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

  I look around my now tidy house. It looks huge! Martin will be amazed when he sees this. I make a mental note to get in touch with him. I need to get my business going again, and quick. There is no way they are taking this house. Wow. Listen to me!

  Christ. I feel great.

  12.

  I have man-flu.

  I’ve heard the phrase so many times and honestly, it’s just rude. Did you know it’s clinically proven – but don’t quote me on this – that men do feel worse when they get the flu? There must be some reason of course, some evolutionary explanation as to why we take to our beds and suffer, but it’s true. Actually, mankind may have man-flu to thank for its very survival. Not today though, my back aches and my eyes hurt. My eyes for God’s sake! If I look left and right they kill. I feel awful, I mean properly horrible. Where the hell did I pick this up from?

  Last night I felt fine, but this morning I’m wondering what hit me. Good Day Sunshine has turned into Goodbye Blue Sky. Metal note: I might have a Pink Floyd month next month that could work well with a heavy bout of the flu. I’m shivering and my head is pounding. Shall I carry on listing my symptoms? No, probably not, but I feel like luke-warm shite. Okay?

  Sleep comes and I drift away. I’m shaking occasionally like a dog left out in the rain. I dream about Amy. Not viewing, just normal dreams. Memories of the night she disappeared. It’s different when I dream, looser and more vague. Also, in dreams you have the luxury of creating things that didn’t happen. I sometimes imagine Amy never went missing, that we walked home together and all was fine. On the night she disappeared there was a man who took a picture nearby. When viewing I don’t see his face, but in my dreams I see him clearly. He looks familiar but I can’t place him. In the distance I see the merry-go-round and convince myself I see Amy waving. She’s moving too fast though, like she’s sped up. The vision becomes muddled and I end up years later on stage, behind my trusted Korg keyboard. Mark D’Stellar is up front, he’s chatting with the crowd who are – as always – in the palm of his hand. He turns and smiles at me. The crowd are calling out for another song. Amy, Amy, Amy they chant over and over again. What? I don’t know that one, I think. Shit, what do I do? Mark’s smile disappears; he’s shaking his head. ‘Where are your clothes?’ He asks, voice muddy and distant. I look down and yep; the cliché dream to end them all has descended. I am naked in front of the entire college.

  Nice.

  I wake and I’m shouting, explaining to my dream audience the reason I’m wearing no clothes. I’m shocked to discover it’s true. I’m naked and sopping wet, as if I’ve just had a shower, and it’s dark outside. Somehow I’ve managed to lose my pyjamas and most of my bedding. I check the time but my watch has gone too; seems I’ve been a busy boy in my sleep. I lay shivering in the half light and swallow. My throat is hot and scratchy and my headache is worse than before. The phone is ringing. I listen until it stops, pull up the duvet and sink into sleep again.

  By the time Sunday arrives I’m feeling, if anything, even worse. I manage a bath, at my usual nuclear temperature, which helps my aching back but by early evening I’m back in bed. I become convinced I’m dying. Whatever Alexia Finch did to me has fucking killed me. Death by hypnosis. I bet that’s happened, you know; some kind of ninja death technique. She somehow persuaded me to expire and now my subconscious is obliging. When I crawl back into bed, guess what? I find my pyjamas and watch, as if I’ve laid them out ready. I wince. I’m going billy-bonkers. Seriously. I put them on with another two layers of clothing. My teeth are chattering, like a comedy cartoon. This is so lame.

  13.

  It’s light. Morning? I heard a sound downstairs and you can probably guess what my first thought was. Yep. Other Joe is back! I sit up quickly and wince. My symptoms have changed again. My back doesn’t ache quite so much, but there is a new, and by new I mean horrible, addition to my list of ailments. You know when you eat ice-cream too fast you get brain freeze? Well, the centre of my head feels a bit like that. It’s the weirdest sensation. It makes me crave my morning coffee more than ever, something to warm up the icicles forming in my skull.

  I hear footsteps on the stairs. I’ve kicked the duvet away during the night but, luckily, my pyjamas are still on. I don’t know why I’m worried about it, I probably ought to more worried about who is about to burst into my room, rather than the embarrassment of being naked.

  The bedroom door opens and I breathe a sigh of relief. It isn’t Other Joe.

  ‘Oh Christ, you aren’t even up yet!’ Martin’s face is curled in disgust, ‘Joe, it’s gone eleven.’

  I swallow and sigh heavily, ‘I’m not well,’

  Martin tuts loudly, ‘Well, that’s nothing new. Come on, get up.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s what people do, Joe.’ He pulls open the curtains with a snap, flooding the room in sunlight. ‘Especially when they have things to do.’

  ‘What day is it?’

  ‘Monday.’ He folds his arms, ‘Most people are at work.’

  ‘Work?’ I pull the duvet up to my neck, ‘I’m not well, I feel terrible.’ Martin walks to the edge of my bed and I notice an envelope in his hand. ‘What’s that?’ I ask.

  ‘Get dressed.’

  ‘But you haven’t answered my question!’ I look at the envelope again.

  Martin walks away, ‘Shower, then we will talk.’

  Turns out my house is an asset and because of my Mother’s needs – also see bills – the Government have decided to tap that asset. It really is excellent timing.

  That’s sarcasm.

  ‘Joe?’ Martin asks, sitting opposite me at the breakfast table. ‘Do you understand what I’m telling you?’

  I stare back at him. Martin is so annoying, so bloody righteous, but I know, deep-down that he is trying to help me. He is a decent bloke, one who doesn’t actually need to be here. He has also made coffee, instant and therefore shite, but at least it’s warm, has eased my brain freeze a little.

  ‘Why do you do this?’ I ask, rubbing my head.

  Martin shakes his head, ‘I ask myself the same question - often, as it happens.’ He pauses, clearly trying to answer correctly. ‘I made a promise to your Dad, Joe, promised I would take care of you and your Mum, no matter what.’

  ‘Don’t bring him into this.’

  ‘I’m not, I’m just telling you why I’m here. He was a good man Joe, he would be worried about you.’ Martin pauses. ‘If you he saw you like this, he –‘

  ‘Dad lost his right to an opinion, remember?’

  Martin nods and stares at the floor. I know this is the part where I should thank him for sticking to his promise, for seeing it through. But, as any addict will tell you – I guess I’m addicted to the opposite of happiness – you always hurt those closest to you. I sigh heavily and pretend to read the letter again. ‘How long do I have before the bastards take it?’

  ‘One month.’ Martin says, draining his mug and standing. ‘Listen, I could help out, maybe –’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Joe, you could be out on the –’

  ‘There’s no way I’m letting you bail me out, you’ve been doing that forever.’ It’s the closest he gets to receiving a thank you. ‘This isn’t your problem,’ I say, ‘it’s mine.’

  He pushes a packet of flu-capsules towards me. ‘Take two more in four hours. I’ve stocked up your medicine cabinet as well. All you had in there was Vitamin C, which clearly hasn’t worked. You know, if you took better care of yourself you –’

  My raised hand and enthusiastic nodding seems to have stopped him. He’s a little red in the face but other than that we are returned to silence. Fucking bastards. They’re going to get the house after all. My parents were wealthy once, paid their taxes, made a ton. Now, the final wall of the Bridgeman sandcastle is about to be washed away.

  Out of nowhere, an idea forms in my mind, something I can do that might just make things bearable. It grows steadily as I get rid of Martin,
usher him along with promises and assurances. I end up in my favourite chair, with a blanket over me. Okay, so I feel like an old man, but I don’t care. The idea I had earlier was to play ‘Taxman’ by the Beatles. I wasn’t sure which version (I own many) but in the end, the brand new mono master wins. The Fab Four were more involved in the mono mastering apparently. It’s how they wanted to be heard. As George’s distorted guitar rips the room open and the anti-government lyrics kick in, I don’t give a flying fuck anymore, which is exactly what I needed. The words suggest I should be thankful that the taxman doesn’t ‘take the lot’.

  It’s not the first time I realise that viewing (in an indirect but very potent way) is my taxman and he’s finally here to collect.

  And I thought Shane Rammage was a git.

  14.

  Brain freeze really hurts, but we laugh it off because we know it’s going to end. Right? Well, last night my unique form of man-flu hit its peak. I suffered acute brain freeze that didn’t fade and didn’t stop. Can you imagine that? I thought I was dying. It was fucking painful but then I woke up and now I feel…Well, it’s odd.

  I feel absolutely fine. I mean, better than fine, like the man-flu thing never happened. Whatever weird strain I had, I seem to have managed to kick its arse overnight. I make a time calculation, midday by the look of the light. I sit up and frown. That was by far the weirdest few days of my life.

  I shower, get dressed and get myself going. I’m starving and, after finding a tenner scrunched up in an old pair of jeans, I decide the best thing I can do is go out and fill my face. Feed a cold, starve the flu my Mum used to say. Well, the flu starved me and it’s time to stock-up again.

  I head to Montpellier Mocha but change my mind on the way. Liv won’t be there now and I have one other café I go to occasionally, an independent one. I arrive at ‘The Grind House’ and order a full English, no bacon. Did I ever tell you I went through a phase of eating only bacon? It might sound good initially but I wouldn’t recommend it.

  After devouring my late breakfast I find a quiet seat in a corner and grab a random book from one of the many shelves. It’s a photographic history of Cheltenham. I begin flicking through its pages, drawn in by the strange familiarity and subtle differences of years gone by. I know I should be more worried about Martin’s news, should probably be planning my future, but with my belly full I lose myself for a while, enjoying the simple pleasure of a body freed from pain.

  ‘Another coffee?’ A waiter asks.

  I’m wrenched from my book and look up quizzically.

  ‘Would you like another coffee, Sir?’ He asks again. ‘Or perhaps something a little stronger’.

  I glance at the clock. Shit! It’s nearly 5 p.m. My life comes rushing back. The bloody flu has knocked me right out of kilter. It’s Tuesday, my appointment with Alexia Finch is in half an hour. I know I can’t blame her for the weirdest flu ever, but she still has some explaining to do, starting with all the trippy shit that’s happened since my session with her. I begin to count small change into the waiter’s hand. He sighs and raises an eyebrow so high it looks like it might detach. I give him a look that says ‘Yep, it’s great being me.’

  15.

  Cheltenham is beautiful, especially in December. The lights that define the Promenade shimmer in the distance. Couples and families walk hand in hand. It’s nearly five thirty and I can tell that some people already have a few drinks down them. Those days are behind me now; they feel like someone else’s life. I cross the street, ducking behind a bus and cut across the Park towards ‘Hypno-headfuck’s’ office. I’m trying to decide how to play this. Cool but interested, or concerned and angry. Either way my heart is racing again. Why can’t life just go smoothly? I wouldn’t need to interact with anyone then.

  I pull my collar and button my duffel coat. It’s freezing and for the first time since Martin told me the bad news I feel a sense of panic. What am I going to do when they take the house? I don’t mean how will I feel about it, I mean what will I actually do? This thought is no doubt triggered by a man, sitting on cardboard, begging. His eyes are young but his skin is red leather and even his dog looks fed up. The man is holding a sign but I don’t need to read it. He needs money, probably just enough to get him drunk so he can forget his worries. I dig into my pocket, pull out the last of my change and toss it into his collection box. I don’t care what he might spend it on. If it brings him some happiness who am I to judge? Maybe he and I will be best drinking buddies soon.

  ‘Thanks mate,’ he cackles, ‘Happy Christmas.’

  I nod and press on. That’s unlikely my friend.

  White lights hang from the first floor of Alexia Finch’s office. They make the yellowish light glowing from inside look like welcoming fire. I remember how I felt the first time I came here; nervous, sceptical yet somehow optimistic. Oh well, this will be the last time. I just want to get this done and move on. Poverty waits for no man after all. I enter and immediately feel the warmth on my face. The creases between my fingers burn. The corridor is bright but the reception is empty. I remember we are out of hours; I’m supposed to go straight up. As I walk the stairs I hear voices. I check the time, just before five thirty.

  I knock. Nothing, but I can hear Finch’s voice. She’s on the phone maybe? I knock again and then enter. The room is bathed in low light. There is a man reclining in the cool chair, his eyes are closed. Next to him is Alexia Finch and she’s scowling at me.

  ‘Oh,’ I manage, not quite sure what to do.

  The man doesn’t open his eyes, which I’m guessing means he’s under. Finch shakes her head, a subtle gesture, but it’s clear she’s angry. She points at me, tapping her finger in the air like a woodpecker on an invisible tree. I shrug, confused, but then understand. She wants me to wait outside. I back out of the room and close the door.

  Well, that’s a bit rude. If you’re running over then at least say sorry. I sit in the hallway and flick through the magazines. Country houses, dogs and horses. I decide to plan my approach instead. Rather than launch into an attack about hallucinations etc., I’m going to play dumb and ask if any of her other patients have had side-effects; seems like the best way to tackle it.

  After another fifteen minutes or so I’m ready to either knock again or just go home. I don’t owe her anything, especially not an apology. She slips out into the hallway, closing the door quietly behind her. She doesn’t seem cross anymore.

  ‘Mr Bridgeman,’ she says, ‘I’m guessing you got mixed up on the dates?’

  ‘Er, what?’ is the best I can do.

  ‘You missed your appointment yesterday, I tried calling but couldn’t reach you.’ She smiles and shrugs. ‘Listen, it’s not a problem but as you can see I’m with another patient at the moment, perhaps we can –’

  ‘No,’ I say, louder than intended, ‘my appointment is today, I spoke with your secretary on Saturday, she confirmed it. Tuesday at five thirty.’

  Alexia Finch nods as if she feels sorry for me.

  ‘Why are you nodding?’ I ask.

  ‘Because it’s Wednesday,’ she says.

  16.

  I walk home in a daze, convincing myself that man-flu is responsible for my time loss, but by the time my key turns in the front door a different version of the truth is winning me over. I’m not a drinking man – my Dad made sure of that – but if I ever needed a drink, it’s now. I search the house but all I can find is an unopened bottle of cheap vodka. I place it on the kitchen island. Neat vodka? Ideally not. I descend the steps of my cellar in search of a mixer. Unless I fancy blending it with screen wash or white spirits then I’m out of luck. I turn and face an empty wine rack. Man, my cupboards really are bare; neat vodka it is. Back in the kitchen I fill a small glass with ice, pour a shot and knock it back. There’s a reason people don’t drink this stuff neat.

  I pace up and down, pulling my hair into angular shapes. How could I have missed my appointment with Finch? How could I be a whole day late? It doesn’t make sen
se. Then a thought occurs to me. Let’s presume that I did time-travel (just go with me for a second). I travelled back a day which means I re-lived the same day twice, effectively living an extra day.

  I stop pacing and frown. My eyes search nothing, calculations being made deep in my mind. I have absolutely no idea how this might work but I know one thing for sure. Nothing in this life comes free. There is no such thing as a free day, an extra day. It’s almost as though the universe eventually spotted this and then pushed me back into place, put me back where I should be.

  At times like this I imagine what Mark D’Stellar would say. He would fold his arms and give me his best professor look. ‘Now you’re jumping to conclusions and presuming you time-travelled. Before you stack a hundred assumptions on top of one another, first you need to prove you can actually do it.’

  Mark studied advanced physics and some kind of mega-brain maths degree as well, which basically means he is super-clever. It also means that whenever anyone comes up with a theory Mark is quick to remind them that it needs testing and validating. A theory is one thing, proving it is another, you need to test your hypothesis.

  I miss him but in a slightly weird way he’s always with me, kind of like Ben Kenobi. I guess when someone changes your life for the better they never leave you, not really. Well, Mark is right (of course) this crack-pot idea of mine needs validating.

  I assure myself the vodka is medicinal, grab the bottle and end up in my study, flicking through vinyl. I’m going to hypnotise myself and see if I can travel back again. I select ‘Magical Mystery Tour’ – it seems like the obvious choice – dim the lights and pour another shot. It slips down my throat and I exhale loudly as if I’m blowing out candles. I slip the L.P. from its sleeve and lift the tone arm. The belt drive kicks in and the vinyl spins. I watch the colourful inner label rotate for a while, willing myself into a more relaxed state. I drop the needle and the music starts.