The Unexpected Gift of Joseph Bridgeman (The Downstream Diaries Book 1) Page 5
Okay then, I guess I am. It’s nine o’clock and I check the temperature. Close to boiling. Can’t see the point of a lukewarm bath. In my opinion, skin damage is warranted if I can get my bones close to glowing. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this. The lights are out and I have candles flickering on the window sill. I’ve decided to give this sleep thing a shot, even if I do feel like a girl.
I undress, slip into the soapy water and jump out almost immediately. Two seconds of cold later and I immerse myself slowly. The pain arrives, but also the deep, permeating sensation of heat into my lower back. I reach for my massive glass of red and sigh, long and heavy. If my friends could see me now.
In the T.V. show, canned laughter would be inserted here. Because, well… you know, I don’t have any friends.
* * *
I’m in my study, pyjamas on, favourite leather chair. Habit, it seems, is like an old slipper. I don’t wear those yet, haven’t earned them. I went through a phase of feeling old when I wore my PJs. Now they feel earned, they feel exactly right. Mine are thick cotton. Pale grey, with light purple stripes. The attire of a true gentleman. They have a collar and buttons. Sometimes I spend an entire day in them. Soon, I marvel, I might be wandering the streets in them. Except by then they will be piss-stained and oily.
I realise these probably aren’t the kind of thoughts my hypno-whats-it had in mind for me before bed-time. This is part of the new routine. I shrug and imagine quote marks around routine, you know, like media wankers do.
I try to clear my mind.
Bananas.
Damn.
The more I think about sleep the worse it gets. I pick a book off the shelf, some Sci-fi clap-trap I guess someone lent me once. Whatever it is, I don’t really care, I just hope the words act like magic pills. My chair is comfy, but nothing compared to the bosom-like softness of Finch’s nutty super-chair. I slide sideways and end up with my head on one leather arm and my feel dangling over the other. I wish – not for the first time – that sleeping tablets worked for me. It would be a lot easier.
I am drawn – as I often am – to an object on one of my shelves. It’s a box, around four inches square, brown and dimpled. I open it and smile, staring at the beautiful object, fighting the pain that always rides in on nostalgia. It’s a watch, but you may not have heard of the make. Rado; a swiss company that, in my humble opinion, created some of the most beautiful watches ever made. Of course, I am bound to say that, I’m biased because this watch belonged to Dad, it’s my connection to him. I glance up at the clock on the wall and back at the timepiece. Dad’s 1963 Rado NCC 202 keeps perfect time, always has. A panel on the right of the face displays the month, day and date. It reads:
12 WED 03
I carefully lift it from the box and put it on. It’s silver with a silver band. Big and heavy, perhaps even fashionable again. Who knows? What I do know is the condition is mint and I adore it. I place it to my ear and listen to the reassuring tick of Swiss engineering, a comforting reminder of better days.
I sit for a while, unsure what to do next.
I consider playing some records and seeing the night through as normal but decide I need to give this a proper go. I read for a bit, turn out the light and lay in darkness. Not thinking about Amy is like not thinking about those long yellow fruits, you know the ones that grow on trees?
Argghhhh.
The door to my study is open, and I can see the oven’s digital clock in the kitchen, edging the shapes of furniture in a pale green light. Next to me, the soft red glow of a plug extender. We aren’t often in true darkness anymore.
No way I’m sleeping.
I turn on the light, sit up and groan. Who am I kidding? My heart rate is jumping like popcorn in a pan and I’m wide awake.
I get up, go to the kitchen and open the tea and coffee cupboard above the kettle. I don’t know who I think might have purchased chamomile on my behalf because all I have are regular tea bags and some coffee granules. I keep the instant for guests and Martin. I don’t have any guests, but I like seeing Martin’s face when he drinks it. He always nods his appreciation. I think he actually, genuinely, likes it.
I end up in my bedroom. Weird for me, but I wonder if maybe I should try it tonight. You know, think outside the box and actually sleep in a bed. As I lay here in bed, I feel like a character in some dark fairy-tale - the King who never sleeps. I stare at the ceiling and wonder if I should get some ladders and draw a ‘hypnosis focus dot’ up there.
The time according to Rado is thirty-one minutes past midnight. The rotating letters announce the day to be halfway between, WED and THU.
I knock out the light and think about the hypno’s advice, about how I can use some of the techniques she showed me at home.
I listen to my watch ticking gently and move it closer to my ear.
Tick, tut, tick, tut.
I take deep breaths and open and close my eyes in time with the inner workings of the watch. I continue this and begin to count down from a hundred.
I need to imagine a safe place. In the darkness of my bedroom, alone as I am, the beach scene from earlier feels too raw somehow. I need somewhere closer, more familiar.
Tick, tut, tick, tut.
Vinny. The shop. That’s a place I like, a safe place, for me anyway.
As I reach 89, I imagine flicking vinyl forwards on one of the many racks. The feel of air rushing up as I pull the square slips forward; the beautiful smell of age and secret sounds waiting for a needle to unlock them.
16.
I wake. I’m in bed and there is a thin line of light bleeding though a crack in the curtains. I stare at the ceiling for a moment, trying to figure out what’s happening. When you haven’t slept properly, for as long as I have, waking normally can be confusing. I wonder if that’s what this is.
Normal.
Have I just experienced a normal night’s sleep?
I think back to the previous evening and realise I forgot to set my alarm again. That could have been bad. If I’d had an episode I could have been locked in for hours. I didn’t. I recall nothing, no dreams and that is just pure, old-fashioned luck. I glance at my watch, my trusty little ‘Rado hypno-buddy’ and smile. Just gone 6 a.m. I have slept for nearly six hours. Well, five and a half, but come on!
I appreciate that may sound like a shite night’s sleep to you, but for me, well, it’s nothing short of a miracle. Mark used to refer to something that took ages as ‘yonks’. If it took more than ages then it was ‘yonkon donyons’. I have no idea why, but last night I believe I slept for yonkon donyons and I’m very happy about that.
Well, you know, as happy as I get.
I tune into the morning and hear the beeping and hydraulics of the recycling truck, which reminds me (again) that I didn’t put my flaming recycling out (again). Christ, what’s wrong with me? Why can’t I remember simple things like that? As I lay in bed, eyes adjusting to the light, I suspect that if I could get five to six hours of sleep a night, my ability to function would improve exponentially. The most surprising thing though, is actually something that’s missing.
My headache is gone.
When you’ve been ill – you know, a nasty stomach bug that wrings you out like a flannel – don’t you find that afterwards you appreciate what it feels like to be normal that much more? Just being can be a real pleasure. I’m getting a sense of that now. I didn’t even realise I had a headache because it had been there so long. It’s the absence of it, the lack of a vice-like grip around the base of my skull that tells me I had a headache, for about a month, and now it’s gone. Just like that. In fact, it hasn’t just gone, it has been replaced by a warm, glowing feeling and a clarity I had all but forgotten.
I sit up, stretch and yawn. I feel great. I feel refreshed, sharp and ready for action.
I’m the most tip-top.
Diddly om.
Top Cat.
Oh, sleep, how I have missed thee.
I get up and draw the curtains
. It’s grey and raining, but man, I don’t care half as much as I did yesterday. I see the recycle men (well, what would you call them?) in their fluorescent jackets, running and grabbing boxes. They are busy, and I find myself nodding. I’m going to be busy today too, but not recycling, I’m going to be creating. I don’t know what yet, but today isn’t a passive day, I can feel it.
Just as my imagined day of positivity begins, I hear a bang. Not a loud one, but a definite, deliberate bang and, more importantly, it came from inside the house.
I pity the burglar who decides to rob me, unless they are a lover of vintage vinyl they aren’t going to –
There it is again. Thudding and banging, clearly coming from downstairs. There is someone in the house.
IN THE HOUSE.
I’m frozen for a while, mainly by uncertainty. I’m just not sure what to do. Apathy is often the winner in my internal battles of decision making. Doing nothing is, in my experience, exactly what you should do sometimes. After all, there’s probably a perfectly good explanation for this, something innocent I suspect. I hope so anyway, otherwise I might be in trouble.
Then it hits me. It’s the police.
Crash, bang. Thud.
I’ve slept for four weeks and they are here - probably expecting to find my body. Actually, a month in bed would explain why I feel so good…
More noise. It’s not the police, is it? They would call, ‘Mr Bridgeman, it’s the police!’
Probably.
I realise I can’t just do nothing. They (he, she, or it) are being pretty loud down there. I look around the room for a weapon. Not much, unless I want to attack someone by repeatedly jabbing them with my toothbrush or hitting them with a shoe. I decide to creep downstairs, grab one of the cast-iron fire utensils and confront the intruder. Well, at least sneak a look.
Good plan. I really don’t want to call the actual police. That would involve paperwork, conversation and probably tea and biscuits; the last thing I want to do with my new-found ability to think straight.
The noises become louder as I creep, cat-like, down the stairs. They are coming from my study, there is someone in my study.
Kids maybe? I’ve just tidied up as well! Little bastards scratching my vinyl? Maybe they have a nick-name for me. Perhaps I’m ‘dirty Bertie from number thirty’. Who knows, but the little shits are going to get a surprise when they see me, iron poker raised, mad glint in my eye.
Joe’s back!
That kind of event could seed some fertile mythology with the local youth, maybe even make their Facebook pages.
On second thoughts, I think I might just hang back and observe. The study light is on, bleeding from the half open door. I cut across the lounge and quietly, carefully, remove a black iron poker from its stand next to the log-burner. It’s heavy, quite sharp on the end and could do some serious damage. I make a mental note to not panic and stab myself. I remember a kid at school threatening someone with a knife, slipping and then stabbing his own leg. There was lot of the red stuff, and I mean a lot. He nearly bled out. Idiot.
It has gone quiet now. Have they heard me? I crouch behind the sofa, my head protruding just enough to see. Unless they climb out of the window – and therefore bugger off, all sorted – they will have to come this way. When they do, I am hoping they just go out the front door with a few things under their arms. I could live with that, rationalise it as a learning experience. Also, if I can get away with not confronting them, then all’s good. However, if it’s Martin, I will deliberately scare the bejesus out of him. You know what? I bet it’s him. Ten quid (not that I have it) it’s Martin.
A figure emerges, a dark silhouette in the doorway, haloed by a warm golden glow. The light goes out, it’s dark again and my eyes have to re-adjust. The shape looked male, but it happened too fast to be sure. The intruder walks into the hallway. I edge along the sofa, not sure what to do. The hallway light flicks on and he (I think it’s a he) pads off. The bare faced cheek of it all, walking around my house as if he owns the bloody place!
It must be Martin.
I catch a glimpse but they’re gone. I slide out from behind the sofa, feeling like I’m the bloody intruder, and tip-toe, comedy style, down the corridor, poker raised.
My extremely confident and very rude intruder is in the kitchen now and the lights are on. I press myself against the hallway and edge towards the open door. I take three deep breaths, hold the last and ease my head round, getting my first decent look at my mystery man.
It’s not Martin.
If the guy in my kitchen looked up now, he would see a head, floating, middle left of the doorframe, mouth hanging open like one of those clown busts at the fairground, the ones where you have to throw a ball right into their chops.
I’m staring, processing.
And decide that I am, finally, going mad.
The world spins and my throat dries up. I duck my head back into the hallway and try to breathe. The poker almost falls from my hand but somehow I manage to keep hold. Somehow.
I can’t stay here, I think, panicking. It could be dangerous. What if he sees me? God knows what might happen! Shit, that would be impossible right?
Oh my God. Oh my God.
I’m shaking my head side to side as if telling the world this scenario is unacceptable, which of course it is. All I can think to do is run. Luckily, I have the wherewithal to tread lightly and manage to make the short distance to my study quietly enough. I slip inside, gently close the door and then slide down until I reach the floor, shaking all over.
I’m in shock, I realise, deep shock - and let me be clear, you would be too. Outside I hear the recycling truck again. For clarity, recycling is once a week, always a Wednesday morning, never two days in a row.
I’m trying to get my head around it but then I hear a smash (the smash) and I know, finally accept what my fragile mind is silently screaming. The smash was the glass I dropped when I was making a smoothie. Remember? I glance up at the clock in my study. 8:35 a.m. My little pre-juice accident is bang on time.
I know how mad this sounds, but the guy in the kitchen? He’s definitely, unequivocally, absolutely, me. And today is Wednesday again, also known as Yesterday.
Somehow – and please don’t expect me to explain – I fell asleep last night and have woken up the morning before. Today is the day I decide to go and see Alexia Finch, the day I drop in and see Vinny and pick up my new record.
Oh Christ.
It’s yesterday and there are two of me in the same place. If we (and by we I mean me and me) meet, it could break something, I don’t know, implode the world, destroy the space-time continuum, or other such things they say in films.
Whatever this means, whatever happens next, there is no doubt in my mind. I am totally and utterly screwed.
Part Two - Yesterday
1.
I’m freezing and I hear muffled shouting, mixed with laughter. There is a pressure against the base of my skull and if it doesn’t let up soon I’m going to drown. I scream but all that comes out is a monotone burst of bubbles. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth; the taste is bitter, a mixture of wet paper, bleach, and piss. Yes folks, you may have already guessed it, I’m getting a ‘swirlie’, which is a nice sounding way of telling you my head is in a toilet.
I try to stay calm, to relax into my torture (it kind of works for wedgies, well, sometimes anyway) but my chest is in spasm and my lungs are wondering what the hell has happened. I reach up and smack at my assailant’s hands but that only serves to plunge my head further into the stinking water. I can’t help it. I scream again, swallow a load of water and begin coughing large bubbles, eyes pinched tight.
In geography this morning I learned that over 100,000 people die each day across the globe. Well, I think we can add an extra one.
Joseph Bridgeman, aged sixteen. A once promising student, extinguished from this world too soon, taken from us in a bizarre school convenience accident. May he rest in pieces.
Finally,
as the world begins to darken, I am yanked upward, water and snot dripping down onto the streaked porcelain. There is an eruption of laugher, like a pack of excited hyenas watching their prize collapse. I am dragged from the cubicle and spun for all to see, presented to the baying crowd. I would rather keep my eyes shut, but I tried that once and got kicked in the balls for my trouble. I am, what the teachers here call, a very fast learner.
I scan the group – around ten kids, mainly boys – and spot a couple of girls at the back, smiling. When I say girls, I mean the kind who will give you a hand-job behind the bike-sheds for ten cigarettes. I twist and wriggle but the hand gripping the scruff of my neck feels like the jaws of a Rottweiler. When I finally turn and see my assailant’s expression, that analogy feels wrong.
Shane Rammage’s lips are pulled back in a grin, but it isn’t dog-like. He looks more like a two year old who has just figured out he can spit food all down his front. He must be twice my size, like some kind of genetic experiment gone wrong. His teeth don’t seem to fit properly into his head either; they look as though they are jammed in there, two layers deep, and that hair? It’s almost like an afro, big and fluffy. He looks like a clown, one that can’t be bothered with the make-up anymore and has replaced the creation of laughter with fear. In other words, Shane Rammage is a freak and – just in case I haven’t been clear – he’s also a complete and utter bastard.
He stares at me, eyes alive, and for a brief moment I sense a connection, but it’s fleeting and panic sets in as I see them dull again, as if some dark dynamo in his twisted brain has just had a brilliantly nasty idea.
‘Want to see the little rich boy go down again?’ Rammage barks at the crowd.
Oh, they do. They squeal in excitement but it’s short-lived. The bell sounds and the throng of onlookers sigh in disappointed unison. For them, the spectacle is over, for me it’s merely a short stay of execution. This has been going on for months and there is no end in sight.