate?’ he shuffles off towards th
e till and office at the back of his shop. He stops, turns, looks up at the ceiling and then back at me, eyes wide, ‘Ooooh, tell you what I have got. That weird Beatles tribute album by The Flaming Lips, you know, the Sergeant Pepper one?’

  I love The Flaming Lips. Seriously they are amazing, and live they just nail it, but their cover albums don’t do it for me. The thought of anyone covering Beatles stuff always fills me with dread. You can’t really cover Beatles stuff. They had their own language, their own way or DNA or something like that. It’s like ABBA, they are just kind of ingrained into the fabric of music. Indefinable. You can’t repeat that, and you can’t copy it.

  Vinny’s bottom lip is pushed right out and his eyebrows are high. He’s waiting patiently, tapping his fingers on the counter of his serving hatch. Behind him I can see boxes and boxes of new records ready for sorting and categorising. I wonder, not for the first time, if Vinny might give me a job here. You know, when I’m destitute.

  ‘Cover albums aren’t for me.’ I say, ‘But I was hoping you might have that one I ordered?’

  Vinny nods. ‘Came in yesterday mate.’ His voice is rattling up for a cough, ‘Got it back here somewhere.’

  7.

  I spend an hour at Vinny’s, and then another in Pittville park. I enjoy my time here, it’s peaceful and real. The rain stops and the day shifts to the dark grey-yellow of winter. I head home as night closes in.

  I feel like my father as I slide the key into the brass lock. I can still see him towering over me and smiling, remember how I felt safe. I have fond memories of my parents and this place, back when they were young and happy. This house was one of three they owned in England and has been in our family a long time. My parents made their money importing sugar and then lost nearly all of it in less than a decade. My Mother continues to drain what’s left. Not that she knows much about it, or anything else for that matter.

  Inside it feels cold and dark, but also different. Someone has been here. I flick on the lights, place my carrier bag – the one containing my new vinyl purchase – on the kitchen island and begin assessing the situation.

  I see a box filled with vegetables and fruit. Next to it is a brand-new blender, plugged in and ready. It looks like a space rocket from the sixties. There’s a note, which reads:

  “A man cannot live on bacon sandwiches alone. Hope you don’t mind but you were lacking some essentials. Consider this an official bribe. Go and see her.”

  Martin has filled the rest of the A5 paper with an extravagant signature. I stare at the box for a while and then blend a load of apples, blueberries and bananas into mush. They taste amazing. I drink a pint and a half of fruit.

  Up until recently, on-line shopping was my saviour. Food delivered weekly. All I had to do was nod to the delivery person – who conveniently changed every few months – and sign on the line. Ideal. But then a really annoying thing happened. My credit card stopped working and then I kind of ran out of food. Martin was right. I lived on bacon for a while (which was kind of okay), but now the fridge is empty. I figure I have another three days’ worth of juices though, so I’m not dead yet. Cheers, Martin.

  My stomach cramps a little at the sudden and unexpected meal. I wash the plastic pieces of the blender, grab my bag and then pause. I suspect it’s going to be a long night so I pick a bottle of red from my rapidly diminishing stocks and head to my study.

  I leave the rest of the house dark, there seems little point in filling it with light when I will spend most of the evening in one room. I enter my study and sigh. In here is nearly everything I need. It’s actually a reminder that a man requires very few things in his life to feel complete. There isn’t a sexy blonde, wearing black lace underwear draped over my chair, but I did say nearly. This is my den, my escape, my man-shed (except it’s in my house.)

  The room isn’t big, twenty feet square probably. In one corner is a battered old club chair. I’ve spent many long nights in its loving arms, reading and listening to music. Next to it is a tall standard lamp with the largest, craziest shade I could find. It makes me smile every time I look at it. On all sides, the walls are lined with different sized shelves and cupboards, all filled with books and various objects, most antiques of some sort. One section is crammed full of vinyl and next to my chair is a cabinet, an old one that houses my record player and amplifier.

  I’m thirty-six and, to be clear, I am aware this room sounds like the final resting place of a retired old man. I just like it. Old stuff doesn’t give off any extra-curricular energy, doesn’t hurt my ears or my brain like Wi-Fi or Bluetooth. It’s quiet in here and when I play music it’s like a wave of warm silk running through me. Young people wouldn’t get it, they would say I was a sad paedo probably, but I don’t know any young people, so I’m good there. Why do they call anyone who is remotely strange or different a paedophile? I guess the celebrities of my youth have a lot to answer for.

  I pop the cork on a decent bottle of Italian Primitivo, and pour some into a large glass. I’m out of food. That’s bad. When I run out of wine? Really bad. Time to have a look at today’s prize. I slip the long play disk from its sleeve and hold it up to the light. It’s Toshiba vinyl, much sought after by audiophiles and collectors like me. It shines like no other - everything about it feels special. I place it on the turntable, drop the stylus carefully and sink back into my chair. Rubber Soul by The Beatles fills my room, McCartney’s vocals on Drive My Car soar perfectly above the deep guitars. He’s telling me I can drive his car. It’s a good job. I don’t have a car, but I do seem to have at least one friend left. I raise my glass and toast my accountant. The music plays, the wine goes to work and the songs drift around me. ‘Norwegian Wood’ becomes, ‘You Won’t See Me’ and the lyrics take me away. The Beatles sing of loss, of years gone by and a missing girl they can no longer see.

  I know the feeling, boys.

  8.

  I often ask people to describe what it’s like for them to remember things, and the multitude of answers I hear fascinates me. Probably because the way people recall the past is so different from the way it works for me. The most common explanation, when I really push people to elaborate, is that memories are like short films. Each moment, take a birthday, your seventh for example, has its own collection of these clips attached.

  They are short, they sit near the back of your head and you probably look up as you recall them. It might be candles on a cake, your best friend stepping in dog-shit and walking it up your stairs, spoilt tears as you opened the biggest present you didn’t want, the pattern and feel on the wrapping paper of one specific present. Whatever. They’re yours. But if you think of that birthday and I ask if you remember your friends going home? Or recall the day after at school? You probably can’t. You only remember the important bits. Right?

  Well, the way I remember is the same I suppose, but the way I view (© Mark D’Stellar) is very, very different.

  It began just after my tenth birthday. I realised that if I focussed on a memory from my past during the day, then it would return in my dreams that night. I could re-watch my memories in glorious high-definition detail over and over.

  Let me explain.

  What I see when I’m viewing isn’t a version of the truth, it isn’t stored and recalled like one of those short films people describe. Viewing is a re-play of the actual event, an imprint of the moment, played out in real-time. When my mind goes back I see the entire thing, get to experience it all over again. It’s always in the form of a dream but it’s as real as the day it happened.

  Amazing! I hear you cry. And it was for a short while, but control is an illusion, things always change, and the universe doesn’t ask if you are okay with it.

  Shortly after losing Amy, not only did the viewing become stronger, it also became unpredictable and would occur whether I wanted it to or not. Also, I could no longer choose which memory got re-played, they just came to me, and that’s when the insomnia started, in fact that’s when everything turned to shit.


  Can you imagine going to sleep and not knowing where you might end up? I don’t mean literally of course, I don’t mean actually travelling anywhere, but viewing can seem so real that it sometimes feels that way. I often ended up in memories that hurt too and that’s done some damage I suppose.

  It was like that for a few years, but honestly if that had been all, then maybe, just maybe I could have learned to live with it. But ‘viewing’ is the curse that keeps on giving, folks! Are you getting the idea yet?

  Losing control was only the beginning. Around the age of nineteen a new and unexpected addition to my skill-set arrived on the scene. Until this point my cursed ability was exclusively based on my own memories, but now came an exciting new twist! (Can you hear my exhausted sarcasm here?)

  It wasn’t just my memories anymore. Yes, you heard me correctly. I began seeing moments from other people’s lives in my dreams, crystal clear in all their glorious and private detail. This only occurred if I was close to them, emotionally I mean – for example my parents, friends, girlfriends etc. – but it happened, and unbeknownst to them their memories opened up before me.

  I realise that might sound exciting to you, the ability to be a secret voyeur, but it’s not. It’s a curse, I can assure you, and the reason I’m alone, the reason Mark and I aren’t friends anymore. Seeing things, knowing things you shouldn’t, hidden secrets. It messes you up, big time, which explains why my life is the way it is. Therapists used to love me! But when I started seeing their pasts too. Well, then they kind of hated me, like everyone else.

  I still see Mark occasionally, not out of choice you understand, the viewing decides what I see, but I do get to watch re-runs of some of our time together, back when we were friends. It’s a mixed bag though. I don’t just get the good stuff you see, it doesn’t work that way. It’s a curse, remember?