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

  I scream, I mean properly howl, like the bloke in An American Werewolf in London as he’s transforming. I feel my eyes bulging, the veins on my neck standing out like curtain cords.

  ‘Call an ambulance,’ Finch shouts at Joe, ‘for God’s sake, he’s having a fit or something.’

  Joe looks back at her with indifference. ‘Just watch,’ he says, with a knowing grin. Man, am I always this annoying?

  I feel the present biting at me like needled teeth made of ice. It’s pulling me, angry that I have the audacity to think I could stay. For the first time since I began travelling I sense my last few seconds arrive, feel them ticking away. I look up at Finch who is near me now, stare at her with pleading eyes. ‘You need to help me,’ I croak, meaning ‘generally’, to get better at time-travel, but I’m guessing it comes out as a desperate plea for immediate assistance.

  Finch pushes Joe aside, scalding him for his lack of empathy and grabs my hand. Her skin is warm and I smell perfume, spicy and rich. Our eyes meet and something passes between us, an understanding that maybe this moment is important. I don’t know how I could feel that, but I see a realisation in her too and that’s when the 19th of December ceases to be and I am catapulted forwards to where the universe wants me.

  13.

  If you sneeze with your eyes open, they pop out. It’s a myth of course, otherwise inquisitive people all over the world would be walking around screaming. No. Closing your eyes for a sneeze is instinctive and so it is for time-travel. I pinched my eyes shut as I was wrenched from the evening of the 19th of December, but the flat grey-orange of daylight is obvious. I’m on my hands and knees and it’s cold, really cold. A gust of wind sends a rippling chill over me but I don’t care. Compared to the constant brain freeze I’ve just endured, this is easy - the absence of pain is exquisite. I open my eyes and everywhere is white, like heaven, like the bleached family portraits on Mark D’Stellar’s kitchen wall. I’m crunched like a runner on his blocks and my hands are completely covered by two inches of snow. There’s no hand-shaped imprint around my wrists because I guess I just appeared here. I lift them out and shake off the snow, rubbing my red hands together.

  I hear a trembling voice to my right, ‘What the hell just happened?’

  I slide sideways, letting out a small, stifled gasp. It’s Alexia Finch, she’s next to me, eyes wide, searching me, and our new surroundings, frantically.

  My mouth hangs open, ‘What are you doing here?’

  A car horn blasts through the fog in my brain and when I turn I see a large four wheel drive heading straight for us. I grab Finch by her arm, dragging her up and over to the pavement. The car slows to a crawl, pulling up next to us. Inside is a young couple with two small kids in the back, strapped into their car-seats and swamped in layers of clothing. The entire family stare at us with concern.

  The driver, a smartly dressed young man says, ‘What on earth were you doing in the road? I could have killed you!’

  ‘I slipped,’ I say, missing out the time-travel bit. ‘Sorry.’

  The man’s wife leans over, red cheeks glowing under the interior light. ‘It would have made for a pretty bad Christmas day wouldn’t it?’ Her tone is condescending but there’s relief too. They are probably heading to the Grandparents’ and could do without two dead idiots under their car. Well, I say car, it’s more like a tank.

  The man looks at Finch and his brow narrows. ‘You okay?’ He asks.

  Finch nods but her eyes are blank. ‘Yeah, fine,’ she says, her voice thin and unconvincing.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Finch manages, a little stronger this time. ‘Just cold.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ the man nods, ‘it’s freezing.’ He doesn’t say it, but I can tell that he disapproves of her choice of clothing. A black cocktail dress and coat isn’t exactly ideal for a Siberian Christmas Day stroll. ‘Okay,’ the man says, ‘well, you both have a good Christmas.’ He looks us up and down once more and then disappears behind his tinted windows, which whirr up automatically, offering a perfect reflection of Finch and myself.

  The car pulls away, sliding a little. Thick white clumps of snow fall around us. I turn to Finch and attempt a reassuring smile, ‘That was a close one.’

  She stares back at me, ‘Christmas Day, he said Christmas Day.’

  ‘He did,’ I say, ‘and it is.’

  Finch swallows and looks around her. ‘It was night, now it’s day, it’s snowing.’ Her dull calmness begins to shift to the more focussed version that I recognise. ‘What the hell just happened, what did you do to me?’

  It’s a good question and as the answer arrives, I can’t believe I hadn’t considered it before. ‘You held my hand, at the exact moment I travelled,’ I say, my mind racing to keep up with the possibilities, ‘you came with me.’

  She looks around, stares at her house. ‘Christmas Day,’ she whispers again.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then we’re in the future.’

  ‘Well, for you maybe, but for me this is the present. I’m back where I’m supposed to be.’

  ‘What?’ Finch says, a sudden anger building in her voice. ‘This is bullshit, you drugged me or something, you and your sick twin brother, this is some kind of joke.’

  ‘I can assure you, it isn’t,’ I pause, hold her gaze and say very slowly and with absolute conviction, ‘Alexia, I can time-travel.’

  ‘Stop it!’ She snaps. ‘Just stop.’ Her voice trembles and she looks as though she might cry. I reach out but she pulls away and stares at me. ‘This isn’t real?’

  ‘Yes it is,’ I say gently. ‘But I honestly had no idea you would come back with me, that’s never happened before.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve only ever time-travelled alone. I never thought about trying to bring anyone with me.’ The possibilities begin forming in my mind like the thick flakes of snow around us.

  ‘Joe?’

  ‘Alexia, I came to ask you, well to persuade you actually, to help me get better at time-travel.’ I take a step towards her. ‘You unlocked my ability and now, this.’

  ‘This?’ She repeats, voice still quiet. ‘And what is this?’

  ‘The fact you can come with me,’ I say.

  She frowns. ‘What makes you so sure I’m going to help you after the stunt you just pulled?’

  ‘Stunt,’ I say, smiling, reminded of the time I compared her therapy with a stage hypnotist. ‘Listen, I don’t have all the answers, I don’t even believe in fate,’ I pause, ‘well, I didn’t…’ I say and consider how my view on this is changing. Martin led me to Finch, which enabled travelling. A magazine article led me back to Mark and then back here again. If it isn’t fate then it’s something.

  ‘Look,’ I sigh, ‘I don’t know why but I feel like this was supposed to happen that you can help me reach her.’

  ‘Reach who?’

  ‘Amy,’ I say. ‘My sister.’

  ‘Joe,’ she whispers, her voice shaking with cold and a good dose of adrenalin, I suspect, ‘this is crazy.’

  I take off my coat and wrap it loosely over her. ‘It is, but you get used to it.’

  ‘What makes you think I can help you?’ She asks.

  I place a hand on her shoulder and she lets me this time. Our eyes lock and I see that she’s at least accepted that I’m not the bad guy here, that whatever just happened wasn’t some cheap trick. It’s then that Mark’s advice comes flooding back and, when I speak, my voice is filled with his optimism. ‘I’m sure, because I was lost,’ I say, ‘there was no way I could do it alone. I needed something to happen, something unexpected.’ I smile, shaking my head, ‘That’s you Alexia, you travelling with me is the thing I could never have imagined, you are my Eureka moment.’

  Part Five - We Can Work It Out

  1.

  Time has pulled me from the 19th December to Christmas day, exactly where I should be, but I am not alone, I have an accidental and unexpected stow-aw
ay – Alexia Finch – and that means I’m in big trouble.

  ‘And you expect me to believe you?’ She snorts, eyes darting in every direction. ‘Night has just become day? I mean, what the hell is going on?’

  Snow falls, thick and fast, already hiding the shapes we made upon our arrival. ‘I’ve told you,’ I assure her as calmly as I can. ‘I’m a time-traveller and when you held my hand, somehow – and this is new to me too, I must add – you came with me.’

  ‘This isn’t happening,’ she snarls, staggering back. ‘You drugged me.’ Her eyes lock on to mine and she narrows her stare, baring her teeth. ‘That’s it, you drugged me.’

  She’s accused me of this several times since landing here, which is understandable. ‘We’ve travelled forward,’ I say, ‘but I had no idea you would come with me and I promise,’ I stare at her intently, ‘I have not drugged you.’

  Finch stumbles and I would have watched her fall if it wasn’t for Mark’s recent collapse. I recognise the look just in time, slide forward and grab her as she faints, becoming a dead weight in my arms. We slide awkwardly to the floor where I do my best to get her into the recovery position. Her face is pale. It’s freezing out here. She’s wearing a skirt and tights and heels, and my jacket – wrapped loosely around her – is doing about as much good as me. For the first time since my arrival I begin to panic. What if she catches pneumonia?

  Move Joe. Come on, do something.

  I consider my options. There aren’t many that don’t involve a hypothermic hypnotist. Decision made, I lift her carefully and begin dragging her (cave-man style) across the road, towards her house, leaving a suspicious and incriminating trail in the snow behind us.

  When I hear sirens I’m initially relieved; at least an ambulance will have people and blankets, but that quickly turns to fear as I see multiple blue lights emerging from the falling snow, pulsing and strobing over the glacial scene. I count three police cars, the yellow decals on their body-work standing out in the white haze. They screech to a stop around us, their headlights illuminating me like Quasimodo, hunched over Esmeralda.

  Car doors slam and I see dark shapes moving towards us. ‘Miss Finch,’ a male voice calls out, ‘are you alright?’ Another voice demands that I identify myself.

  I clear my throat. ‘Joseph Bridgeman,’ I reply. ‘She’s okay, she’s just passed out.’

  It’s all I manage to say before I’m spun around and pushed face-first into the snow. A knee presses hard into my back and I feel a disconcerting crunch. I guess it’s not okay then, not okay at all. My plan, to persuade Alexia Finch that I’m a time-traveller, hasn’t gone particularly well and I get the distinct impression this snow storm is about to become a shit storm, with extra sprinkles.

  ‘This is D.I. North,’ a man’s voice above me booms, ‘we’ve found her, I repeat, we’ve found Finch.’

  2.

  The interview room is old, probably built in the seventies and a bit tired now; much like myself. Opposite me is a dour looking man who identifies himself as Detective Inspector North, which is ironic, considering how quickly things have gone South. North is about fifty, a little overweight with a receding hairline and the look of a wax-work Kiefer Sutherland. He’s studying me, stoney-faced, ‘Interview of Joseph Bridgeman resumed at…’ He glances at his watch and sighs, ‘2:57 p.m. on the 25th of December 2014. Present are myself and Police Constable Victoria Blake.’ He checks his notes and glances up at me, eyes black and beady, ‘You do not have to say anything Mr Bridgeman, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’

  I nod. Yep. Heard it all on T.V., and in the movies – loads.

  ‘And you’ve waived your entitlement to a duty solicitor or one of your own choosing?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply as confidently as I can manage, ‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’ I look around the room and swallow, licking my dry lips, looking every bit the hiding kind. ‘Are you actually charging me with anything?’

  North takes a sip of coffee. ‘At this stage, no, we aren’t.’ He smiles, sarcastically. ‘But we can hold you for twenty-four hours. Miss Finch is also being interviewed.’ He taps his cheap pen on the table. ‘Depending on her statement you may be charged.’

  ‘With what?’ I ask, clearing my throat and noticing how P.C. Blake, a petite but strong looking woman, clenches her jaw in apparent anger every time I speak.

  North shuffles paperwork, ‘You may be charged with suspected kidnapping.’

  ‘What?’

  He leans in, ‘Alexia Finch was last seen on the nineteenth of December.’ His tone has shifted to that of a prosecutor, ‘She didn’t show up for a party, one that multiple witnesses claim she planned to attend.’ He reads from his notes, ‘She then missed a flight to France on the evening of the twenty third, no sightings of her, absolutely none at all. She disappeared, Mr Bridgeman – completely.’

  I swallow, ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘Well, that’s a good question.’ He opens a red folder and pulls a number of pieces of paper from it. He fans them out across the table; notes, photocopies and bank statements. Oh shit.

  ‘You appear to have received a large sum of money recently,’ North comments, a sly smile flicking between him and his trusty colleague. I look at her, not him, desperately trying to guess how much trouble I’m in. I think she’s shaking her head but that could be the throbbing of my pulse. ‘A friend and I won the lottery,’ I say, voice cracking.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ he says, dryly. ‘We’ve spoken to him.’ He changes the subject, ‘So, you were one of Miss Finch’s patients.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Took a shine to her did you?’

  ‘What? No, I –’

  ‘You live alone?’

  ‘Yes,’ I manage. ‘But what’s that got –’

  ‘Let me tell you what I think happened,’ North interrupts, smiling. ‘I think you fell for your therapist, maybe told her how you feel and something went wrong and you panicked.’ He sighs and shifts his tone to a more fatherly sounding version, still an arse but a touch friendlier. ‘Listen, I don’t think you’re a bad man, I just think you made a mistake and when we found you, you were trying to get her home, make things right.’

  I think back to the scene, how it might have looked, my tracks being hidden in the snow like a dirty secret. ‘No!’ I say loudly. ‘That’s not it at all.’

  ‘What then?’ He snaps, leaning in further, the overhead fluorescent lights affording his skin a pallid sheen. ‘What happened, Mr Bridgeman? Why did we find you dragging Miss Finch, unconscious, across the street, right opposite her home?’

  ‘Nothing happened,’ I say, thinking aloud. ‘I went to see her and when I found her she had collapsed in the street, confused, I was trying to help.’

  ‘Interesting,’ he sneers, mocking me. ‘Now, I’m the one who’s confused.’ He leans back in his chair, folding his arms. ‘You see, Miss Finch isn’t the only one who’s been absent recently.’ His eyes narrow and I see his top lip twitch. ‘Why don’t you tell me where you’ve been?’

  ‘Me? Well I’ve...’ I pause, knowing that the answer is no-where, that I haven’t existed for the last six days. ‘I’ve been away,’ I mumble, the weakness in my voice clear.

  ‘Away,’ he whispers to himself with a nasty smile. ‘Listen to me, Mr Bridgeman, you may not realise it but you are actually a very lucky man.’

  ‘Lucky, I don’t follow?’

  ‘Normally, this kind of case would have broken open by now, been all over the news, front page this sort of thing, especially this time of year.’ He nods. ‘Think about it, a woman goes missing, ex-patient on the run.’

  ‘I haven’t been on the run,’ I snort.

  He ignores my protests. ‘It’s only because her Father insisted that we’ve kept it quiet. He wanted us to give it more time, said he was convinced his daughter woul
d turn up.’

  I take a deep breath, forcing my rib-cage to expand further than it has for the last five minutes. This is mightily messed up, but it makes sense. Alexia and I disappeared, literally blinked out of existence and then the world worried. Well, about her anyway. That’s when it hits me. Smack in the centre of my brain. Why am I sat here, churning my stomach into knots when none of this matters? I’ve been so busy playing along with this odd episode of a police procedural that I’ve forgotten what I am! And more importantly what I can do. I can change this, go back and stop it happening. All I have to do is…

  ‘Mr Bridgeman?’

  ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘Do you often drift off like that?’ North asks, looking down his nose. ‘Get lost in your thoughts?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, a little more cheerfully this time. ‘Do I have to answer your questions?’

  ‘No, you don’t, but –’

  ‘Am I allowed a phone call?’ I look up at the small black camera in the corner of the room and smile. ‘I think I’m allowed that.’

  ‘Yes, you are allowed to let someone know you’re here,’ North says. ‘But first I want to –’

  ‘I would like my phone call now please.’ I fold my arms and widen my smile. I could dance the funky chicken, show the camera my back-side and announce that I’ve kidnapped a hundred women and it wouldn’t make a jot of difference. I’m a time-traveller and the law doesn’t stand a chance.

  North folds back the cuffs of his grey shirt, eases his head left and right and sighs heavily. ‘Let me tell you something, Joseph. Can I call you Joseph?’ He doesn’t wait for my permission. ‘There’s no smoke without fire. Something has happened here, and you can pretend all you want that you don’t know anything.’ He studies me with contempt. ‘But you do, I can see it. People like you mess up, Joseph, even the smart ones.’ He stops and seems to consider this. ‘Especially the smart ones. They get cocky, think they’re in control, that they are calling the shots.’ He places his pen slowly and purposefully onto the table and smiles. ‘Trust me when I tell you, and this is born of experience, that it’s better you start telling the truth now or risk drowning in your own lies.’