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Part One - Nowhere Man

© Nick Jones

1.

‘Hey Mate, fancy your chances?’

I turn and see a man behind a stall, grinning wildly, eyes sparkling with excitement. I look down at my sister, Amy. She is holding my hand very tightly and nods, her smile filling me, lighting me up like the sun through clouds.

The fair has come to town and it’s a big one. It’s all Amy’s talked about for weeks, and it’s finally here.

‘Going to give it a go, Sir?’ The man inquires, arms wide, ‘Win the little lady something?’ He is dressed in a blue woollen three piece suit, beard trimmed neatly, the look of an era long gone. He’s smart, it works well, our own little Artful Dodger with a dash of Willy Wonka. He tips his hat at a slight angle and bends down. ‘Or perhaps you would like a go yourself?’ He whispers to Amy.

Amy giggles. She will remember this night. Seven years old and consumed by a sensory overload of colours, lights, sounds and smells. We all remember our first time at the fair, don’t we?

‘My brother, Joseph, is an amazing shot,’ she informs him with business-like candour, ‘he will probably hit them all.’

The Artful Dodger breaks into a kind laugh, which attracts interested glances from passersby. He is already enjoying Amy’s way. Everyone does. Everyone loves Amy. He leans down to her level again and whispers something in her ear. She laughs and replies, but I can’t hear it. The music from one of the new rides – some hellish looking death-trap – blocks it out.

‘Roll up, roll up!’ He suddenly screams, ‘The world famous, eagle-eyed legend that is burning Joseph bridges is taking the stand.’

Seems I am, and the stakes are high. Before I know it, I am two quid lighter and have a rifle in my hand. I pinch one eye, stare down the gun’s barrel and see the sight is fixed at a strange angle. I will need to compensate for that, I tell myself seriously, as if I am a sniper in high winds with a target acquired and confirmed.

Amy, on the other hand, has her sights set on a huge pink bear.

Boys and girls. Fourteen and seven. Chalk and cheese.

‘Two quid for three shots,’ the Dodger says, ‘but, seeing as I like you, I’m going to let you have an extra shot for free!’

Amy folds her arms, ‘My daddy says that nothing in life is free.’

‘Well,’ the man replies, ‘I’m sure your daddy is a very smart man, but sometimes,’ he cracks open the gun and loads it with pellets, ‘sometimes, the best things in life are free.’

‘The Beatles.’ I say.

‘Yeah,’ he nods his appreciation, a sort of brief reverence for The Fab Four passes between us as he hands me the rifle. ‘Hit three or more targets and she can pick whatever she wants.’

I nod, glance around at the small crowd that has gathered and then my heart nearly pops.

I see Sian Burrows, a vision of beauty, of absolute perfection, staring at me. My mouth hangs open and I just gawp at her. She’s wearing stone washed jeans and a white blouse. Her wrists are deep with bangles, her cheeks dark with blusher and her hair, oh my God, her hair. It’s big and permed and beautiful. She looks like Julia Roberts, Madonna and Sharon Stone all in one. In my imagination, this moment, this longing gaze between the candy floss and flashing lights, would have been later in the evening, but I’ll take whatever I can get.

As always, Sian is flanked by Vicky Sharp and Wendy Nelson, but her eyes are on me. Is she smiling? God, she is. She’s smiling at me. I feel a fluttering, swimming sensation in my belly. Only Sian can do this to me.

I wipe my brow and concentrate on not embarrassing myself. Amy is clapping her hands, ‘Get me the big bear, big bro,’ she squeals.

Sian Burrows smiles at me. I think I smile back. I can’t tell. I can’t feel my face. I raise the rifle and steady my heart-rate which is considerably higher than it should be. It’s just a pink bear, I tell myself, but Amy wants it and now I have an audience.

I’ve fancied Sian since the first year of Secondary school, consistently fantasised about her for nearly three years. Some people aren’t even married that long! I was plump at the start of school, but in the last year I have shot up and all that fat seems to have stretched evenly up my frame. My small amount of acne has cleared up and, for the first time in my life rather than waiting for my mum to tell me it needed doing, I got my hair cut.

I shower every morning, brush my teeth and care what I wear. And guess what? All of a sudden, girls are interested and by girls I mean the only one that matters in this context. I haven’t kissed her yet, but tonight if all goes well, I might get a Frenchie (kissing with tongues) from Sian Burrows, probably behind one of the rides, generator pumping away like the blood currently rushing to my temples.

Tiny red and black targets begin their jerky movement. I trace one but then remember what my dad taught me about shooting an air rifle. I relax and wait for the target to come to me.

I close one eye, rotate the barrel of the gun slightly, compensate for the rate of the descent that this crappy peashooter will carry, and fire. The ding of metal is loud as one of the targets goes down. Amy jumps in the air and grabs my arm, ‘Yes!’ she cries.

I smile at her and then glance up at Sian. She smiles too and then touches her hair. She looks away and then back at me. Her cheeks flush red.

Oh my God. This is happening.

I miss the next target and Sian gives me a stern nod, a supportive gesture I acknowledge with a flush of pride. Her friends are staring at me. If a look could say, leave our friend alone you dirty boy, then they have nailed it. They are the ugly sisters, but Cinderella isn’t listening. Cinders has other ideas and I’m hoping it involves saliva exchange.

I smile at Sian again, but this time it’s confident and accompanied by a wink. Yes, I actually wink at her as I raise my gun. I fire quickly and decisively as another ding rings out like a spoon hitting a pan. The small gathering seems to sense that all I need is one more shot and a mild cheer escapes them. People are clapping. I’m one shot away from a big pink bear and very close to my first proper snog.

I glance down at Amy but she’s moved, probably to get a better look. I almost raise my gun for the winning shot but I want to make sure she’s watching. Amy’s face at times like this is like fuel for life. It keeps you going, even when things get rough. A few of my mates have sisters that they wish would fall down a well or spontaneously combust. Mine, on the other hand, is the best thing that ever happened to our family. We all adore her.

I still can’t see her though and for the first time a wave of panic rushes through me. Sian Burrows is thrown from my mind and all of a sudden the fairground is closing in and expanding, somehow simultaneously.

‘Where’s Amy?’ I ask the Artful Dodger.

He looks around and drops his act for the first time, ‘Shit man, she was right there.’

I throw the gun down on the counter. My eyes are everywhere, my heart in my ears. I connect with a sea of faces, some worried, some confused, others seemingly disinterested or even amused.

She was right here.

2.

If you could be any superhero, which one would you be? It’s a simple question really, but the range of answers I hear baffles me. Growing up, from around the age of seven until recently, I would have answered with the confident ease of a true geek. Spiderman. It’s the obvious choice for anyone who truly understands how bloody cool that character is. I mean, Peter Parker is someone we can all relate to. Timid, uncertain and, at times, completely useless. But when he’s bitten by a radioactive spider he becomes this manly, agile and brilliant superhero. I know plenty of people who would scoff at the idea that Spiderman is the best candidate. Batman, they would say, he’s the coolest, the darkest, the blah de blah-est. Listen, I get it. Bruce Wayne is –

‘Joseph, are you listening to me?’

It’s Martin Watts, my accountant, and no, I’m not listening to him. ‘Huh?’ I do my best to sound as though I wasn’t a million miles away, engaged in my own Marvelous debate. Get it? Marvel-ous?

‘I asked if you were listening to me.’ Martin says again, patiently. He is staring at me over his glasses, his thinning hair and lean features give him a head-masterly advantage. Man I hated school.

I’m slouched low in one of my favourite leather armchairs. It’s beaten up and missing some of the brass studs that adorn its edges, but I love it more because of that. I like old things, I collect them and reluctantly sell them. I used to be extremely good at it, but based on Martin’s current demeanour, I’m not doing so well lately. He’s still staring at me, head weaving side to side really slowly, like a snake about to strike. ‘Joe,’ he says, ‘I need you to understand. Your parents’ money is gone, and the on-line antiques business?’ He pauses, removes his horn-rimmed glasses and begins to polish the lenses expertly, without looking at them, ‘Well, the profit is pretty much equal to the amount of effort you’ve been putting in lately.’

‘None?’ I suggest, sarcastically.

‘Not quite none, but close.’ He lifts his spectacles to the light, inspecting his work.

There are four lever arch files stacked on the coffee table between us. Martin taps the top of the pile. ‘It’s all in here.’

‘You know I’m rubbish with numbers.’ I groan, ‘Can you just give me the highlights?’

Martin looks as though he’s in pain, ‘Well,’ he says slowly, ‘the highlights, as you put it, are as follows. You’ve lost a lot of money this year and now there’s almost nothing left.’ He looks around my living room and sighs, ‘Nothing.’ As Martin continues his assessment of my living conditions his expression becomes one of pity. I don’t meet his eyes. Instead I stare at the floor.

I live in a beautiful period terrace in Cheltenham, Gloucestershire. It has three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a wine cellar, large kitchen, dining room, lounge and study. Most of my time is spent in the study trying to forget the other rooms exist. I guess I’ve stopped looking at the house. It’s too big for me, to be fair. I once considered renting one of the rooms out. The only problem is that would involve people. I’m not really what you would describe as a people person. Not anymore.

‘The house is a mess, Joe,’ he says. ‘A hovel.’

I’m tempted to bite back at this. The house is a mess, I admit that, even a teenage boy would raise his eyebrows. It’s filled with clutter and antiques – some of which I admit are junk – and generally uncared for, but me? I’m not dirty. I may be dressed in jogging pants and a hooded sweatshirt (think Rocky Balboa, in the first film) but I’m very particular about my personal hygiene, bordering on obsessive. Martin is being deliberately provocative – something he’s very good at when he wants to be – but I decide not to play. Probably because he’s right. The business, the house, me; all of it down to a lack of focus, a quality that’s been unavailable to me lately, and by lately I mean the last few years. And when you aren’t focussed, you aren’t organised. And by you, I mean me.

‘You fired your cleaner didn’t you?’ Martin says, nodding to himself.

‘Yes,’ I reply, ‘I thought you would be pleased.’

‘A few years back, you could have afforded ten cleaners. So, no. I’m not pleased. I’m relieved I suppose, because you can’t afford it now,’ he pauses and I notice his shoulders drop a little, ‘I’m also worried about you.’

I get up and walk to one of three large bay windows, the floor cold on my bare feet. The windows are tall and have wooden shutters, which sometimes stay closed for days. Not today though; I’m guessing Martin opened them.

October rain is pelting away at the glass, tapping its surface like a thousand little typewriters. Below, the streets are busy, a colourful array of cars, lights and umbrellas. It’s mid-morning and I realise I haven’t eaten yet. I haven’t even had a bloody coffee. Bloody Martin. What’s the point of wasting my entire morning on this? I don’t need him to tell me I’m screwed.

‘It’s not your job to worry about me.’ I hear myself saying. I’m watching the rain, tracing the beads as they accelerate to their doom. ‘You’re my accountant.’

‘And have been for the last ten years.’ Martin adds.

I turn to him with a deep frown, ‘Has it really been that long?’

He nods, ‘I’m also someone who cares, quite possibly the only one you allow to care these days.’

I sigh and start to hum a tune. I’m aware this is the behaviour of an annoying teenage girl but can’t seem to help it. Martin knows me and manages to ignore it. He has three girls. He’s no doubt a master at ignoring their self important attempts to appear disinterested.

‘You look tired, Joe.’ He says. ‘You look more like fifty, you have bags under your eyes. You aren’t sleeping are you?’

‘At the moment, no I’m not.’ I fold my arms and lean back on the window sill. Sleep, I get hardly any, but fifty? Cheeky bastard. I’m thirty-six and look exactly my age. ‘This has happened before,’ I assure him - and also myself, ‘sleep will come back… eventually.’

Martin is up, out of his chair. He walks to a long table and studies a freestanding, framed photograph. He picks it up, turns it to me and I know what’s coming.

‘Is this why you’re not sleeping?’ He asks, ‘Because of Amy?’

I stare at the floor again. I don’t want to go there – not today – but eventually I nod and then wait while his question loses its power.

When I look up, Martin is walking towards me. I turn my head as if a foul odour accompanies him. It doesn’t. He smells clean, to the point of being almost feminine. He places a hand on my shoulder and I see the lines on his face. He’s the one who is actually fifty and his skin is finally showing its age. He’s lean though, plays a lot of squash, which you can see in his frame. I imagine that inside, beneath the surface of his skin, he would look like one of those sinewy models you see on the walls of sports injury clinics.

‘Listen,’ he says, voice softer than I’ve heard for a while, ‘I’m not here to tell you what to do. How you live your life is up to you.’ He looks around the room and raises an eyebrow, ‘If you want to live like this, it’s your choice, but I can’t just sit by and watch you suffer, watch you throw away a perfectly good business.’

‘I’m not suffering,’ I say, ‘I’m fine.’ My voice is higher than I would like. I swallow and reset the octave. ‘I’m fine.’ I say again.

‘Sure.’ He walks back over to the coffee table, reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small white card, which he places on top of the stacked folders.

‘What’s that?’ I ask.

‘Someone I want you to go and see.’

‘No way.’

‘She’s really good, and you –’

‘I said no, Martin. The last thing I need right now is some shrink telling me how shit I am at everything.’

‘She not a shrink she’s a –’

‘Do you have any idea how many times I’ve been studied, prodded, scanned and…’ I’m searching for another word, but it hovers in the air between my lips. ‘And fiddled with?!’ I manage eventually.

Martin raises both eyebrows this time and we pause for a few seconds, staring at each other.

‘For the record,’ I point at him, eyes wide, ‘no one has ever fiddled with me.’

Martin ignores me and starts packing his things, placing piles of legal paperwork into an expensive looking briefcase. On the table I see a matching pile with yellow sticky notes indicating where I should sign. He’s a good guy, for an accountant.

He smiles at me, ‘It won’t cost you anything. Just go and see her. She might help you sleep. Will you just do that for me?’

I fold my arms and nod.

He sees himself out as always and I am returned to a wonderfully familiar and blissful silence. The rain continues its static-like hiss. My thoughts return to important things, the considerations and deliberations I was attending to before Martin Watts – the bean counter – rudely interrupted them.

To me it’s obvious. There is only one superhero that anyone should want to be.

Superman.

What about Batman?! I hear you cry in a pretty annoying voice. He’s the coolest superhero.

No. No. No.

He’s not a superhero, he’s a vigilante. He’s just a rich bloke with cool toys. If Bane (he’s the pork chop with all the pipes coming out of his dust mask) can break Batman’s back, then what chance would he have against Superman? I mean, Batman versus Superman! What the hell is that all about? Bruce Wayne in a bat suit is no different to you or I, we would break a hand in multiple places if we punched Superman. Spiderman is a superhero and – as I’ve already said – my favourite of them all, but facts are facts. Spidey wouldn’t even get to quip, ‘Hey, over here red pants!’ before he was melted into red and blue jelly.

No. If you are Superman, then you are invincible and completely awesome. You can fucking fly. You get to shoot lasers out of your eyes, and see through shit. And you know the best part? The bit that most people don’t even think about? Just because you’re Superman doesn’t mean you have to dress like him.

If I were Superman, I would wear the Spiderman outfit by day (pretending to spin webs and climb walls etc.) and then switch to Batman at night (fighting crime, being cool and laughing – high pitched to piss the bad guys off, not like Christian Bale – while bullets bounced off me). Plus, who the hell would ever think about using Kryptonite on those two? No one.

Am I right?

I nod.

I’m bloody right on this one.

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 the 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?

I’ve come to the conclusion over the years that my viewing is attracted by extremes. Love, happiness, pain, grief. They are all the same, like beacons in a mind of memories, and I am drawn to them like a moth, lighting up the world with its wisdom.

I don’t really know what triggers the viewing now, but when it comes it’s like someone has stolen the remote control to my brain. And guess what? They always seem to select the worst channels, play back through a catalogue of content I wish I could forget.

That’s what Martin meant when he asked if it was Amy. For some reason, the past is deciding that I should watch her go again, and when it does I’m strapped in for the ride. I can’t change anything of course, it’s not time-travel! So, lucky old me gets to watch her disappear over and over again.

I turn the vinyl over.

The Beatles’ In My Life finally brings sleep. It’s a great song.

There are plenty of places that I remember, but that night, that pivotal moment is the beacon my mind is drawn to. I know that evening in 1992 will hurt, and I know how it ends, but I’m helpless to resist. The viewing always wins.

9.

The smell of roasting chestnuts and sweet candy drift over me. I hear the distant screams of kids being flung at impossible speed, the grinding power of machinery, the tinkling bells of a steam organ. I’m at the fair, and Sian Burrows (My God, she’s beautiful) has just watched me down two targets in a row. One more and I win. I’m glowing, I’m on fire! I glance down at Amy, but she isn’t there. She must have moved to get a better look, or maybe positioned herself nearer to the prize.

“Get me the big bear, big bro!”

‘Where’s Amy?’ I ask the Artful Dodger.

He looks around and drops his Cockney geezer act for the first time, ‘Shit man, she was right there.’

‘Amy!’ I shout, aware of the sudden blanket of eyes on me. Sian approaches, ‘She was next to you,’ she says, ‘I mean literally a few seconds ago.’ Her voice is kind but I can’t stand it.

Amy can’t have gone missing.

I feel as though I’m on one of the rides. Spinning faster. I try to swallow but my mouth is suddenly dry. I begin to run, staggering in the direction of the merry-go-round. I can see it. Horses and woodwork, gold and red, shimmering with bulbs. Amy said she wanted to go there next, but she wouldn’t go alone. She just wouldn’t. Something’s happened to her. An image of my parents pushes up from my deepest, most fearful subconscious. They are standing in a cold room, the police station perhaps. My father is staring at the floor, my Mother is dabbing the corner of her eyes with a white lace handkerchief.

“Amy is missing,” I hear myself telling them as a bucket of adrenalin ices its way across my back.

No. No. No.

I push through crowds of people, each collision, each bump like extra mud sticking to my boots. The sounds of the fair become discordant, screeching sirens mixed with the shrill cries of terrified children. I’m terrified but my fear isn’t temporary, isn’t something that will drift away like the rides and the travellers that bring them. My fear is growing and it will remain.

Amy. My beautiful little sister; the light of the Bridgeman family, is nowhere to be seen. I can’t feel my legs as I stagger towards the brightly lit carousel, red and gold, a million warm bulbs shine out of the darkness of the fair. The blood feels as though it’s pouring for my ankles as the horses on the merry-go-round bob and spin, flashing past, mouths pulled back in panicked looking grins. Children smile and scream, parents look on hand in hand, but there’s no Amy. Where is Amy?

I’m covered in sweat. I call her name, but I can’t be heard. The music is getting louder,  and I recognise the song – so loud it’s almost deafening now – but it doesn’t belong here, it’s from a different time.

The Beatles sing, ‘Run For Your Life’. It’s like a warning. They sing about the end, about catching their girl with another man. There’s a screeching sound too, like a buzz saw cutting steel and as the world turns black all I can hear are those lyrics, echoing through my brain as they have done for years.

10.

The metallic screeching sound was my alarm, set to wake me on the hour. I started doing this a few months back, when the involuntary viewing started up again, because once I’m locked into viewing a memory, I don’t have the ability to wake - even if I want to. I’m strapped in for the duration of the torturous ride. I can only see what I saw, can only move as I did, but at least with the alarm I get an hourly reprieve no matter what.

I forgot recently and ended up looping the same moment over and over like the stylus currently bumping its way around the inner edge of Rubber Soul, hissing and popping a steady, retro rhythm of its own. I blink tears away and exhale, a weak groan escapes me, my breath shuddering and weak. I miss Amy as much now as the day I lost her.

They say time heals.

What they actually mean is you start to forget. It’s a natural process I guess, a way for our minds to cope with loss. It doesn’t work for me, I get a pin sharp reminder, am dumped right back into the raw emotion anew.

For me, time doesn’t heal, it just adds salt.

Oh yes. It sucks to be me.

I check the time. Just gone eleven. I’m in for a long night.

I walk to the record player, press a button that lifts the tone arm and the needle off the record. All that’s left now is the hum of the spinning turntable and some mild tinnitus, another side-effect brought on by the lack of sleep, I suspect.

The song, Run For Your Life, wasn’t playing that night, it just broke through the memory near the end I guess. It fitted though. I did lose her. It was one of John Lennon’s least favourite songs apparently, and one I liked up until now. It’s a shame but, I’m sorry George (he liked it), I’m with John on this one. It’s not a song I’m going to listen to again.

I do manage to sleep some more, on and off and uneventful, just normal thoughts and dreams, the kind I relish these days. I clock up a total of two and a half hours, which is better than last night but still unsustainable.

Try googling ‘minimum sleep requirement for a human’. It’s depressing reading, convinces me that I’m probably going to die of a heart attack if I keep on like this. The first female Prime Minister in Britain, Margaret Thatcher, famously slept for only four hours a night, but Albert Einstein needed ten. My two just isn’t going to cut it. There is one glimmer of hope in the form of regular siestas; the favourite past-time of the Spanish (and my favourite people). I guess if I end up living in the park – obligatory brown paper bag, inherent stink and matted beard – then I can power-nap all I like. All I will need is a cheap wind-up alarm clock and some strong booze and I’ll be good to go!

The other option is an extreme form of polyphasic sleep; a 20-minute power-nap every four hours, day and night. This would still only equal two hours in total but would be spread out and therefore – I’m guessing here – less likely to end me.

I rub my hands up and down my face as if massaging someone’s back. I’m too bloody tired to figure out the best way of being less knackered. Insomnia may be a good word, and a pretty good film, but it isn’t cool and with the forced trips down memory lane, it’s pure torture. I stand up, stretch with a loud grunt and open the heavy velvet curtains that cover the only window in my study.

It’s dull and grey. About 5 a.m. I can hear the distant beeping of a recycling truck. It’s early for them. I wonder if it’s easier when it’s quiet, or perhaps they do it for sport, laughing as people in pyjamas drag their black boxes to the roadside, swearing under their breath.

That reminds me - I haven’t put mine out.

Fuck.

11.

Six thirty a.m. After a couple of hours of crashing around, my records are in perfect alphabetical order and my study is tidy. Martin would be impressed. I wonder if he will be here when the bailiffs come knocking for the remainder of my Mother’s assets.

I’m rubbing my face again as if this hollow feeling, this eternal headache and sickening flatness can be cured by such a simple, repeated action. I know I can’t carry on like this, am aware that I need to do something to break the downward spiral.

Since Amy disappeared I’ve been through various episodes of involuntary watching. They generally last about six months and are as destructive now as ever. I’m two months into this one. If it goes on any longer I will probably lose my mind and then my Mother will no doubt accuse me of stealing her thunder.

God, how did life get so messed up?

I walk through empty rooms. This time I do turn on the lights and I sense something, a mild and distant purpose, one that reaches a crescendo as I enter the kitchen. I press all three switches and a multitude of spotlights shock the room into life. The business card is still there next to the blender. I pick it up and rotate it in my fingers, staring blankly.

Alexia Finch, Hypnotherapist.

I turn it over. On the back is a list, split into two columns. Column one reads: Anxiety, Stress, Insomnia and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Yep. That’s me.

The second column reads: Weight Loss, Tinnitus, Phobias, Sexual Problems, Procrastination. I suppose I have lost a little weight and I do have mild tinnitus but they aren’t a real concern and the only sexual problems I have are a complete lack of it. Phobias? I don’t mind spiders or heights. I hate sharks, because they eat you alive but that’s not really a phobia, that’s common bloody sense. Don’t go in the water. Surfers are idiots. Usually very cool idiots, but extremely stupid. Come to think of it, if I was a shark I would definitely go for the tanned, blonde ones first.

I stand and stare at the card for way too long. Am I really going to do this? I wonder, and then realise I’m procrastinating, the last of column two’s suggested ailments.

Ah, shit.

I decide to blend a smoothie. Martin may have known this but there’s something very therapeutic about mass murdering fruit. I reach into a kitchen cabinet and watch helpless as a pint glass teeters on the edge of the shelf and then commits suicide, shattering loudly on the floor.

‘Bollocks!’ I scream. ‘Big fat hairy bollocks!’

Saying it again makes me feel a little better as I brush up the million shards of glass. I just know I will still be finding deadly razor sharp slivers a month from now. I’m angry and decide I’m not going to Hypnotherapy after all. I toss the card into the bin. It’s the last thing I need.

What I do need is a long shower, followed by some fruit death, my usual breakfast (Liv, please), and a browse at Vinny’s (not buying today, but who cares?). Not some stupid Hypno poking around in my knackered brain.

A successful smoothie and a shower later, I fish the card out of the bin and make the call. Procrastination? Moi?

It is explained to me that the next available appointment is at least two weeks away. Fine, I say and give the receptionist my name. Next thing I know, I’m booked in at 3 p.m. today.

Bloody Martin. When he oils your wheels you really know about it.

12.

I’m crossing the road outside the expensive looking offices of Alexia Finch. The street is a quiet crescent of terraced offices. Large imposing front doors, panelled windows, white brickwork and period features. Each has an informative plaque of gold or silver; the colours, logos and typefaces of solicitors, accountants and the expensive specialists of life.

There’s only a few minutes now until my appointment, and this is the third time I’ve crossed the road and nearly gone inside. I noticed that O.C.D. wasn’t on Finch’s magic list of ailments to be cured. Shame. I could actually do with some help there. My palms are sweaty, my mouth is dry and I’m getting flashbacks (normal ones, not viewing) of my parents dragging me to see the professionals, not the T.V. show (that was awesome), but the variety-club of shrinks and so-called profs who deduced I was either mad or possessed or both.

I pass the office again, awkwardly glancing at the doorway and the sign. I pause, take a step and then pause again. I’m kind of stuck now, like a lamppost right in the middle of the pavement. I feel like I can’t move. Christ, I feel as though I’ve been hypnotised already!

The large door opens and a man exits the building, skipping quickly down two steps and almost into me. He smiles, ‘Can I help you mate?’

‘Huh?’

‘You seem lost, I asked if I can help you?’

He’s in his early twenties, tall, good looking and happy.

Bastard.

I stare blankly at him. ‘No. I’m good thanks.’ I say it confidently enough but then continue to stand there awkwardly.

He looks confused, shrugs and walks away. I look up to see a woman watching me from a first floor window. She looks directly at me and then she’s gone.

Right. Come on.

I break the spell, drag myself up the steps and go inside. I’m in a long hallway. To my right are wide, carpeted stairs, to my left a glass doorway with the words RECEPTION engraved in the centre. I smell vanilla and furniture polish. Through the glass I see two people seated and the receptionist walking back to her desk. She returns to her seat, spots me and gestures for me to enter. I reach for the handle and it squeaks as I open the door. Sweaty hands. Are they ever a good thing? Is there actually a reason for them? A good, solid, evolutionary advantage to having wet, oily hands?

‘Found us then?’ The receptionist smiles in a way that suggests she’s been watching me march up and down the street like some kind of nervous schoolboy. ‘How can I help?’

I take a step forward, swallow hard and say, ‘My name is Joseph Bridgeman, I have an appointment.’

I’ve been practicing those words in my head for the last hour, and they came out well, but I can feel the room and the people closing in on my ability to breathe but it’s okay, I tell myself. I’m fine. Breathe.

‘Please take a seat, Mr Bridgeman.’ The girl says cheerily. ‘Ms Finch is running a little late.’

I sit, wedged between the other two.

Running late.

Oh, joy.

13.

Half an hour later, I climb the staircase to the first floor and am greeted by a smiling woman. I recognise her immediately as the one who looked down earlier as I paced the street below. Her hand is outstretched. I take it in mine and feel the difference in temperature.

‘Alexia Finch,’ she grips my hand tightly, ‘but, please, call me Alex. Okay?’

I nod.

‘Getting nippy out there,’ she says with a mischievous grin, as though she is secretly one of Santa’s little helpers. ‘Come on in.’

She is dressed in black trousers, cream blouse and flat shoes. Her medium blonde hair is pulled back in a pony-tail. A lack of make-up reveals the thin lines of a woman about my age. She reminds me of someone, an actress from a film, but she is a plainer version and for now I can’t place her. My knowledge of films was once a quiz master’s dream but it has waned in the last decade or so. Still, I gaze at her for a while, the name of the actress on the edge of my brain.

I follow her into a large regency room. The ceiling is high with a decorative cornice around its edge and a glowing chandelier in the centre. It’s pleasantly warm and I smell vanilla again. There are three sash windows to my left and an oak desk, placed at an angle in the corner. On the wall are the usual certificates and also the odd painting. Calm scenes of shore-lines, sunsets and gardens. Everything is screaming calm! Even the colour of the room is calming. I suspect it has some winky-wanky name like, ‘Double Fudge Sundae’, or, ‘Buffalo Turd at Sunset’. It’s basically a warm, chocolate brown. The question of what the hell I am doing here is still banging away inside my head but, for now, I’m okay. There is a lot of space, it’s easy to breathe and for that, I am grateful.

She walks to her desk, grabs a note-pad and pen and gestures to two chairs positioned around a small coffee table in front of the central window. The chairs are standard, ergonomic office types but there is another, in the centre of the room, that has caught my eye. This chair is leather, a long couch-like thing, and clearly intended for the – soon to be asleep – patient.

This isn’t going to work on me.

She smiles, as if reading my mind. I’m hoping she hasn’t already put me under. ‘We might get to that one today,’ she says, ‘let’s see how we get on.’ Her voice is as smooth as the chocolate on the walls but that won’t make any difference. I am the master of insomnia, the serial killer of Melatonin.

We sit opposite each other.

‘So, Mr Bridgeman,’ she begins, ‘as you are a new patient I will need to take some details from you.’

‘Okay.’ Whatever.

‘But first.’ She pauses, without taking her eyes off me. ‘Many people are quite nervous about hypnotherapy, about what might happen in the first session.’

‘I’m not nervous.’ I say, nervously.

Alex nods. ‘That’s good, because you have no need to be. Everything that happens here will be because you allow it.’

‘So you aren’t going to put me under?’ I find myself asking.

‘Not at all.’ Again, she smiles. ‘In fact, there isn’t really such a thing as putting someone under hypnosis. All hypnosis is actually self-hypnosis.’

‘What?’ I say, a little higher than I would like. ‘So I do it?’

‘In a way, yes,’ she replies. ‘You see, if you don’t want to be hypnotised then it won’t happen. It’s your choice and there’s no pressure from me. We can just see how it goes.’

It’s fair to say I kind of like her more than I expected to – and that’s a rare thing for me these days – but I doubt this is going to be worth it. She seems keen I understand the process. Therapists.

Can’t live with them, can’t legally kill them.

‘Perhaps we could start with you?’ She leans forward a little. ‘Can you tell me why you are here and what you hope to get out of the sessions?’

‘Sessions?’

She pops a pair of thick black glasses on her nose and lifts the top page of her note pad. ‘Yes,’ she mumbles, ‘bom, bom, here it is. Four sessions. Your friend Mr Watts paid for them up-front.’

‘He’s my accountant.’

She shrugs, ‘Either way, you have four if you would like them.’

What I would like to do is go home, bolt every door in the house and lose myself in a deep slumber. ‘How many sessions is normal?’ I ask.

She considers the question for a moment, ‘Well, it depends. Often four is enough, sometimes it takes a little longer and I end up going deeper. As I said, we can just see how the first couple go and take it from there.’

My heart-rate has definitely slowed. She has the pace and demeanour of that rabbit from the Caramel chocolate adverts.

Why are you so busy? The rabbit used to purr. Take it easy Mr Bridgeman.

I chuckle at the thought and she smiles back. I am aware of a clock ticking. It’s quiet in her office, just the gentle rumble of distant traffic and that ticking.

‘Do you use a watch?’ I ask.

‘Hmmm?’

‘A watch, you know to swing in front of my eyes?’

It’s her turn to laugh, but she does it carefully on the inside, ‘Personally, I haven’t, but using an object as a point of focus can be a good idea. It’s a tactic, a way of distracting your conscious mind. Did you know that our brain only uses ten percent for the conscious mind? The other ninety is for the subconscious, where the real action happens.’

Makes sense to me. My subconscious eats my ten percent for breakfast. Then it hits me. Guess my brain just spat it out from back there. I remember the film. Lost in Translation. Then another, The Girl With a Pearl Earring, or necklace as Mark liked to joke. I think that’s rude but I don’t get it. Anyway, the actress is Scarlett something, but Alexia Finch is a very plain version of her, not airbrushed or dolled up. Strangely she also reminds me of a sports injuries therapist that tortured my hip joint a few years back. They have a look, her type, a slightly horsey look, mixed up with yoga and herbal tea. Bet she’s a yoga bunny.

She continues, ‘That’s really what hypnotherapy is all about; getting below the surface and doing a spot of maintenance, helping our subconscious to re-programme itself.’

‘Like brainwashing.’ I say with a shrug, delivering it in my patented and special way.

‘Perhaps.’ Alex raises an eye-brow and tilts her head forward, ‘In a way it is like washing your brain, cleaning away some of the learned behaviours that might be causing problems.’

Earlier, she described the use of a watch as a tactic. I know I have mine too. In order to avoid getting to know people I tend to be sharp, to the point and often rude. Alexia Finch seems to be very good at not biting when goaded. Her years of experience, I presume, years of listening to other people’s dross.

‘Mr Bridgeman.’

‘Joe is fine.’ I concede.

‘Joe it is.’ Her voice is silky and calming. ‘Tell me Joe. What do you hope to achieve?’

What do I hope to achieve? What does that mean? In life? Generally? I take a deep breath and sigh. I stare at the floor and guess what? No words come. I’m back at school. I swallow and feel the ticking of the clock banging against my eardrums.

She speaks slowly and quietly, ‘Perhaps you can tell me why Mr Watts felt you needed to come?’

I look up at her. ‘He wants to help save my business.’

‘And what is your business Joe?’

‘I’m an antiques dealer.’ I stop and frown, ‘Well I was.’

Alex is making notes now, ‘And how do you think I can help you?’

‘I need to sleep.’

‘You suffer from insomnia?’

‘Yes.’ I admit, breathing again.

She scribbles more notes, pushing her glasses up her nose every seven seconds or so. ‘How long have you suffered from sleep loss?’

‘Three months this time, but on and off since I was a teenager.’

This is good going for me, collectively it’s the most I have said in a single day for quite some time, I suspect. It’s exhausting but strangely enjoyable. I guess we all like to be asked questions, even weirdos like me.

I feel a mild buzzing in my stomach and am – for some strange reason– reminded of shoe-fittings as a child. I used to love the cold metal contraption they measured you with. Placing a socked foot onto it and feeling the plastic straps pulled under and around. I loved that feeling. It was way too early to be sexual. I think it just felt good to be the centre of something, yet also be normal at the same time and looked after. My Grandma was struck deaf from the age of three –measles was a bastard in those days – and when she used to speak she would echo the last word of every sentence. She would ask, ‘What do you want for your tea, Joe? And then trail a second, more whispered, Joe afterwards. That used to bring this fuzzy feeling too. I loved it.

‘Joe?’ Alex says.

‘Yeah?’ I reply, blinking.

‘You seem to have drifted off a little.’

I swallow again and blink rapidly. ‘Did you put me under?’

Alex smiles, ‘No. I won’t try and do that without your permission.’

I nod.

‘It’s a typical symptom of sleep deprivation,’ she says. ‘Do you have any idea what might be causing the insomnia?’

I stare back at her, this nice plain version of Scarlett what’s her name, and wonder what the hell to say.

‘Yeah, Scarlett. The thing is, my subconscious is like a pecking little chicken, it’s one active mother-clucker and it rules the roost! When I imagine things, I see them like you wouldn’t believe! My ninety percent decides what I watch and drags me through hours of crap every night, like a satellite T.V. channel tuned to SHITE-HD and turned up to ten.’

Instead I say, ‘Listen, I know you need to fill in the medical history stuff but really it’s pretty simple. I just need to sleep. I don’t really want four sessions. In fact, if you could just give me a pill, put me under or do some magic trick to help me out, I will be on my way,’ I glance at the clock, I’ve been in here almost ten minutes. I say, ‘How long does a session normally last?’

I am guessing my delivery was a little cold because I finally seem to have broken through her calm defences. She leans back and takes a long breath. She removes her glasses but then, to my amazement, smiles and says, ‘I understand, really I do. Can I make a suggestion?’

‘Okay.’

‘There is something we can do. I think it will really help, and the best thing is it’s potentially something you can do yourself at home.’

‘The best kind of therapy,’ I joke, ‘I pay you, but I do all the work.’

‘Win, win.’ She gestures towards the nutty chair. ‘Shall we?’

14.

She walks to the window and twists the blinds, tilting them just enough to dim the room to a mid grey. It’s raining again. I sit back in the chair, a long leather recliner. I couldn’t be more tense if I tried.

Alex pulls up a chair and smiles warmly. She has freckles around her lips that make her look younger than I’m guessing she really is. ‘Okay.’ She says, ‘We are going to work on some relaxation techniques. Something you can also do at home.’ My eyes are wide and my heart is pounding so loud that I’m fully expecting her to ask if I can hear that strange banging noise. Instead, she asks me to close my eyes. I oblige and she begins. ‘Have you ever driven somewhere, arrived and realised that you don’t remember how you got there?’ I nod, keeping my eyes closed. ‘Well, that’s time distortion,’ she explains. ‘You’ve slipped into a mild daydream, moved from Beta into Alpha.’ Her voice is calming and low.

It won’t make any difference, I assure myself, there is no way I’m going under.

‘The brain operates at different frequencies, or states as we call them.’ She pauses for a few seconds and when she speaks again her voice is slower and quieter, ‘All we are going to do today is move from Beta to Alpha, drift into a relaxed place and quieten down your conscious mind for a little while. Does that sound okay to you, Joe?’

I open my eyes and blink a few times. ‘Do I have to agree?’ I ask, ‘Is that how it works?’

‘In a way, that’s exactly how it works.’ She nods at me and I close my eyes again, ‘Do you want to try and become more relaxed?’ She asks.

The question conjures many thoughts and images in my mind. Ironically, it probably lights up regions of my brain like a firework show. I think of my business, of Martin, of my family and Amy. I’m not good at accepting help, never have been. I cope. I’m one of life’s copers, yet for some stupid reason here I am, eyes closed in a chair. I sigh loudly.

‘I’m not sure…’

‘It’s okay,’ she somehow manages to say it in a way that isn’t condescending. ‘I want you to count slowly down from thirty.’ She says, ‘I want you to open your eyes on the odd numbers and close then again on even.’

‘Sounds like a maths test.’ I mumble.

‘Take a nice deep breath and start counting down when you’re ready.’

I pull a face. I feel silly. The whole thing is stupid really.

‘Thirty.’ I announce sarcastically, eyes pinched tight. ‘Twenty nine.’ I open my eyes.

‘Focus on the small dot on the ceiling.’

I look up and notice for the first time a black sticker above me. As I continue my countdown Alex says, ‘I want you to try and clear your mind, Joe.’

Ah, the classic clear your mind. How the hell are you supposed to do that? Ever tried it? Give it a go. Close your eyes and don’t think about bananas.

‘Twenty four.’ Eyes open. ‘Twenty three.’ Eyes closed.

Is that right? Eyes shut on the odd the numbers?

By the time I reach eight, I can’t remember and I don’t want to open my eyes anymore. They feel heavy which is a massive cliché, right?

Bananas. Ha!

‘Good.’ Alex’s voice is deeper still, she’s definitely the chocolate rabbit woman. ‘You feel very relaxed now, maybe more relaxed than you’ve ever felt before.’

I do actually. Man this chair is comfortable. I should get one. Feels as though you’re sinking right down into it. Which is something Alex just said I might feel.

She whispers, ‘Now, I want you to fill your mind with a memory. Think of a place, somewhere relaxing, safe and peaceful. Often it helps to think about somewhere in nature, a beach perhaps or a forest walk.’

‘Forests aren’t good for me.’ I say in a voice that seems a long way from here.

‘That’s fine, Joe,’ Alex says. ‘Think of a place where you felt good, where you felt happy.’

Hmmm. That’s a struggle. When you’ve spent a decade of your life in the same routine, feeling the way I do, it isn’t easy to just pick a great memory off the shelf.

Then it comes to me and I tell her I have one.

‘Good,’ she purrs. ‘Where are you?’

She asks this as though I’m already hypnotised. I’m not hypnotised. I decide to open my eyes but then change my mind. My heart rate is down and I do feel relaxed.

Weird.

‘I’m walking on a beach,’ I finally reply. This is a memory – a normal one, like the kind you might have – and it clouds and fills my mind like paint pouring into water. It was a good day, a walk with my parents. The sand is warm. There are birds and crashing surf. I’m young, maybe five. Ice-cream and donkey rides. ‘It’s just the three of us, before Amy was born,’ I say.

‘Okay,’ Alex replies, ‘tell me how you feel.’

‘Safe.’ I say softly. ‘I feel safe.’

‘That’s a good feeling.’ Alex assures me. ‘You are safe and in complete control.  I want you to hold on to that. You are feeling more and more relaxed now.’

Her voice is drifting in and out like the surf and I feel the sand between my toes. I am walking between my parents, holding my father’s left hand and my Mother’s right. We are counting together, and on the count of three they lift me high into the air and laugh. My feet flail, I squeal with pleasure and then land, running. I look up at my father but his face is obscured by shadow, the sun making him a dark, shimmering silhouette. He is young and strong. He seems happy. My Dad. My Father.

That’s when I feel it. A strange sinking sensation, as though the sand has suddenly become softer, like wool. Within seconds I’m knee deep, but it’s strangely comforting, being swallowed, like sliding into a warm bath. I lean back and smile.

Then something happens. A moment. It seems small, almost inconsequential, like a blink or a sneeze, like something natural but not normal. I’ve never felt anything like it. Or have I?

My eyes flash open and although I’m fully awake I’m struggling to understand the moment.

Where am I?

I’m lying on the chair in Alexia Finch’s office. She’s smiling at me, seems calm and relaxed but I can’t breathe! My heart feels as though it’s stopped. I suck in a huge gasp of air and my ticker starts up again, banging and chugging into life like an old engine expelling oil from its innards.

‘Jesus!’ I manage, struggling to get up out of the chair. ‘What the hell did you just do to me?’

Alex doesn’t appear concerned, ‘You were nicely relaxed, Joe,’ she says, ‘but sometimes our conscious mind fights. It doesn’t want to let go. It’s completely natural, I can assure you, like falling off that imaginary step as you drift off to sleep.’

I don’t drift off to sleep but I remember that feeling. I’m sitting up now, still gasping.

‘Would you like a glass of water?’ She asks.

I stare at her for a few moments and then nod. She leaves the room. That was fucking weird, eerily similar to the way I watch my dreams. I look at the clock. Ten minutes since I sat in the nutty chair. I couldn’t have told you if it were hours or days. I was actually gone, I think, the present wasn’t here anymore and I had completely forgotten about… Well, everything, including bananas. It was pretty good initially but then bam.

Alex returns with the water. ‘Here you go.’

‘Thanks.’ I take a sip and look at her, ‘I was properly under, wasn’t I?’

She nods. ‘Yes, it’s a good start. You can use the number counting technique at home. It will help you relax.’ She begins to make notes, ‘Next week we can work on some other techniques that might help too. In the meantime, I want you to think about your routine.’

‘My routine?’

‘Yes, and how it builds towards bedtime.’

I nod as enthusiastically I can manage.

Wake. Mope. Drink coffee, mope some more, buy vinyl, drink wine, sulk, panic, stay awake all night. Repeat.

Alex continues, ‘Take a bath. Drink chamomile tea and try reading before sleep.’ She looks over the top of her glasses, ‘Oh, and no alcohol.’

‘Wow. Sounds like fun.’ I say dryly.

She ignores me, ‘Does next Tuesday work for you?’ She asks without looking up. I say yes, because it’s easier to agree and then not turn up, in my experience. ‘Okay then,’ she frowns a little, ‘but it will need to be a little later, after normal hours. 5:30 suit you?’

‘Great,’ I say, standing and stretching. ‘Thanks.’

‘And Joe,’ she says as she hands me my coat. ‘Try the bedtime routine, it can make a huge difference.’

15.

I’m not sure if I will go back to Alexia Finch or not. In a thousand ways it seems like a complete waste of time, but I do have an odd, nagging feeling it might do me some good. I don’t know if you’ve ever been depressed – anymore than I know for sure if I have – but people who are don’t actively seek out ways to make themselves feel better. I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense but that’s the way it is.

Seeking help, asking for advice, finding things that make you feel good? They are all positive steps and when people like me are knee deep in quicksand, the last thing we want is a rope, or one of those orange hoops you see at a pool. No, we want solitude, and perhaps some weights.

I walk and think and walk some more. She definitely put me under, which was a surprise. I lost all sense of myself for a while. I can’t tell you what a relief that was. I’ve never done drugs, but I would imagine that’s one of the benefits. Losing yourself.

I also think it’s one of the most underrated parts of love-making; that moment – one that can only be realised after the event – when you lose time for a while. It’s a beautiful thing, and something I miss when I think about it too much. For the record, I had a long-term girlfriend in my mid-twenties. Tania. She was hot, keen and just the right amount of mad. Now, with a wonderfully large dose of hindsight I realise she might have been my one shot at a relationship of worth. She left me in the end, another victim of my affliction, the one that delivers information I’m not supposed to know and then disappears back into the shadows, laughing.

Life is supposed to feel like a well constructed T.V. show with main characters, bit parts, fun, tears and drama. Mine was like that for a while. But then the studio cut the budget and the characters started to get axed and now it’s just me. A one man, canned laughter, network oddity.

“In this week’s episode of ‘Bridgeman’, Joe is reminded that hope is a dangerous thing. Will he opt to give it one last go, or crawl back to his lonely, failed life?”

I stop and frown. I’m not sure what I’m going to do, but not drinking wine is not going to happen.

The canned laughter pipes up in my head and I smile. For clarity – because I used a double negative or something – I am going to drink wine this evening. The routine Alexia Finch described is like a hippy commune’s idea of a fab night in and there’s nothing wrong with that, I guess, but honestly? Do you really think I’m going to have a bath, light some candles and read?

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.

I blink and shake my head, convinced I’m going to throw up. The smell of urine is stronger than ever and I realise there’s a chance that Rammage emptied his bladder in the toilet before the assault. I wouldn’t be surprised, although I would expect him to piss neat Coke the amount he drinks in a day.

I gag and part of me – admittedly a small part – considers puking all over Rammage, just letting go and hosing a ton of acidic vomit all over him, like a shower of redemption. That would shut him and his evil little audience up, for a few seconds anyway. I don’t of course. I’m a fast learner, remember?

Rammage pulls me close. ‘Listen up you little twat.’ I can smell bacon crisps on his breath. They only just mask the cheesy odour of his teeth, many of which are black and already rotting from the constant coke offensive. ‘Bring me twenty quid and a copy of Super Metroid in tomorrow or else.’

Twenty quid is a lot of money – worth it to not get dunked of course – but Super Metroid is this year’s big game and hard to get hold of. I’m screwed, but tomorrow is another day so I agree enthusiastically.

The bell sounds again and the crowd finally disperse. Rammage pushes me to the floor and I brace myself for a kick. I pinch my eyes closed, muscles tight, but the kick doesn’t come. Instead I feel a wet slap on my face. I look up and Rammage is wearing that dumb expression again, that stupid baby-like one. It’s as though I’m supposed to share the joke, as if the hilarious act of him spitting in my face is just the best thing ever!

‘Super Metroid by lunchtime, yeah?’ He wipes a lock of hair from his brow as though bullying is tough, but satisfying, work.

I nod. What else am I going to do?

Rammage leaves, his two henchmen at his side, both smiling sweetly in the shadow of their grotesque leader. The footfall and echoing voices in the hallway fade away and I am left to contemplate my recent exploration of the school’s plumbing. The silence is blissful. I just wish I could be on my own all the time, things are so much easier when it’s just me.

2.

My name is Joseph Bridgeman and when I woke up this morning there were two of me. I don’t mean a clone or a copy, I mean actually two of me, the same identical matter sharing the same planet and the same moment. Right now Other Joe is in the shower. Yesterday that was me.

Are you keeping up?

I’m not totally sure I am, but I’m trying. Teachers used to say that about me. Joe is a very trying young man. Yep. Well, if they could see me now.

Thirty-six years old and double trouble.

I hold out my hand. It’s shaking like a washing machine on final spin. Shock is such a bastard, isn’t it? Not the medical kind, that really is a bastard – as in, you can die – I mean the emotional kind. I am in shock now. Seeing myself in the kitchen, being in yesterday. If this isn’t a ‘distressing and traumatic event’, what the hell is?

Another thought occurs to me, one that comforts me for a few seconds at least. Maybe I’m viewing all of this?

Viewing? Oh, it’s this thing that happens when I dream; it’s happened since I was a kid. I see key events from the past, get to watch crystal clear re-plays, which is amazing and a curse. The key difference though is that viewing is always passive. Whatever I did in the past, I watch it again, there is no option to change anything or interact when viewing. I’m like a prisoner, handcuffed to the memory, eyes held open and only able to look in the direction originally recorded.

Who am I kidding? This isn’t viewing and I know it. I’m awake. I can move, I’m thinking, breathing, panicking. I have complete free will. I decided to hide in my study while Other Joe does his thing. This is reality and that means there is really only one explanation, a high probability that I’m going mad.

Going?

More like gone.

Hanging on the wall is a digital clock with large red numbers displaying the time and day. It reads, 8:47 a.m. Wednesday. I check my Rado watch, which is ticking quietly and reassuringly. It shows 1:22 a.m. on Thursday morning.

What?

I wish I’d paid more attention in maths. I’ve always hated numbers, was in the very bottom maths set at school, although, to be fair I learned plenty in maths, just nothing to do with numbers. Mr Peabody, my maths teacher, was a broken man, one who occasionally cried during our lessons. Therefore, I learned what it might be like to hate your job, to be washed up and wrung out, understood what that would feel like. It was a valuable life lesson.

Now, I wish I had tried harder – for Peabody’s sake and my own – because this is like one of those annoying maths questions. Joe fell asleep on Thursday morning at 00:35 and travelled back in time to 8 a.m. on Wednesday morning. If the local time is now 08:47, what time would Joe’s watch (one that travelled back with him) be showing?

My Rado thinks it knows the answer. It appears – and I use that word strongly – that I have hypnotised myself and somehow, slipped, fallen, or tumbled back in time. So whilst it’s 8:47 a.m. in this time zone, it still feels like 1:22 a.m. to me, which means one of two things.

I’m going to have the mother of all jet-lag or I’m rapidly going barking, Yip Yip, cork on a fork mad.

The audience in my imaginary T.V. show laugh at this idea. I, on the other hand, just feel hollow and in need of coffee. I wonder what you call extreme jet-lag? Severe debt jet-lag? Jet-fighter jet-lag? I had it bad once. Nausea, fever-like symptoms. Not good. Not funny.

Well. Real or not real, mad or sad, (More T.V. formats waiting to happen?) I can hear Other Joe upstairs. He’s humming away to himself (I remember doing that, weird!). It won’t be long before he’s down the stairs and, oh my God!

I look over at my desk and there they are. My house keys. Any minute now Other Joe will come in and grab them. It was the last thing I (Argghh, I mean he) did. I need to hide but there’s nowhere! My study is small and square and hiding in here isn’t going to happen. In every time-travel film or book I’ve read they always make a big deal of ripping the space-time continuum if the hero meets himself. I must not interfere etc., etc.

Time-travel?

Jee-sus. I think I’m losing my marbles - all of them; I picture them spilling out of my head, bouncing and rolling away. I open my study door and tentatively creep into the hallway. I need to hide and the dining room is my best option. Just as I make it to the dining room door, just as I think I’m safe, I feel something pulling at me. I turn back and realise with utter horror that it’s the iron poker I grabbed for protection. It’s snagged on one of a thousand coats, smothering a large hat stand in the hallway. I watch helpless as the stand totters, rocks and then falls heavily. Other Joe, who was being very noisy upstairs, is suddenly silent. My heart joins in and stops.

3.

Coats are everywhere, spewed out over the hallway floor. I stare at them in utter horror, as though I’ve just killed something. There’s no time, nothing I can do. I sneak into the dining room and hide behind one of the long, dark velvet curtains, my breath arriving in sharp bursts. I hear Other Joe coming down the stairs. He pauses, swears and starts picking up the fallen coats. My stomach rolls and a large lump of dread sinks through me. Thankfully, I don’t think he’s suspicious. He’s probably wondering after this and the smashed glass what his third piece of bad luck will be.

That’s when it hits me.

Chaos theory – the butterfly effect – small events that can cause a massive shit storm later. The hat stand falling over might appear to be inconsequential but this day is now slightly different and just like ‘Back to the Future’ that small change could mean I start fading out of existence or something.

Spiralling thoughts continue in my mind. What if, because of this delay, Other Joe misses his appointment with Alexia Finch? If he misses that then he won’t come home tonight and hypnotise himself and if he doesn’t do that, where the hell does that leave me? How would I even be here? I check my hands for transparency. They are shaking, but otherwise solid. I decide there’s only one way of looking at this.

I blame Martin for everything.

Other Joe finally leaves the house and I emerge from behind the curtain feeling like some kind of burglar in my own home. It doesn’t take me long to start doubting the entire event. Did it really happen? Did I really just see myself? Do I really believe I have somehow time-travelled?

I wander the house in a daze, like the lone survivor of an epic battle. It’s quiet, just the distant rumble of traffic and nearby birdsong. I end up standing for a while, unsure what to do. The sound of cars reminds me that if Other Joe was real and this is yesterday then all of this has already happened. The people in those cars have made their journey before, are laughing at the same jokes on the radio, turning down the same roads, swearing at the same assholes.

It’s too hard to think about. I don’t know what to believe and therefore I think the safest thing to do is absolutely nothing. This decision helps (it usually does) and I pad off to the kitchen in search of caffeine. Time-travel. Pah.

* * *

I hear a sound. The front door? I sit bolt upright, saliva trailing from my mouth. It’s not dark outside, but the greyish hue suggests late afternoon.

What the hell? Where am I?

My third thought is: Have I time-travelled again? I know that’s stupid and then I remember; even though I drank three cups of coffee and was determined not to, I fell asleep. What is it with me? When I want to sleep I can’t, when I need to stay awake I’m like a heavily drugged elephant! It was my bear-hugging sofa’s fault, it was calling and I drifted to it like a mesmerised lemming. I guess I fell asleep. I remember dreaming about crackling balls of light and Terminators and running naked through streets. I shake the hazy feeling away and try to get my bearings. The wall clock reads 4:42 p.m.

There’s a loud knock at the door, which assures me I didn’t imagine the first one. I creep to the lounge and peer through a crack in the curtains. It’s a courier; cap, fluorescent jacket, earring. He’s staring at the door like a dog, waiting for it to open so he can push his mobile signature thing at his unsuspecting victim. I always sign with the shape of near perfect square. Trust me, they don’t give a shit as long as they get their digital squiggle. I once signed a cheque ‘Mickey Mouse’. Same deal. The courier is holding a package, roughly the size of a shoe-box. Who the hell is sending me stuff? And why?

Eventually, earring boy gives up and leaves. I admit, a small part of me considered that if this is yesterday again then I probably shouldn’t know what’s in the box. Brad Pitt, Seven anyone? Either way, it’s just safer not to meet anyone or do anything today. Not until I have this clear in my mind.

One positive. It appears that a decent sleep has done me some good. I feel refreshed and the idea of time-travelling and multiple versions of me seems more absurd than ever.

Evening comes and just as I begin to wonder if this whole thing has been some kind of weird dream, Other Joe arrives home and blows my mind all over again.

4.

I’m now hiding in a cupboard, a walk-in one, quite big. The door is ajar, giving me a narrow but excellent view of my bed. I can hear Other Joe whistling away as he runs a bath. Under normal circumstances, hiding in a walk-in wardrobe would be a risky tactic. What if the other guy opens the door and sees me in here? Well, sticking with the time-travel thing, then I know he doesn’t. I was him and I know for a fact that I didn’t go in my wardrobe before going to bed. It messes with your head.

I spot Other Joe through my thin line of sight. He has his pyjamas on and I notice he’s wearing my Rado. God, I mean our Rado. This is so strange. I wrap a hand around my own watch and frown. There aren’t just two versions of me, there are two watches as well, not to mention two sets of PJs.

Other Joe mucks about for a while, he’s a real ditherer! I catch the odd glimpse and each time I do, I feel a strange reaction, like an insect crawling up my back and biting my neck. Seeing yourself, and I don’t mean just in the mirror, I mean actually seeing yourself, is the weirdest, most disturbing sensation I’ve ever felt. Other Joe is like my reflection but he’s out of sync by a loooooong stretch. He lives inside a kind of magic mirror, in a replica of my life. It is royally messed up, let me tell you.

He finally gets into bed. The light goes out and for the next twenty minutes or so I listen to him breathing. There is some ambient light in the room and as my eyes adjust I see his shape in the bed, chest rising and falling gently. I tune into his sound and the gentle ticking of his watch and mine. It’s at this point I remind myself to be super, super careful not to concentrate on those rhythms too much. The last thing I need is to fall asleep again or accidentally hypnotise myself. Christ, I might end up disappearing up my own arse!

I remain completely focussed on the moment.

I hear him quietly begin to whisper numbers down from a hundred. I squint, peering at his shape, this version of me, and become more convinced than ever that I’m experiencing some kind of hallucination. Part of me wants to burst into the room, turn on the lights and announce myself. I’m almost certain that if I did, the man in the bed would disappear and whatever crazy spell I’ve put myself under would break instantly.

But, as Other Joe continues his countdown I feel a sudden and powerful sense of déjà vu and when he reaches sixty he stops counting aloud.

And then it happens.

There is one last gentle intake of breath and then… he’s gone, he disappears. One second he’s there, the next, he’s gone. I stare, mouth agape, weaving my head a little, trying to find the shape of him in the gloom but I can’t. He’s not there anymore. I push the wardrobe door open, switch on the lights and see the weirdest thing I think I’ve ever seen (well, since seeing myself of course).

The duvet is still moving. The outside is flat but the centre – where Other Joe was just moments ago – is sinking in the centre. I watch, mesmerised as the last of the air is expelled and the duvet settles and is still. I walk to the bed and slip my hand to the centre of the mattress. It’s warm and I smell the clean scent of a bath. I look around the room and clench my hands a few times. I feel like crying.

I’m still here. I’m alive. Whatever the hell just happened, there is now only one Joseph Bridgeman. Me.

The most glorious, singular, one and only me.

5.

Man, I should have paid more attention at school, particularly in physics, and maybe even philosophy. I can hear Doctor Emmett Brown shouting Great Scott! and asking Marty McFly if he knows what this means? Well Doc, I have to admit. I don’t really.

I guess I could be the world’s first time-traveller, but if that’s true I am also, definitely, the worst.

One day.

I travelled back one bloody day.

The house is quiet, the world is normal and the more I think about, the more silly it seems. The madness of the last twenty-four hours already feels distant and absurd. I just don’t believe any of it. Whoever and whatever Other Joe was –a time-traveller or figment of my imagination – I’m just glad he’s gone. I like my own company.

It’s nearly 1 a.m. and, having slept most of the day, I know there is absolutely no way I’m sleeping again. My mind is too wired and my body feels energised. In some ways it’s good to be back in my usual, nocturnal routine. I decide to blend some fruit and lose myself in good vinyl.

I sink into my favourite chair, fresh green smoothie in hand and scan across my record collection. It doesn’t take long for the little voice in my head to select ‘Please, Please Me’. My copy is a re-issue, which might surprise you but, for me, it’s the physical object, the process of needle on vinyl, the depth and richness of the sound. The originals are nice – I have those too – but the re-masters are something else. A geek? Me? I pull the 180 gram slab of vinyl from its sleeve, clean the surface carefully and place it onto the deck. Side one fills my mind and the stress of the ‘Other Joe Incident’ dissipates nicely.

By 3 a.m. I’ve moved onto ‘With the Beatles’, wine, and my world – small and controlled as it is – returns to what it should be; low lighting, leather, old things and vinyl. ‘Money’ is blasting out and I agree with the sentiment entirely. The best things in life might be free lads, but vinyl isn’t and that, I decide, is going to be the hardest part of Poverty for me. Well, that and no wine. I’m kind of wallowing here but it works, I feel worse and that helps. Another glass of wine and I decide the best antidote to a lack of funds is to make a long list of things to buy. I grab my note pad and write down records to be added to my collection. Right now, I am well and truly in a Beatles revival (no shit, Joe) but a few months back it was Jay Z and before that, three months in Radiohead’s back catalogue.

As music and wine do wonderful things to my brain, I jot down my intention to check out ‘Public Enemy’ and ‘A Tribe Called Quest’. Also, and I’m not totally sure about this one yet, but it could be time to revisit Blur. Oh, and Marvin Gaye. And Beck, Sea Change. This goes on until I see the first shimmer of gold peeking above the rooftops opposite my house. I feel a mild headache coming on, my bones ache, my legs are twitchy, eyes gritty and heavy. I yawn. In other words, I’m back to my old self; a knackered, grumpy insomniac who lives with the threat of eviction and bankruptcy hanging over him.

Thank God.

I decide it’s time to ask the almighty consciousness in the sky what really happened to me. I leave my study and head to the dining room. My computer is there, an old iMac, surrounded by boxes and books. I blow dust away, clear the desk and boot it up. I tap ‘Can’ into Google and see the magical, mysterious algorithms of the search engine make suggestions for me. No, Google, I don’t need to know if I can re-heat rice or feel the love. I continue to type, ignoring the random help text.

Google search: Can hypnosis cause hallucinations?

Blimey, a few minutes in and I’m convinced that Alexia Finch has probably caused permanent damage. I try to remember that, by far, the best way to scare the shit out of yourself is to self diagnose via Google but still, I decide that the ‘Other Joe Incident’ was definitely triggered by my hypnotic state.

So there.

I remember I have another appointment booked with Finch on Tuesday. I’m going to call her later and tell her that she’s mucked with my brain for the first and last time.

I head back to the kitchen and face my calendar. It’s one of those tall ones, with pictures of Banksy street art on the top and boxes below. I like Banksy, he walks the streets in the small hours, like me. There’s an entry written in large red characters, in handwriting that I don’t recognise. Drinks at mine. Go on, you might enjoy it! 19th Dec.

No. I don’t think so Martin. God. Loads of happy people, asking what you do for a living and what your plans are for Christmas. Ugh. I grab a pen and am about to erase the appointment with Finch when I notice another entry. This one is in my handwriting and in today’s box.

THURSDAY 4th DEC. ‘Visit Mum.’

Oh shit sticks.

6.

My mid-terrace house is situated in Leckhampton, a desirable area apparently – but, more importantly to me – a twenty minute walk from the best coffee in town. It’s a crisp December morning. I stride quickly, trying to outrun my thoughts, breath pluming behind me in white clouds.

I arrive at my favourite café at precisely 8:30 a.m. It’s called ‘Montepellier Mocha’ and I’m shocked by how packed it is today. It’s a popular place but this is ridiculous. It’s crammed full of people, some grabbing their breakfast before work, others with the look of runners, topping up before a marathon. Christmas tunes blast out from expensive looking speakers and the walls and windows are adorned with shiny, garish decorations. I haven’t noticed these before but they’re shouting for my attention now. I take a deep breath. Ugh. Other people and Christmas. Together that makes a tough cocktail for me. I pause just outside the doorway, raise my head and swallow hard. For anyone with pain in their past, this is a hard time of year. Christmas feels like a giant billboard, reminding me of those missing from my family scene. The whole concept is for kids really, the ones who don’t get death yet, don’t feel its invisible jaws. I see Liv, tidying plates and cups in a far corner. She seats a young couple, spots me and immediately gestures to a small table nearby. I approach. Liv is in her late twenties, petite and not conventionally pretty but one of those girls with something about her, an allure of sorts. Her hair is long and dyed black, her skin pale, her cheeks lightly freckled. Her features seem to belong in a different era and if it wasn’t for the dark mascara – she’s a bit of a Goth – she would have an ‘English Rose’ thing going for her.

‘Hey, Joe.’ She greets me with a smile and then continues clearing away rubbish. I’m almost positive she’s never heard of Jimi Hendrix or if she has, doesn’t know the song. The Lyrics to Hey Joe begin playing in my mind. I get to the part in the song when he sings about seeing his old lady and stop abruptly. Liv looks up again, I manage to return her smile and she nods. I often don’t know what to say. The good thing with Liv is that she’s used to it and doesn’t expect much of me.

‘How are you?’ I ask her.

She pauses, as if giving the question serious consideration and then breaks into a wide and infectious smile, ‘Oh, you know, shit.’ She glances over at her boss who is already eyeing us with his usual brand of disdain and suspicion. ‘All things considered, I guess I’m doing okay at the moment.’ She raises her eyebrows and plays the party-line, ‘I’m afraid I have to ask if you would like a special sandwich. It’s the law or something. We’ve got turkey and cranberry on special.’ Dimples appear in the centre of her round cheeks and her eyes sparkle, ‘I wouldn’t recommend it, it’s gross.’

‘Ah, the Christmas specials, gotta love those.’ I sit down. ‘Just my usual please, that’ll do me.’

She disappears behind a long queue of people and I sigh. I miss her. I wish I could ask her more, show her that I care, but I’m not making that mistake again. A while back I got too close, the viewing came and what I saw left me with no choice. Liv didn’t deserve what was happening to her, so, I helped her out – just the once – and since then I’ve had to maintain my distance. I still enjoy her company, I just have to be careful. I never told her what I did and I can tell she’s confused by me, by my sudden coldness and distance, but Liv is kind, she doesn’t push it. I’m grateful for that.

She returns and places my breakfast down, ‘Here you go,’ she says cheerfully, ‘two croissants, blackberry jam, real butter and a flat-white, just how you like it. That’s five fifty please.’

I nod and rummage awkwardly for change. I can’t believe I didn’t check the money situation before I arrived. I’m down to my last dregs. Shit. I’m skint, I stare at the change in my hand.

‘Call it two fifty,’ Liv offers, with a considerate smile, ‘staff discount.’

‘Thanks.’ I hand her the coins. ‘Sorry.’

She shakes her head and dumps them straight into a pouch around her middle without counting. ‘I’m curious,’ she says, changing the subject.

‘You are?’ I’m wondering if she thinks I’ve robbed some poor kid’s piggy bank.

‘Yeah.’ She narrows her stare. ‘What are you writing in there?’

My notebook is filled with records to be added to my dream vinyl collection. I search for the right words considering I’m broke and receiving her charity. ‘It’s a,’ a long pause, ‘it’s aaaaaaah, a to do list.’

She smiles and those famous dimples appear, ‘I see. It’s a bit early for New Year’s resolutions isn’t it?’

‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

She looks around, purses her lips and then whispers, ‘How’s your mum doing?’

Her eyes search mine. I wasn’t expecting this and I’m a little taken aback, but I know she means well. ‘I’m going to see her later,’ I reply. ‘She’s worse every time now.’

‘Listen,’ Liv says quietly and carefully, ‘I know people always say this, but if there’s anything I can do.’

‘Thanks.’ I say.

‘I mean it Joe, honestly, if you need someone to help out, or I don’t know, shop for you or –’

‘That’s really kind Liv.’ My words come easier with her than anyone else, even Vinny. She means what she says. She lost her father a few years back, a similar path and trajectory as Mum.

She shrugs, ‘Well, I hope it goes okay, you know, as well as it can. Will I see you tomorrow?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Same time, same place.’

Liv walks away but then turns back, ‘You know, you are the only person who ever asks me how I am?’

I raise my eyebrows and we connect for a moment of calm understudying in the relentless, bustling atmosphere of capitalism. She flashes another brief smile and then continues the task of keeping the place running and above the endless sea of mess and cardboard. She’s a good person, but I’m close to the edge here. I’m wishing I could talk to her more, that we could still be friends and that’s dangerous.

The song Hey Joe is back in my head and with that my heart sinks, plummets through me like an anchor. I sit alone and drink my coffee, wishing that time would just stop for a while and leave me be.

7.

I wanted to share my favourite Alzheimer’s joke with you, but I can’t remember it for the life of me.

That was a joke.

Get it?

Okay, how about this one?

Doctor: “I have good news and bad news...”

The patient says, “Lay it on me, Doc. What’s the bad news?”

Doctor: “You have Alzheimer’s disease.”

“Christ, what’s the good news?”

“At least you can go home and forget about it.”

“Forget about what?”

8.

From the outside Beech Trees Nursing Home looks pleasant enough, a low level, fairly modern building, set back from the main road. As I walk its sweeping driveway it begins to rain, a wetting December mist that’s somehow laced with ice. I shiver and lower my head. It doesn’t help that I’m walking so slowly. I’m reminded of a film I watched as a kid. The Omen. In it, the kid – he’s the son of the devil, I think – ends up being taken by his parents to a church. As they approach he begins to writhe and complain and by the time they are walking the stone path to the church’s entrance he is howling and screaming.

Through a large ground floor window I see Christmas decorations, a wall mounted television and a number of the residents seated in those tall chairs these kind of places always have. I don’t want to look at their faces. I can’t. I grimace, suck in a long cold breath and push open the front doors, the son of Judy Bridgeman, here to see her ghost.

It’s quiet, just the sound of the television and studio laughter seeping from the main hall. I recognise the receptionist, a large woman seated behind a long curved desk. She greets me warmly and tells me that Mum is in her room and doing okay today. The staff at Beech Trees are angels. I mean it. They do an amazing job, one that I couldn’t imagine doing, not in a million years. There are precious few people in this world who are able to cope and even flourish under really difficult circumstances. Beech Trees seems to have attracted its fair share of them. I thank her and head down the corridor, which smells of bleach and polish and squeaks underfoot.

Part of me wants to just turn around and walk away but, of course, I don’t. Duty dictates I see this through. I often think about Shane Rammage at times like this, and realise that his prolonged bullying may have actually taught me something. There are times in life when you have to suck it up, you have to get on with it and do what’s right. My Mother was a beautiful, kind and important person. She ran our family, steered us when we went off course and coped with her fair share of tragedy. It was my decision to put her in here; not an easy one, but necessary, and that means I come and see her, I talk to her and I don’t complain. It’s the right thing to do, even if it does hurt like hell and scares the crap out of me.

I enter her room. It’s only mid afternoon but with the arrival of rain, the day is done, gloomy and depressing. I see Mum, seated next to her bed and she’s dressed, which is a good sign. I call her name, she turns and I see her eyes like embers glowing in the half-light. She fiddles with something and then a sidelight illuminates her. Mum smiles and my spirits are instantly lifted. Growing up, her smiles were always gold, now they are the rarest of diamonds and when I see one I want to cry with joy.

She looks happy, her skin aglow. She’s wearing a party hat, the paper kind you get from a cracker and I guess there’s been some kind of early Christmas party. The hat is positioned at a jaunty angle and her hair is poking out from beneath, thin wisps of white that nearly reach her shoulders. Seeing her sat there, wearing the hat, takes me back in time to our family home. I remember as a kid how much she, and Amy particularly, looked forward to Christmas, to all our relatives and family friends descending. The Bridgeman house was the centre of our universe then. I can still see my Grandparents arriving, coats, gloves and big hats, the cold coming in with them, suitcases and presents in hand. My Uncle David was wealthy before we were and always came with big wrapped boxes, his latest girlfriend in a heady cloud of perfume. Suddenly our house was filled with excitement and people. I know it’s hard to believe, but once upon a time, in a life far, far away, a younger Joe enjoyed all of this.

‘Joe,’ my Mother says. ‘It’s so nice to see you.’

It’s a massive relief. It can sometimes take her half an hour to get my name, and even then it’s as if she still doesn’t know me. But today is one of her good days and that is another diamond.

‘Hi Mum, how are you?’

She pulls her mouth down and shrugs, ‘The food here is terrible, but I can’t really remember what I had for breakfast so it’s not all bad.’

This is probably a good time to mention that my Mother always did have a rapier wit and – before we lost Amy anyway – a fantastic sense of humour. But, like most of the best comedians, that wit can turn inward. For a long time Mum lost her humour, but in the last few years – as her illness bedded in – it returned, almost as though an internal pendulum had shifted. It’s ironic I suppose, that the qualities that might have consumed her are what appear to be saving her now. On bad days, she is all but absent but on the good ones, she jokes about her forgetfulness and her disease and it’s just impossible not to smile.

She continues, ‘The fact that I can’t remember what day it is or what I watched on T.V. last night makes this place bearable.’ She shrugs, ‘That said, I’m probably watching the program over and over, laughing at the same jokes.’

It goes on like this for a while and I enjoy it because this is a version of my Mum that almost reminds me of how it was. She runs out of steam though, always does, and then we sit quietly, the rain hissing against the windows, the distant sound of buzzers and conversations. I’m feeling guilty about my reaction as I walked the driveway. Vascular Dementia. Stick on a pile of wood with Cancer and Motor Neurone Disease and we can have ourselves a good old bonfire. The sooner someone figures all this out, the better.

She closes her eyes and I study her. Her eyelids are dark, her skin pale and veined with thin blue lines, but she’s still beautiful. I don’t think anything will take that from her. When she opens her eyes again she flashes a weak smile and, although the connection we make is beautiful, I see darkness. ‘You look sad Mum,’ I say carefully.

‘Amy’s not back,’ her confusion is obvious. ‘She’s not come home and I’m getting worried. You know how your Dad worries.’ Her eyes wander as though she’s woken from a dream and is trying to figure out where she is. My Mum is still here, she’s talkative and present but she’s suddenly out of sync by over two decades. I remain convinced to this day that losing Amy was the trigger for Mum’s illness. This is based on nothing scientific, just a gut feeling and a belief that a long fuse was lit that day, one that continued to smoulder just below the surface for years. I almost tell her that Amy is gone but I’m a fast learner. Instead I change the subject and her eyes brighten. ‘I brought you a gift,’ I say, handing her a badly wrapped parcel. Boys get away with bad wrapping because we’re boys and it’s the thought that counts. Mum shakes her head as if scolding a younger version of me, and then unwraps the present. It’s perfume, Channel No.5, her favourite.

‘Thank you,’ she says, passing it back to me. I place it on a side table and notice some cards, which I pick up and read in turn. They are from Uncles, Aunts and other relatives, some that I don’t remember or perhaps even know. Nine cards in total. Nine more than I would get. When I sit back down Mum’s expression has darkened further and she is frowning. ‘Joe seems withdrawn,’ she tells me. ‘He’s not looking like his old self, seems worried about something.’ I nod and swallow and fight the urge to cry as she continues her assessment, ‘Thomas, I’m not convinced that moving him to a new school was the right thing to do, I know that money is tight but we…’ She trails off and then eyes me with suspicion.

Hearing my Father’s name is hard, almost as hard as remembering the situation she is describing. This particular time she is recalling is one of many threads that frayed and eventually unravelled the rope of our family.

‘Thomas, what’s wrong?’ Her voice is scared and cold, like she’s asking but doesn’t really want an answer.

‘Mum, it’s me - Joe.’

She pulls back and curls her top lip. ‘Well, I know that!’ She exclaims.

I nod again and reach for her hand. To my relief she allows it and lets me take hers. I can’t stand to see her looking so confused; and that hat, that stupid fucking hat that makes her look like a young but worn out version of herself. ‘Mum,’ I say gently, ‘would you mind if I borrowed your hat for a bit?’

She doesn’t smile but takes it off easily and hands it to me. She grips my hand tightly. ‘Joe,’ she whispers, ‘listen to me. Something has happened, your Father, something terrible.’

‘Mum it’s okay, it’s –’

‘No it isn’t!’ She snaps at me, ‘It’s not okay! You listen to me. Something has happened, I know it.’ She looks over her shoulder suspiciously, ‘Amy is missing and I’m worried him, about your Father.’

The years are converging inside her fragile mind. I calm her down and tell her that I will go out and look for Dad, that I will find him and make sure he comes to see her. I watch her like a hawk, I tell her anything I can think of to calm her down, and if she reacts positively I tell her more like that. It’s shit and it’s probably wrong but, in this moment, I will say anything I can to settle her. I need to leave, I need to be gone from here, but it’s not what you think. Just like Liv, if I connect with Mum too deeply and for too long it could trigger a viewing. If I don’t leave soon I will view her past tonight in my dreams and the awful things that happened there, and that’s the worst torture of all.

Eventually, thankfully, she sleeps and I manage to slip away. I walk home without crying, but the minute the door shuts behind me and I’m back in the place where we once lived together the tears arrive. I let them come, I sob and howl and cry. It’s my Mum for God’s sake. She’s all I have left and she’s not really even here at all.

9.

‘Listen, Joe,’ Mr Wild says, sternly, ‘if someone is bothering you then you need to tell me.’ He waits, folds his arms and stares at me. ‘Is someone bullying you?’

Mr Wild. When I first heard his name I have to confess to a brief period of optimism. In reality though, our new headmaster - bought in specifically to sort out Stratford-Upon-Avon High - just couldn’t live up to his name. I suspect that in his previous school – a private one, like the kind I once enjoyed – he was a decent headmaster with strong principles. Here though, at this school, he is just slightly more interesting cannon fodder.

I’m aware that I still haven’t answered him. I’m just staring at the clock on his office wall. Each minute that ticks by adds to the unsettling quietness of the school corridors. My heart is racing along at double speed. I need to get out of here; it isn’t safe. Mr Wild is a decent man but he can’t protect me, no one can. I’m screwed, knackered, buggered…

‘Joe, listen,’ he walks from behind his desk and perches on the edge, facing me, ‘I will not tolerate bullying, whoever is doing this to you will be punished.’

He’s making reference to the bruises. Rammage the Damage has been taking out his frustration on yours truly and it’s beginning to show. Rammage was smarter to begin with – he just went for the body and the occasional swirly or wedgie for added flavour – but since the incident, when I told him a few home truths, things have become much worse.

I fucking hate myself, and more than ever hate my stupid ability. Viewing. Will it ever be a good thing? Will it ever help me or others? I can’t see how. All it ever does is show pain and then deliver me my own. ‘Sir,’ I manage, voice weak with fear, ‘I’m fine. I’m clumsy and I fall over a lot.’

Mr Wild looks at me suspiciously, with a kind of ‘Really? That old chestnut’ expression. ‘Mrs Bayliss told me about your sister,’ he says carefully, ‘that must have been… hard for you.’

I search for a response and the room starts to spin, the ticking clock suddenly deafening. Hard for me? What the hell? I stare at him, speechless. Losing Amy took everything, blew my life to pieces, but I have a more pressing concern, which means our little heart-to-heart – or whatever it is he’s doing – is going to have to wait. He folds his arms and looks at me with a mixture of concern and confusion. The leather patches on his blazer creak.

Right, that’s it. Sod this.

Something snaps in my brain and I begin edging towards the door. I glance at the clock. The second hand ticks backwards, I swear, backwards! Arggh!! Doesn’t he realise that if I don’t get out of here soon I’m dead? Rammage will be waiting and if everyone is gone and the playing fields are empty, there will be nothing to stop him.

‘Joe, I haven’t dismissed you yet,’ Mr Wild stands, ‘where do –’

I don’t let him finish. I’m out of his office and running. He calls after me but I’m gone, I’m done. It’s nearly four o’clock and I need to plan my route quickly. If I cut behind the maths block I can sneak around the side of the playing fields. It will make my walk home nearly an hour longer but needs must. Running makes me feel good, like I’m somehow back in control, but after a while my ribs hurt. Guess who snapped one the last time he used me as a punch bag. Oh well, ribs heal.

My eyes are everywhere. The halls are empty, just the odd cleaner. I make it outside. So far, so good. In the distance I see a small crowd of people surrounding a group of lads in rugby kit. They’re warming up for an after school game. Apart from that it’s quiet and my route across the field looks clear. I just need to stick to the hedge and keep my head down. Mum will wonder why my shoes and trousers are so muddy again but whatever, she’s the least of my worries.

I’m running, the air harsh in my lungs. The playground is behind me and I’m half way across the field when something catches my eye, a sudden movement. Two figures emerge from the hedgerow and I recognise them immediately. Darren Griffiths and Elliot Coleman. Or Grifter and Coley. My nickname depends on the day. I stop running and begin panting like a rabid dog. Where is he? I glance behind and see him blocking my path. Rammage. He blows a cloud of smoke into the air, flicks his cigarette away and smiles. I see that clearly, how happy this makes him.

My rib throbs as if on cue and I’m convinced I’m going to puke before the beating even starts. That would make a change at least. I feel a sudden burning pain flare up in the centre of my back. I’m pushed to the floor. I realise that while I was distracted Grifter took his opportunity and kneed me to the ground. I scramble up but he grabs my arm. ‘Come on, gay boy,’ he sneers. ‘No point struggling.’

I’ve reached the point where I don’t care anymore and no longer say any of the sarcastic comments that fill my mind either. I just keep my mouth shut and that is perhaps the most frustrating thing of all. You see, I know things about these boys that I shouldn’t, because their constant attention means I’ve started to view them in my dreams and what I’ve seen isn’t fun. It’s what led to this latest string of attacks, to the incident. I viewed some of Rammage’s life and it wasn’t for the faint-hearted. I have no time to think now.

I am dragged to Rammage like a prisoner of war. I just about manage to adjust the books I’ve pushed down into my shirt, a kind of make-shift body protector before I am pushed to my knees. I look up, awaiting my sentencing.

‘What did you tell Wild?’ Rammage growls, cracking open a fresh can of coke.

‘Nothing.’ I say simply.

‘Bollocks.’

‘I didn’t tell him anything, I swear.’

Rammage grins, ‘You shouldn’t fucking swear, it’s bad for your health.’ His two henchmen laugh obediently. I notice Grifter flicking something between his fingers. It glints in the sunlight. My chest tightens. It’s a blade, a butterfly knife. They toy with me, asking questions that have no right answer and then, slowly it starts; a push and then a kick. I brace myself for the onslaught.

But then, unexpectedly, the most wonderful, most magnificent thing happens. Out of nowhere, a shadow descends over us, over all of us. I look up, half expecting it to be the world, finally come to swallow me up and I see him.

Mark D’Stellar; the most popular kid at school. Next to him are a few other lads wearing rugby kit and behind them a small crowd of concerned onlookers. Rammage and his cronies must have caught their eye and ultimately their interest.

‘This doesn’t concern you D’Stellar,’ Rammage says, but there is a new, fantastically weak quality to his voice. I gulp, fully expecting the conversation to continue, but it doesn’t. Mark D’Stellar, it seems, isn’t one to muck around. He steps forward and in one single motion punches Shane Rammage off his feet. The sound reminds me of my Dad tenderising steak with a wooden mallet, except this time it’s Rammage’s face getting softened. My nemesis hangs in the air for a moment, just long enough to see the pathetic, scared expression that has overcome him. Then he smacks to the ground. He isn’t knocked out but he’s dazed and he’s whimpering.

D’Stellar turns his gaze on Grifter and Coley who are standing, literally with their mouths hanging open. ‘And you two can piss off,’ he orders.

They run, leaving Rammage crawling backwards on his hands and knees like a wounded crab. The on-looking crowd aren’t like his fair-weather sycophants. These kids are silent and serious. They actually look concerned. D’Stellar stares at Rammage and then back at me. ‘You okay?’ He reaches down and offers me his hand. I take it and am hoisted up.

‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘I’m alright. Thanks for –’

‘No. Don’t thank me,’ D’Stellar says, checking his watch as if the whole thing was just a mild distraction. Rammage is up, seems unsure if he should just turn and run. D’Stellar helps him along. ‘Listen to me you cowardly piece of shit. This ends. Now. You go anywhere near this kid again,’ he points at me and I beam with pride, ‘well, then we all get involved.’

Rammage’s tear filled eyes scan across the four biggest members of the school rugby team. His expression suggests he gets it. He sucks in a breath and for a moment I think he’s going to retaliate but then something deep down in his thick skull computes the reality of his situation, this new world order. He flashes me a look but my usual response of fear is absent. Standing next to me is Mark D’Stellar, Mr Cool himself and he’s defending me, he’s telling Shane Rammage what’s what.

Rammage eventually backs away, rubbing his jaw and cursing. A girl I don’t know asks if I’m hurt but it’s all a blur. D’Stellar is being called by his team mates to warm up and, just like that, my bullying is over. There is a moment, just before the group break when Mark steps close to me and looks me straight in the eye. I speak first. ‘Thank you,’ I say, even though I know he’s already asked me not to.

‘That dick head deserved it.’ D’Stellar nods.

I’m just starting to get my head around what happened but there’s a big question, one that I have to ask, ‘Why would you do that? Why would you help me?’

‘Because now you owe me.’ He turns to walk away and for a horrible moment I wonder if I have just replaced one bully with another but then he adds, ‘You play keyboards right?’

10.

I wake and rub my eyes. I’m surprised. After seeing Mum yesterday I thought I might view Amy, but viewing often has its own agenda. I stretch and attempt to re-attach my mind to the present. Rammage still has a power over me, even after all these years, I guess bullies always do. People who say school days are the best years of your life don’t know shit and definitely never went to my school. It’s too late now; it’s been knocked down to make way for luxury flats, but still, best years? I think that really depends on who you knew, and how popular you were. School was more like a prison sentence for me. But in life, occasionally – and often unexpectedly – the planets seem to align and something happens that tips your world on its axis. It’s almost as if the hand of God reaches down and touches a moment, blessing it somehow. These moments, in my experience, are extremely rare. They carry a lot of weight and by that I mean they resonate with some kind of importance. How else do you explain ‘David’ by Michelangelo? Or ‘The Bends’ by Radiohead? Yep, occasionally the planets line up and magic happens and so it was that I met Mark D’Stellar.

The day he came along and saved me was a pivotal moment in my life, a moment so blessed and perfect I still can’t quite believe it happened. After that, things improved beyond recognition, at school anyway. Mark D’Stellar was by far the coolest kid I had ever met. He was the lead guitarist in the best rock band in Stratford, was good looking and mature for his age (he dated 18 year olds) and needed a keyboard player. Lucky or what? I never quite found out whether it was the only reason he intervened, but I didn’t complain. After an audition in which I was so nervous I could hardly play, I became the first and only keyboard player in ‘The Dark Angels’. We mainly played rock covers, most of which I hadn’t heard before, but I didn’t care. I went from total loser to absolute cool in a matter of weeks. No one messed with me again, I suddenly had friends (decent ones too), girlfriends (yes, more than one), and kudos. Christ, I even grew a few inches. It was almost as if the weight of the universe had been stunting my growth and was suddenly lifted. Amy wasn’t coming back of course and things at home were just starting to get really bad but I finally had an escape. The band were a good bunch of lads. We smoked, played loud music and laughed a lot. I grew up about four years in four months. I found out later that Steve the bass player had heard me playing piano after school one night. I used to hide in the music block occasionally, and that chance encounter was all it took to change my life. Luck shines on everyone at some point.

I decide to grab a shower and start to plan my day, when it comes back to me. The incident, the reason Rammage’s beatings increased and the main reason why Mark’s intervention was so timely. I can laugh about it now – I was dumb beyond belief – but back then it was scary shit. As you have probably gathered, my viewing isn’t something I control. It drops me into moments from my own past but also into the lives of others, into the private corners of their memories like a grenade at bedtime. And, as I have learned over the years, that can only happen if I get close. It also explains how Mark and I drifted apart, but that story is for another day. Sticking with Rammage, his routine beatings created a horrific but powerful bond between us. I began viewing his life and his past and was convinced for a while that it would drive me mad.

It won’t surprise you to hear that Rammage’s bullying was a reflection of his own suffering. His Dad may have been three times as big and missing all his teeth but, other than that, he was a carbon copy of Shane. In other words, a complete and utter bastard. During the day I was living in fear and getting beaten up by Shane. Then, in my viewings at night – as sharp and real as the butterfly knife in Grifter’s hand – I was Shane, getting the crap beaten out of me by his Dad. That’s fucked up, right? It was no wonder I had bags under my eyes and no flesh on my bones. Sometimes I think it’s a miracle I’m still here, but then an even weirder thing happened. I ended up feeling sorry for the evil little shit. You see, Shane Rammage had a secret, he was routinely abused by his father, but also gay and falling in love with Coley. It was a confusing time for all of us but you can triple that for Shane Rammage. His feelings for Coley were – so far anyway – not reciprocated, he was confused and getting close to doing something about it. Oh yes, I saw all of this in my viewings and it very nearly broke my poor, innocent little brain.

Now, for absolute clarity, love and desire take many forms and I am cool with all of them, but for an early teen in the late nineties being gay wasn’t something you just owned up to. Also, let’s not forget this was Shane-bloody-Rammage. Complicated. Kapeesh?

And guess what? In his infinite wisdom, Dumbo Jumbo (that’s me) decided to try and help Shane and his wretched soul through his troubles. Oh yes, you heard me correctly. In a quiet moment I confided in Rammage. I explained that I knew about his Dad and suggested that his feelings for Coley were nothing to be ashamed of. I told him that I understood why he was taking his anger out on me and offered my help and friendship.

You can probably guess how that went.

By the way, two of my best friends in college were gay – so please don’t accuse me of being homophobic – but let me tell you what I learnt that day. Bullies need punching hard in the face and you should never, ever, tell them you know they are homosexual – even if you do – and definitely don’t tell them that you understand.

Funnily enough, I saw Shane Rammage years later. I think I was about twenty-five. He was with his boyfriend and seemed happy. He had mellowed, almost beyond recognition. He’d finally grown into his teeth and that mop of hair was down to a gravel-like stubble. He actually looked pretty good, all things considered. Honestly – and this is going to sound really weird – but Shane couldn’t have been nicer. He was all smiles and bought my mates and me a round of drinks. Beneath the surface, there was still a latent something (beaten kids don’t get over it) but he attempted a number of times to play down what he did to me, tried really hard to make me say it was alright.

I didn’t, because it wasn’t and never will be, but I don’t hate him. It wasn’t totally his fault, and it led me to Mark and a better life and I guess even toughened me up. Hell, who knows? What I do know is that whilst I don’t hate him I still despise what he did. I guess that’s why I intervened with Liv and why it still hurts that Mark and I can’t be friends.

The viewing of that fateful day at school clings to me and is also sparking other memories and thoughts. I think of Amy and my family, of my Mum in that home, and I know what to do. Thirty minutes in the shower and I’m cleansed. Dwelling is for losers. I accepted a while back that life is just shit sometimes, and that can often be quite a freeing realisation. I’m surprised to find I actually feel pretty positive and can’t shake the feeling that something good is about to happen.

Optimism? Moi?

Never.

11.

Side two of ‘Revolver’ by The Beatles is awesome. Good Day Sunshine blasts out as I blend my second smoothie of the day. Outside the sun is shining but I feel as though it’s all coming from inside me. I feel awake, alive and energised. I understand that my mood is like some kind of demented yo-yo, down one day and flying high the next, but who cares? I take the good days when they come along. They’re rare and I know I will be back to my old self soon enough.

When my antiques business was doing well I would spend a good portion of my day photographing, cataloguing and uploading new items for sale onto my website. I could do most of my work without seeing anyone. Just the odd white van man and occasional phone call. It suited me, and although I usually had a ‘to do’ list as long as both arms, it gave me a purpose. Well, today for the first time in ages I make a real ‘to do’ list and you know what? It feels good. It feels positive, with none of the dark inventiveness of my depressive side.

I move through the house, opening all the curtains and spend the next few hours working up a sweat. Bin bags, rubber gloves and elbow grease. It feels good to be cleaning. I actually want to tidy up the crap that’s been accumulating for years. I still have my warehouse, although I haven’t been there for a few months and now have a living room filled with bags and boxes to take there. I just need to scrape together some cash for a courier. Tidying the house was top of my list. I tick it off and move on.

Deciding if I am going mad is the second thing on my list. I think back to Other Joe as ‘Got To Get You Into My Life’ fills my sunlit lounge. I focus in on the fact that he was here, in this house, in my life.

I smile and shake my head. It isn’t possible. I must have imagined it.

There was no Other Joe. He was definitely some kind of hallucination bought on by hypnosis. I grab the phone and check the time. Mid-morning on Saturday. I call Alexia Finch’s office, expecting to leave a message and am kind of surprised when her receptionist picks up. She explains that Finch is away on a course this weekend but assures me that my appointment on Tuesday at 5:30 p.m. is booked in. I don’t plan on letting that woman anywhere near my brain again and almost cancel the appointment, but then I change my mind. I do want to talk to her about what happened and, at the very least, think she needs to know the damage she’s inflicted. I keep the appointment, thank the squeaky girl and hang up.

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 sense. 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.

Roll up.

Roll up for the time-travel tour.

I sink back in my chair, bottle in hand and begin. I stare at the ceiling, blinking and whispering my countdown from a hundred. The music takes me away and you know what? I think the booze might be helping. I feel remarkably relaxed. The Beatles, alcohol and hypnosis. Who the hell needs a Tardis?

Hmmm. This might take longer than I thought.

I fell asleep.

Bollocks.

I stare at the bottle in my hand. Maybe vodka isn’t such a good idea after all. I head to the kitchen and spot a fresh bottle on the kitchen island. Huh? I’ve got an identical one in my hand, except mine has some missing. I see light spilling from the open cellar door and noises coming from below. I check the clock and that’s when the penny drops.

Holy flipping pancakes. It worked.

I’ve actually gone back, but this time – and I have no idea why – I only managed to go back about twenty minutes! Other Joe is currently in the cellar looking for a mixer and any second will be back up to crack open the vodka. I look again at the bottle in my hand. There are now two identical bottles of vodka existing in the same moment, the same place. I mean, two of the same bottle. Brain. Overload.

Wait a minute? Why is that weird? Why am I focussing on the bloody vodka. There’s two of me for God’s sake… Now that is weird!

Other Joe is walking up the cellar steps. Shit! I really don’t want to find out what happens if I meet myself – space time continuum, universe imploding etc. – so I sneak into the lounge and hide behind the same bloody curtain as last time.

My heart is banging but I’m not scared; at all. I actually feel charged, as though I’m stood beneath a buzzing pylon, drawing its power. I’m excited! I listen to Other Joe clink some ice into a glass and start his ‘pacing the kitchen’ routine and smile. I hear Mark again.

‘Nice work Mr Bridgeman,’ he assures me in his best prof voice. ‘You’ve replicated your experiment and your predictions were correct. Now you need to analyse the data and decide on next steps.’

Analyse data? Yeah, whatever. I hear Other Joe enter the study and begin his preparations for departure. Possibilities are tumbling from my subconscious like coins in one of those Penny Pusher games at the fair. My smile widens because I can’t deny it any longer, don’t have to because the proof was just drinking shots in my kitchen. I may be a socially inept, vinyl-loving oddball but I’m also a time-traveller! And this isn’t some far-fetched movie either. It’s real. This could be the very reason for my viewing and potentially a way for me to use it. Initially, I thought I was losing my mind, but it turns out to be quite the opposite. I’m not losing my mind after all. I’m finding it and if I can travel back one day then maybe, just maybe, I could go further.

‘Magical Mystery Tour’ begins (again) and Other Joe travels Back to the Vodka.

Mark D’Stellar sums it up for me, ‘Time to get to work, Joe.’

Yes indeed Marky boy, and I know exactly where to start.

Part Three - Day Tripper

1.

It’s gone midnight and although the summer air feels warm, a chill runs through me. People begin spilling out of the bar opposite and I spot him, Scott Tyler, dressed smartly in a blue shirt, cream trousers and brown shoes. He flirts with a girl for a while but it doesn’t lead to anything. Eventually, they go their separate ways and I follow him, keeping my distance. I was beginning to think the girl would be an excellent excuse to not go through with it tonight. Now, it’s just me and him. I swallow and steel my resolve.

We near his home, a modern basement flat in Charlton Kings. He crosses the street, glances back in my direction, but doesn’t seem to notice me. I’m not exactly an intimidating figure. I hide behind a large oak tree, fumble in my pocket and pull out a balaclava. Acid fills my mouth, my knees feel like jelly and I’m suddenly weak and nauseous.

Come on Joe, this is it, don’t wimp out on me now.

I remind myself why I’m doing this, that I don’t really have a choice. I pull on my balaclava and sneak a look. The full moon easily illuminates the scene and I see him walking down his garden path. I force my legs to move and follow him into the shadows. My breath is hot against the woollen mask and my vision impaired. I catch him before he descends the wide stone steps that lead to his back door.

‘Scott.’ I say. My voice is as firm and deep as I can manage considering my heart is turning over like an old engine.

He spins around, ‘Fucking hell!’ He’s frowning and backing away, ‘Who the hell are you?’

I point towards the garden, dark and quiet. ‘We need to talk.’

He tilts his head sideways, an inquisitive expression, ‘Do I know you?’

‘No.’ I say, defensively.

‘What’s with the mask?’ He scowls, ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

It’s a good question, and – unlike the movies I watched for inspiration – my victim doesn’t appear to be afraid. I pull my gun awkwardly from my pocket and point it, hand noticeably shaking.

‘Do as you’re told,’ I say.

‘Alright mate,’ Tyler raises his hands and finally, thankfully, sounds nervous. ‘There’s no need for that,’ he says, circling me slowly. He’s inching towards the garden, his eyes locked with mine. ‘So, come on, what’s this all about?’ He asks, almost conversationally, ‘Is this a mugging or what?’

‘No,’ I growl, ‘it’s much worse.’ That line sounded much scarier when I practised it at home. Tyler stares back at me, rubbing his chin. He pulls a face, one that says, I’m not sure about any of this. ‘Who are you?’ He asks, ‘Why are you hiding your face?’

‘I’m your worst fear.’ I say, in a voice that sounds exactly the opposite.

‘Oh yeah Batman, I’m scared.’ He bares his teeth and I see that familiar smirk, the one he pulls before he hurts her. ‘That isn’t even a real gun is it?’ He sneers at me.

Well, this couldn’t be going much worse, and now my hand is shaking so badly I’m more likely to shoot myself than anything else. Although, he’s right, the gun isn’t real, the worst I could do with it is pinch my finger in its plastic hammer. ‘I know about you.’ I say thinly, ‘I know what you’ve done.’

He takes a step towards me and laughs, ‘Oh yeah? Well, if you know what I’ve done, then it’s you who should be scared.’ He rushes, knocking the gun from my hand and before I know what’s happening he’s on top of me, his full weight pressed on my middle, legs pinning my arms. He pulls my mask free and leans in, breath hot and bitter, ‘Who are you?’ He hisses, clearly confused that he doesn’t know me.

When I look up I don’t see Scott Tyler. I see Shane Rammage. Luckily, rather than distracting me, that image reminds me exactly why I’m here, what Tyler has done. ‘This is about Liv,’ I say slowly and firmly, finally using the anger that’s been building up. ‘You’ve hurt her for the last time. You leave her alone.’

‘Liv?’ He laughs. ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’

‘Were you kidding when you broke her wrist?’

A predatory glare flashes over him and he changes instantly. The sudden shift is deeply unsettling. I see his anger building, a rage that won’t stop, and I know that he’s about to start punching. I’m experienced in such matters. ‘Wait!’ I shout, ‘I know about the money, about the cash you’ve stolen from your company!’

This stops him. Tyler narrows his beady eyes and peers down at me in disbelief. I see his teeth again, shining in the moonlight. ‘You’re full of shit.’ He grabs my wrists and tightens his grip, ‘You don’t know anything!’

‘I know you recently stole two grand, spent it on a nice holiday and before that it was nearly four and we know where that went don’t we?’

He releases his grip slightly and I take my chance. I push him away and scramble to my feet. We face each other. At last I have his attention and, for the first time, I see genuine fear in his eyes.

‘Listen to me,’ Tyler says, voice shaking. ‘You just listen to me.’

‘No!’ I shout, my words at last coming easily and quickly, ‘I know everything about you, and this is the part where you shut the fuck up and listen to me.’

He assesses me, literally looking me up and down, ‘Is this Tom?’ He asks, voice high and searching. ‘Did he put you up to this?’ Tom is Scott’s unfortunate business partner, the one he’s ripping off. ‘No,’ I assure him, ‘Tom doesn’t know - yet - and if you want it to stay that way –’

‘You’re blackmailing me?’ He whispers.

‘Yes.’ I smile, ‘You’re a fast leaner Scott, I like that.’

‘I don’t care.’ He fires back, anger building again, ‘You’re full of shit, you can tell him, he won’t believe you.’

‘I know about the fund you’ve set up too,’ I say this quietly but clearly. ‘I know where you’re hiding the money.’

Scott sighs, shaking his head. ‘Jesus, I’m fucked,’ he whispers.

‘Yep.’ I agree, ‘You are.’

I think at this point the truth finally sinks in. ‘What do you want? Money?’

‘I’ve already told you what I want.’

‘Huh?’ His eyes search mine desperately.

‘I’ve seen what you do to Liv, what you’re capable of when that temper of yours flares up. You think no one is looking but I’m watching you and always will be.’ I step forward and he flinches. ‘It stops,’ I say. ‘You leave her alone.’

Tyler stares at the floor and when he finally looks up, his voice is a mere whisper, ‘What’s she been saying to you?’

‘Liv hasn’t said a thing, she doesn’t need to. I’m watching you, remember?’

‘I guess you two are seeing each other?’ His tone is bitter but defeated and weak.

‘It’s not like that.’

‘What then?’

‘Think of me as her guardian angel,’ I say, ‘and Scott?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re going to break up with her and never see her again.’

‘What?’ He gasps.

‘You heard me.’

‘But, I like her, why would I –’

‘Men who like their girlfriends don’t beat them up when they’ve had a bad day.’

‘Shit,’ he whispers, eyes dead.

‘Yeah,’ I agree. ‘You are. Do you know how long you will get in prison for the money laundering? It’s a while. And for the record, guys in there love a woman beater.’

‘Listen,’ he says, ‘I didn’t mean to hurt her, I just get –’

‘Leave her!’ I say firmly, ‘Or Tom gets enough evidence to bury you forever.’ I lean in and whisper gently in his ear, ‘I will always be watching you. If you see Liv again, if you mention me and what happened here, your life will turn to crap faster than shit in a blender.’

I pick up my balaclava and toy gun and walk away without looking back. My hands are shaking and I’m sure I’m going to puke but I don’t, and after ten minutes or so I surprise myself by actually laughing.

Shit in a blender? That makes no sense! Man, where do I get this stuff? I think of Liv and hope that what I’ve done will bring an end to his abuse. I hope I stopped him before he did permanent damage to her confidence, and then I pray that now I will stop viewing that slimy, evil bastard’s life. I got to know Liv and then I started viewing Scott, as him, inside his head. It’s the curse that keeps on giving and taking and taking. Being near him tonight was horrible, but viewing as him? That was much worse, especially when he was hurting Liv.

‘I did okay,’ I whisper to the empty street, trying to settle my racing heart, ‘I did good.’

2.

My sleep was so broken I decided to get up early and walk. I’ve been up three hours. It’s just gone 6, and I’m strolling through Pittville Park. The viewing of my botched turn as a vigilante doesn’t come often but, when I consider the options, it isn’t the worst. It often comes if I’ve seen Liv and I’m reminded of how I helped her. She never found out, and I’m glad about that and I’m quietly proud of what I did, of my poor, but effective impression of Mark D’Stellar. Mark saved me from a bully, I saved Liv, which is maybe how it works. Who knows? Buddhists would call it karma, I’m not sure what I would call it, but it does feel like the universe sometimes needs balancing, and with Liv it was my turn to act, my turn to even the score.

But, that’s all history. Liv is okay and Scott Tyler never bothered her again. Right now, I have more pressing matters. I’m attempting to make sense of the last few days and my journeys into the past, the actual past. The park is quiet, just dog walkers and joggers who go round and round to quote Blur. It’s funny, they’re like the thoughts in my head, constantly treading the same routes. I need to stick to the facts – which are based on assumptions, of course – but I have to settle on something. I don’t feel like I’m going mad, in fact I feel pretty sane, which could be the first sign of madness I suppose.

Well, whatever, if I’m going crazy I might as well get on with it.

I have time-travelled – twice now – by hypnotising myself and somehow ‘thinking’ my way back. This is obviously linked to my viewing in some way. Also, there is another factor that doesn’t make sense to me yet. The first time I travelled I went back a day. I heard a noise in my house and then saw myself. I then waited and watched my other self begin that loop by hypnotising himself and disappearing. That was weird enough, but then, for some unknown reason, after a serious bout of brain freeze I ended up travelling forward a day or, more accurately, totally missing it. Like a needle, jumping a track on an L.P.

I watch a man throwing a red ball for his jack russell. The dog repeatedly brings it back, tail wagging. They are silhouetted like golden statues against a thin white mist, hanging over the park and lake. The small shape bounces up at his owner who holds the ball high before throwing it again, sending the dog racing off excitedly. I let my mind wander. I think about the second time I travelled. The vodka jump. That time, I only managed twenty minutes or so, which could be useful for when I say something insensitive, but it’s not exactly progress is it? I mean, I time-travelled. Yay. But if I can travel a day, then twenty minutes seems a bit lame in comparison. Also, I presume, at some point I will go forwards twenty minutes? You know, to balance things out again? I wince at the thought of me suddenly pinging around the park.

Shit. It’s bonkers.

There is a meaning to this, a structure, but it’s right on the edge of my mind, like a name on the tip of your tongue. I’m just too thick for this, I decide, definitely should have tried harder at school.

When I arrive home, Martin is waiting. He is seated at the kitchen table, surrounded by neat piles of paperwork and recently opened envelopes. It seems he’s attacked my increasingly large and secret pile of mail. I can tell by the look on his face he is the bearer of more bad news.

‘Go on then,’ I say, ‘cheer me up.’

He shrugs, stands and fills the kettle, ‘When were you going to tell me about the mail you’ve been hoarding?’

I pull my mouth down and look up, emulating deep thought.

Martin observes me coolly. ‘It’s worse than I realised, Joe,’ he says, with a look of genuine worry.

I compute my worst case scenario. ‘Is it Mum?’ I ask.

‘No.’

‘What then?’ I shrug. ‘Are we out of coffee?’

Martin frowns, ‘They aren’t asking anymore.’ He swallows, seemingly pushing the words out against his will, ‘They’re going to re-possess your house.’

‘Yeah, you told me that.’

‘No, I told you they wanted to use the house as an asset to pay for your Mother’s care. That was going to be a long battle, one I was prepared for.’ He sighs. ‘This is different Joe, this is your lender, your bank, forcing you out.’

‘They can’t just do that.’ I stare out of the window at the morning traffic, ‘I have rights.’

‘Yes, you do.’ Martin says, ‘That’s why we applied for a possession order, it’s why you were given a court hearing.’

I nod enthusiastically, ‘Okay then, well, once that’s done we can –’

‘The hearing was two months ago.’ Martin shakes a letter at me, ‘You hid this and now you’ve missed.’ He sighs again, heavier this time, ‘The bailiffs have set a date, there’s nothing I can do.’

‘Bailiffs?’ A thickness is forming in my throat ‘When?’

‘Monday.’

‘Which Monday, this coming Monday?’ My voice is high, ‘As in Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Shit-day?’

‘No, Monday 22nd.’

Nice, just in time for Christmas.

Martin hands me a steaming mug of tea and I immediately pile in two large sugars, stirring slowly in a daze. He clears his throat, ‘Joe, listen, we talked, and with the girls and my Mother-in-law,’ he pauses, scratching the back of his head, ‘it’s just too difficult at the moment.’

‘Huh?’

‘I said it’s too difficult.’

I suddenly understand why a pained expression has fallen over him. ‘Jesus, Martin,’ I say, ‘I know you can’t take me in, this isn’t your fault.’

He nods, the pain still etched over his face, ‘It doesn’t make it easy though.’

I agree. It doesn’t and for once I don’t want to be hard on Martin. My paperwork has been a car-crash waiting to happen, and this pile-up of shit is no one’s fault but my own. I find myself accepting my fate and even catch myself thinking, what’s done is done.

That’s when I remind myself that I’m a time-traveller. Okay, so I’m rubbish at it, a complete learner, but I can do it. An idea that started to take shape yesterday returns to me, fully formed, crystal clear, floating in front of me like a shiny gem in a computer game.

‘Joe?’ Martin asks gingerly, eyes now wide with concern, ‘Are you okay?’

I realise I’m grinning, and probably look loopy loo. ‘I will be,’ I say, winking and then uncharacteristically slapping his shoulder.

‘What’s going on?’ Martin says, noticeably shaken and confused.

‘You’ll find out.’ I smile.

Which is ironic because, if my plan works, he won’t find out at all and he won’t even remember this conversation because it will never happen.

3.

There’s a T.V. show called Family Fortunes. It’s actually based on an American show called Family Feud. I don’t know if it’s still being made, because I don’t watch television, but in the show, families are asked to guess the results of a survey. ‘We asked 100 people’ etc.’ I remember my family crowding around the telly, guessing the answers. The ultra glossy, well groomed host smiles at the audience. ‘We asked 100 people. If they could go back in time what would they do?’ The opposing families whisper and debate. The studio audience and the millions at home all feel they know the most popular answer.

Our survey says:

Kill Hitler.

Save Kennedy.

Stop 9/11.

These are all good answers of course – very decent answers in fact – but they are unattainable to me. They involve going back a long way, to a specific time and specific location.

Let’s ask that question again, but this time let’s introduce some parameters, let’s introduce a time limit.

‘If you could go back just one day what would you do?’

There’s an obvious answer of course, one that would come top of any list. No question. I’m sure you were way ahead of me. It took me a while – I’ve had a few things on my mind – but I’m there now. It’s obvious. Win the Lottery. I may have bigger fish to fry but before I do, I need to pay for the oil and keep the lights on.

Come on, don’t deny it, you would if you could.

4.

It’s Saturday, 13th December, just gone 8 a.m. I’m up and out, walking the streets of Cheltenham. The sun is a brilliant yellow ball against a chalk blue sky, so clear it looks almost painted. I breathe deeply, cold air filling my lungs. A woman smiles as she passes me, a knowing gesture that somehow says, You’re in your own world, I know the feeling! I turn, she looks back and we smile again and I feel a rare connection. It feels good to be alive and that’s a new vibe for me. Well, maybe not new, but so forgotten it feels like it.

I decide it’s probably because I have a new purpose, one that may be unorthodox but it’s given me a renewed sense of belonging. Tonight, if all goes well, I am going to travel back a day and win the Lottery.

I look at the crowds of people and realise that I might do all of this again, this walk through Cheltenham, this beautiful morning, except the second time I do, I will know six numbers that will change my life forever. Next time, I might even say ‘good morning’ to that beautiful woman that just passed me. I must remember to look out for her.

My most successful time jump was my first, a whole day. Replicating that was harder than I thought though. Jump two worked but it was short, a vodka induced trip of just twenty minutes. Not great. I suppose a few hours might be just enough to win the Lottery but a day should be my target; my benchmark. I wonder if the second time I travelled I wanted it too much. People who meditate talk about searching for a singular moment, a thoughtless kind of peace. The problem with that is that as soon as you think ‘Oh, wow, I reckon I’ve got it!’ then you haven’t, because you’ve thought about it. It’s a paradox of sorts. You can’t enjoy your thoughtless moment, your oneness, because you shouldn’t really be aware of it.

I stop walking and look up. I think back to Finch and the techniques and advice she gave me. That’s what started all of this. That’s what converted my ability to view into time-travel itself. I need to replicate everything I did on that very first jump. The bath, the candles, the lack of any expectations or vodka.

A voice I recognise cuts through my thoughts, ‘You look like you’re in your own little world there.’ A man says, happily.

I shield my eyes from the sun and see an unmistakable silhouette. ‘Vinny,’ I say, ‘I was just on my way to see you.’

I’m not used to seeing Vinny like this, out of the shop, walking the streets. He has a place in my world and fits neatly into a box. This feels a little strange.

‘You were miles away.’ Vinny chuckles.

‘Yeah,’ I reply, ‘got a few things on my mind, I guess.’

‘Me too,’ he says seriously. ‘Quite a lot actually.’

‘Yeah?’

Vinny pats his considerable tummy and nods. ‘Yep. Bacon, eggs, sausages, toast, hash browns.’

‘Ahhh,’ I laugh. ‘Of course!’

Like me, Vinny has his own routine, but his version is a greasy spoon café, the kind of place you can consume your weekly amount of calories in one go. Vinny probably ought to have shares.

‘You popping into the shop later?’ He asks, scratching his bald head.

I think about my routine and how it seems to relate to my furthest jump. ‘Yes, absolutely,’ I say.

‘Alrighty then,’ Vinny replies. ‘See you later, hunger calls.’

He walks away but I call him back. ‘How about I buy you breakfast and we eat it in the park?’ I suggest.

Vinny’s face contorts and I suspect he’s calculating the quality and volume of a park-based meal.

‘A full English baguette,’ I add, ‘and a large builders’ tea from that new place you said you liked the look of?’

A smile as big as the sun spreads across his face. ‘Lovely jubbly.’ Vinny says, patting his tummy.

It’s too cold to sit, so we walk slowly around the edge of the park. People dart across its middle, busy as cars at an intersection. Vinny bites into his sandwich, which looks more like a caveman’s wooden club and groans with pleasure as ketchup oozes from its edges. He talks as he chews. ‘This was a good idea, Cash,’ he smiles and swallows hard. ‘Damn good idea.’

‘Yeah.’ I say, biting into my comparatively tiny croissant.

‘You buttering me up for some hard to find vinyl or something?’ Vinny asks.

‘How do you mean?’

Vinny tilts his head, ‘I reckon this is the longest conversation we’ve ever had. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice and all, but you don’t usually want to shoot the breeze.’

I nod, he’s right of course. I’ve often fancied doing just that, shooting the breeze, but usually don’t risk it. However, his question makes me realise why I suggested this in the first place, why I want to talk to him. The subconscious works in mysterious ways.

‘How long have you had the shop?’ I ask as we walk, or in Vinny’s case, shuffle. ‘It’s a long time right?’

‘Yeah,’ Vinny grunts, slurping his tea, ‘nearly twenty years now. Seen vinyl come and go, in and out of fashion, been there the whole time.’ He snorts, ‘Irony is, now vinyl’s back in fashion the kids want the new stuff and all the shops, you know the ones that ditched vinyl back in the day, they’re all like, ooooh, vinyl is cool again, get it at the front, sell it by the bucket load.’

‘You love it though, right?’

Vinny sighs and considers, ‘Yeah, I guess I do.’

‘Would you still do it, even if you didn’t have to?’

‘How do you mean?’ He asks.

‘I mean, if you won the Lottery or something, would you still own the shop, still go to work every day?’

He pauses, takes a massive bite of his calorie bomb and chews it like a cow in no hurry. Eventually he says, ‘Well, I would pay off my debts, sort my daughter out, you know holidays and college and that.’ He swallows a huge amount and looks in pain but then shrugs happily. ‘Yeah, I reckon I would just carry on as normal. Life’s okay, I love that old shop.’ He stares at me with intensity, as though an honest calculation is being made and he wants to get it right. ‘Winning a mill wouldn’t change me,’ he says, sternly, ‘I really feel that. I can’t deny it would be a laugh, would remove a load of worry, but I don’t think anything would change me really.’

I nod and we stroll.

‘Why you asking, Cash?’ He gives my shoulder a playful nudge, ‘Is this the part when you tell me you’ve won the Lottery? That you’re one of those secret millionaires?’

I smile, ‘No, I’m afraid not, I’m just interested that’s all.’

My conscious mind finally catches up and understands what’s really going on. ‘And what if you knew the numbers?’ I ask.

Vinny laughs loudly, his considerable frame providing a resonance I hope I never manage, ‘Oh man, you have that dream too?’ His eyes are gleaming with excitement, ‘Can you imagine, actually knowing?!’

I shrug, ‘It would be amazing wouldn’t it, but would it be wrong?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Would it be theft if you knew the numbers, if you could somehow cheat the system.’

‘Cash,’ Vinny says, deliberately accentuating his nick-name for me. ‘They make plenty out of it. I wouldn’t think about it for a second. Anyway, you could always give some to charity or something.’

‘Yeah,’ I agree. ‘That would be okay wouldn’t it?’

‘Totally.’ Vinny raises his eyebrows, ‘I never bother with the Lottery but you got me thinking, I might give it a go tonight.’

‘Why not?’ I smile, decision made. ‘Why the hell not?’

5.

The Lottery show goes though its motions. The balls jostle around in the named Perspex tumbler, no doubt released by that smartly dressed man with gloves, the one who looks like a snooker referee. The music kicks in and a beamingly optimistic voice calls out the winning numbers. The coloured balls travel, light and bouncy, to their resting place. The draw is done and as the numbers are announced in numerical order I write them down, hand shaking.

18 - 30 - 33 - 34 - 38 - 48

I consider them, these numbers that are now fixed in time. All those thirties… 30, 33, 34, 38. I would never have chosen those. They just don’t seem random enough, but I will choose them because now we are friends, those numbers and I. Rather than rely on paper alone, I write them on my hand for good measure. I also begin to repeat them over and over in my mind. Those lovely numbers, those random and weird digits that are going to bring an end to my financial woes. I’m not excited in the way most people would be. This win means one thing to me. Time. Ironically. It just buys me some thinking time and that’s all I need; time to think, to stop this merry-go-round.

Drinking piña coladas on a beach somewhere would be nice, I guess, but it’s not for me. This is a necessary act. One step in a much bigger plan that, so far, is on track.

I popped into Vinny’s on the way home because that’s what I did on the day I travelled back the furthest. Chamomile tea; Check. Bath running; Check. Candles; Likewise. Repeating the procedure is paramount and, as I slip into my blindingly hot bath (making sure I don’t wash the numbers off), I focus on the feelings I had on the first day I travelled. All I wanted to do then was sleep. I also remember Finch asking me to think about safe places, about happier times. I try that too. I think about Amy and the few untainted memories I have of that time. They are as warm and welcoming as the water that covers me. By the time I finally crawl into bed I am feeling remarkably tired. I lay in darkness and begin my countdown, blinking on the odd numbers and focussing on going back to this morning, before those Lottery numbers were drawn. I think of meeting Vinny in the park and the warm sun. I imagine the duvet sinking without me to hold it up, like it did when I watched Other Joe disappear.

It’s going to happen, I can feel it. I know it.

6.

It’s morning. I’m awake and it doesn’t take long for me to find out it’s Sunday. I’m aware that I dreamt, abstract ideas and images, disjointed conversations. Usually, dreaming rather than viewing is a rare and beautiful thing, but today it sucks the big one. I look at the numbers written in blue pen on my hand and curse. They are useless now, printed in every paper and on multiple websites. Anyone could write them on their hand today.

Shit.

I’m not sure what I expected. Did I really think I could just jump at will? No, I think deep down I knew it wasn’t going to work. Why would it? What makes me the expert all of a sudden? Practice makes perfect, my Mum always said, but it isn’t easy with the bomb of my eviction ticking all around me. Sure, I can wait until the next Lottery draw and just try again but a decent percentage of my fear is nagging at me. It’s telling me I’ve had my chance, that I will never be able to do it again. I feel like the man who thinks he’s just accidently burned his winning ticket, or washed it, or ripped it up by mistake. That would be horrible.

Shit. Shit.

I shower, dress and check the fridge. Apart from two apples on a mission to become cider, it’s empty. My stomach rolls. No Lottery winning caviar and champagne for me. Not even a bagel. I fold my arms and lean against a work-top. This isn’t good. What if it’s true, what if I’ve lost my ability to time-travel?

A thought occurs to me, one that pushes me deeper into my increasingly grey depression. What if it’s like the genie in the lamp and you only get a set number of goes at this? I’ve already had two, which means that my next – if there is a next – might be my last.

* * *

9:01 a.m., Monday morning, I’m on the phone to Alexia Finch, begging her for an emergency appointment. She finally agrees.

Emergency Hypnotherapy. I know, it was a stretch but actually, this is kind of an emergency. If I don’t get this sorted I’m out on my ear with no hope and no reason to carry on. We all need something to aim for, some point to all of this, don’t we? Travelling back again is mine, and I’m determined to figure out how to do it again, and why I’ve suddenly become better at sleeping than anything else. I’m like a bloody teenager for Pete’s sake. Who is Pete I wonder? Probably hanging out with Gordon Bennett and Bob, your Uncle.

* * *

Finch is seated opposite me. I’m lying back on the nutty chair, the reclining one out of the movies. Her glasses are perched on the end of her nose and she has a note-pad in hand. ‘Tell me, Mr Bridgeman,’ she purrs in her Caramel bunny voice, ‘how have you been since I saw you last?’

She doesn’t say ‘since you barged in on me’, and for that I’m grateful.

‘I can’t sleep,’ I lie, which is hard because her voice is enough to make me feel sleepy again.

Finch nods, ‘Did the techniques I showed you help at all?’

‘Yes, they did,’ I say, ‘for the first couple of days, but now I’m back to my old self again.’

‘I see.’ She makes notes and frowns. ‘And that’s why you wanted to see me urgently, you aren’t sleeping at all.’

‘Not at all.’ I rub my eyes for effect but I feel wide-awake, probably because I’ve had too much sleep. I never thought I would get to say that. Oh, the irony if I end up with narcolepsy after all I’ve been through.

Finch rolls her pen deftly between her fingers, ‘Mr Bridgeman, often when we are having trouble sleeping it’s because things are bothering us, issues that sometimes we aren’t even aware of ourselves,’ she pauses and looks straight at me. ‘Things that our subconscious might be wrestling with.’

Her eyes are bright and searching and I imagine them spinning and drawing me in like the hypnotic snake from Jungle Book. ‘I don’t think that’s it,’ I mumble, lamely, ‘I think I just need more of the stuff you showed me.’

Her eyes narrow slightly, not a deliberate gesture I suspect, but she is studying me. I’m aware (not) that therapists love it when you tell them what to do.

She manages a smile, ‘Have you ever heard of regression?’

‘Yes,’ I say without thinking, ‘it’s when you take me back to a string of past lives, where I’m a Pharaoh in Egypt and then King of England.’

Her smile widens, ‘Yes. Well, I don’t do that!’ She observes me coolly. ‘What I do is more grounded in reality, the here and now and how we perceive our past.’ She becomes slightly more animated as she speaks, as though she is addressing a room of hungry students. ‘Regression therapy can unearth forgotten or repressed experiences but can also reactivate positive feelings, and in your case perhaps the ability to sleep well.’

‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘Could we just try more of the techniques you taught me the last time, you know like the breathing one?’ I sit up a little, and notice for the first time how pretty Alexia Finch is. Not attractive as such but definitely pretty. She’s plain in almost every sense of the word but that isn’t as bad as it sounds. It just means that nothing shouts about her. Her skin is soft and clear, her mousey hair is up and not bothering anyone. Her glasses are unobtrusive and lack any specific style. Her clothes are safe. Everything is just so, yet she exudes a kind of peacefulness, a graceful quality that I associate with nature, with birds or lions or –

‘Mr Bridgeman?’

‘Huh?’

‘You drifted off I think,’ she says tenderly. ‘Probably your lack of sleep getting to you. It’s hard to concentrate.’

I nod, desperately trying not to flush red. ‘Listen,’ I say, ‘I’m not sure about the regression thing.’

‘And that’s absolutely fine, you must feel comfortable. We can try it another time maybe.’ She breaks into another smile, which remains while she talks, ‘It can be a great tool for winding back the clock to a point where potential damage occurred. It’s a really safe way to explore things in a safe environment.’

‘Winding back the clock?’ I whisper.

‘Yes.’ Finch nods. ‘But, perhaps today we should try something gentle, see if we can guide your subconscious a little, get it to at least settle down. Not sleeping is often a learned behaviour, we learn that bed-time means not sleeping and then it becomes habit.’

I get a sense of genuine empathy from her, stronger this time. I think she’s forgiven me for barging in last week. I feel bad though, she’s filling me with all this advice on sleeping and all I really need are tips on time-travel. Sleeping might be a problem but unbelievably, it’s not the lack of.

Finch pulls an unseen lever and the chair gently reclines with a tired hiss. ‘Why don’t we get you relaxed,’ she says, ‘and then I can help you with some suggestions, things to help you to practice at home. Does that sound good?’

‘Sure,’ I say, ‘more of the tricks you showed me last time.’

‘Tricks.’ She laughs, ‘I like that.’

‘Sorry,’ I wince, immediately feeling like an idiot, ‘for the record I know you aren’t a stage hypnotist.’

‘Only on the weekends.’ She smiles, makes more notes and then places the pad down beside her, pushing her glasses to the bridge of her nose again. ‘Now, lie back and let’s see what we can do.’

Finch manages to put me under easily, quickly this time. I hear her voice and gentle music, pipes or flutes, something that sounds almost Indian. There is a waterfall too, I think, rumbling on forever in the distance. Her words drift and flow around me, seeming to go through me.

‘Relaxation will come easily to you,’ her voice is soft and silky, ‘all you have to do is allow it to, just let it come, like the tide, a warm sea lapping at your feet.’

I like it here, in her office that’s now by the sea. It’s relaxing and nothing bad can happen to me here. I feel the water she describes, pleasant and natural and, like my bath, it consumes me. Her voice drifts in and out of my mind. ‘You are in control Mr Bridgeman and if you want to sleep, that’s okay, sleep is something we –’

Suddenly – and by that I mean, instantly – her voice is gone and with it the music, and, unbelievably the super-duper reclining chair too. I fall, banging hard onto the floor, the lower three vertebrae in my spine howl in disgust. Finch’s office – previously a dark and chocolatey cave - is suddenly bathed in sunlight. I cry out in shock as much as anything else and struggle to my feet.

I glance around. It’s Finch’s office but it’s not hers anymore. The space is the same but the decor, furniture, everything, has changed. There are three desks, covered with piles of paperwork, each has a phone and a table lamp. Her office – and this identical one in the twilight zone – has two doors; a main one and another smaller, internal one. I hear voices coming from the smaller door and walk towards it. My heart is in my throat and my legs feel as though they’re melting. Where is Finch? Where am I? And perhaps more importantly - when am I?

I twist the handle and open the door. It’s a boardroom. Seated around a large conference table are five people. Three women, two men, all dressed in business attire. Standing at a white-board is another man, suited and tall. There are garish colours projected onto the board and also, partially over him, a blue pie-chart gives his face a cartoon like quality.

‘Can I help you?’ He asks.

The people around the desk all turn and stare. My mouth is hanging open and although I try to speak, nothing comes. Their initial blank looks become mild annoyance.

‘Sir?’ The man says.

‘I, I think I’m in the wrong place.’ I manage, and that’s when my clothes disappear. I don’t mean they fade out, I mean they just go pop. As in gone. As in completely naked, starkers. A Rudie Nudie as my Grandma used to say.

One of the women screams. Another drops tea straight down her front and one the men cries out, ‘For God’s sake! What the hell are you doing?’

I back out of the room, one hand reaching for the door the frame, the other covering my groin and the only shred of dignity I have left.

‘You had better get out of here before I call the police.’ The man at the white-board suggests forcibly.

That won’t be necessary, I think. I know this because ‘brain freeze’ as strong as all the ice-cream in all the freezers in Gloucestershire smashes into my skull and I am plunged into darkness.

If feels like the opposite of being born, and just like that I’m back in Finch’s office; the one I recognise, the one in the present. The icy pain leaches from my head in an exquisite, warm rush. My eyes re-adjust to the gloom of the present. I see Alexia Finch, seated at her desk, making notes. She is, apparently, completely unaware of my short excursion into the twilight zone. On the floor behind me, in front of the boardroom door I see my clothes, positioned in a comedic pile as though someone has just stepped out of them. Seconds, I think, I was only gone for a few seconds. I swallow and begin creeping backwards.

Finch looks up.

‘Mr Bridgeman!’ She screams, ‘What on earth are you doing?’

‘I can explain,’ I say quickly, instinctively raising my hands in a defensive gesture.

She screams again and I realise I can’t explain. As far as she’s concerned I’m a pervert who has just stripped off in her office. Emergency Appointment indeed.

Balls. Big fat, hairy ones.

Literally.

7.

Persuading Alexia Finch to not call the police was harder than I thought. Her calm, cool exterior hides a determined, confident woman, one that remains focussed under pressure. I tried to assure her that I had no intention or recollection of de-robing in her office but she simply averted her gaze and repeatedly asked me to get dressed, the phone cradled to her ear, her finger hovering over the keypad.

My plan – if you could really call it that – had been to learn some new stuff so I could practice time-travelling in the safety of my own home. Well, if ending up butt naked is part of the deal then I am now exclusively a home shopper. From now on these four walls are going to be my time machine, well, you know until the Government and the bank have their little tug of war with me tied up in the middle.

I dust off an old coffee machine and find some pre-ground stuff that’s out of date by nearly six months. It tastes crappy but it’s better than nothing. I decide I’m never going out again. I’m not safe. I scare women.

I travelled back in time, that much I do know, but how far, I’m not sure. My time there was brief, but I’m guessing it must have been before Finch set up shop there. I drink the last of my luke-warm coffee and visualise the scene. The man at a white-board, the woman who spilt her tea as I suddenly posed for my still life. I see the board clearly in my mind’s eye, covered in writing but I can’t make the detail, it was all so quick and when you find yourself naked you don’t notice things like that. I remember the desks in the main room, paperwork and lamps, pretty retro.

I hear a sound emanating from the middle of the house somewhere. A thud. Oh, this is excellent. My life is just one brilliant surprise after another. It’s midday and I’m still in my dressing gown and slippers. If it’s Martin he will berate me for slobbing about, but then I realise it’s not Martin I’m worried about. I creep into the hallway and head to the lounge. The velvet curtains, big and heavy – my regular hiding place from myself – are drawn. The room is dark and quiet. I stare at the curtains and they twitch. Did I just imagine that? My heart dances and my throat dries immediately.

What if Other Joe is here?

What if a version of me in the future has come back to this moment for some reason? Does he have something to tell me? Is he here to warn me to not eat the salmon mousse?

I can’t stand it any longer. I grab the edge of the curtain and pull it hard and, as I do, an involuntary sound escapes me, ‘Yaaaaa!’ I scream, like a kid desperately smacking a tired horse. My temples throb and my vision blurs for a second but then I calm down. There isn’t anyone, it was all in my imagination.

‘Christ,’ I whimper, and head back to the kitchen in search of vodka.

I do one shot, to calm my nerves. It doesn’t taste bad, and I feel its warmth spread over my chest and then into my gut. I can see why Russians bang them down, even if it does mean their mortality rate is in the low fifties. Imagining Other Joe hiding behind every shadow isn’t surprising when you think about it. I could be anywhere.

The buzz of vodka clears my mind just long enough for me to realise what I need to do. Ten minutes on Google is all it takes to learn how long Alexia Finch has been trading from her current address. The date sends my mind into a fresh spin. She took on the lease over a year ago, before that, it was a chartered accountants.

I know, I think, I paid them a visit. They looked like accountants, boring and serious (no offence to accountants). The facts stack up in my mind like the paperwork on their desks. I went back to at least 2013.

That’s one whole year. A year, for God’s sake.

I shake my head in deep contemplation. If I can go back that far, then surely…

The phone rings and I jump in the air, arms flailing. I curse as I pick up the handset. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack!’ I hiss.

‘Joe,’ Martin says, ignoring me, voice calm. ‘Listen, it’s a quick one okay. I know things are tough at the moment and you have a lot on your mind but I wanted to remind you about the drinks do at mine on Friday.’

My head is still in the past. Martin’s voice is muffled by the weight of it.

‘Joe?’ He says, ‘Are you there?’

‘Yes, I’m here.’ I whisper.

‘I think it might do you some good, so, look I just wanted to say, even though there’s a lot going –’

‘Martin,’ I interrupt him, ‘I’m not sure I’m going to make it.’ My words drift slowly from me, ‘It kind of depends on something else, I have this thing going on at the moment.’ I tail off.

‘Joe, are you okay?’ Martin’s voice is clearer now but my mind is pedalling fast in the opposite direction. ‘Are you alright?’ He asks.

‘Sorry, yeah. I have to go though, I’m afraid.’

‘Alexia Finch is going to be there.’ Martin sounds as though one of my favourite cartoon characters has confirmed their attendance. From this I deduce two things. Finch hasn’t told him about my preference for naked therapy, and also, she is unlikely to go to the party. In her mind, she’s scared I might be there, the stripping lunatic friend of the host; Doctor Who and the Chippendales etc.

I clear my throat, ‘Ah, yeah, things didn’t really work out too well with her,’ I say, my voice thready.

‘That’s a shame.’

‘Yeah.’ I agree.

Martin sighs, and I suddenly realise what he’s been up to the whole time. He was hoping that Finch and I might…

‘– Well look, if you change your mind,’ he offers, ‘just come along. Okay?’

‘Sure,’ I lie. ‘Absolutely.’

He hangs up and our conversation drifts away like warm breath on an icy morning, important but quickly forgotten. I trace the phone line to the wall and pull hard. The cable snaps free of the connector and whips up in the air. No more distractions. I have work to do.

My ability to travel further than I originally thought possible is obviously exciting. However, when I went back, it was a short vacation; eventful yes, but woefully short. Whatever the reason for that, and whatever I decide to do next, it’s clear that a number of factors are key to my success. Time-travel is a complicated blend of hypnosis, focus and relaxation. Not easy. I stare at the vodka bottle and add ‘remaining sober’ to my list of winning ways.

Going back a year is impressive but I still have a more urgent problem that needs my attention. My home. If I don’t sort that out, I’m going to lose it and that’s just the kind of distraction I could do without. My home is my castle, my refuge in which I will hone my skills.

A new tactic is required. I need to set myself a realistic goal, achieve a short and controlled jump. Why not? If I can manage a day and a whole year then I’m sure with laser focus I can go back just a few days. I need to stick to this plan. Focus on last Saturday morning, my conversation with Vinny in the park. That, I decide, will be my target. Try again and go back four days, back to last Saturday so I can win the Lottery. I’m a time-traveller after all.

8.

I blink my eyes open, shielding them from the brilliant sunshine that is suddenly beating down on me, filling my vision.

Holy, crapping, shit on a stick! How the hell did I get here?!

I look down and exhale, loudly. I’m clothed; thank the stars, I’m clothed. I’m in a park. People are everywhere. It’s warm, which is lucky because I haven’t exactly dressed for the occasion. I guess it’s late afternoon. This is like waking inside a dream, one that arrived instantly and transported me without warning, straight to Oz, no tornado, no build up. Just Snap! Here I am.

There are many things wrong with my current situation, but two stand out particularly. The first is that when I left the present it was early evening and nearly dark outside, the second is that I was in my lounge, deeply relaxed and drifting in a hypnotic state. Now I am seated on a bench in Pittville Park, wide awake and time-travelling. Yes. Oh yes. Not only have I travelled back in time, I have also travelled in space too.

New and scary.

My mind bends, wobbles and threatens to implode. I stand and try walking, but my legs feel deep in marshmallow. I realise, with considerable relief, that I am currently without brain freeze. This is good news. At least it means my clothes are staying on, for now at least. This makes me smile. The rules of time-travel, I act as though they are absolute, as though I am getting my head around them. Dream on, Joe, I remind myself. Dream on.

A couple approach, walking towards me on a path that winds around the edge of the park. I ask if they have the time.

‘Just gone four,’ the man replies and continues on.

‘It’s Saturday right?’ I ask, as though it’s slipped my mind and I’m not mad at all.

He laughs, ‘Not quite. Weekend’s nearly here though.’

I stare at him, shaking my head and he stares back, the joviality fading from his face. ‘Er. It’s Wednesday.’ Then he adds with a hint of sarcasm, ‘All day.’

‘Wednesday,’ I whisper under my breath. Christ. I made it back to Wednesday. I stare at the numbers written on my hand. It doesn’t matter of course. I’m just a few days early. I can still enter Saturday’s draw. Right, focus Joe, focus on achieving your goal and nothing else. No dilly-dallying, no mucking around. Just get the job done and let’s ping the hell out of here.

There is a newsagent’s nearby, I can see it from here, tucked behind a hedgerow on the street corner ahead of me. They do the Lottery. I can enter, hide the winning ticket somewhere safe and then pick it up in the present. Easy peasy.

I break into a run. It feels good and also seems to stave off the cool tingle that has just begun in the base of my skull. I run faster, out of the park, over the road and into the newsagent’s. It’s quiet, which is a relief. I nod at the shop owner, a thin bald gentleman, and locate the Lottery ticket stand. I write the first number but there’s nothing, just an indentation pressed into the paper. I drop the pen and it skids across the Lottery stand on its bungee cord. I feel the first proper bite of cold in my head, spreading out from the centre like spilt milk. Hurry up Joe, I tell myself. Focus. I begin hopping from one foot to the other, like a child desperate for the toilet.

My brain is cold, the roof of my mouth too, really cold.

There’s one more pen, and it works, thank God. I copy the numbers from my hand to the paper carefully and then check them, speaking them aloud to be absolutely sure.

‘You always pick the same ones do you?’ A voice beside me says.

I jump and almost shout, ‘Do you always creep up on people?’ but I don’t, I just stare in disbelief at the woman who appeared from nowhere like some kind of ninja pensioner. She is impossibly old and very short and looks like a turtle in a pale blue raincoat. She is wearing a thick woolly hat too, which would boil me, and under that I see her thin white hair, tinged purple. Why do oldies do that? Teenagers and old people. Purple hair. Really?

She smiles a toothless grin and waves her ticket at me. ‘I’m with you,’ she cackles. ‘You look lucky to me.’

I smile, awkwardly, and make my way to the counter, vaguely aware of the woman shuffling behind me. She is still talking to me but I can’t hear her anymore. Brain freeze has kicked in big time and it hurts. My heart pulses in my ears, my vision contracts and the shop becomes a fish bowl. I stare at the man behind the till, my lips pulled back over my teeth like a grinning cat. ‘For Saturday please,’ I hiss and hand over my ticket. Next to the counter is a rotating stand of items, housing things like inflatable sleeping pillows, sunglasses and hair clips. I spot something I might need; a cheap raincoat, the kind that scrunches up into its own bag. I buy that too.

The shop assistant rings them through without looking up. I stare at my Lottery ticket and through icy pain manage a weak smile. I did it, but I don’t have time to celebrate just yet, I need to get the ticket somewhere safe. The idea of it being found by some lucky passer-by after I boing from existence is just too much to bear. I leave the shop and hear the old lady calling after me, wishing us both luck.

9.

Familiarity is a strange thing. How often do you look at the people and places around you? I mean really look? I can say for sure that I don’t. I see what I want to see I guess, but sometimes it’s the things that are missing that make us look again. I’m running. I’m focussed, fearful, expecting at any moment to lose my clothes, yet somehow, something does just that; snaps me into the moment. In fact, it stops me dead in my tracks, banging at my eyeballs like a hammer. I’d already run the Promenade and half of the high street before I realised something wasn’t right, in fact something was very wrong.

I was so focussed on my Lottery mission, so utterly blinkered that I have missed what now seems completely obvious. I wonder – for a brief moment - if I could have made it all the way home without properly looking, but it’s too late now. I’ve seen it and it’s slapped me awake. The sight in question is a high street bank. ‘Abbey’ to be precise. Its bright red branding is screaming at me. My subconscious knows they’ve been taken over by ‘Santander’. It just knows. I look around me and see that all the shops are different. They are either gone, in the wrong place or completely the wrong style, shape and colour. I am suddenly seeing with new eyes. It’s an assault on my senses.

How the hell didn’t I see this? High street brands like Curry’s, Dixons, Woolworths, all of them… familiar, but weird. People, clothes, logos, buses, cars, everything is softer and rounder, baggier and just wrong, diddly wrong!

Thinking back, I realise that earlier, as I ran from the Imperial Gardens, I passed a shop that Mum used to love. Habitat. That shop hasn’t been in that location for years. The newsagent’s where I bought my ticket was all a bit retro, but I wasn’t really looking. I was miles away and my surroundings were just a blurred background compared to my goal. I raise my Lottery ticket, hand trembling and scan over the numbers and that’s when it finally hits me. My mind leans over the edge of sanity like a speeding truck on two wheels. I swallow, throat instantly dry and pull the ticket close to my face, just like the old woman did in the shop. This can’t be right. It can’t be!

The numbers are correct, I know them like the back of hand because they’re written on the back of my hand, but that isn’t the problem. It’s the year, printed clearly below the numbers.

’02. As in 2002. As in, Oh my giddy Aunt I’ve gone back twelve years, 2002. Standing there, mouth agape, frozen with fear – and brain freeze – in Cheltenham High Street my clothes pop from existence. I’m now hanging out in 2002 – literally – with nothing but a useless Lottery ticket, a ‘pack-a-mac’ raincoat and the sudden, close attention of everyone around me. A woman shrieks and people begin pointing, staring and laughing at me, covering their mouths in reflected embarrassment.

My face glows red but the rushing blood does nothing to ease the growing icicle of pain currently searing though my neck and spine. I scramble to unzip the raincoat and cry out in frustration. The bag itself is black but there is a tiny pink label stuck to it that I didn’t notice in the shop.

Helpfully packaged in a black outer bag I shake out my raincoat. It’s candy pink and covered in little yellow ducklings, and it’s an extra small. I feverishly tie the arms around my waist, spinning the bulk of the material to cover my, well, you know. Let’s just say it leaves my butt cheeks open to the elements, which is when I realise it’s actually quite warm. I left 2014 in the cool grip of winter and I’ve arrived in the summer of 2002.

I catch my reflection in a shop window. I look like a child wearing some kind of starter nappy, or worse than that, a sex offender. In the distance I see a policeman and woman taking an interest in the crowd gathering around me. The woman – short and fit looking – pinches her radio and starts running in my direction. Brilliant, getting arrested would be just awesome.

I think back to my first jump, waking naked, no pyjamas and then back to Finch’s office where the same thing happened. I suspect that if I ping forward to the present now I will most likely be naked on my arrival.

I need to hide but the freeze is telling me I won’t make it home in time. I run, barefoot and panicked, heading instinctively for the nearest and safest place I can think of. I glance over my shoulder. The policewoman has left her older – and to be fair, chubbier – partner behind and is calling out for me to stop. No way I’m stopping. What the hell would I say? And what if I disappear right in front of her? I run as fast as I can, praying that the hastily tied knot in my pink loin cloth holds.

I know where I need to get to but I’m finding it hard to get my bearings in this alternative version of Cheltenham. Shops are like beacons when we navigate our home town. We just don’t realise how much we use them until someone re-shuffles the deck.

I have no time though, no chance to marvel or think about what this means. I cut down an alleyway, buying myself a few precious seconds away from the crowd and, more importantly, my pursuer. I dodge behind a parked car and slide from view. I hear heavy footfall passing quickly and wait for thirty seconds.

I study my location nervously; I’m crouched in a space between two buildings, just enough room for four cars. I could just stay here I suppose, waiting for time to shoot me like a cannonball back to 2014. I wonder if this place, this area, cut into the buildings is the same shape in the future. If it isn’t, I could end up encased in a ton of concrete on my return, or half way through a window or something equally gross, not to mention deadly. I could be trapped or splattered or crushed instantly by something that doesn’t exist yet, but will in 12 years’ time.

I decide that whatever happens, I should aim to be in a known location when I go back, one that is definitely the same in the future. That could be a park or a road of course, but I have an idea, one that might make this trip worthwhile after all. It’s risky and potentially stupid but the best ideas usually are, and I think it’s worth a shot.

I sneak back around the car and out onto the pavement. The policewoman is nowhere in sight. I adjust my makeshift underwear and head off, each step sending a fresh spray of ice across the inside of my skull. The sensation assures me that I don’t have long, that if this is going to work, I need to hurry.

10.

People’s eyes widen as I pass them, like rushing headlights. Hundreds of people see me naked. On a scale, it’s a pretty bad day, but when I arrive outside the steps to Vinny’s Vinyl I hope to turn it around. I’m relieved the shop is here if I’m honest. I mean, I guess he’s been selling vinyl forever, but from this shop? I wasn’t sure.

The shop’s sign – normally battered and flaking – is rich and deep in colour. It looks almost new. A bell sounds as the door opens and a couple of teenagers, dressed in black (shoe-gazing Cure fans) slink nonchalantly up the steps. Even they can’t fake complete indifference. They shrug and raise their heavily made-up eyes.

A chill of ice courses through me as I descend the narrow stone steps and enter the shop. Music is blasting out. The Clash, I think, but it’s a song I don’t recognise. The shop is like everything else in this version of Cheltenham, oddly familiar, yet somehow new. Posters depict bands that would now – and by now I mean the present – be considered almost old school. Mary J. Blige, Nickelback, Eminem, looking really young. Thankfully the place is empty but for a middle-aged man browsing the jazz section. He doesn’t look up as I stagger in and lean against a stone pillar. I grab a record and hold it behind me, trying to cover my arse as they say.

An odd, blue cast descends over my vision like a waterfall and I cry out in shock and pain. My guts contract and I feel as though I’m being squeezed of air. It passes but doesn’t leave me completely and I realise what it means.

I need Vinny before I disappear out of this place.

I call his name as loudly as I can before dropping to my knees. A man approaches and initially I think it’s the one and only customer, come to see why I’m shouting. But it’s not him. This man is tall and thin, with dark hair. He walks quickly and kneels beside me. I smell his leather boots and body odour. Fresh sweat, the kind you are allowed to exude if you are a musician or into the scene. I stare up into his eyes and realise in a mighty flash of understudying that it’s Vinny. His expression is a cocktail of confusion and concern. I’m curled up in a ball, as if I’m expecting a good beating. Vinny – or should I say Thinny? – glances down at my outfit and the album I grabbed to cover my arse and shrugs with a quick and easy smile. I see a roll-up ciggy tucked in the corner of his mouth; same old Vinny, just a lot less of him. His hair is receding but after knowing him without any, this current version looks like he’s wearing a wig. I grab his arm, the Lottery ticket still clutched between my fingers. ‘Listen to me,’ I beg, weak with tension. ‘You have to listen!’

‘I will,’ he says, leaning back a little, ‘but first I need to call an ambulance.’

‘No!’ I shout, ‘Don’t do that.’

Thinny Vinny stands and jogs – I mean he actually runs – to the back of the shop and makes a call. The blue colour returns to my world, covering the shop in a cyan glow, giving my world the appearance of a tropical fish tank at night. ‘Vinny!’ I cry again and he’s back at my side.

‘You need to take this,’ I whisper, thrusting the ticket at him. ‘You need –.’

‘Alright, quiet down mate,’ Vinny presses his hand to my shoulder, ‘It’s okay, just calm –’

‘No!’ I hiss, ‘I’m from the future.’ My instant frown suggests that even in my current state I know how crazy that sounds. I continue nonetheless, moaning in pain as I talk, ‘You and I know each other, we meet, we’re friends.’ The door-bell sounds and I realise with relief that it’s the customer leaving. He obviously decided that naked men screaming and shouting wasn’t what he had in mind for a lazy summer afternoon in town. I pull Vinny as close as he will let me and whisper, ‘This ticket doesn’t win the Lottery this Saturday.’

Vinny stares, eyes searching mine, ‘Doesn’t win?’ He attempts a laugh but fails. ‘Along with millions of others then.’

‘But it will win,’ I say shivering now, ‘December 2014, put these numbers on, okay?’

Vinny nods his agreement. ‘Whatever you say, dude.’

I cry out in pain and our eyes lock. Fear grips me, panic too. There’s something I need to say before I go, something I have to tell him, ‘When we meet, you must pretend you –’

But my words stop and there is only blackness and a sudden wonderful release from the pain.

11.

As quickly as I arrived, I travel back through time, returning to the present in an almighty rush of silence. Like the Cheltenham of the past, it’s what’s missing that makes all the difference. I’m pain-free, the blue cast is gone and it’s just me; naked but for the raincoat covering my essentials.

I’m in Vinny’s shop. I’ve travelled back to exactly the same location I left from, the familiar corner by the stone pillar, but it’s different all over again. It smells different too, a stale, bitter odour seeps from the old carpet, an oily, dusty smell that’s taken years to mature. In the dim light I can just make out a couple of posters depicting bands and albums that reassure me I’m back in 2014. Foo Fighters, ‘Sonic Highways’ and Bruce Springsteen, ‘High Hopes’.

I breathe a massive sigh of relief. Not because the Boss is back – and it’s a great album – but because I am. Back I mean.

My skin ripples with gooseflesh. It’s December here and cold. It’s dark outside. I don’t hear anyone, no traffic or late night, drunken joviality. I figure it must be late, early morning. I stand and work my way to the front of the shop. The door is locked. No surprise but it wouldn’t make any difference anyway, there are steel shutters blocking my exit. I find a wall clock. It’s gone midnight. Shit, unless I start smashing stuff I’m stuck here for the duration, freezing my balls off. Literally.

I move quietly through the blocky greyness of Vinny’s shop, along the rows and boxes of vinyl. If I can get to his office there might be clothes there, perhaps even a long coat. I huff in frustration as I try the office door. Locked of course, in fact I’m coming to the conclusion that I’m trapped here and can’t even get to a phone. Vinny’s office has a window – toughened glass like the type they used to have in schools – but I think I might be able to break it with some effort. Do I want to do that? I peer inside. I can see his desk and a phone. His computer light is pulsing like a robot snoring. I see another light. This one is amber and blinking on and off angrily. It’s almost like some kind of –

Oh crappy doo. It’s an alarm; silently barking, telling the world I’m here. How the hell am I going to explain this?

I’m going to hide near the front of the shop and when the police arrive, decide whether or not to make a run for it. Either way, I think I’m screwed.

Twenty minutes later I see torchlight. A beam cuts through the darkness and travels over me but thankfully, doesn’t stop. I crouch, ready to run. An electric motor kicks in and the shutters rattle into life, travelling noisily up into their housing. Keys jangle in the lock and the door opens. A shaft of light cuts a triangle over the stacked records above me, dust particles dancing.

‘Hello?’ A voice calls out tentatively, one I recognise immediately. ‘Cash?’ Vinny says, ‘Is that you?’

I relax and stand up. ‘Vinny?’

The torch does an Irish jig and he cries out, ‘Bloody hell!’

‘Sorry,’ I say, realising I must have sacred the crap out him. ‘Yeah, it’s me.’

The torch steadies and settles on me again. I shield my eyes. ‘Are you, er, are you alone in here?’ Vinny asks.

‘Yes.’ I say, embarrassed that he might think I’m occupied in some weird way. He closes the door, places the torch upright on the floor and throws something at me. I grab it.

‘Thanks,’ I say, slipping the jacket on. The warmth reminds me of being on Morecambe Beach as a kid, wriggling out of my swim shorts, wrapped in a big fluffy towel. Funny how those memories are burned in.

I hear a click as the old overhead lights buzz and pop into life. I finally get a good look at Vinny. Watching someone age is, of course, a gradual process, something we often don’t even notice. I’ve just seen Vinny age twelve years in a matter of minutes. The difference is huge and so is Vinny. He’s back to his old self, wide and round and reassuringly big, his bald head illuminated beneath the lights. I smile, awkwardly, at him. He stares back, suspiciously.

‘I think we better talk in the office,’ he says, voice unusually stern.

Vinny’s office makes my house seem like the tidiest place on Earth. There’s no doubt about it, he’s a hoarder and paperwork is far from exempt. There are half-filled mugs of tea everywhere and an ashtray filled with cigarette stubs. Vinny switches on two small lamps, both have torn shades from different eras and countries. He collapses loudly into a chair, a beaten up leather thing that looks like a prop from an old movie. He stares at me intently. I manage a feeble smile. ‘Thanks for not calling the police,’ I say.

Vinny rubs his chin and begins nibbling his bottom lip. His eyes narrow, ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’

For a moment I’m back at school, where being accused always came with a no-win set of possible answers. ‘What was?’

‘I know it was you,’ he whispers, ‘the bloke from ages ago, the one who turned up rambling about Lottery numbers and then buggered off.’ He folds his arms and leans back, ‘Back then, you looked like you do now.’

This is the first time that my time-travelling (I’m still getting used to just dropping that into conversation) has impacted anyone. Well, as far as I know anyway. Vinny remembers the past, and my sudden arrival in his shop all those years ago. For me, it feels like seconds. For him, it’s twelve years.

And what’s changed in those twelve years, I wonder? Have Vinny and I done anything differently? Are we still friends? I sigh heavily.

‘Cash,’ Vinny says, ‘you need to start talking.’ He tugs open a drawer in his desk and pulls out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He hands me one, half fills it and we both take a decent slug. It feels good and he’s right, I do have some explaining to do. He called me Cash, I realise. ‘Are we friends Vinny?’ I ask, nervously. ‘Do I come in the shop all the time? Do we talk shit, do you know my favourite band?’

‘Yep,’ Vinny says easily. ‘You come in here all the time, we talk lots of shit and it’s The Beatles, but this is a riddle, one that’s nagged me for years. You gotta help me, what’s going on?’

I realise I’m clenched, hardly breathing. I try to relax. He’s right of course, I need to explain, but where to start? ‘You aren’t going to believe any of this,’ I say.

‘Try me,’ Vinny says kindly, and I do. I start with ‘viewing’ and my dysfunctional childhood, I tell him about Amy, about Hypnosis and Alexia Finch and end with my latest naked sprint through Cheltenham, clutching a Lottery ticket, over a decade out of sync. I tell him everything, about my money worries and, honestly, it feels good to tell someone, to let it out and just un-bottle. Vinny listens intently, nodding and sipping his whiskey. By the time I’ve finished babbling my stupidly unbelievable story, our glasses are empty and I have no idea how long I’ve been talking. We are returned to a deafening silence and Vinny’s expression gives nothing away. He stares at the floor.

‘You okay?’ I ask him.

He looks up, clearly processing. ‘Yeah,’ he sighs. ‘It’s just a hell of a story, a lot to take in, you know? When you turned up that summer, it was so quick. Some naked guy I’d never seen before, talking as though he knew me, telling me the Lottery numbers.’ His face becomes grave and his eyes search mine. ‘You seemed in pain too, I figured you were ill, you know, in the head?’ I nod as Vinny continues. ‘I turned around,’ he says, ‘and when I turned back, you were gone. But the door hadn’t opened, there was no bell, you just vanished.’ He frowns. ‘I checked the shop for hours after that, convinced you would jump out at me.’

Vinny grabs a pouch from his shirt pocket and begins rolling tobacco deftly into a cigarette paper without looking. Its dark, rich aroma hits me and I almost ask if he can roll me one, but I know it would just send me into a coughing fit. He licks the paper quickly, lights it with a match and puffs aggressively to get it going. He looks at me, exhales blue smoke and says, ‘For months after that I kept wondering if you would come back, if you were going to be a problem if I’m honest. Then, when you didn’t, I guess I kind of forgot about it, about all of it.’ Vinny’s hand is shaking. He swallows hard. ‘Then you turned up again, years later, and I thought, shit! It’s the guy, it’s the naked guy!’ He laughs, and shakes his head in disbelief, ‘But what was I supposed to say? I couldn’t be sure it was you, that you were the same person. You seemed normal and quiet and kept yourself to yourself. Back in 2002 it all happened so fast I couldn’t be sure it was you, I couldn’t accuse you!’ He continues to shake his head, trying to figure things out. ‘And then we became friends, and it all just slipped away, I put it behind me and decided that it was one of those weird things. You know, a coincidence.’

‘I can understand that,’ I say.

‘Plus, something he said,’ Vinny snorts, ‘I mean, you said.’

‘What was that?’

‘Just before you disappeared, you were telling me that when I saw you, I had to pretend.’

I finish the sentence for him and he nods. ‘Yeah,’ Vinny sighs, ‘not to know you, I guessed it was that.’

‘Thanks Vinny, for keeping it a secret all these years.’

‘Time-travel’ Vinny whispers, almost to himself, ‘No fucking way, man.’

‘I know.’ I agree, but my words feel lacking, not big enough for the concept. There’s a question too, one that’s burning away inside me. ‘I need to ask you something Vinny,’

‘Huh?’ He snaps out of his daze. ‘What?’

‘Did you do the numbers?’

His head drops and he takes a long drag on his roll up. ‘I couldn’t remember the year you said, not for sure, so I put those numbers on every week, every bloody week, since you disappeared!’

‘But then you stopped.’ I suggest, trying my best to shield my disappointment.

‘Yeah,’ he sighs, ‘I stopped and decided I needed to forget the whole thing. Even when you turned up again, you know, the second time, the normal time, I just kind of buried it in my mind, it was too weird.’

For me, handing Vinny those numbers seems so recent that I can’t believe he wouldn’t do as I asked. But, the reason people say time is a healer is because the past loses its power as the years roll by. Vinny may have believed the ‘mad naked guy’ back then, but I can understand how time could have blurred those edges, removing their intensity. I can’t blame him, but it’s my turn to stare at the floor. Eventually I look up and realise Vinny is smiling, his eyes sparkling with a mischievous intensity.

‘What?’ I ask, hoping I know the answer.

‘Breakfast in the park,’ Vinny says, beaming now. ‘When you mentioned the Lottery this morning, it kicked me in the butt. I mean, like a flash of lighting up my arse.’

‘Right?’ My voice is high and trembling. ‘And?’

Vinny rummages aggressively through the biggest and messiest drawer in his desk and when he turns, he’s holding two Lottery tickets. One is mine from 2002, frayed, a little faded and useless now, the other is brand, spanking new. This Saturday’s draw; a genuine, six number, jackpot winner.

His expression is like a baby, eyes welling up, his smile impossibly wide. I want to cry and hug him and jump up and down. So I do exactly that. We bounce like teenagers at their first gig and we scream and whoop like the millionaires we are.

12.

We don’t call anyone, or claim our prize; we couldn’t, even if we wanted to. It’s gone three o’clock and we’re blind drunk. All we can do is stare at the winning ticket every few minutes in utter amazement.

18 - 30 - 33 - 34 - 38 - 48

‘I love those numbers,’ I say. ‘I mean I actually love them.’

Vinny nods, ‘And I loved that pink raincoat.’ He giggles. ‘You looked so funny.’

‘That bloody raincoat.’ I laugh with him, eyes trying to focus on the room, which has begun ticking over like a projector on the blink. Vinny doesn’t seem to be as affected by the booze as me, his size absorbs it, I guess. He picks up the ticket and asks, ‘So, what we going to do with it?’

‘Not lose it.’ I suggest, wryly.

‘No, I mean, the money Cash, the money.’

‘We do exactly what you said we would,’ I assure him. ‘We don’t let it change us.’

Vinny curls his lip, ‘I said that?’

‘Yes,’ I insist but then wonder. He said it this morning, in the park but that was then, that was before I went back and arrived in 2002, naked in his shop. Things might be different now. How can I be sure our conversation was the same? ‘Listen to me,’ I say, with a sincerity that comes easily in my drunken state, ‘the last thing I need right now is publishity.’I stop, reset, and try again. ‘Pub-liss-ity,’ I say carefully. ‘You are going to have to do it all, and then just chuck me some, okay?’

‘What?’ Vinny’s mouth is open, eyes wide. ‘This is yours,’ he protests. ‘You did this, you knew the numbers.’

‘No Vinny,’ I say, as firmly as I can. ‘This is ours mate, fifty-fifty.’

Vinny looks as though he’s going to cry again (we’ve done a bit of that this evening), but swallows it down like one of his jumbo baguettes. ‘Cash,’ he says, lips trembling, ‘you are the best bloke I’ve ever met.’ Vinny stands bolt upright like a toy soldier that has some marching to do. He strides off and returns with a Rolling Stones album, Sticky Fingers, the one I used to cover my arse with in 2002. On the back, I realise now, is a close-up, life-size photo of an arse in jeans. I bet that looked good pressed against mine with my pink raincoat wrapped around me. He laughs and I join in, and we go on like that until our giddiness finally runs out of steam. ‘What are you going to do with your share?’ I ask.

He looks around the shop and raises his eyebrows. ‘Oh, you know, pay this place off I guess, put Michelle through college, take a few holidays probably.’ He gives me a playful nudge, ‘Eat great food!’ He drifts off for a while, no doubt considering the culinary delights awaiting him on an all ‘you can eat’ cruise, ‘What about you?’ he asks.

‘Oh, I’ve got a few trips planned myself.’

‘I bet you have.’ He smirks, eyes narrowing. ‘Hey, have you been to the future?’ He looks hopeful.

I shake my head, ‘No, it’s linked to my viewing I think, which means I can only go back, and I’m shit at that to be honest.’

‘What?’ Vinny laughs, waving the Lottery ticket at me, ‘I think you did okay, in fact I think you’re fucking brilliant at time-travelling!’

‘Yeah, but I don’t have control.’ I sigh, the weight of it finally hitting me. ‘If I’m going to get back far enough, I need control.’

Vinny places his hand on my shoulder, ‘Your sister, right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Amy?’

I nod. Amy.

Vinny is off again, out of the office and into the shop. I can’t see him but hear the sudden pop of speakers and the vibrant hum of volume gain. The familiar sound of a needle hitting vinyl is followed by a song that fills the shop and also my heart. I smile and when I see Vinny, I laugh, hard and true and it feels good. He’s dancing, his considerable frame moving surprisingly well. His movements are a stylistic mix of jive, the twist and break dancing.

‘You don’t need control!’ Vinny shouts over the music, ‘You need to let go, man!’

‘Get Back’ blasts out and Paul McCartney sings to me, only me and I can’t help it. I’m up too and Vinny and I dance like we’re seventeen again. He sings the words as if in pain and when the chorus hits I realise I’m the one Paul is singing about. I have to get back to where I once belonged. I am Joe, Joe.

13.

My Lottery winning hangover lasted nearly two days. It was a bitch, but when it receded I kind of missed it. At least it took my mind off the lyrics to Get Back. Of course, most Beatles’ songs are ear-worms, but this one got stuck in the grooves of my brain like a broken needle. I’m trying to get back, but on current form I have a lot of work to do. Winning the Lottery was a box-tick, a way of removing money from the equation. Once that was done my thoughts, unsurprisingly, turned to Amy.

If I can travel to 2002 then perhaps I can go further. Back to Amy, back to 1992. If I could get there then maybe, just maybe, I could save her, and if I do that, I might be able to save my Father too.

These ideas rolled in my head like those tiny silver balls in a handheld game, but wouldn’t settle, or find peace, they just rolled and bounced constantly in my mind. That’s when I decided, that locked away in the safety of my own home I would practice. This would be my experimental phase. The Beatles had theirs, I would have mine. Since winning the Lottery and beginning my studies I’ve been all over the place. Back in time, pinging around, and during all of this, do you know what I learned?

Well, turns out, I was right, I am really, really bad at time-travelling and also, Vinny is full of shit. Let go, he advised me, laughing and dancing, relax Joe, float downstream, he cried. Well, that’s easy for him to say. I’ve travelled back to random dates and locations and stayed for random amounts of time. For what it’s worth, I kept a brief log of my travels. It kind of proves my point really.

_ _ _

Monday: Dropped in on 2005. Bought clothes and a watch. Apart from the shop staff I managed to interact with no one. I timed my stay. Around ten hours for the clothes I brought with me to disappear. Brain Freeze kicked in around the eighteen hour mark. I got pinged back to the present shortly after that, fully awake. Day became the middle of the night. That was weird.

Tuesday: Tried to travel again but felt drained like a dead battery. Thought a lot about Amy. I need to be careful, I mustn’t think about her too much or I will start a fresh batch of viewing. It’s hard though, because I probably need to focus on that time if I’m going to get back to her.

Wednesday: Same as yesterday. No Juice. No Travelling. Plenty of moping about. Found a tenner under the sofa. Bought better coffee.

Thursday: Vinny called. Bloke from the Lottery came to see him. Confirmed it all. They arranged a new bank account for him. They are paying up. All good.

More good news. I time-travelled in the evening (you know, as you do) but I only reached 2010 this time, 18th April. I know this because the newspapers were plastered with a volcano that had popped its top in Iceland. Airport mayhem. For me, the same deal. I bought clothes, checked into a Bed and Breakfast and twiddled my thumbs if I’m honest. I’m trying to be careful and not ‘change’ anything, but it does make my time in the past feel kind of wasted. I eat, walk in the park, avoid contact with people, so it isn’t that much different to the present. Makes me realise that I just waste time generally, whenever I am. Brain Freeze took longer this time, just over two days, or fifty-five hours to be precise. So long in fact that I began to believe I might manage a double jump. Perhaps this is how I’m going to get all the way back to Amy? On the morning of my second day I hypnotised myself and tried it. Jumping back in time from a location in the past.

Wishful thinking, there was no way. I had that weird empty feeling again, hollow and lacking, like a battery on its last push. Brain Freeze intensified, blah, blah, blah. Ping, ping pong.

Friday: Nothing. No chance. My flux capacitor isn’t working. No plutonium. I need a Mr. Fusion Home Energy Reactor.

Shit.

_ _ _

Beneath my weekly journal I write, RULES OF TIME-TRAVEL.

1. I can’t pick a specific date (seems utterly random - there’s that bloody word again!).

2. The location of my arrival seems to have become variable.

3. The location of my return however, is always the same as my exit point (so far, anyway).

4. Anything I take with me, goes back before I do. Clothes, watch.

5. Brain Freeze kicks in shortly before I return.

6. Time spent in the past exists in the present (i.e. if I’m gone five hours, it’s five hours later when I return).

7. The further I go, the less time I seem to be able to stay.

_ _ _

Rules of time-travel. I laugh. The start of my memoir perhaps? I read them back. I didn’t include ‘It’s a good job I’ve won the Lottery because I’m going to spend a fortune on clothes I can’t keep’ because it isn’t really a rule. It’s just a pisser. Number six is kind of weird – five hours in the past means I arrive back in the present five hours later – but seems to be true. It makes sense, I guess. Also, ties in with my very first jump, why I eventually skipped forward a day. I went back a whole day and nothing is free. Nothing. It all catches up with you in the end.

I stare at my last rule and frown. The further I go, the less time I can stay. Is that right? I wrote it without really thinking, but it seems to be true. I consider all of my jumps so far and it adds up. If I go back years, Brain Freeze happens much quicker than if I go back days. I’m allergic to maths, I mean actually allergic, but there is something in this.

I look out of my window at the world going about its business, and sigh. I often miss having Mark as a friend, but now more than ever. He would help, he would make sense of all this. Well, he would have helped, before I wrecked his marriage. I shake my head and whisper ‘It was wrecked already’ but the world doesn’t seem to be listening.

Vinny bought me a box of red wine. Twelve bottles that he assured me were worth more than an average family’s monthly income. I found that a little gross, but the wine itself, my goodness. Half a bottle in and my previous hangover is forgotten. I look at my rules again. Perhaps they aren’t as random as I first thought. There is a pattern, I just don’t understand it, or see how it will help me yet. I sink into my favourite chair and stick ‘Please, Please Me’ on the turntable.

The Beatles’ debut. Back to the start, I think, back to the beginning. That’s where I need to go, all the way back to 1992, before Amy was taken, before the world turned to shit and my life caved in on itself. To do that though, I clearly need help, professional help. I can time-travel, but if I’m going to get that far back, I need to learn control. I was right after all. It’s all about control.

If I’m to make it back in one jump, then I need to learn how to stay there longer. Alternatively I need to figure out how to ‘tiddlywink’ through time, arriving and then jumping again. Either way, if I’m to become a sister saving, Jedi Master of time-travel then I need Alexia Finch. I believe she is the key to me gaining that control. I am Luke, she is Yoda, I’m convinced of it. Not literally of course. She’s much better looking than Yoda and I could never be Luke. I would have happily stayed on the farm and not gotten involved. Although thinking about it, I guess I would have ended up barbecued with Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru. Sometimes you just can’t win.

14.

‘Ms Finch isn’t available I’m afraid,’ the squeaky girl says.

I quite liked her to start with, thought she was friendly, but her voice is like a grater on my eardrums now. ‘Could you please explain that I need to speak with her?’ I pause and try something new, ‘It’s an emergency.’

There’s a long pause. She puts on her best business voice, slow and condescending, ‘Mr Bridgeman, I appreciate you have been trying to get hold of her – this being your sixth call today – but Ms Finch is fully booked. All I can do is give her your message. I’m sure she’ll get back to you.’ I’m not so sure. I suspect Alexia Finch is glad to see the back of me, having seen more than enough of the front. The girl coughs, deliberately, ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’

Actually, yeah, when I time-travel I can’t seem to control where or when I land, oh, and I don’t seem to be able to stay there very long. Any ideas?

‘No,’ I mumble, my resolve fading. ‘Just please ask her to –’

‘Have a nice day,’ the girl sings.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

I hang up. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy, but Alexia Finch is clearly avoiding me. She’s probably recommending to Martin right now that I need a psycho-wotsit instead of her and I can’t blame her. As far as she’s concerned I’m a flasher, a weirdo, an obsessive, compulsive stripper.

Ideally, we need to meet face to face, so I can convince her that my sudden nakedness has a perfectly reasonable explanation. A plan begins to form in my mind, like one of those ink blot tests, it seeps from nowhere to create a formed shape. I run to the kitchen and check the date. Friday, 19th December. I smile.

Do or do not, my imaginary Yoda says, there is no try.

15.

Friday, 19th December, 6:29 p.m.

Tonight is the evening of Martin’s party. I’m not planning to attend, and suspect – if all goes according to plan – Finch won’t either. I’m outside her house – a small, semi-detached property – and feeling every bit like the pervert she fears. I check my watch. Okay, okay, okay (Joe Pesci, Lethal Weapon?). All I can hope now is that my plan works and that Martin was right about her single status; this plan of mine will be buggered if her boyfriend shows up.

As I wait, I reassure myself that what I’m doing is the right thing, that Finch is the right choice. I guess I could find another ‘Hypno-mind-bender’ to help me, but I would hit the same problems soon enough; the naked, pinging around, random time-travelling stuff. Like with Vinny, I figure the only way to do this is all or nothing. If Alexia Finch is going to be my teacher then she has to know the subject completely, and everything that entails. She needs to be fully on-board my Magical Mystery Tour. And also, for reasons I don’t fully understand yet, I trust her and that’s a rare thing. She is the one who unlocked all of this, she’s the reason I started travelling in the first place.

My throat dries up as I spot her leaving the house. She walks the path towards her car. I tell myself that my pounding heart is down to fear, but admit that it may also be the unexpected vision I see before me. Alexia Finch has been transformed from a plain-Jane into, well, into some kind of magnificent creature.

I appreciate, now is not the time to get caught up in her ‘Sandra Dee’ transformation, but it’s not easy to ignore. Her hair is down, and shinier than before, straighter too and it moves like the sea at night as she walks. Her dress is black and fits her well, tempered by a silvery fur coat (fake fur obviously, she may look different by she’s still a hippy yoga-bunny). The sound of heels isn’t something I associate with her, but she walks with a gliding confidence, like she was born to wear them. She’s mesmerising and, honestly, I nearly miss my bloody cue. I step out from behind my cover; a parked car. I was crouched there, mugger style, which I appreciate isn’t the best of looks.

‘Alexia,’ I say, carefully.

She jumps and stifles a scream, her eyes flick between me, her house and the car. ‘Mr Bridgeman!’ She exclaims. ‘What on earth are you doing? Why were you hiding behind that car?’

‘I need to see you,’ I say, my words tumbling over each-other. ‘I’m sorry I made you jump.’

I’m reminded of the first time I met her. Like then, I have rehearsed this moment – a lot – but it doesn’t make it easier. My words feel trapped inside my mouth, unwilling to come out and play in the cold night air.

Finch tugs her coat inward and stares at me. I see her clearly now beneath the streetlight, her make-up (another first; for me anyway) is subtle but it accentuates her cheekbones and eyes. She says, ‘You can’t just turn up like this, at my home.’ Her voice is calm as always, but there’s a seriousness. She’s clearly shaken by my sudden appearance.

I nod, staying put, ‘I know, but you wouldn’t answer my calls and this is very important.’

She takes a nervous step back.

‘Listen,’ I say, ‘I can explain everything.’

‘You don’t need to Mr Bridgeman, not to me anyway. It’s –’

‘Joe,’ I say.

‘Hmmm?’

‘You can call me Joe.’

She frowns, ‘Okay, but I don’t think your hearing me, Mr…’ She pauses, her warm breath drifting away, ‘Listen Joe, I think you need a different kind of help, someone who can –’

‘I want to show you something,’ I say. ‘Something you are going to find very hard to understand.’

‘Oh God,’ she whimpers, taking a step towards her car, fumbling in her bag. ‘Please keep your clothes on.’

‘They are staying on,’ I say, ‘I promise.’ She continues searching her bag and for the first time I wonder if it’s just her keys that she’s looking for. Her obvious fear makes me feel guilty as hell. ‘Alexia,’ I say, my voice only just above a whisper. ‘Twenty-two years ago my sister went missing and it tore me apart. Her name was Amy, and we never saw her again. Do you understand what that can do to a family?’ Finch doesn’t say anything, she just looks at me, her eyes glassy with uncertainty. I continue, ‘Since I was young I’ve had an ability, I see the past, clear as the sky tonight. Whatever you did, whatever you’ve done to me, it enabled something, unlocked it.’

‘Unlocked what?’ She asks, nervously.

‘There’s no easy way of saying this so I’m just going to come out with it.’ I swallow hard. ‘I can time-travel.’

Time seems to slow and we just stare at each other. Those words sit in the cold air between us like a madness.

Eventually Finch says, ‘Joe?’ Her voice is calm again, and soft, ‘I’m going to get in my car and go, and I want you to do the same, okay? And then on Monday morning, you, Martin and I are going to meet to discuss this.’ She nods slowly, as if telling a small child to put the knife down.

I glance to my left and I’m relieved to see he’s here, on time and right on cue. What I see isn’t something you can really prepare yourself for. It warps your mind, bends it out of shape in a way that can never go back to how it was.

Finch follows my gaze and sees the approaching man. ‘What’s going on?’ She asks me. ‘I don’t…’ She stops, her mouth hanging open.

‘Hello Alexia,’ the man says.

She turns back to me and I aim for a reassuring smile, ‘This is me,’ I say, nodding sideways at our new arrival. My doppelgänger, dressed like me and looking like me, nods back. ‘But to keep things simple,’ I say, ‘I call him Other Joe.’

Other Joe grins at us both.

‘He’s me,’ I say. ‘A few days from now I travel back in time, to this night. Other Joe is me and he’s here because we need your help.’

Part Four - Get Back

1.

August 2005

Apart from a few tired looking vehicles that I suspect belong to staff, the car-park of T.G.I. Friday’s is empty. It finally makes sense why she wanted to meet here. It’s Tuesday. The place is dead. It isn’t Thank God it’s Tuesday’s after all. And also, our crowd moved on from this kind of place years ago. No one will see us here, no one who matters anyway.

My Rado hangs reassuringly heavy on my wrist. 1:28. I’m on time. I’ve been awake since five practicing my lines but I still feel woefully under-prepared. I try to reassure myself that no amount of planning will make this any easier. At the entrance, my hand hovers on the long brass door handle for an age but eventually I find the courage to enter.

Rock and roll tunes play to a few lunchtime stragglers, but other than that, it’s quiet – as expected. I scan the room and although she has her back to me I spot her easily. It’s the hair, she always did have amazing hair. An enthusiastic waitress appears and I explain that I’m meeting the woman in the corner for lunch. She smiles and tells me she will be with us shortly to take our order. I nod and make my way through the restaurant. The smell of greasy, high calorie food turns my stomach. Breathe Joe, deep breaths, stay calm.

I clear my throat and say, ‘Hello Sian.’

She turns, offering me a tentative smile. ‘Hi Joe,’ she gestures to the empty chair opposite, ‘have a seat.’

I sit. Even though I was determined not to, I can feel I’ve flushed a deep red, matching the tablecloths and curtains that seem to be everywhere. I look at the ceiling and then the floor but they don’t offer me any assistance. Eventually I look at her, at Sian Burrows. She’s twenty-nine years old now – as I am – yet I see the girl from my early teens, the Julia Roberts look-alike who stole my heart. Seeing her takes me back to the fair, back to the night Amy went missing. I can smell the candy sweet air mixed with diesel and cheap perfume. Sian watched me as I raised my rifle and shot targets. I was distracted, wasn’t looking after Amy. Why didn’t I check? I was lost in my own world though, I remember thinking Sian and I would kiss that night and that she would be my girlfriend, my first love.

‘Do you want a drink?’ She asks, ‘Want to order food?’ Her eyes are big and brown and have a searching quality that draws me in. My heart bangs in my chest as I search for my reply. It’s stupid really. It feels like I haven’t seen her since we were kids, which isn’t true at all. I see her often, but this is the first time I’ve met her alone, and what we need to talk about isn’t going to sit well.

The waitress appears like an eager, coiled spring and immediately breaks into a song and dance about the menu. Sian already has a drink and doesn’t want food. I raise my hand and ask for a large sparkling water and nothing else. I’m direct and maybe even a little rude – I find it hard to tell these days – but the waitress skips away with a harmless shrug. I face Sian again but this time the past has been stripped away and I see her as she is now. Sian D’Stellar, my best friend’s wife.

‘Mark doesn’t know I’m meeting you,’ she says, ‘I think he would find it a bit weird if I’m honest.’ Her expression is one of concern.

Technically, the last time we saw each other was a month ago at a barbecue hosted by Guy Foley and his wife. Guy was one of our crowd at University. I like him, but we weren’t close. He and his wife Chrissy own a huge house with a massive garden and a barbecue big enough for a buffalo. The party was advertised as a child-friendly gathering so, as you can imagine, I was dreading it. There were about ten grown-ups from the old days, outnumbered horribly by kids, but against all expectations I did actually enjoy myself. Mark and I had a rare opportunity to chat about old times – that’s not always easy for me – but we drank beers and ended up singing and playing guitars. It was fun and for the first time in years I forgot about things.

‘Look Joe,’ Sian says, ‘I think I know why we’re here.’

‘You do?’

‘Yes,’ she smiles, as if she feels a little sorry for me. ‘I don’t know what you think you saw but there’s nothing to talk about, nothing happened. Guy and I were just venting, you know how it is.’

Venting. The moment she’s referring to came as the evening of the barbecue drew to a close. I was searching the many corridors of Guy’s huge house for a toilet and stumbled upon them. Sian and Guy, away from the party. They were standing close, in deep conversation. They weren’t touching, or kissing each other but something about the scene wasn’t right. It’s hard to explain but there was something between them, an energy, a moment. They were startled and awkward, more than just two friends venting. And, that was all it took. Three days later, my viewings of Sian started. I swallow and take a deep breath. ‘Did Mark ever tell you about what I can do? About what I see?’

She tilts her head and her smile fades. ‘He told me you used to get visions, if that’s what you mean?’

I wasn’t sure Mark would have told her anything, but she’s playing dumb I think. Visions. That’s the kind of word you use when someone is hallucinating, or drugged or mentally ill. It’s only a few notches away from delusions on the mad stick. I shift in my seat and chew nervously on the side of my cheek, eventually I say, ‘I see things, the past, things people have done.’

She doesn’t flinch, her eyes remain fixed on me. Her lips tighten and her jaw flexes. This time, when she speaks, she does so slowly. It’s a new version of her, a tougher one. ‘Whatever you think you know, before you go any further, let me give you some advice Joe, you get your facts straight before you start accusing me of anything.’ She glances at the door and then at her bag, which is by her side.

‘I wish I didn’t see things,’ I say, ‘really I do.’

She scowls at me. ‘What if these things you see aren’t real? What if they’re all in your head? Did you ever think of that?’

‘It doesn’t work that way.’ I lean back in my seat. ‘I wish it did.’

Sian lifts her head defiantly. ‘Poor Joe,’ she sighs nastily. ‘I’m sorry about Amy, about the damage its done to you, but you can’t go around accusing –’

‘Don’t mess it up with Mark,’ I interrupt her, before she embarrasses herself any further, ‘you two have a good thing.’

She studies me like a bird of prey, and places her hands flat down onto the table. I notice her throat bob in a heavy swallow and her jaw tighten again. ‘What are you doing Joe?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Have you been following me?’ She snaps. ‘Are you watching me?’

Yes, but not in the conventional sense.

‘Of course not,’ I say. ‘But I can’t help what I see.’

She bares her teeth in a sarcastic smile. ‘Ah, yes, your visions.’ Her eyes flick to the ceiling and she laughs.

‘If you stop I won’t say anything.’

Her laugh ceases abruptly and she leans in. ‘Are you threatening me?’ She asks slowly, a new sinister edge to her voice.

I manage somehow to hold her stare. ‘No, I’m not, but Mark is my friend and I want you to think about what you’re doing.’

Sian shakes her head, scowling. ‘And what do you think you’re doing?’

‘Believe me, I didn’t want to get invol –’

‘Didn’t want to get involved?’ She leans back. ‘That’s brilliant, just fucking brilliant! You already are Joe, you’re already involved, snooping about in our lives.’ She wipes away a single tear and then whispers, ‘The answer to your questions is yes, Mark told me about your freaky ability and you know what I think?’ She pauses and I can feel hatred pouring out of her. ‘I think there’s something wrong with you, really wrong, you need help Joe.’

I expected this – guilty people get angry – but it still hurts to feel such venom. ‘He doesn’t deserve it,’ I say, my voice flat. ‘You guys are good together,’

She laughs, a sorrowful and hollow sound. ‘You don’t know him Joe, you think you do, but you don’t.’ Her smile is back but it’s worn at the edges. ‘He’s always been mister perfect in your eyes.’ She sniffs and wipes away another tear with the back of her hand, smearing mascara. ‘Well, he isn’t.’

I can feel what little confidence I had on my arrival waning, being replaced by uncertainty. What was I thinking? I came here to do the right thing but now I’m not sure what that is.

‘It’s not like I have to tell you anything,’ Sian says, eyes cold, ‘but for the record, Mark and I have been going through a rough patch.’ Her voice wavers, brittle and thin. ‘It’s since we had the girls. Mark struggled with it I think, the whole family thing.’ She says ‘family thing’ as though it’s a subject they’ve wrestled with many times. Sian stares at the table for a while, avoiding eye contact. ‘He’s often away, and when he’s home he’s not really there.’ She pauses, picking at a napkin on the table. ‘But we’re working on it,’ she sniffs, looking up, ‘we’re working hard to make it right.’

My recent viewings of her and Guy come back to me. They meet often, they are in love, but now, with her version of events jumbling around in my mind, things seem more confusing than ever. Who am I to judge? Who made me the good Samaritan?

Sian stands, leans over me and in a quiet, determined voice says, ‘You stay away from us. Do you hear me? This has nothing to do with you.’

My mouth opens but words don’t come. I watch her walk away, stride to her car and then screech out onto the main road in a cloud of dust. I consider what she said, the angles she offered. She accused me of believing Mark was Mister Perfect and I admit she’s probably right. Maybe I do wear rose tinted specs, maybe he isn’t a great husband to her, but does he really deserve this?

I considered telling him first, but when that scenario played out in my mind, it didn’t end well. Mark wouldn’t stand for cheating. I know him. He would leave her and that would make me the one responsible for breaking up his marriage. Me; the one who sees things he shouldn’t. That’s why I came to Sian first, to give her a chance to make it right. I did that. Now it’s up to her.

2.

Friday 19th December, 2014.

I don’t believe in fate but sometimes I’m forced to question things. Sometimes, pieces of an unseen puzzle appear to fall into place and I look skyward and ask, ‘Really?’ and then, higher pitched, ‘I mean, really?’

I did, last night. I picked up a magazine – which was in a pile of unread stuff on my kitchen table – and got myself well and truly hooked into an article. It was entitled, ‘A numbers game: Considering the role of infinity in our understanding of the Universe’. Sounds heavy right? Sounds boring. Well, it wasn’t. It managed to grip me for the entirety of its four pages. It talked of Aristotle, infinity and multiple dimensions and yet somehow, I managed to stay with it. The illustrations helped, and I suppose my recent time-travelling means I have a new found interest in the subject, but still, I was amazed, until I got the end and saw who had written the article. Mark D’Stellar, Professor of Mathematical Sciences, Bristol University.

Really?

Yes, really, and if that isn’t a sign, what is?

* * *

The morning rush is over. Cheltenham Spa Train Station has swallowed and delivered its business travellers and is now quiet and serene. I am joined on Platform one by two pensioners and three student types. The train to Bristol Temple Meads arrives and I board, easily finding a seat to myself. Multiple doors slam, a whistle blows and, as we pull away, I realise I left Cheltenham on a whim, didn’t plan or stress about breaking my routine. I just bought a ticket on spec and here I am. It’s been years since I’ve done something like this. I lean my head against the window and allow the scenery to blur. The urban sprawl bleeds into countryside, shrouded in fine mist. It feels liberating to be on the move, even if this trip is likely to be a difficult one.

I haven’t seen Mark in over ten years, but when I read that article I knew it was him I needed to see next. I also knew it had to be face to face. Sometimes it’s the only way.

A train thunders past, a pocket of air booming against the glass window, shaking my head. I don’t flinch. The vibrations are comforting in a way, they block out my thoughts. The more I think about what to say to Mark the more muddled I get. I often look back and wonder how different my life would be if he was still in it. We were best friends for so long, shared a flat, went through University together, formed numerous bands and felt unstoppable, but all that got blown away by the biggest mistake of my life. Telling Sian.

Towns become fields, telegraph poles flick past like the spokes within a wheel. I count them and then stop. Christ Joe, be careful. The last thing I need is to time-travel. I might land arse first on the track and get hit by another train five years ago. I close my eyes and concentrate on not slipping into a hypnotic state. I succeed in that but am consumed by a viewing instead, an incident that occurred not long after I had told Sian. Mark came to see me.

3.

It’s late and I’m woken by a banging on the front door of my flat. It’s right in the centre of Loughborough, so I expect noise at any hour, but this is different. This is purposeful and loud. I sit up, mind searching the darkness for clues. I stagger to the door and call out, asking who’s there.

‘It’s me,’ Mark says, ‘let me in.’

Why wouldn’t I?

I open the door. Mark looks different. It’s dark, raining a little and he looks almost skeletal in the shadow of orange street light, but it’s not that. It’s not how he looks, it’s how he feels. His aura, maybe. Have you ever noticed how sometimes people feel different? It isn’t just body language, it’s something in the air. I take a step back and ask him what’s up. He shakes his head and for a brief moment I think he’s going to burst into tears. He doesn’t, luckily, but what he says makes my heart sink.

‘Sian told me what happened.’

‘Shit,’ I whisper.

‘Yeah.’

‘Sorry mate, come in.’

He runs a hand through his damp hair. ‘You sure about that?’ His voice is sharp, clipped.

Those words float around in my mind. They make no sense, have nothing to attach to. ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, ‘Of course I’m sure.’

Mark whispers under his breath, ‘There’s no smoke without fire.’ He pulls a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, flicks one forward and out – like they do in the movies – and lights up.

‘I don’t understand.’

Mark takes a long drag, the red glow of his cigarette revealing the depth of his stare. He’s searching me, searching to see if I’m going to crack.

‘Mark, what’s going on?’ I ask.

‘You tell me,’ he replies.

‘Come in, tell me what’s going on.’

I feel an unusual sense of fear as I turn and climb the stairs. Mark follows. I head to the kitchen, flick on the lights and – as all Brits do in a crisis – fill the kettle. Tea, for some reason, solves almost anything. Mark and I lived here for six years, he moved out four years ago to live with Sian. I stayed and it’s got messier by the month. Mark doesn’t seem to notice, he’s focussed on me. He sighs heavily, takes another long draw on his cigarette and exhales blue smoke like a dragon about to strike.

‘Sian told me what happened, Joe,’ he says, sharp and quick, ‘you need to start talking.’

His eyes are red and sunken. He gave up smoking years ago but I guess finding out about Sian has bought back old habits. I can smell alcohol too, spirits.

‘I didn’t want it to happen mate,’ I say, as if I have to remind him of my viewings, of my curse, ‘but you know I can’t control it.’

His mouth pulls back in a grim smile. ‘You’ve always loved her haven’t you?’

‘What?’

‘You heard,’ he snaps. ‘You’ve always been jealous of us, always wanted what we’ve got.’

‘Mark, I don’t –’

He takes a step towards me. ‘Be careful, Joe. She told me everything, about how you asked to meet, how you came onto her, how you told her you loved her.’

The room swells as my mind races to catch up. Then, the pennies fall and they fall like hail. Sian Burrows, my high-school crush, the young girl has become a woman, and a woman scorned at that.

I stare back at him in amazement. ‘You’re kidding? You don’t actually believe her do you?’

‘Did you meet her or not?’

‘Yes, but –’

‘Stay away from her Joe.’

‘Listen, you don’t understand, I don’t love her, I didn’t say those things.’

Mark’s face has become a statue, frozen in dark thoughts, ‘You know things have been hard, that things haven’t been good between us.’

‘I didn’t, not really, to be honest when Sian told me –’

‘We’re working on it,’ he interrupts, gritting his teeth. ‘Fucking hell Joe, I trusted you.’

‘This isn’t about me, this is about –’

‘What?’ Mark shouts, ‘What’s this about Joe?’

I want to speak, I want to tell him about her affair. I want to explain that Sian is a survivor, that she’s brilliantly and expertly forced this fight between us, but I can’t. All I see are his daughters’ faces. Chloé, aged two and Ella, aged four. Whatever I do right now, whatever I say, will impact them. This is what I was trying to avoid in the first place, this is why I went to Sian.

Mark’s blood is up, he’s shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Of all the people,’ he says, taking a purposeful step towards me, eyes blazing. ‘Why did it have to be you?’

* * *

Someone is shaking me, firmly on my right shoulder. My eyes snap open. I sit bolt upright in my seat. Leaning over me is a business man, middle aged and immaculately groomed. He offers a sympathetic smile. ‘You fell asleep,’ he says, ‘we’re here.’

To confirm this, a bored voice, barely audible above the squeal of brakes, announces our arrival at Bristol Temple Meads.

‘Thanks,’ I say, wiping saliva from my mouth. ‘Was I talking?’

He smiles, a worried parody of concern. ‘Yes. You were talking, dreaming I think.’

No, not dreaming. Viewing. Dreams are lovely, they drift away quickly, fading to the side of reality. Viewings on the other hand are pin sharp replays of the past and after they come, they stay, echoing emotions and feelings that should be long buried.

‘You kept saying a name,’ the man offers.

‘Amy?’ I ask, knowing the answer.

‘That was it.’ He nods. ‘Amy.’

Next to us a young boy is crying, asking his mother to give him back a bag of confiscated sweets. He’s red-faced, arms crossed tightly, eyes wild with too much sugar. More sweets are the last thing he needs. As the train slows, he continually presses her, finally reaching for the bag. His mother smacks his hand and he recoils, seething.

The man opposite me raises his eyebrows and leans in. ‘You can’t always get what you want,’ he says with a cheerful smile.

I nod. ‘You’re a Rolling Stones fan?’

‘Of course,’ he replies, almost mocking the question. ‘Aren’t we all?’

I shrug, ‘More of a Beatles fan myself.’

‘Ah yes, the old rivalry, Beatles or Stones. That was always the question.’

The train stops and people stand, grabbing their belongings. I’m obviously glad I didn’t miss my stop, but mainly thankful for the reprieve. In my viewing, Mark was about to lose it and hit me, and I remember that really, really hurt. There’s no smoke without fire, Mark said, and I suppose, in a weird kind of way, he was right. I thank the man again for waking me.

‘Not at all,’ he replies, briefcase and umbrella in hand. ‘I hope you have a good day.’ He pauses, eyes down in thought, and then says, ‘Also, I hope that, well, that it all works out.’

He has a very British awkwardness about him but I feel, or maybe sense, that he means well. I’m guessing that when he says he hopes things work out that he’s referring to Amy, and whatever else I let slip while talking in my sleep.

‘Thanks,’ I reply, ‘I hope so too.’

My heart tightens but it’s not Amy I’m thinking about. It’s Mark. He’s a Professor now, a lecturer, probably has a beard and leather patches on his jacket. I’m nervous about seeing him again, about his reaction to me just turning up, but I remind myself that whenever I needed to understand the impossible, Mark D’Stellar was the man. He always was.

4.

The train is gone. I stand on the platform, soaking in a white triangle of sunshine that will soon be stolen by heavy, dark clouds. The warmth on my face is welcome and in this moment of peace I realise that asking for Mark’s help isn’t the only reason I’m here. The events of the last month have kicked me up the arse it seems, snapped me out of my endless daze. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that if I die in some bizarre, time-travelling accident (train, car, concrete, sheet of glass, etc.) then I wouldn’t want to leave things the way they are.

Outside the station I see a row of taxis. The one in front pulls up. The driver looks a bit like a young Keith Richards but when he opens his mouth he’s every bit the Cabbie. ‘Alright mate, wanna lift?’

No, I was hoping you could help me with a little time-travel issue.

‘Yes,’ I say, hopping in the back, ‘Bristol University, Pagett Lecture Theatre, please.’

‘Huh?’

I show him a map and he nods, pulling away. ‘You go the Uni do ya?’

‘Er, no,’ I say.

His eyes study me through the rear-view mirror. ‘Got kids? I’ve got three. Two, four and seven.’

‘Quite a handful,’ I say, leaning back in the seat and closing my eyes. I don’t need a full run-down of his life. It’s nothing personal, he seems like a decent bloke, but I struggle with small talk. Actually, even if he was Keith Richards I reckon I would still find it hard to appear interested.

‘You from Bristol?’ He asks, speaking loudly to compensate for the fact my eyes are closed.

I shake my head.

‘London?’

Oh Christ. ‘Cheltenham,’ I say.

‘I love Cheltenham, beautiful place, been to the races ‘ave ya? I won a shit load there once, blew the lot on a once in a lifetime trip.’ He pauses. ‘Won’t be doing that again.’

I smile.

‘Once in a lifetime trip,’ he repeats, ‘I won’t be doing that again.’ He laughs at his own joke.

I open my eyes and smile. His happiness is annoyingly infectious.

The cabbie smiles back, ‘That’s more like it, look!’ He almost shouts. ‘The sun has come out, you see, all ya gotta do is smile and everything is betta. I’m reading a book, about livin’ in the moment. Those Buddhist monks loved it, the whole one with everything thing.’

I’m not sure he totally gets it, but he seems happy enough. He continues on, ‘We’re all so distracted these days ain’t we, don’t ya think?’

‘Sorry?’

He laughs. ‘I said, we’re all so bloody distracted!’ He blasts his horn, swears loudly and jams his taxi into a long line of waiting cars. ‘It’s like now, we’re stuck in traffic, lights are red. It’s all shit, right?’

I nod enthusiastically. ‘Yeah, you could say that.’

‘But it ain’t, see.’ He taps the side of his head as though all the world’s secrets are contained within. ‘It’s life, we’re here, you and me, now. We need to be in the moment, even when we’re washing dishes or picking up doggo, or getting it in the neck from our missus.’

I gaze out of the cab window at the bustling City around us. People race like ants, busy, most of them either talking on their phone or looking at it. I frown. Actually, nearly everyone is looking at their phone.

‘Live each moment,’ the cabbie advises me.

I nod, but ironically, my mind is elsewhere. I’m thinking back to when I accidentally jumped from my lounge to the Park. I travelled through space and time. I thought it was just bad luck but I’m wondering now, what if it has something to do with connection, with the moment, like my cabbie is saying.

‘Yes,’ I agree, ‘I think you’re right.’

‘Huh?’

‘Sorry,’ I say, snapping out of my thoughts, ‘something you just said made me realise something.’

‘Nice.’ He holds up a small book of Zen Philosophy quotes. ‘It’s all in ‘ere,’ he announces happily, ‘and you have just had a moment of enlightenment.’

I’m not sure it’s as big as that, but it does make sense. What if the reason I travelled to the Park is because I had been there with Vinny that morning. He and I had breakfast together, we talked, I enjoyed it. Maybe that stuck somehow, like a pin in a board, something to grab hold of, a beacon in time.

‘Can we make a stop before the University?’

‘Your cash,’ the cabbie replies.

I think of Vinny. He may have helped more than he knows.

We stop outside a newsagent’s. I run in, buy a copy of the local paper and instruct the cabbie to take me to St. James’ Park. He chats the whole way, more life lessons from his concise book of philosophy. I don’t listen anymore but I nod occasionally and fake interest. I like him. He’s a good guy, but I don’t want to focus on him. I have an idea, a plan, and I’m becoming increasingly convinced it’s going to work.

We arrive at St. James’ Park and I ask him to wait for half an hour. ‘Sweet,’ he says, sliding a large brown cap over his eyes. ‘Meter’s running!’ He shouts as I walk into the park.

I spend my time on a bench, soaking in the moment, listening to the trees swaying noisily. Kids shout and play. Birds sing. A distant plane rumbles over-head. I stare at the date on my newspaper. 19th December. I imagine myself as a pin, pushing into the cork-board of this park, being in the moment. I smile. My cabbie would be proud.

I do this for half an hour. Sit on my bench. My bench. To the side of me is a bin. It’s almost empty. I guess it will stay that way until the morning. That’s fine. I drop my paper into it and return to my cabbie who is snoring loudly. He wakes with startling efficiency, like a dog who has just heard walkies. We are off again. I stare out of the rear window at my bench until it’s swallowed by trees. ‘See you later,’ I whisper and focus on the feeling of sitting there alone.

We arrive at the lecture theatre twenty minutes later. I pay the cabbie – plus a healthy tip – and step out onto a side street in the heart of Bristol.

‘Hey,’ he calls, ‘I hope you find what you’re lookin’ for, yeah?’

‘Thanks,’ I smile, ‘you’ve been great.’

‘Yes, I have,’ he says with absolute sincerity. The light on top of his black cab glows orange and he pulls away. I smile again. It’s surprising what happens when you talk to people.

I check a nearby campus map and head in the direction of the lecture theatre. It’s an old building set behind a lawned area framed by trees and surrounded by an old stone-wall. Students roam, talking and rushing. Not many on their phones, I note.

It’s just gone 2:30 p.m. My heart rate increases and I take a long, deep breath. Mark is teaching here today and due to finish his lecture soon but I’m beginning to wonder about the wisdom of my plan. How will I find him in these crowds? What if the information I found on the web this morning is wrong? It’s the last day of term, he could easily have changed his plans. These questions swirl around in my head but then disappear in a mighty rush. I see Mark. He’s walking in my direction. It’s unmistakably him, tall, striking and with an air of easy confidence. His black hair is a little longer now, flecked with grey, and he’s a few pounds heavier, but it’s him alright. He glances at me and looks as though he might walk straight past but then stops a few feet away, shaking his head.

‘Bloody hell,’ he says. ‘What are you doing here?’

It’s not an accusing tone, if anything it’s friendly, almost as though we’ve bumped into each other in some far flung airport somewhere.

I clear my throat, ‘Hi Mark.’

‘What are you doing here?’ He asks, firmer this time.

‘We need to talk.’

He dips his head, catching my eye, ‘Are you okay? Are you ill?’

‘No, it’s nothing like that.’

He narrows his stare, ‘Listen Joe, you know the deal, what’s done is done, you can’t just –’

‘I’m not here about that,’ I say, ‘I’m here about Amy.’

‘Amy?’ He says, studying me with suspicion. ‘What about her?’ Then, his expression flattens, his defences melt away. ‘Oh shit Joe,’ he whispers apologetically, ‘I’m sorry, did they find her?’

By find her, he means her body. It’s a fair assumption. She’s been missing for over twenty years after all. ‘No,’ I say, ‘it’s not that.’

‘What then?’

‘I can’t tell you here.’

Mark sighs heavily, ‘Look, you know we can’t do this, Sian would kill me if she knew I was even talking to you.’

‘Listen, all I’m asking is for one hour. You hear me out and then, if you want, I will leave and never bother you again.’

He looks at his watch and then back at me, ‘I’ve got lectures, stuff going on.’

‘Please Mark, for old times’ sake?’

He shakes his head and then – being careful that no students hear him– he swears under his breath. ‘You’ve got one hour,’ he snaps. ‘For old times’ sake.’

5.

We arrive at Mark’s house at 3:35 p.m. It’s an old house, has character and was probably described by the estate agent as a charming Victorian property, which means I like it immediately. I get out of his car – some German high specced thing – and we walk the gravel driveway together. I make a mental note of the address.

‘Sian’s away,’ he assures me, reading my expression, ‘she’s taken the girls for a pre-Christmas holiday, won’t be home until Sunday night.’

I nod. ‘Okay.’

As we enter the house I wonder how much you need to earn to justify a pre-Christmas holiday? It’s obvious the D’Stellars are doing well. The hallway is covered in glossy family pictures. I have some like this too, from before Amy went missing but I can’t look at them anymore, they contain innocent, smiling people who didn’t know what was about to happen. Mark’s family portraits aren’t laced with such darkness. I focus on one specific picture. His daughters, wearing smart, matching uniforms. It looks to be– for one of them anyway – the first day of school.

‘They’re beautiful,’ I say.

Mark takes off his coat and glances at the picture. ‘Yeah, they are,’ he says with the ease of a busy father. ‘Do you want tea then?’

‘Great, thanks.’ It’s a long way from the beer I suggested but I’m happy to be here. I follow him into the kitchen, which looks a bit like a show-home, crossed with the set of a cookery show. There are more pictures here, including a large canvas of the family with obligatory dog; one of those white studio set-ups that costs a bomb and looks like heaven. I stare at it, more sure than ever, that although I screwed everything up I did the right thing by not telling Mark all those years ago. Sian made a mistake but as a family they’ve made it.

We sit at his kitchen table, which overlooks their garden. It’s huge, there’s a fully kitted out children’s play area, two sheds and what looks like a vast vegetable plot.

‘So, come on, what’s this all about?’ Mark asks. ‘You said it had something to do with Amy.’

The years may have separated us but when I finally look at him I’m back at school, looking up at my hero.

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘and I want to make things right between us.’

Mark folds his arms and shrugs. ‘Look. I’m older, you’re older. It’s a long time ago, but what’s done is done.’

‘It is, but something’s happened, something important.’

He sighs, his annoyance clear. ‘Joe, if you want my help then you need to stop being so cryptic.’

‘So you’re willing to help me?’

‘If this has something to do with Amy then, yes, of course.’

‘Okay then, but you’re going to think I’m crazy.’

He looks at me as though he already does. I try to remember how I was going to tell him but my mind is blank. I just start talking. I mean, how the hell do you tell someone you can time-travel? Words just begin pouring from me at rapid speed. ‘You always said my viewing was a gift, well I think you’re right. I went to see a hypnotherapist, to help me sleep.’ I look at him. ‘I haven’t been sleeping.’

Mark takes a sip of tea. ‘Go on.’

‘Right. Yeah. Well, anyway she put me under and then a weird thing happened.’

‘You saw Amy?’ Mark guesses. ‘You had a viewing, something you haven’t seen before.’

‘No, it was more than that.’ I swallow. ‘I time-travelled,’ I say and then wait.

Mark nods calmly, the look of a lecturer listening to an interesting theory. ‘You time-travelled,’ he says slowly, ‘you mean in your mind’.

‘No,’ I reply, ‘I actually time-travelled, Mark. I’ve done it a few times now.’

‘Joe,’ he says, quietly.

‘And if I can get back far enough then –’

‘Joe,’ he says, louder this time but I carry on, wanting him to hear me out.

‘I need your help,’ I say, ‘to make sense of all this, the rules, to explain why and how this is happening to me.’

‘Enough,’ Mark says, placing his cup down. ‘What the hell are you doing to yourself?’

‘I know it’s hard to believe but it’s real.’

‘Real?’ He gasps. ‘Real? Let me tell you what I know for sure, you need help and I’m sorry, but it isn’t my help you need.’ He stands and begins to pace. ‘Did you come all this way to tell me this? This Back to the Future bullshit?’

‘It’s not bullshit,’ I say. ‘You told me once that you believed viewing was given to me for a reason.’

‘Your viewing is one thing, this is completely different.’

‘No,’ I reply, ‘that’s the thing. They’re the same, they’re linked.’

‘Right.’ Mark sneers, folding his arms. He tilts his head, trying to figure me out. ‘By the way, just for the record, how did you find me?’

‘An article you wrote.’

‘Ahhhh.’ He sighs, as if everything now makes sense. ‘So you read that and made this story up, something you thought I might be interested in.’

‘What if I could prove it to you?’ I say.

‘You need help,’ Mark replies. ‘You need to work this stuff through with someone, a professional.’

‘Listen. If I can figure this out then I might be able to get back to her.’

‘Amy died Joe,’ Mark says firmly, ‘a long time ago.’

I stare back at him with determination. ‘But I can save her.’

Mark slams his hand down and looks as though he might launch himself at me. His eyes shine with anger but it’s mixed with pity, as though he’s caught the wrong animal in a trap and knows it’s done for. ‘Listen Joe,’ he says, ‘if you carry on like this you’re going to end up like your Dad.’

The air freezes between us. Memories claw from somewhere below the surface of my mind but I slap them down. ‘Don’t talk about him,’ I hiss, the words arriving long before thought has a chance. ‘Don’t you dare mention him.’

‘Another problem you haven’t dealt with,’ Mark parries back at me. ‘You need therapy, you need to face the truth, accept what’s lost and move on.’

‘But what if I can prove it to you?’ I say again. ‘What then?’

‘Prove that you can time-travel?’ Mark laughs.

‘Yes.’

He snorts loudly, a sarcastic smile spreading over his face, one that reminds me of the old him. ‘Joe,’ he says, pointing at a row of hooks that are piled high with coats. Hanging on one is a brown hat, the kind Indiana Jones might wear. ‘If you prove you can time-travel, then I will eat my hat.’

I smile. For once, I’m in control, I’m leading him. ‘Then I hope you’re hungry.’ I nod at the Fedora. ‘And in the meantime, you might want to hold onto that.’

6.

When I open my eyes I’m no longer in Mark’s kitchen. I’m sat on my bench in St. James’ Park. The sun is a little lower than when I was originally here but otherwise it feels the same. I check the bin next to me, heart racing, and smile as I pull out my newspaper – I know it’s mine, because I tore a corner from the front page – and stare at the date. 19th of December 2014. The same day.

I’m getting better at this.

I head for the park gate and ask a woman for the time. ‘Just gone two thirty,’ she replies. I thank her and smile. I’ve travelled back in time two hours, exactly as I intended. I’ve jumped short distances before but this is the first time I’ve controlled my landing. I planned to be here, aimed for this specific time.

I laugh. Right now, a version of me is having a conversation with Mark at the lecture theatre. Soon, they will travel to his house and he will watch me hypnotise myself and disappear. I head in the direction of Mark’s house with a spring in my step. I cannot wait to see his face.

After another taxi ride, I arrive at Mark’s house at around 4 p.m., just as it’s getting dark. His car is still in the drive. That’s good, after what he’s just seen, he might have gone straight to the hospital to get his head checked. I walk the driveway (again) and bang the knocker three times. I hear movement. ‘Who is it?’ Mark calls, voice cracking like a teenager.

‘It’s me, Joe.’

I hear him cry out. There’s more noise; heavy breathing and shuffling and then silence.

‘Mark?’ I say. ‘It’s me, can I come in?’

The letterbox flaps open, ‘Whu… Wha… you…’ He’s mumbling. ‘You, ahhhhh.’

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘Can you open the door?’

Eventually, he does, and I can tell instantly that I’ve accomplished the first stage of my mission. Mark’s expression is exactly like the guy in Jurassic Park when he first sees one of the newly created dinosaurs. His eyes shine like wet marbles, his mouth is hanging open, lips trembling as he attempts to speak. He’s flushed red and I realise his head is shaking in tiny left and right motions. Denial, denial, denial, it says, like the world’s smallest pendulum. He has a drink in hand and fresh sweat on his brow. He swallows and manages to say one word. Probably the word most of us would say if their friend had just vapourised in front of them.

‘Fuck,’ he whispers and then repeats it.

I smile and Mark collapses; not sideways, or staggering; he drops straight down, like a controlled explosion, knees buckling as he slips into a puddle of himself. I glance around nervously. Luckily, the street is quiet. I lean down, remove the glass from his hand – which is still upright and full – and step over him. I grab him under his arms, which are warm with nervous sweat and manage to drag him a few feet down the hallway, just enough to close the door. This isn’t easy, he’s built like a brick doggo house.

I look at the pictures again but this time it feels like they are judging me. One photo of Mark catches my attention and I realise that he’s a bit like me now. In the picture he’s smiling, unaware that soon the concept of time-travel will be proven to him. I look down at him lying on the floor. He’s breathing softly and seems much happier than he did a minute ago. I do my best to fold him into the recovery position but it makes him look like a murder victim, minus the chalk. I grab a cushion from the lounge and place it under his head, which only slightly improves the look.

I feel guilty. Should I have gone a bit easier on him? I head to the kitchen and see a bottle of whiskey on the table. Poor Mark, I think, as I grab the Fedora from one of the coat hooks.

Should I have gone easier? Nah.

I need to crack on and people need to keep up, and anyway, if there’s one thing I know about Mark, it’s his absolute need for proof. Nothing is real unless you can prove it.

Well I’ve done that haven’t I? Good and proper.

He stirs, moaning. Still in the recovery position his eyes blink open and he assesses his situation. ‘Shit,’ he mumbles, voice thick and groggy. ‘Joe?’ He says, remembering I was there. ‘Is that you? What happened?’

‘You passed out,’ I say, cheerily.

He follows my voice, sits up and stares at me, confused, ‘Why are you wearing my hat?’

‘I’m keeping it warm for you,’ I say, ‘you know, until your ready to eat it.’

‘What are you…?’ He swallows. ‘Oh, my God you… you…’ He jerks suddenly, as if hit by an invisible cattle prod and scrambles to his feet. ‘What the hell?’ He’s disoriented, his eyes roll as he struggles to focus.

‘Calm down,’ I say, ‘it’s okay.’

‘Okay?’ He shouts. ‘Okay?’ His voice hoarse and high. ‘Which part? The part where you just vanished, in front of my bloody eyes?’

‘Technically, I didn’t vanish –’

‘You bloody teleported!’ Mark shouts, grabbing the bannister of the stairs like a crutch.

‘I time-travelled,’ I correct him, earnestly, tipping my hat. ‘And you’ve got some eating to do.’

Mark’s face contorts like putty as he no doubt struggles to find a box in his brain where all this new information fits.

‘I can time-travel,’ I repeat, more gently this time. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘You were here just now,’ he says, his voice a whispering, rambling mess, ‘you were sat in my kitchen, you disappeared man, just like that.’ He snaps his fingers. ‘Gone!’

He sounds like the Mark I once knew, after a gig, stoned and mellow, exploring philosophies and ideas on the universe.

‘Yes, I disappeared,’ I agree, ‘and I went back in time.’

‘How far?’

‘Oh, only a couple of hours.’

Mark nods sarcastically, like a mad man. ‘Where did you go?’

‘Only the park,’ I say.

‘You can move around too?’

‘Yes,’ I say, shrugging. ‘Sometimes, but that’s kind of new, although I’m getting the hang of it.’

Mark laughs, a manic, crazy kind of giggle. He mimics me, ‘Yeah, sure, sometimes… getting the hang of this whole time-travel thing,’

I place my hand on his shoulder. ‘Why don’t you come and sit down?’ I suggest.

His eyes meet mine and we finally connect. We stand like this for a while until he relaxes a little. ‘Joe,’ he whispers.

‘Yeah?’

‘This is messed up,’ he says, breaking into a thin smile, finally the right kind of smile.

‘It is,’ I agree.

We walk to the kitchen, I re-cork the whiskey and we sit. Mark stares out over his garden and beyond. ‘So you hypnotise yourself,’ he says, ‘you disappear and then re-appear back in time?’

‘Yes.’

He shakes his head, ‘But what about chronology protection conjecture, what about gravity, relativity?’

I shrug. ‘I don’t know about any of that stuff, but it doesn’t seem to matter.’

‘No,’ Mark says, ‘it doesn’t.’ He blinks rapidly and then clicks into scientist mode. ‘Right, so you materialised in the park, at what time?’

‘Two thirty.’

‘My God, it’s incredible.’ He raises a hand to the sky as though he’s suddenly remembered something obvious. ‘Shit!’

‘What is it?’

‘Why didn’t you let me record it?’

I look at him sternly. ‘We can’t tell anyone, that’s not why I’m here.’

‘No, no, of course not,’ Mark says, checking himself. His eyes dart around in deep thought, lips tightening in concentration. ‘How far back can you go?’

‘So far, about ten years.’

‘Ten years!’ He jumps up. ‘Ten flipping years!’

‘I know.’ I smile, instantly reminded of Doc Brown.

1.21 Gigawatts. 1.21 Gigawatts!

Mark’s eyes widen and he stares at me, eyes swimming. ‘Amy,’ he whispers eventually, goosebumps bristling visibly over his arms. ‘You could save her.’

‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.’

‘What can I do?’

‘You can help me make sense of this, help me understand it.’

‘Seems like you’re doing fine so far.’

‘But it’s random,’ I say. ‘Small jumps are getting a little easier, but when I go back further I don’t have control.’

‘How many times have you done this?’

‘Maybe ten,’ I say, ‘each time is different though. Sometimes I’m in the same place, sometimes not. Sometimes I go back an hour but if I’m not careful it could be ten years. Today I tried something new and it worked but it could be luck more than anything.’

‘Christ,’ Mark says.

‘And when I go back further I can’t stay very long. I need to learn the rules Mark, I need to figure –.’

‘Whoa! One thing at a time,’ he says. ‘What do you mean, you can’t stay very long? You mean you don’t get to decide when you come back?’

‘I wish I did, but no, when I travel the amount of time I get seems to be completely random, after a while my clothes go and then it feels like brain freeze and then bang, I’m back.’

He stares at me, ‘Clothes, brain freeze? What?’

I shrug, ‘Trust me, time-travelling sucks.’

Mark snorts through his nose and then begins to laugh, properly, belly deep.

‘What?’ I ask, joining in. ‘What?’

He shrugs, wiping his eyes. ‘Oh, you know, nothing. My best friend just turned up after God knows how long, and then he disappeared again, literally.’ I smile, all I heard was best friend. Mark continues, ‘And, he can time-travel but his clothes go pop and he gets brain freeze, apparently. So, I don’t know why I’m laughing really, perhaps because you always were weird and now the whole world has gone bat-shit.’ He sighs, smile fading, his expression darkening a little. I see what looks like a flash of guilt. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,’ he says, ‘but you understand right?’

‘I do,’ I say, removing his hat and handing it to him. ‘Now, come on, eat up.’

He takes it. ‘With pleasure, but first you’ve got some explaining to do.’

‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’

‘Fuck that,’ he says. ‘Whatever! I’m saying that if you want my help then you need to tell me everything. Start at the beginning and don’t miss out any details. Not one.’

‘Okay,’ I say, ‘what do you want to know?’

‘You said the amount of time you get in the past is random?’

‘Yeah, although it does seem to be less, the further back I go.’

He pulls the face of a teacher, wishing his student would try harder. ‘But you just said it was random.’

‘Well it feels random to me.’ I reach inside my pocket and hand him my notepad. ‘Does this help? It’s a record of my travels so far.’

Mark thumbs through it quickly and then flashes me an old-school grin. ‘Very good Joseph Bridgeman,’ he smiles. ‘We can work with this.’

‘You might want to make a copy of that, things tend to disappear.’

Mark sighs. ‘Yes, they do.’ He gets up, smacks me hard on the shoulder and says, ‘Now, come on, follow me.’

7.

My study at home is my man cave, my little slice of heaven. It contains many of the things that ground me, that remind me of how my life ticks. Mark has his own version, but on a much grander scale. One of the sheds I saw earlier in the garden is actually better described as a Norwegian-style cabin, like something out of an ABBA video. The perspective from the kitchen was deceiving, it’s bloody huge.

‘This is where I come to work on stuff,’ Mark says excitedly, ‘you know, projects that need a bit of head space.’

‘Like my project,’ I suggest and we smile at the understatement of the year.

Inside I’m hit by the scent of fresh pine, mixed with the pleasing remains of an open fire. I spot a log-burner in the far corner, its shining silver flue snaking the height of the cabin. There are three good-sized windows, a sofa with big cushions and books are everywhere, rows of them, neatly organised. Mark begins stoking the fire. The cabin is tall and rises up to a triangular peak. I see a child-like ladder, leading to a small mezzanine with a single bed. Mark follows my eye-line. ‘Sometimes, I can’t leave here until I’m done,’ he shrugs, ‘you know what I’m like.’

I do. I remember him studying obsessively but also how he was when we were song-writing. He would sometimes go all night to make sure a certain section of a tune was done properly. I nod to an acoustic guitar, upright on its stand in the corner. ‘You still play?’ I ask.

Mark considers this for a moment. ‘Not so much, you?’

‘Same,’ I reply, ‘I guess those days are gone.’

We look at each other, sharing an unspoken understanding that any reference to time will be forever altered. Mark frowns.

‘What is it?’ I ask. ‘Apart from the obvious?’

‘I wanted to say sorry.’

‘For what?’ I ask.

‘For mentioning your Dad, it was out of order.’

I tell him it’s okay, and it is. More than ever I feel the weight of unsorted junk in my mind, and know that it’s my crap and no one else’s. I need to sort it out at some point.

‘Listen,’ I say, ‘how about we just focus on what we need to do.’

Mark agrees, hands me back my book and walks to a large white-board, which fills the wall opposite. It’s covered in mathematical equations. They’re just hieroglyphics to me. ‘Right,’ Mark says, clapping his hands together, ‘we start at the beginning, the first time you travelled, tell me everything, use the book, small details, everything.’

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 bloody 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.

Since leaving Mark, a plan has formed, one that will require a precise time jump and a planned return velocity. I’m strangely confident though, lifted by my short but controlled jump in St. James’ Park. I can do this. Data is power after all.

My mind is jammed full of ideas and the journey home passes easily, but a strange thing happens when I close the front door behind me. Usually, it’s a relief, but recently I’ve interacted with more people than I have in years, so much so that, now I’m home alone, the solitude feels like a weight around me.

I’ve bought a bag of groceries; vegetables, fruit and goji berries, which are a super fruit apparently, which is kind of funny because they look shrivelled and old to me. I blast them all up, take a sip and then something catches my eye in the hallway, a blinking red light. I walk to the phone and stare at it. I realise it’s the indicator light for messages. First time for everything, I think and press the button.

‘You have two messages,’ the robo-woman advises me.

Ooooooh.

‘Message One,’ she says, followed by a piercing beep. ‘Cash, it’s Vinny. Good news and bad news mate. The good news is, we won the lottery, the bad news is, I’m keeping it all.’ Vinny breaks into a deep, wracking cough, which I realise is actually a laugh. I smile and take another sip of my sludge-like smoothie. Looks gross, tastes divine. Vinny composes himself, ‘Sorry Joe, couldn’t resist that one. Right. The good news really is, the money has cleared and I’ve transferred half into your bank account. There is some bad news though, well you know, relatively speaking.’ More laughing. ‘You said we would win twelve million but we only won six. We had to share it with some other woman.’ He chuckles to himself. ‘Funny thing is, she said her Granny had put the same numbers on for years, anyway the Granny died recently but she kept plugging away with the same numbers, her Granny’s lucky numbers she called them. Bit like me, Cash! Same bloody numbers for years!’

Visions of 2002 consume me, the turtle-looking lady from the newsagent’s, clear as crystal in my mind. ‘You look lucky to me,’ she called out as I ran from the shop.

Vinny continues, ‘Anyway mate, the tax-man is going to want a whack-load of that, but I split it down the middle, just like you said, you know, fifty-fifty.’ Vinny clears his throat and the line crackles, ‘And listen Joe. I just wanted to say again, you’re a top bloke and if there’s anything you need, any way I can help with you know what, just ask. Okay?’ A pause. ‘Right I’m off to the gym.’ Another pause, longer this time and then a sudden burst of laughter that goes on and on, ‘Just kidding.’ Vinny laughs, ‘Adios.’

Click. Buzz.

I smile and swallow the lump that has been pushing at my throat. My arms are pricked with gooseflesh. Three million quid. Same for Vinny and the other six million for some girl I’ve never met, the daughter of the Granny lucky enough to be behind me that day.

‘Message two,’ the woman announces. I cover my ears against the beep. ‘Joseph, it’s Martin,’ his voice is serious like a formal complaint. ‘Some reminders,’ he barks. ‘Firstly, it’s my party tonight and I would really like you to come, don’t forget, Alexia Finch is also coming –’

I press another button, Message deleted, and then study the machine for a while, smiling. Answer phones are like a weird sort of time machine. Messages from the past, played out in the present.

Martin didn’t need to remind me. I know his party is tonight and I have plans, lots of them, although they aren’t particularly exciting. I have to stay here for the whole evening, waiting in my house for something that hasn’t happened yet but will, soon.

You can wrap yourself up in knots with all this time-travel stuff but I have it worked out – well, scribbled loosely in my pad – and the math works. I had a good teacher, the best in fact. I shower, shave, dress for going out, and then stay in. My Beatles mono box set is going to get a good hammering tonight.

* * *

Saturday 20th December 2014.

I get up early and I’m out of the house by seven. I feel good. It seems that time-travelling (even short trips) can be an excellent cure for insomnia. I slept like a milk-filled baby. No viewing, no dreams, nothing. Considering the people I’ve met recently that in itself is a miracle. I consider going to see Liv or Vinny or doing something else in line with my usual routine but my guts say no. I need to focus on my destination and that alone. In my hand is a leather satchel and inside that, everything I need for my trip.

Pittville Park is quiet this time of day, just the usual culprits. Joggers, council workers and squirrels. No one is likely notice a shadow like me disappearing in a puff of nothingness. Perhaps the squirrels will take notice, but what are they going do about it? Tell the birds?

I sit on a bench that’s tucked away beside a cluster of trees and take a deep breath. It’s 10 degrees but feels more like 2. I exhale, and think about how strange my breath will look rising from an empty bench. I pull the straps of my dark-red leather satchel and remove my print-outs, my focus items.

The internet is amazing. Once upon a time I would have had to go to the library or endured a long montage of research activities. These days, in about five minutes, you can find everything you need. I had printed out various news articles, blogs and features created last Saturday, the 13th of December. I want to travel to this day, the afternoon to be exact and one of the pages, specifically, gives me confidence that I can do just that.

I close my eyes and open them again, beginning my now familiar routine. I think about the day, about the space around me, about the way that all things are connected by a single thread. My vision of a pin, pushing into a board is replaced this time by a needle. It’s like vinyl, I think. I’m the stylus and if time has been recorded – if it’s happened already – then I can select the track and jump wherever I like. This visualisation does the trick and I feel myself rising up and away from the here and now and placing myself with deep intent into the past.

10.

My arrival is instant, a glorious rush of light and then nothing but the moment. I see the grass beneath my feet and feel the same cool air on my skin. Somehow – perhaps it’s instinctive – I just know it’s mid afternoon, I can feel it, which means that, presuming I have landed on the right day, then I’m definitely getting better at this.

There’s no bench though, I realise. I’m standing, and the trees that were next to me have grown gnarly and tall. Just as I’m beginning to wonder what year it might be, I hear a sound, a deep rumbling roar, like a hundred approaching war drums in the distance. I’m stood facing what were the trees and when I turn around I see a long stretch of grass ahead of me. To my left is a huge grandstand, dotted with people, but the details are unclear due to the sun, which is directly in my field of vision. I laugh nervously, a mixture of panic and relief but this is quickly followed by fear. The thundering sound has built to a deafening crescendo and I realise, with absolute horror that twenty or so horses are about to descend on me. I clutch my satchel to my chest and lean in as low and tight as I can to the fence which is actually a jump or, to be precise, a hurdle.

Instantly, the sun is blocked out as dark shapes, accompanied by shouting and neighing, fill the sky. The air thickens with bitter sweat as heat and a sea of black and brown roars over me, dotted with the odd, colourful blur of silk. It’s a good job the horses are so loud, I’m screaming like a pig having its tail pulled. Not a good sound, not something I’m proud of. During this onslaught, I am still, somehow, able to smile. The article that helped me focus on this day was an event, one offering an exciting day of winter horse-racing action; The International at Cheltenham Racecourse: Saturday 13th December 2014. I obviously focussed a little too hard on the racecourse itself though. Mental note, archived for future use.

As the sound subsides and I watch the pack race towards the next fence, one jockey flicks his head back, twice. I think he’s shouting something but I can’t make it out, which is probably a good thing. I doubt it’s friendly. I work my way across the length of the fence towards white railings, my knees threatening to buckle. Now I know what those people feel like who lay down under motorbikes, or perhaps how the rats in the underground feel as tube trains cover their world in screeching steel.

I make my way through a crowd of race-goers. Luckily, it seems no one spotted the sudden appearance of a spectator at the last but one fence. Well, maybe one jockey has an interesting story to tell but I think I got away with it. Fingers crossed it wasn’t televised.

In town I buy a complete outfit. Shirt, jeans, shoes and underwear and a warm coat. I stuff the clothes I was wearing on my arrival into my satchel, along with the news printouts. I have a plan to avoid losing them for good. We will see if it works. Today is Saturday December 13th. If Mark’s calculations are correct then my belongings and clothes will return on the 16th, followed by me on the 19th.

I decide to try a Bed and Breakfast called ‘Mount Pleasant’, which sounds a bit like a knocking shop but looks nice on the website. Knocking shop couldn’t be further from the truth. Mrs Wiggins, a delightful old lady who runs the place, does so with an expert eye for cleanliness, manners and overt chintz. She studies me, as if the establishment is a members only club before smiling and checking me into Room 5. I shower and take a CD from my satchel. I place it in the cheap in-room portable, press play and lay on the bed.

Spanish: Lesson One begins and I close my eyes. I’ve got six days to kill and nothing to do but wait. I might as well do something useful.

Sólo se vive una vez, (You only live once) after all.

11.

Mrs Wiggins does an excellent full English breakfast, I clean the last of my eggs with a slice of buttered toast and lean back, full and happy. I’m the only guest this morning, although the other four tables in the small dining area are laid out neatly. That’s how she rolls. Neat and precise. The wallpaper, napkins, place-mats and crockery all match, a flower print that’s almost strong enough to kick-start my hay-fever. There are various photographs of Cheltenham as well as illustrations of hunting dogs and men in red coats on horseback. As Mrs Wiggins enters the room and pours my third coffee she hands me a newspaper, The Gloucestershire Echo, the local rag.

She tuts loudly, shaking her head, ‘An idiotic man ran out onto the racecourse yesterday, nearly got himself killed.’ She raises her eyebrows and points at the paper, ‘Page four.’

I turn the page and see the article, along with a photograph of said idiot, crouching down, horses jumping over him. The picture is poor quality, you can’t make out it’s me, but my bag is quite distinctive. Thank God, they weren’t televising it. I clear my throat and mirror her disapproval, ‘I wonder why someone would do that?’

‘The world is a strange place Mr Bridgeman,’ she says, pouring milk from a tiny jug. ‘Will you be staying for dinner?’

‘You do dinner?’

‘Of course,’ she says, as if the world wouldn’t be right unless she did.

‘Then, yes, I am,’ I smile, ‘that would be great.’

* * *

By the time the 19th finally comes around, I’m sure of a couple of things at least. I’m a lot heavier (Mrs Wiggins doesn’t believe in a calorie controlled diet) and also my time-travel calculations (©Mark D’Stellar) are bang on. The first sign of brain freeze came in the night and the sensation is growing stronger by the hour. I take two paracetamol and two ibuprofen and plan to repeat this every four hours to ensure I can at least function. I’ve got work to do.

As the afternoon sun gives way to the bluish tones of evening I check out of my temporary abode. It’s not a bad thing, my jeans have begun to pinch my middle. Mrs Wiggins says she will be sorry to see me go. I agree. I could get used to it, I tell her, and actually, I could. I’m a millionaire now but all I really want is somewhere to eat, shower and lay my head. I do miss my vinyl though, that and my blender. Mental note. Might need to start running.

I walk and the nearer I get to my house the more nervous I become. I’ve been here once already. Sneaked here on the morning of the 16th to hide my satchel – full of the stuff I brought with me – inside my garden shed. I want to see if it makes the trip back to the future in the same place. That day, I was careful not to see anyone - especially myself - but this time, that’s exactly who I am here to see. My nerves jangle as I knock loudly on my front door. The lights are on and I see movement and when the door opens and I see myself, a familiar sensation creeps over me. It’s as if the world knows that this is as wrong as it gets. The same two people sharing the same space. Other Joe is in front of me. He’s wearing what I remember wearing on this night, and his expression is an exact mirror of my own. An awkward kind of acceptance.

‘Hi Joe,’ I say, skin crawling.

My reflection smiles, but I can see this is hard for him too. This is the ‘Uneventful Evening’. The one where I stayed in and did nothing, but it’s different now. It’s been interrupted by me.

‘Mr Bond,’ he says, ‘I have been expecting you.’

The joke eases the mood slightly but it’s also weird. You see, somewhere, just under my immediate thoughts, a similar line was waiting. My mind is his mind after all, and when I smile back at him, it’s with an odd sense of pity. I feel embarrassed, almost sorry for him.

‘This is really bloody weird,’ I say.

He agrees, ‘It is.’

‘Do you know why I’m here?’ I ask.

‘Of course,’ he replies. ‘It was my idea.’

I frown, folding my arms. ‘Well, that could be argued until we are both blue in the face.’

‘Well, Other Joe,’ he says, stepping back, ‘you’d better come in.’

‘What?’ I snort. ‘No, no, you’re Other Joe.’

Our eyes lock and we stare at each other, waiting for the other to crack, knowing we won’t.

‘Okay,’ I relent, ‘I will be Other Joe, this time, but next time it’s your turn.’

Joe smiles back at me, ‘Do you want to come in or not?’

‘No, we don’t have time you need to –’

‘Get to Alexia Finch’s house,’ he interrupts.

‘Alright –’

‘Clever clogs,’ he finishes for me.

God help me.

I mean us.

Argghhhhh.

12.

The stars glimmer on a silk blanket of deep black. The cold night air is no match for the icy knife stabbing at the base of my skull. Brain freeze is a bitch that just keeps on giving. Hurry up, Joe. Hurry.

We’re outside Alexia Finch’s house. I’m crouched behind a car, mugger style, watching her and Joe in deep conversation. I see her backing away from him, and Joe’s hands upturned in a deliberate gesture. That’s my signal. I step out from the car and approach.

Alexia Finch is dressed in a black dress and heels, all ready for Martin’s party. She’s wearing make-up and the closer I get the less I recognise her. She looks stunning, she’s transformed. She turns to me and says, ‘What’s going on? I don’t…’ Then she pauses, her mouth hanging open.

‘Hello, Alexia,’ I say, doing my best not to sound like a serial killer.

Joe says, ‘This is me,’ nodding in my direction. ‘But to keep things simple, I call him Other Joe.’

I smile, but I’m still pissed off about that. Why do I have to be Other Joe?

‘He’s me,’ Joe says. ‘A few days from now I travel back in time, to this night. Other Joe is me and he’s here because we need your help.’

Alexia Finch swallows, blinks and then swallows again. Time drags out and eventually I ask Joe, ‘Well, aren’t you going to say something?’

‘This was your idea,’ he shrugs, ‘you say something.’

‘What do you hope to achieve with this little stunt of yours?’ Finch asks, folding her arms.

‘Stunt?’ We say in unison and then scowl at each other.

‘Yes,’ Finch snaps. ‘Clearly you two are…’ She pauses and then chews at the words angrily, ‘Twins! You’re twins and you share some sick fascination with winding people up, what the hell is all this rubbish about time-travel.’ She heads towards her car. ‘And you can forget what I said about meeting Martin and sorting this out, just leave me alone. Both of you!’

I didn’t see this particular scenario playing out quite like this. I had managed to convince myself that when Finch saw us together she would accept our story.

Joe is staring at me, ‘Well you didn’t see that coming did you?’

‘No, I didn’t, did you?’

‘Well, it was your idea and it didn’t work.’ He shrugs.

‘Next time,’ I say, angrily, ‘you’re going to be Other Joe and I will be in charge.’

‘Jesus,’ Finch mutters, ‘just go home and don’t bother me again.’

A sword of ice slams into my back. ‘Wait,’ I cry out, falling to me knees, teeth gritted in a rictus of pain. ‘Just wait a few minutes.’

Finch pauses, car door open, keys in hand. ‘What’s wrong with him?’ She asks Joe.

‘Oh, he’s about to go back to the future,’ he says, without a hint of irony. I grab the base of my skull and cry out again, an involuntary sound born of a deep rooted pain. ‘Just watch,’ I manage, to say, ‘don’t leave.’

I’m on my knees in the road. My body wants to curl up into a ball. I fight and lift my head to see Joe looking down on me. I swear he’s smirking. Is he enjoying this?

Finch appears in my narrowing field of vision as a blue cast descends over the scene. She seems to be torn between concern and suspicion. ‘Is this another of your tricks?’ She asks. ‘I’m not going to fall for this, okay?’

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-away – 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 would 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.’

‘I’ve got nothing to hide,’ I say.

‘Good,’ he says. ‘You can make your phone call, out of the goodness of my heart, and after that we’re going to take your DNA and fingerprints and they never lie.’

3.

‘No, no, no!’ Mark repeats, exasperated.

‘But why not?’ I plead, my confidence seeping away like spilt coffee on the checked police station floor. I cover the hand-set and whisper, ‘I could, you know, just change it.’

I cover the hand-set and ask a nearby officer if they record outgoing phone calls. He shrugs and then shakes his head, dismissing the idea of something so organised. Mark’s voice is loud so I press it to my ear, attempting to cushion his words from the nearby officer. ‘Joe, listen to me carefully,’ he says, ‘since you left I’ve been going crazy with this. You need to be careful okay? With great power comes great responsibility.’

‘That’s from Spiderman,’ I say, flatly. ‘And it’s a bit overused now.’

‘This isn’t a joke,’ Mark snaps. ‘You keep changing stuff and you’re going to come unstuck.’

‘I’m in a pretty sticky situation now to be honest,’ I hit back. ‘Depending on what Alexia says I could be arrested for kidnapping.’

‘But you won’t be, because you didn’t do it.’

‘Well, I know that, but God knows what she’s thinking.’

‘They didn’t publicise it and you didn’t do anything,’ Mark says with a droll kind of confidence. ‘Just keep your mouth shut and see what she says.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘You’re right.’

Mark sighs, ‘Look, we don’t know how this works yet, you’re the first, maybe the only one.’ He laughs. ‘Christ. You can’t just start messing with it.’ He finally lowers his voice, ‘I was in shock before, but I should have told you this before you left. I get that you want to know what happened to Amy, I do, but right now you need to be super, super careful.’

‘Alright,’ I agree, reluctantly, ‘but if this gets any worse then I might have to, well, slip away.’

The corridor was quiet but D.I. North, my arresting officer appears, flanked by two others. The three of them stop nearby and North stares at me suspiciously.

‘Joe,’ Mark asks, ‘are you listening to me?’

‘Yep, okay Mum.’ I smile, eyes to the ceiling in fake annoyance, ‘I know, it’s a pain, but I will be out of here soon.’

North shakes his head, scowling at me.

‘I’ve just realised something else,’ Mark says, clearly ignoring the fact I called him my mother.

‘What’s that?’ I ask.

‘You dragged Finch through time with you.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘So, you are back where you belong –’

‘But she isn’t,’ I finish for him.

‘Exactly,’ He says. ‘But nothing is free. Give it time and I bet you she will be. Just like you, the universe is going to want her back in her place too.’

‘But when is that?’

‘I would need to run the numbers, but my guess?’ He pauses, whistling through his teeth, ‘Within a few days.’

‘Will she go back to the nineteenth?’

‘Kind of, but I suspect, like you, the days she has spent here will get added on.’

‘Shit.’ I say, as North approaches.

‘Indeed.’ He smiles. ‘We’re going to take fingerprints and DNA, they never lie.’

Unlike me. I’m making a bloody habit of it.

* * *

D.I. North and his crew are long gone but I can still smell the ink on my fingers as I walk (see also march) through the sterile corridors of the custody suite. I shit you not, it’s actually called a suite, like a hotel. The floor is brown vinyl, the stark white walls split at waist height by a thick black stripe. It looks like a liquorice all-sort, smooth and new, but smells like chemicals and sweat. I enter my cell. Just a bed, sink and toilet, and another bloody camera. What kind of hotel is this? No en-suite or television?

‘You want tea?’ The custody officer asks.

‘Yes, please,’ I say, staring at my bleached, vinyl cell.

‘Want a mince pie to go with it?’

I turn to him, ‘Yes, that would be amazing.’

‘Yes it would.’ He laughs, loudly. ‘I’m kidding. It’s rich-tea if you’re lucky, even at Christmas.’

‘Fair enough.’ I say, stepping inside the cell. The door closes behind me and I stare up at the camera and wonder if Finch is watching me, being pressed for answers. What will she be telling them? That I’m a classic loner, lost my sister at a young age? That I stripped off in one of her therapy sessions? That I turned up with a look-a-likey and then everything went a bit fuzzy?

Jeez. I sound guilty of something.

Detective North’s interrogation has left me feeling uneasy, made me realise that Mark’s right, I need to be careful. If I jump back and try to fix this little issue, what else might I change? Plus, how far back would I go? There’s some stuff – like Mark and I connecting again and me winning the lottery – that suits me right now. I don’t want to undo those things…

I decide I actually have a more pressing concern; Alexia Finch. At some point soon – if Mark’s right and, let’s face it, he always is – she’s going to get pulled back to where she belongs. I’m guessing that the best case would be she travels in her sleep, just like I did the first time, and wakes up, unharmed. Returned safely. Worst case, she gets pulled back in time straight into the path of a car or gets embedded in some random object that’s been moved a few feet from its original position. Time-travel itself isn’t where the danger lies, it’s the environment, the fact things move and change. So far, I’ve been lucky, have planned my jumps to a degree, but that risk has always been there, in the back of my mind. What if I land right in front of a truck, with just a few horrible seconds to realise what’s about to happen? Alexia can’t plan, she has no idea what’s going on and the more I think about it, the more convinced I become that she could be seriously injured or even killed when her time comes. I need to warn her, somehow. I have to.

I spot something written on the wall and approach. It reads, Fuck the police, and then in smaller wording below, and fuck you too.

I find myself agreeing with the sentiment entirely.

4.

‘No comment,’ I say, but don’t risk a smile.

D.I. North grits his teeth, the pencil in his hand straining, ready to snap. I’ve taken the wind out of his questioning with my vow of silence and hope it’s enough. He glances at a wall-mounted clock, one I’ve become acutely aware of. I’ve tried to keep my shields up but this place is starting to get to me now, seeping into my bones. There’s something about being incarcerated that just makes you feel guilty.

P.C. Blake enters the room, breaking the thick silence. ‘Finch isn’t pressing charges,’ she says, deliberately ignoring me.

North stares at his notepad and exhales loudly. ‘Okay, then… Mr Bridgeman you are free to go.’ He looks up and forces himself to smile, at least I think it’s a smile, it could easily be wind or a trapped nerve. His right eye twitches as he speaks, ‘You’re hiding something and you mark my words –’

‘Yep, you will be watching me,’ I interrupt, jovial, ‘I will slip up, I’m not in control etcetera, etcetera.’

North goes an even deeper shade of yellow (weird, but that seems to be his palette, almost like a serious version of a minion), and I see a thick vein pulsing in his neck. He’s nodding, analysing me, hating me. ‘Have a nice Christmas,’ he says, bitter and sarcastic. ‘What’s left of it.’

For a moment I feel sorry for him. It passes quickly, but I make a mental note; one of my resolutions for next year will be to not piss people off, especially those in authority and particularly those working public holidays.

By the time I finally check out of the Custody Suite it’s gone 9 p.m. It’s stopped snowing, but without traffic or people the world is covered in a thick, pristine layer of icing. The snow creaks underfoot as I walk the roads of Cheltenham, eerily silent and quite beautiful. I spot a man weaving his way home, wearing a Santa beard. He’s singing Christmas carols, his lone voice echoing in the stillness and I get my first pang of seasonal loneliness. But, like my pity for D.I. North, it passes quickly. This is just a crap time of year. Bah humbug.

I stop. I know I should go home but I’m worried about Alexia and what might be about to happen to her. Against my better judgment I begin walking in the direction of her house.

I crunch through snow, slowing as I reach the final row of terraced houses and her street. All of the homes are small two up, two down houses but each tells a story. They are filled with lights and colour, texture and family. I pull my collar against the cold night air and approach Alexia’s door. I can hear voices inside and see coloured tree lights casting their festive shadows on the ground. The door knocker is big, heavy and round. I knock it hard three times, as a friend might, one arriving after a long trip to be welcomed in with open arms.

The door opens and a man appears, tall and smartly dressed in the expensive attire of a successful, retired gentleman; brown chinos, brogue shoes, a dark tan belt and Ralph Lauren shirt. There is a burgundy jumper tied loosely over his shoulders. He looks as though he has just stepped off a yacht; tanned and relaxed. He looks me up and down and says, ‘May I help you?’

‘I was hoping I could talk to Alexia.’

‘I’m her father,’ he announces with a confident smile and then waits.

I almost tell him that he reminds me of Spiderman’s boss in the comics. Instead I say, ‘Very nice to meet you. Is she home?’

His smile fades a touch and his leathery brown skin resumes what I am guessing is its default position; mild contempt. ‘Who should I say is calling?’

Again, for some reason a multitude of possible answers ping around in my brain like popcorn waiting to be grabbed. I finally settle on, ‘Martin’. And then fix him with a beaming smile.

‘Daddy, who is it?’ Alexia calls, upstairs but unseen.

‘Martin,’ her Father calls back.

Alexia pads down the stairs in large slippers and a white robe and then stops, ‘Mr Bridgeman, what are you doing here?’ She asks, her fear obvious.

‘Listen, I just want –’

Mr Finch places a defensive hand on the door between us and takes a step forward. His eyes narrow into snake-like slits and he properly reminds me of J. Jonah Jameson, but without the moustache, or the well hidden but obvious kindness, or humour. ‘You!’ He roars. ‘I suggest you leave, before I call the police.’

‘Absolutely,’ I say, nodding, ‘I just need to –’

‘You aren’t hearing me,’ Mr Finch booms, voice like a judge controlling a courtroom. ‘You’ve caused enough trouble already. My wife and I have been worried sick, we flew into the U.K. unsure if our daughter was even alive.’

This is all a bit dramatic.

He takes another step towards me and I take one back. It feels like we are dancing or playing chess, or actually – more realistically – sparring. I’ve been punched enough in my life to spot the signals.

‘Okay,’ I say, quickly, ‘I understand, I’m going to leave now.’

Alexia braves two more steps down the stairs in order to get a decent look at me. She dips her head and our eyes connect for a brief moment. I see something. Fear? Or is it concern?

‘Alexia, you’re in danger,’ I shout. ‘You need to be careful, something happened, which –’

The door slams closed with a wave of warm of air. I stare at the knocker and consider banging it again but know that would be like asking for a take-away nose-bleed. Instead I turn and walk away. I’m not sure what I expected. To be welcomed like Tiny Tim; a lonely unfortunate, taken in by a kind and wealthy family? Not likely. I’m the weirdo who just kidnapped their daughter and now I’m rambling on about danger.

Nice. Move. Joe.

By the time I arrive home, I’m freezing and there’s a bloody FOR SALE sign in my front garden, a thin shelf of snow sitting happily on top. Five minutes of wrenching, swearing, tugging and snapping and I’ve warmed up nicely. I drag the sign to the side of the house and throw it down dramatically. If anyone is going to buy this house, it’s me. I might even offer above the asking price. ‘And I might accept!’ I say loudly. Mad man? Moi?

Luckily, my key still works. Apparently when you are evicted it’s still your responsibility to look after the place until it’s sold. Oh yes, the bastards are good like that. The house is dark and cold. It smells too. Musty and sour. Probably some fruit and vegetables, gone off. Guess I’ve been away longer than it feels. I flick on the hallway light and wince. When did I last sleep? Properly? I’m back to my old self it seems. Wandering like a knackered lemming between not much and sod all.

Probably for the best. I’m shit at relationships, friendships and general interaction.

The phone rings and I stare at it. It keeps ringing, annoyingly. Then it stops. Then it starts again. Christ. I pick it up. ‘Hello?’

‘It’s me,’ a breathy woman replies.

At this point, with my various time-travelling antics in question, my mind warps with possibilities. Clearly the woman thinks I should know who she is.

‘Er, hi,’ I manage.

A pause. ‘It’s Alexia Finch,’ she says.

‘Oh, hello.’

Another long pause and some crackling on the line. ‘Are you there?’ She whispers.

‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Are you okay? Why are you whispering?’

‘I’m in the bathroom, if my Dad knew I was calling you…’ Yeah, I’ve met him. She continues, ‘Listen, don’t think this means everything is okay because it’s not, this doesn’t mean you can come here again or start phoning me, or texting me.’

‘No,’ I reply, ‘okay. What did you say to the police?’

A click as she swallows and clears her throat. ‘They think you drugged me, said you had probably used Rohypnol, said there have been other women who have gone missing. They are going to keep you under surveillance.’

‘Jesus,’ I hiss.

‘They said you might be dangerous.’

‘And do you  believe them?’ I ask, suddenly realising how important that question is.

There is a long pause this time, ‘I don’t know what to believe,’ she sighs. ‘I know there is no way you can time-travel, no matter what you say, but Mr Bridgeman, you need –’

‘Please call me Joe.’

‘Okay then,’ she sniffs. ‘Joe, you said I was in danger.’ She swallows again, ‘Were you threatening me?’

‘No, God no!’ I gasp. ‘I was warning you.’

‘About what?’ The line muffles and I hear voices, hear Alexia reassuring someone that she won’t be long and that she’s fine. She’s back, ‘What do you think is going to happen to me, Joe?’

I take a deep breath and say, ‘Just hear me out okay?’ Silence, which I take as a reluctant yes. ‘A few days from now, you are going to be re-located in time, back to where you are supposed to be, before I dragged you here. Anything you were wearing, your watch, your earrings, your dress, will all disappear before you go.’ I neglect to mention the fact that her underwear will also disappear. I carry on talking into the now silent receiver, ‘You need to watch out for that, those things will disappear and then you will feel weird and then you will go back.’

I hear her laugh, the kind of sound you might make if you realised your spare tyre also had a puncture. ‘Are you serious?’ She yells. ‘Oh, you know what? Just leave me alone and don’t call me again!’

There’s a clatter and then the buzzing of an empty line. I place the phone back in its cradle. ‘You called me,’ I murmur weakly into the empty hallway.

I head upstairs and collapse, fully clothed, into bed and pull the cold covers over me. Sleep will come whether I like it or not. Although I’m where I am supposed to be, I actually feel out of time, unsettled and jet-lagged. As I drift from consciousness I think again about changing all of this. Police surveillance, Finch hating me. Oddly, my last thought before blackness takes me is the chatty cabbie from Bristol, the one with the little book of Zen.

Live in the moment, he almost sings, happy behind the wheel of his cab, the here and now.

I agree, but it’s not that easy mate. Not for me.

5.

I’m the passenger in a battered white Peugeot 205, hurtling down the M5 motorway. There’s a rusting hole in the footwell the size of a football and my feet are pinned nervously either side of the deadly grey blur of tarmac. The driver is Chad. I met him in my second year at college and we just hit it off. He was new and I took pity on him, I guess. He looks like a Marine and drinks his own body weight in beer on a weekend, but makes me laugh hard and I need that sometimes. It’s summer, the windows are down and Oasis, ‘What’s the Story, Morning Glory’, is blasting out from the under-powered stereo. Chad is singing along at full volume, fighting with the high-pitched growl of the engine. His car is packed full. Bags filled with sour smelling washing, a framed oil painting, his mountain bike and also – I’m amazed he managed to fit it all in – his drum kit.

‘Twenty minutes to Cheltenham,’ Chad barks, a roll-up cigarette protruding from the gap in his long, curtain-like hair, ‘if I keep my foot flat down!’

I nod and smile. Cheltenham. Home. I haven’t been back for over six months and feel bad about that; not terrible, but I know there will be some emotional bridges to cross, some awkward unseen membrane to break through before Mum and Dad will welcome me back fully.

‘How do you get on with your folks?’ Chad shouts, as if reading my mind.

‘Oh, okay I guess,’ and then, without thinking, I add, ‘my Mum and I get along fine.’

Chad glances at me, ‘And your Dad?’

‘We were never close.’ I look out of the window at the patchwork of fields. ‘He was at work too much for that, but when we did spend time together it was okay, he was always…’ I pause, searching for right word, one that will be fair to a dad who was never cruel, never hurt me, one who just worked all the time to support his family. ‘He was always solid,’ I say eventually, ‘he and I have some work to do though.’

Chad laughs, a great puff of blue smoke pouring out between thick layers of blonde hair. ‘Me and my old man haven’t spoken in years. It’s part of life, you know? Separation, I mean. I reckon he and I will hook up together again one day. When he’s chilled out and old and I’ve grown tired of having fun.’ He flicks his cigarette without care and nods his head enthusiastically to the music, which has just reached a crescendo.

Chad has probably nailed it. Since losing Amy, Dad and I have been drifting. We’ve talked on the phone, but only pleasantries, nothing of any substance. I want to see if I can change that, make more effort, break through his barriers. We all lost Amy, we all hurt. I know Dad is bottling that up.

After more smoking and singing, Chad and I arrive in Cheltenham, not far from my parents’ house. I want to walk a little of the way, take in the place, reset my bearings and adjust to the calmness of home. ‘Thanks for the lift mate,’ I give Chad some cash.

He nods, takes the money and taps it into his shirt pocket. ‘Take it easy man, see you after the summer for some more major shit.’ And with that, in a cloud of weed-laced smoke, he’s gone, engine complaining with a pop as he pulls away.

I look down at the long street of tree-lined houses and begin walking. It’s really warm now and my own long hair is in need of a good wash. In fact, a soak in the bath, some home cooking and clean laundry sounds like just what the doctor ordered.

The last time I spoke to Mum she said Dad was worried about losing control of the business, that he had been at home more lately. This was unlike him. Sugar was his life and Bridgeman Imports had always been where his heart lay. Mum described things as difficult. That could mean anything though. She would probably describe being eaten alive, legs first, by a Great White shark as an inconvenience. Whatever’s going on I decide, if possible, to connect with him again and who knows, maybe even lift his spirits. Take him fishing (we used to occasionally and I think he liked it), or just drink a beer together.

I’m home two weeks earlier than expected – and plan to surprise them – but when I walk up the driveway I’m disappointed to see it’s empty. I’m regretting not taking Chad up on his offer of a lift into town when I notice Dad’s workshop door is open. Originally a stone double garage, he partitioned it; one side a garage, the other a workshop to accommodate his hobby of woodwork. He’s actually very good at it and could, in my opinion, run a sideline hand-made furniture business.

I knock on the door, don’t hear an answer and so walk in. I can hear the radio chatting away to itself but not the usual accompanying sounds of a sander or a hammer. Instead the workshop is quiet and looks absolutely immaculate. This wouldn’t be surprising as Dad is very particular about cleanliness (he claims that quality got missed out with me on God’s production line) but I can’t remember ever seeing this place so organised. His work table is cleared and his tools are back in their slots in the rack, one he built to house them. Each has its place, each one angled in the same way.

‘Dad?’ I call out, expecting to see him jump from some unseen nook or cranny. The workshop is quiet though, just the echo of my voice and the radio, clearer now. I hear the sound of machinery next door and smile. He’s working on one of his projects after all; a classic car, one that only he is convinced will be roadworthy again.

I glance around the workshop and feel an unexpected lump of dread travel through me. I’ve never seen the workshop looking so… So what? I wonder.

So ordered, I realise. It’s the kind of thing you do when you are expecting visitors. I wonder if they’re planning to move after all, to sell up. Have things gotten that bad?

I walk towards the sound of the engine and pause. The internal door that separates the workshop and garage is closed, but through the large glass panel I see something moving, drifting. I step forward, my hand hovering for a moment on the handle. When I finally open the door I’m hit by a wall of foul smelling fumes, the sudden opening of the door dragging a cloud over me like a duvet. I step back coughing and gagging. Inside the garage I make out the cherry red paintwork of Dad’s project car and, through the mustard haze of smoke, the shape of him slumped at the wheel. My scream arrives, the weight of the truth pulling me to the floor. I fight the building panic and shock and stagger into the smoke.

He can’t be gone, not Dad, not him too.

6.

My eyes flick open and I’m crying. The viewing of the day my Father took his life has left me alone for nearly three years now. It used to come as often as the fairground but somehow, as time has moved on it loosened its grip, until now. I suspect it was the police interview (after Amy, I had a belly full of police) and the pressure of Alexia Finch and her family that brought it back. ‘Triggers’ one therapist called them, before she explained she could no longer help me. Therapists, can’t live with them, can’t punch them out.

I spend a long time under the shower, washing away the memories. It works, to a point, but somehow the smell of fumes always remains, sometimes deep into the afternoon.

I hate him. I despise him for what he did, for checking out of this world. Yet, as I brush my teeth, I sigh heavily. I love him too of course, and miss him now, perhaps more than ever. I stare at my reflection for a while. My eyes tell a story, one that knows if I save Amy, I might also save my Father. There’s also a madness in my eyes; as I spit white foam into the sink and watch it disappear I let any rational reasons why I shouldn’t mess with the past go with it.

‘Fuck the past and fuck you too,’ I whisper to my reflection, clicking off the light and deciding what to wear. I want to look smart, want to make Mum happy if I can. Christmas has come and gone and I need to see my Mum. She might not realise I’ve not been around much, but I know and that’s all that matters.

I suspect that I’m not going to see Mum out of the goodness of my heart, I’m going because I feel lonely and she’s all I have left. I’m doing this to make me feel better. Most acts of kindness are selfish. Some clever philosopher came up with that, I think.

Whatever the reason, I just hope it works because I feel properly shit at the moment. I don’t know if I’m any closer to getting Amy back. In fact all I do know is that I can’t reach her. It’s like some weird kind of self-harming. I try not to think, get dressed and head out.

The streets are busy again and the snow is starting to turn brown at the edges of the road. Slush. Only good if combined with the word puppy. Or fund.

I arrive at Beech Trees Nursing Home, enter the reception area and am greeted by a large poster. It’s mainly an image of a very nice woman (well, she’s smiling) and an old coffin-dodger (he isn’t). It reads, To us, caring comes naturally. I wish it did to me. Although the brochures under my arm suggest I do give a shit somewhere deep down. Next to the poster, tree lights twinkle away, coloured boxes are piled high around it. It’s December 26th , or as we say in ol’ Blighty, ‘Boxing day’, so named because this was the day “the workers” would receive a boxed gift from their employers. Not sure why they waited till the day after Christmas? Maybe they just forgot. Whatever.

There is no one manning reception so I wander the corridors alone. The smell of bleach, flowers and hint of puke finally beats the fumes from my brain. That’s good, and I realise that for the first time in ages I’m actually looking forward to seeing Mum. I really want her to like my idea.

I enter her room to see her sitting in a tall chair (one of those cream leather ones you get in places like these). She’s up, dressed and engrossed in the News, which is playing silently with subtitles. I lean into her sight-line and smile. She looks confused for a brief moment but then nods, gesturing to the bed. I sit down and wait, looking up at the television with her. She always has to watch the News, believing whole-heartedly whatever she’s told. The current story is something to do with a rowing team and lots of jumping fish. The subtitles attempt to keep up with the news story.

‘A university rowing team found themselves caught up in the crossfire when hundreds of flying cars mounted an attack.’

Flying cars? The text skips back and corrects itself to Flying Carp. I wonder – not for the first time – if there are people typing this shit all day. Or do they just sit and wait for the computer to make some terrible faux-pas. My personal favourite? Asking for ‘a moment’s violence’ during the Queen Mother’s funeral. Oh, and ‘A volcano in Mexico that erupted ‘cash’ over the villages surrounding it.’

Imagine that! An eruption of cash!

‘Hello darling,’ Mum says, presumably done with the news. She looks well, her cheeks – often pale and drawn – have a little colour and someone has cut her hair. It’s thin these days, like cotton, but the beautiful woman she once was manages to shine through.

‘How are you feeling, Mum?’ I ask. ‘You look well.’

‘Oh, you know, okay, can’t complain.’

‘You can if you like.’

She glances around her room and curls her lip, ‘It isn’t so bad, but your Father promised I wouldn’t end up in a place like this.’ She shrugs and smiles but it’s a haunting, sad gesture. ‘He’s gone you know. He died.’

I stare at her and fight the pain threatening to push tears up and out of me. ‘I know,’ I say, softly, ‘I dreamt about him last night.’

‘I often do.’ She tuts and inhales quickly, the way old people do and pats the cover of a book she has tucked down the side of her chair. I look puzzled and she pulls it up and out. It’s a dark leather book, midnight blue, old looking and a little frayed.

‘What are you reading?’ I ask.

‘This is your Father’s diary,’ she says with an easy, unapologetic shrug, ‘he kept it after…’ She stops, seemingly lost in thought. She tries again but then shakes her head, ‘Oh, I don’t know anymore, but I like to read it sometimes.’

I stare at the book, intrigued but consumed by fear, as though ghostly hands could emerge from the pages and pull me down into their darkness.

‘Do you remember that time in Wales?’ She asks, shifting her thoughts as easily as the wind, ‘I’d forgotten it, but it’s here somewhere, in his diary. Amy was about five, I think, and we stayed in a hotel with a pool.’

I nod, ‘Yes, I remember that.’

‘Amy met a girl and they played beautifully but then the girl left her doll outside overnight and in the morning we found it broken, all smashed up.’ Mum’s face drops and she frowns, ‘Why would anyone do that?’

‘The world can be a cruel place.’

She locks eyes with me, ‘Yes. It can, can’t it?’ She blinks, a thin smile. ‘Do you remember what Amy did?’

‘I do.’ I smile. ‘She dragged you into town to buy the girl a new doll.’

‘Not one – two, and the most expensive she could find.’ Mum stares out of the window onto the snow covered gardens. ‘She was determined that her new friend’s holiday wouldn’t be ruined, determined to make it right.’

I frown, pain crushing into a ball in my chest. Amy was a light in this world and when she went out the whole place just got darker.

‘She’s a good girl.’ Mum says, her voice frail, eyes glazing.

I don’t say was, thank goodness. That correction stays in my brain, exactly where it belongs.

‘She said she’ll be back soon,’ my mum says, optimistically.

‘Sorry?’

‘Amy,’ Mum nods, ‘she said she’ll be back soon.’

I almost ask her what she means but stop myself. I’ve followed her down these conversational dead ends, these roads that just lead to more confusion. Mum is a time-traveller, like me, but a very different kind. She is truly cursed, locked in this room without knowing when.

‘Your Father’s gone you know,’ Mum announces suddenly, ‘killed himself, the bloody idiot.’

‘Yes,’ I reply, taken aback by her sudden and brutal terminology. ‘I know.’

‘He shouldn’t have done that.’ She picks up the remote control and selects a channel. ‘It’s a Sin,’ She snarls, grinding her lips. ‘A sin.’

I agree, but not on any religious level. It’s my belief that we don’t always need someone to tell us what’s right or wrong. Sometimes it’s just obvious.

‘Mum,’ I say, desperate to change the subject, to choose something good, ‘I bought you these.’ I hand her the brochures that have been tucked under my arm.

‘What are they?’

‘Some places I want you to look at, somewhere you could move if you wanted to.’

She looks at the covers like a child studying their least favourite meal, ‘I’m okay here.’ She places them on the table next to her. ‘Plus, we can’t afford that.’ She makes a Pah sound and waves her hand. ‘We’re not made of money. No, I don’t think so.’

‘But Mum, I’ve won some money and it means you could stay somewhere warmer, or bigger or whatever.’ I’m searching for something she might latch onto. ‘Will you just think about it? About what you might want?’

‘Oh, I know what I want,’ she whispers, studying my face, ‘I want Amy and your Father to come home, I want to cook a meal, I want to laugh and joke like we used to.’ She stops suddenly and her lucid expression lifts as a confused fog seems to descend. ‘I wouldn’t know what to cook though,’ she murmurs, ‘I don’t know what I would do, actually.’

‘It’s okay,’ I say, as if somehow it can possibly be. ‘You don’t need to do anything Mum.’  I shift closer to her, take her hand in mine. ‘You were amazing, you did a brilliant job of raising me and I wanted…’ I swallow, fighting the fresh bite of tears in my throat. ‘I just wanted to say, thank you.’

She smiles, thank goodness, she smiles. ‘You’re a good boy, Joseph.’ She hands me my Father’s diary. ‘You should read this.’ Her eyes hold mine and I feel a rare and beautiful connection to the woman who raised me. I reach out, fingers trembling, and take the diary, feel the weight of those years in my hand; a book that my Father owned and poured his thoughts into, feelings that he never shared and perhaps felt unable to. I stare at it, fanning the pages, opening it at a blank page near the middle. I can see embossed grey marks where a pen has grooved its faint tracks through the pages above. I flick backward a few pages and see his last entry, a full page that begins with, ‘Forgive me. I thought I could carry on but I was wrong.’

I close the book, fighting back tears, forcing myself to breathe.

Mum nods. ‘It’s not easy,’ she says softly, ‘but if it’s worth doing, it never is.’

7.

I wrap myself up in my duvet and pretend the world doesn’t exist. It’s been this way for two days, venturing out only when absolutely necessary. It’s raining heavily now, a constant patter above me, familiar and somehow comforting. Other than the rain, the house is quiet. Cold and empty. I stare up at the ceiling, my mind blank. The phone rings and I make a decision, my first in a while. Next time I go downstairs I’m going to unplug that bastard, once and for all.

Half an hour later, someone knocks at the front door, banging the big metal knocker like the whole world needs waking up. They wait thirty seconds and then do it again, just as hard.

‘Alright, alright!’ I shout, getting out of bed and walking to my bedroom window, a large bay, old glass, warped and streaked with rain. I frown when I realise who my mystery guest is. I twist the window’s brass lock, raise the heavy sash and lean out, rain splashing against the back of my head. ‘Alexia?’ I call down, ‘What are you doing here?’

She slides a hand across her wet face and looks up at me, squinting against the downpour. ‘I believe you,’ she shouts. ‘It happened, just like you said it would.’

‘What do you mean?’ I call back.

A truck roars past, spraying an arc of water onto the pavement nearby. ‘Joe, can I come in?’

‘Yeah, of course, sorry,’ I shout down. ‘Hang on.’

I grab a laundry bag on my way to the door and gather up clothes, socks and underwear like a vacuum cleaner. The house is a mess but there’s not much I can do about that, apart from go back in time a few days and you know… Bother. How was I supposed to know she was coming over? The last time I saw her –

‘Joe?’ Alexia calls, her voice muffled, hands cupped against the stained glass window of my front door, ‘Are you there?’ She peers inside.

‘Hang on!’ I grumble, cramming the now full laundry bag into the hallway cupboard. I take a breath, rub a hand over my messy hair, fix a smile and open the door.

Alexia Finch is wearing a dark green woollen jumper, jeans and trainers. It’s the most casual I’ve seen her and completely at odds with the current weather conditions. Her usually mousey brown hair is so wet it looks almost black. It’s pinned up but trying to escape, falling in heavy curls over her eyes. Her hands drop and she stares at me, eyes locked on mine, rain dripping from the end of her nose. She glances, nervously, over her shoulder and then back at me. ‘Somebody followed me here,’ her voice is thready and tense, ‘I think it’s the police.’

I look past her and see a car parked opposite, a black Ford SUV. ‘Come in,’ I say, stepping aside. She does and stands in the hallway, shivering. Her eyes move to my right and widen. I follow her gaze to see a pair of boxer shorts hanging on a coat hook. How on earth did they get up there? I close the door, grab the boxers, flush red and then throw them into the cupboard with the others.

‘What’s going on?’ Alexia asks, the words shuddering from her. ‘I was doing my make-up this morning, checked the time and then…’ She stops, biting her bottom lip. ‘And then my watch just disappeared, literally into nothing, right in front of my eyes. I checked my earrings too and the clothes I was wearing.’ She wipes her eyes. ‘Gone. Just like you said.’

‘I can explain everything,’ I assure her, ‘but first we need to get you dry, you’ll catch your death.’

She sniffs, wipes her face with the back of her hand and nods. ‘Okay,’ she agrees, reluctantly, ‘but don’t try anything…’ She pauses. ‘Anything weird.’

I make a quick decision. ‘Let’s go into my study,’ I suggest, ‘there’s a fire in there.’ I lead the way, not waiting for an answer. Alexia Finch has every right to be suspicious after what I’ve put her through.

We enter my study, my haven and the only room in the house that is remotely tidy. It’s cold but small, which means it will heat up quickly. I flick on a couple of side-lights and offer Alexia a seat. She manages a weak smile but remains standing, eyes darting around the room nervously. My study is packed full of my life. It probably appears quite random to her, but all of the objects and things in here are important to me. There are paintings of various kinds, some contemporary, some old, shelves crammed with books and some of my favourite smaller antiques and memorabilia. And of course there is my extensive vinyl collection, amplifier and deck. A large blue Persian rug covers the majority of the bare wooden floor. I head to the corner and fill the empty log-burner with crunched up newspaper and within minutes I’m piling kindling onto a healthy yellow flame. I throw on some coal and two small, seasoned logs and close the door. Through the glass the hungry flame draws to a deep orange glow, wood crackling loudly as heat pours out, prickling my face and ears. Alexia has tucked her hands up inside her armpits. She’s still shivering and her teeth are rattling.

‘Let me get you a towel,’ I say.

She nods and inches closer to the fire. I fetch my softest towel, a large jumper and offer her tea. She agrees and I leave her for a few minutes. When I return with two steaming mugs she’s changed into my jumper – a huge thing that drowns her – and I notice some colour has returned to her pale cheeks. I hand her the tea, which she takes but then stares, suspiciously, at it in her hand.

‘I haven’t drugged it,’ I say, a little too quickly.

She places her tea on the table and looks at me. ‘I was questioned by the police too you know, it was awful.’ She swallows hard and sighs, hands restlessly working on her lap, applying invisible hand-cream.

‘I know,’ I assure her. ‘What did you tell them?’

‘As little as possible,’ she shakes her head. ‘They think I’m involved, they think this might be connected to the other girls that have gone missing. It’s a mess,’ she draws in a slow breath. ‘This is the last thing I need, I have a reputation, a career.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, my voice sounding flat and pathetic. ‘I didn’t know any of this was going to happen.’ I watch her shudder and begin rubbing her temples. ‘Do you feel okay?’ I ask, suspecting I know the answer.

‘No.’ She swallows, nervously. ‘I don’t feel right.’

I nod. Brain freeze. I open the burner door and throw another log into its hungry belly. When I turn back, Alexia looks close to tears. ‘I feel like I’ve caught the flu,’ she says, trembling, ‘and I’m boiling, like a fever.’ She rubs the back of her neck, frowning.

Interesting. Feverish, not icy. I suspect she’s feeling the pull of time but differently to me. ‘Listen,’ I say, ‘you’re going to be fine, all of this –’

‘Fine?’ She snaps suddenly. ‘This isn’t fine! You came to my house, you were trying to warn me about something, what have you done to me?’

‘You were in danger,’ I reply, ‘but it’s going to be okay now.’

She purses her lips until they turn almost white and when she speaks her voice is determined and focussed. ‘Tell me the truth.’

‘Okay,’ I begin, resigned to the fact that I can’t dance around this forever. ‘Your fever is happening because time is trying to re-locate you, it wants you back where you should be and that causes…’ I search for the right word, guessing that what’s happening to her is similar to brain freeze but perhaps in reverse. ‘It causes friction.’ I nod. Yes, that’s it.

‘You said I was in danger?’

‘You were,’ I assure her again. ‘Because you were about to slip through time with no idea what was happening. If you don’t plan where you’re going to land, that can be dangerous,’

‘Slip through time?’ She murmurs, brow furrowed.

‘Yes,’ I reply, ‘I dragged you forward and that means that soon, you are going to travel back again.’ I kneel close to her. ‘There are rules and as long as we stick to them, you will be okay. All we need to do now is make sure you are in the right place when you go back.’ She’s staring at me in disbelief but I see something connect, somewhere deep in her eyes, way back in her mind. ‘Trust me,’ I say, surprised by the clarity and calmness in my voice, ‘I know what I’m doing.’

She manages a delicate smile, which I return, but inside I shudder.

8.

Alexia’s hands work busily on her lap and she finally takes a sip of tea, which I see as a small but significant victory. She closes her eyes and whispers, ‘Okay.’ Her shoulders physically drop an inch. ‘Let’s say I believe you, what’s going to happen to me?’

I wait and choose my words carefully, condensing what I’ve already told her into digestible facts. ‘You’re going to travel through time to where you are supposed to be.’

She stares at me, blinking. ‘Back to the night of the party?’

‘No,’ I say instinctively. ‘When you travel, the time you spend in your new location is added back on. I now know you will stay here for four days, which means you will go back to the 23rd of December, four days after you left.’

‘But how do you know I will stay here for four days?’ She frowns. ‘I don’t get it.’

I shrug, ‘I don’t know why, but objects and clothing travel back quicker, exactly half way through your trip in fact.’

‘Are you serious?’ She snorts.

‘Yes, that’s how I ended up naked in your office,’ I reply, strangely relieved to finally be talking about it. ‘It’s like an elastic band, the further you go, the faster you snap back. That particular time, in your office, was a very short trip, hence the sudden lack of clothes.’

She screws up her face, ‘But how do you know all of this?’

‘It’s complicated,’ I shrug. ‘I had help from an old friend, someone a lot smarter than me, but listen, the most important piece of information we have is that we know when it’s going to happen to you, we can make sure you’re safe.’

Alexia stands and paces slowly, eyes wandering, deep in thought. She takes a sharp sip of tea and asks, ‘But if you can do this then why don’t you just go back and change everything, stop me from travelling with you in the first place?’

‘I did consider it,’ I admit with an awkward smile, ‘but I didn’t want to risk it until I knew you were safe. I mean, what if I got it wrong, made it worse, didn’t change it enough. I didn’t want to leave you like that.’ I stare at the floor. ‘I couldn’t.’

We fall into a long silence, broken only by the occasional pop of wood, exhaling its last breath in the burner. I wait, knowing – almost hearing – her mind chewing the new and impossible news I’ve just given her. We’re interrupted by a loud buzzing sound and Alexia jumps as though we’ve been telling ghost stories around a campfire. She drops her mug and shrieks as it smashes to the floor. ‘Gosh, I’m sorry,’ she mumbles, grabbing the towel and mopping up the mess.

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I say, taking the towel from her. The buzzing was her phone. ‘Do you need to get that?’ I ask.

She reaches inside her jeans and pulls out her phone. Her shoulders drop and she nods, looking up at me, eyes raised. ‘It’s my Father.’

‘Then you better answer it,’ I say seriously, grimacing for comedy effect.

She manages a smile, answers cheerfully and then immediately waits while he talks loudly. She flicks her eyebrows, pacing the study. I clear up the tea as she assures her Father that she’s fine and, after heated discussion, reluctantly agrees to come home.

She hangs up. ‘Thirty-one and I’m being babysat by my parents!’ She hisses. ‘Called home for dinner.’ She shakes her head and sighs heavily in frustration, her tone cooler, ‘In a way, it’s fair enough I suppose, I did go missing and scare them half to death but I feel like a child.’ She swallows, concern etched in her face. ‘I need to go,’ she says, staring at me, ‘but I’m scared, what if I travel back tonight?’

‘You won’t,’ I say, willing my predictions to be true. ‘Your clothes went this morning, which means you will travel on the 29th.’ I shrug, offering a tentative smile, ‘It’s the rules.’

She rolls her shoulders and shivers, ‘And what about this fever, will it get worse?’

‘Yes,’ I nod, ‘but then it goes, all at once.’

She sighs, still shaking her head, ‘This is just crazy.’

‘It is,’ I admit, ‘but you get used to it.’

‘That doesn’t help.’ She frowns, but then her expression softens a touch. ‘I’m going to try to persuade my parents to go home tomorrow, which means I might not get here until late afternoon.’ She swallows. ‘Will that be okay?’

‘Absolutely fine,’ I say without thinking, ‘we can talk more and prepare.’

She manages a smile, not yet back to the Alexia I met a while ago, but it’s a step in the right direction. ‘I feel like I’m the one making an appointment with you.’ She sighs.

‘Well, I will need to check my diary,’ I joke, easily and without thought, miming taking a booklet from my jacket and tossing it over my shoulder. ‘Yes,’ I announce with a smile, ‘I think I can fit you in.’

She leaves and I close the door, returned to the silence of my nagging thoughts.

It’s the rules, I told her. The rules. I take a long breath. I’ve travelled a few times now and been dragged back each time. There’s a consistency to it, a certainty that time-travel somehow adheres to a recognisable form of logic, of parameters with boundaries. I just hope those rules apply to everyone and not just me.

9.

Late afternoon, the following day, we’re in my spare bedroom. A single light bulb illuminates bare wooden floors and walls that are dotted with dark shapes, the places where pictures once hung. It’s an empty room, has been for some time. In other words, an ideal safe spot for a bit of time-relocation.

Alexia is dressed casually; pink blouse, blue jumper, smart denim jeans and black shoes. Her hair is pulled tightly into a neat pony tail. Unlike yesterday, she’s dry and composed and, apart from the dark shadows below her eyes, seems to be coping well. She folds her arms, ‘You’re absolutely sure?’

‘Absolutely,’ I reply confidently. ‘I cleared it out months ago and it’s been empty ever since.’

‘And that door,’ she flicks a thumb behind her, ‘it’s been locked the whole time?’

I nod. ‘The whole time.’

‘Okay.’ She nods.

She glances around the room nervously and then walks to the window, looking out onto the dark street below. ‘What time is it now?’ She asks.

‘Five thirty,’ I reply, noting how her skin seems to glow in the reflected light of the streetlamp, her cheeks are flushed red, her lips too. She looks healthy, radiant, but I know some of that is due to the fever, her version of my brain freeze. ‘How are you feeling?’ I check.

‘Similar to yesterday,’ she answers with a shrug. ‘The tablets helped, my temperature is under control at least. I didn’t sleep too well, but my parents are gone and I’m still here. They followed me again.’ She tips her head, ‘Do you see them?’

I join her at the window, taking in her perfume which is delicate and smells a little like soap. I see the Black Ford SUV. Just what we need. ‘Christ,’ I say, ‘they’re keen.’

‘Don’t worry about them,’ she whispers but then changes the subject quickly. ‘What’s it like Joe?’ She asks. ‘To go back I mean, what does it feel like?’

Oh, you know, pain, fear, panic.

‘It’s not too bad,’ I lie. ‘Colours change, you can feel it coming and then… pow, you’re through, just like that.’ I smile. ‘Of course, the first time it happened to me, I had no idea what was going on.’

She turns and stares. ‘I hadn’t thought about that?’ she replies, thoughtfully, ‘that you had to do this alone.’ She takes a breath. ‘At least I have you to explain what the hell is going on.’

‘I’m not sure that’s better.’ I shrug.

She ignores me, ‘Does it feel anything like it did when we arrived here, in the street?’

‘Similar,’ I pause, ‘just more…’

‘More painful,’ she finishes for me. ‘You’re a terrible liar, Joseph Bridgeman.’

I flush red, ‘Another one of my gifts.’

‘I’d rather know,’ she says, ‘so I can prepare myself.’ She offers a smile, brave yet somehow sorrowful, like a woman about to go into labour.

’Okay, it does hurt,’ I admit, ‘but it’s over quickly.’

‘Thank you.’ She sets her jaw and looks out of the window again, deep in thought.

We stand like this for a short while, nothing needing to be said, but then I finally pluck up the courage. ‘Alexia,’ I say quietly, ‘I wanted to ask you something.’

She turns to me. ‘Okay,’ she replies, eyes searching mine.

‘Now that you know what’s really going on, why I’ve been acting so strangely.’ I pause, unsure of the next part of this speech and instantly feel my thoughts muddle around in my brain, pushing and shoving their way into the departure lounge of my stupid mouth. ‘Well, I guess what I’m trying to say is that…’

‘You want my help,’ she offers, putting me out of my misery.

I stop and stare, mouth open a little, ‘Well…’ I mumble, awkwardly. ‘Yes.’

‘Listen Joe, you need to understand that before yesterday the world made sense to me. You were a patient, I thought you were very unstable, that you needed help, professional help.’ She pauses, blinking and then continues, ‘Yesterday, everything changed. It’s going to take me a while to get my head around that. It’s not every day that you meet a time-traveller, let alone travel along for the ride.’ She snorts. ‘I mean, do you know what would happen if this was some kind of joke, what it would do to my career?’

‘It’s not a joke,’ I assure her. ‘Not at all.’

She sighs, ‘I know, but I’m a very logical person, Joseph.’ She shrugs. ‘The impossible is going to take some time to sink in.’

I’ve been through it and as I watch her I get a sense of what Vinny and then Mark have been through. Disbelief, fear, suspicion, denial, the whirring cogs of reality being disassembled and re-connected. Now, it’s Alexia’s turn and, out of all of us, she’s definitely in the lead.

‘I know about your viewings, about Amy going missing.’ She frowns. ‘I know you’ve spent time alone and shut yourself off. That’s why Martin sent you to me in the first place.’

‘Then you know that you unlocked this ability in me.’

‘Now, wait a minute,’ she hits back, ‘I don’t know if that’s strictly true.’

‘It is Alexia,’ I assure her, ‘you know about Amy, about why I want to go back.’

She inhales, holding my gaze. ‘Joe?’ She says carefully, ‘Have you stopped to ask whether that’s right?’

I stare at her in disbelief. ‘Right?’ I almost shout. ‘Whether it’s right? You don’t know how important Amy was, what she meant.’ I shake my head. ‘All I know is that what happened to her was wrong, and that you have given me hope, you can’t just leave now, how am I supposed to save her?’

‘Joe!’ Alexia shoots back. ‘I’m sorry, I really am, but this isn’t my problem.’ She hangs her head and sighs. ‘Don’t you see that? This is absolute madness.’ She laughs, hollow and empty. ‘Christ, I hardly know you and you’re asking me to help you travel back through time and save someone who is probably, more than likely –’ She stops and winces. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers, blinking, ‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘You’re right. I get it. I’m so focussed on myself, on what I want that I haven’t really stopped to consider how you might be feeling.’ I nod and take a step towards her. ‘But this isn’t about me and what I want.’ I lift my head and wait for my heart to regulate. ‘This is about putting something right.’ Alexia opens her mouth to speak but I don’t let her. ‘Amy was seven when she was taken, I was fourteen. A light went out in the world that day. She was an amazing, kind, important girl. It should never have happened. It tore my family apart, ruined our lives.’ Alexia tries again but I continue, determined. ‘I thought I was cursed, but now I believe I’ve been given this ability for a reason. You’ve given me a chance, but I can’t do this on my own, you have to help me.’ I frown, realising the pressure I am applying but no longer caring what she thinks of me. ‘Please,’ I beg. ‘Please help.’

She takes an age to reply. I study her, the way her eyes shimmer when she’s thinking and notice how she plays with her ear but doesn’t seem to realise it. ‘I want to help Joe,’ she sighs eventually, ‘and I can’t deny it, aside from everything else, this whole thing is intriguing. I’ve spent my life helping people, countless hours delving into their past, sifting and sorting through their problems.’ She shakes her head, no doubt reassessing the world. ‘What you can do, it changes everything.’

‘Yes,’ I say, with absolute conviction. ‘With your help it just might.’

She maintains a fixed expression, hard to read. She shudders, rubbing the back of her neck. ‘I’m sorry Joe,’ she says, ‘I don’t know if I can help you, I need time to think, but right now, you need to help me. We need to get this done, get me home safely and then we will talk.’ She pauses and holds my gaze. ‘Okay?’

I nod. She’s right of course. Time is ticking and if my maths homework is correct, tomorrow morning Alexia Finch is going to be clicking her heels three times and flying the hell out of here.

Behind my back, I have crossed my fingers. Mainly wishing her to help me, but also praying that nothing goes wrong.

10.

We agreed that Alexia should stay the night. She bought a huge carry-all bag that almost made me to ask if she was moving in for good, but I’m getting better at not saying the first thing that comes into my head. She slept in the spare room, on a camp-bed, just in case her time jump came earlier than predicted. I spent the night expecting to hear her scream but it was quiet. I checked in on her every hour, part of me expecting her to be gone, but each time she was asleep, chest moving silently.

It’s 8 a.m. I knock on the door and enter the spare room and know instantly that it won’t be long. She’s up and dressed in a t-shirt and jeans. I notice dark patches of sweat lining her neck and armpits. Her face is red and blotchy and there’s a thin layer of sweat beading on her brow. She’s pacing the room, eyes wide and hollow looking. ‘It’s started,’ she winces, ‘the pain in the base of my skull, just like you said it would.’

I nod. ‘It’s going to be alright,’ I assure her, ‘we’re nearly there.’

I’m aware that she could flicker out of existence at any moment but I remember how that pain started in the base of my skull, just as she describes, and how it moved. I estimate an hour, maybe less, but find I want to try and keep her in the centre of the room. Somehow it feels like the safest place, like an island surrounded by sharks. I walk to the bed and lean down, preparing to drag it from the room. ‘Arghhh,’ I groan, my lower back biting.

‘Are you alright?’ Alexia asks.

‘I’m fine,’ I grumble, pulling the bed, ‘just paying the price for kidnapping you.’

‘Huh?’

‘The police,’ I reply, shoving the bed from the room and stopping to rub the base of my spine. ‘My arrest.’

She nods, ‘Oh, yeah.’ But I can tell her mind is elsewhere.

‘Alexia,’ I say slowly, ‘something you said yesterday has been on my mind.’ I bite the corner of my mouth. ‘What did you mean when you said I didn’t need to worry about the police anymore?’

She swallows, wraps a blanket around herself and pulls it tightly to her chest, ‘I’m kind of busy being in pain right now.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I offer, lamely. ‘It’s just it’s been bothering me, what did you mean?’

She sighs, staring at the floor. ‘I just thought, if I’m going back in time then I could…’ She pauses and shrugs. ‘I could fix some of it.’ Her eyes meet mine. ‘I mean, I could, couldn’t I?’

‘No,’ I warn her. I suspected this might be the case and Mark’s words are ringing in my ears. ‘You mustn’t change anything.’

She scowls, her head back. ‘Well, that’s rich coming from you,’ she snaps.

‘How do you mean?’

‘You’re just a little high and mighty all of a sudden,’ she sneers, wincing in pain, ‘for a Lottery winner, I mean.’

She’s in pain, she’s angry and I’m telling her what to do. Good work, Joe. Women love that. I adjust my tone, ‘Look, I’m just telling you what my friend Mark said, he’s the one who helped me figure this out.’ I step towards her. ‘He told me to be very careful about changing things, said I had been reckless.’

‘Alright,’ Alexia relents, her shoulders crunching up, eyes tightening in pain. ‘Alright, Joe.’ Her whole body contracts and I realise she’s having to fight not to cry out. ‘I’m scared,’ she whimpers, ‘this feels wrong.’

I stare back at her, helpless. I have applied a very basic knowledge of the rules of time-travel and assured her that she’s going to be fine, dragged her – literally – into this mess and now look at her. How do I know she’s going back to the 23rd? I can’t know that. Alexia curls herself up in a ball and I suddenly feel like I’m in a dream. Like I’m a trainee doctor left alone in a ward with an injured patient and no idea how to help them.

‘Joe!’ Alexia cries out, pulling the blanket tightly around herself and dropping to her knees.

Jump to it, Bridgeman, my mind shouts, like some kind of Sergeant Major. The baby’s coming man! His voice barks. Look sharp!

‘Christ.’ It’s my turn to whimper because that’s exactly what this reminds me of.

Alexia screams, and I mean properly. She howls, head tilted back, her slender neck straining. Her head flicks forward again and she stares at me, eyes bulging, and for a moment I think she’s going to explode. She gasps, preparing to scream again, but then suddenly and unexpectedly she becomes calm, as though we have entered the eye of some terrible storm and it’s beautifully serene. ‘That’s strange,’ she whispers, sweat running from her brow.

‘What is?’ I ask, shaking.

‘The room,’ she murmurs, eyes moving as if following imaginary butterflies. ‘It’s red, it’s all gone red.’

It’s blue for me, but red for her. ‘That’s normal,’ I assure her. ‘You’re about to go back.’

She locks eyes with mine, ‘Joe, take my mind off it, tell me again what I have to do?’

I nod. ‘You buy supplies and then go straight to Mrs Wiggins’ Bed and Breakfast and you stay there until this day comes around again. You hide away. You don’t need to do anything.’

A tear rolls down her cheek, and she looks at me, lost. ‘I have two brothers you know, one is a doctor, one is a vet.’ She takes a deep, shaking breath. ‘I’m the disappointing one, you know.’

‘I doubt that very much.’ I frown. Alexia Finch is many things, but disappointing is not one of them.

‘I’m okay.’ She looks confused, hissing the words through gritted teeth, ‘I’m going to be okay.’ She chants it again, over and over, like Dorothy in the wizard of Oz. There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.

Suddenly, she drops to her knees, as if gripped and contorted by unseen hands. It seems the storm is back and it means business this time. I kneel too. I want to take her in my arms, hold her and make it better, but I can’t. If I touch her now, God knows what would happen. I fight my instincts and maintain my distance, watching, helpless.

‘Joe!’ She cries out. ‘Joe, listen to me.’

‘I’m here,’ I say, continuing to fight the urge to take her hand in mine.

Her lips pull back and she clenches her teeth. ‘If I don’t make it,’ she pants, like a wounded animal, ‘please tell my parents I love them,’ she hisses, ‘try to explain what happened to me.’

I open my mouth to tell her not to think that way as she lets out one last scream. Our eyes lock, I see her expression – absolute fear – and then she’s gone.

I mean: Gone.

It’s the first time I’ve seen it up close, just a few feet away from where a person just was. Alexia Finch was here. Now, there is just air. I let out a sound, like a dying gasp and roll myself up into a ball.

What have I done?

What the hell have I done?

11.

I remain, kneeling for a while, panting and staring at the space where her body has just been. She disappeared in an instant but it feels as though the world needs a moment to fully realise she’s gone; like me, it needs time. The dust settles in the end though and the echoes of her spirit fade, eroding from the scene like smoke. I find myself placing my hands together, locking my fingers and praying.

‘If there’s a God of time-travel,’ I say, but then stop, curling my top lip. There might be; a Greek one or something. I shrug and continue. ‘Anyway, if there is, or if anyone up there cares about good people, please let Alexia Finch be okay.’ I sigh and mouth a silent prayer, one that doesn’t require words to be heard. The room remains silent. If there is a God he’s wonderfully considerate when it comes to noise pollution.

I stand and stumble, my head swimming. I feel like I’m going to pass out. The room pinches in my vision, as though someone has painted it and is pulling the canvas from behind. It snaps back quickly and my temples throb. I stagger, leaning down and placing my hands on my thighs. I breathe, long shaking breaths that feel cold, a creeping, prickly sensation moving over me, like déjà vu.

‘It’s a head rush,’ I tell myself, voice weak. ‘Just a head rush.’ It’s not surprising. It’s been a hell of a morning so far.

There’s a loud knock at the door. Brilliant. Don’t tell me…

Martin.

I consider not answering – my default position after all – but know I can’t ignore it. As if to assure me on that point, Martin knocks again. My life was nice and quiet. What the hell happened?

I jog to the door, take a deep breath and open it. Standing there, smiling under the cover of a large umbrella is Alexia Finch. ‘Hi Joe,’ she beams. ‘It worked, just like you said it would.’

I feel as though I might pass out again. ‘Alexia,’ I murmur, taking a nervous step towards her, ‘you’re okay.’ My eyes fill but I clench my chest tight against the embarrassment of tears. I reach out and offer my hand and she takes it, she takes it.

Her face drops with concern. ‘It’s okay,’ she assures me.  ‘Joe, it’s all okay.’

* * *

Tea is the answer – to almost anything it seems. Although Alexia has bought her own, which I think is a bit weird. But I don’t care, the relief of seeing her is huge, palpable, and it washes over me every time she speaks, like a warm wave.

‘When I arrived back the pain and fever stopped immediately.’ She smiles, clearly excited. ‘The strangest sensation isn’t it?’

I nod. ‘So, when did you arrive?’ I ask. ‘The date I mean.’

She takes a sip of tea and looks out from my kitchen window onto the garden. ‘The morning of the 23rd.’ She turns back and smiles again, ‘You were dead right about that, top of the class.’

‘First time for everything.’ I shrug. ‘So you’ve been back in the present for a while.’

‘Yes.’ She nods, ‘A week now.’

It explains how she can be so calm. She’s had time to adjust, to accept that her time-travelling experience has resolved itself and she is safe. For me, it’s harder. Moments ago I watched her leave my spare room in a harrowing scream of pain. I shake the memory from my mind. She’s here, she’s right in front of me and she’s fine.

‘Joe,’ she says carefully. ‘Are you alright?’

‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘So how is Mrs Wiggins?’ I ask, enjoying the distraction of small talk.

‘She’s lovely, isn’t she?’ Alexia replies.

‘Yes,’ I agree. The thought of Mrs Wiggins’ full English making my stomach grumble loudly. ‘And you managed to stay away from your other self, from your parents?’

She looks down at her tea and blinks.

‘Alexia…’ I say, slowly, nerves jangling up again.

‘How is your back Joe?’ She studies her drink, deliberately not looking at me.

‘Fine,’ I reply. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

She looks up, defiance in her eyes. ‘The police won’t be a problem anymore.’

‘The police?’ I gasp. ‘What have they got to do with anything?’

Her eyes tighten and she tips her head to the side. She’s looking at me suspiciously, like she used to, back when she thought I was mad and about to take my clothes off.

‘I wondered if this might happen,’ she says.

I cross my arms, utterly flummoxed. ‘Alexia, what’s going on, what do you mean?’

Her expression shifts and she begins to nod, seeming to finally understand what’s been bothering her. ‘I think you better sit down Joe,’ she says.

‘Okay,’ I agree, ‘but you need to tell me what’s going on.’

‘I will,’ she leans in towards me, ‘but you might not believe it.’

12.

‘I don’t want you to get cross with me,’ Alexia folds her arms and looks directly at me, ‘but I didn’t do exactly what you said.’ A small grain of panic flares up, somewhere deep in my gut. ‘I did go to Mrs Wiggins and I did stay out of the way...’

‘But,’ I offer.

‘I couldn’t help it, I didn’t want the police following me anymore, didn’t want my reputation to suffer because of what happened.’

‘Alexia.’ My mouth is dry. ‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’ And that’s when it hits me and my mouth falls open another inch. ‘You’ve changed something,’ I whisper. ‘You’ve changed the past.’

‘Yes.’ She nods. ‘But I can assure you, it’s for the better.’

‘Déjà Vu,’ I whisper to myself.

‘What?’

I look up, ‘Never mind,’ I reply, convinced the sensation I felt as she left was the universe being re-shuffled like a deck of cards. ‘Tell me what happened.’ I ask.

‘I arrived on the morning of the 23rd, just like you said I would.’ She flashes me an easy smile but then chews at the side of her lip. ‘So, I checked into Mrs Wiggins’ Bed and Breakfast, but after a few hours of staring at the wall I couldn’t stand it.’ She frowns and shrugs, ‘So, I made some phone calls.’

‘You did what?’

‘The first was to the police to apologise for my sudden disappearance and any trouble I may have caused, and then I called my parents in France. They were harder to convince, but when I told them I was going to catch my flight and join them for Christmas, well that made it okay.’

‘But, that can’t be right,’ I say, reeling. ‘You arrived with me on the 25th in the street, I remember it.’ I hiss, desperate to make sense of all of this.

‘Yes.’ She nods. ‘That’s right Joe, all of that still happened, but this time, I was prepared.’

‘What do you mean, prepared?’

She hands me a single, folded sheet of paper. I open it and begin to read.

- - -

Alexia,

Joseph Bridgeman is telling the truth. This will be hard for you to accept – it was hard for me too – but it’s imperative that you believe me. He is a time-traveller and you can trust him. On the night of the party, you touched hands, time-travelled with him and were displaced. On the 29th of December you will return safely to the 23rd. In order for this to happen you MUST do the following.

- • DO NOT believe Joseph straight away, he must gradually earn your trust.

- • Tell him to leave you alone (be forceful, accuse him of drugging you - he hasn’t) and return to your house. He will – at some point – come to your house and warn you about travelling back un-prepared and explain that you are in danger. Again, tell him to leave you alone.

- • That evening, you must call him and ask him what he meant about being in danger. He will explain and you must then get very cross, tell him to stop calling you and hang up. Very important that you don’t engage with him yet.

- • Two days later, items you travelled with will disappear. This is an indication that you will also travel back soon. Go to Joseph’s house (it’s raining, you are soaked through, and he takes you in).

- • Allow him to persuade you, but be clear that you are afraid.

- • Stay at his house on the evening of the 28th. You will travel back safely on the morning of the 29th.

I know this will be hard for you to take in, but I had to change something, an incident that involved the police and our parents, and would only have gotten worse. Please, trust me when I tell you, I changed as little as possible and only for the better.

Yours,

Alexia Finch.

- - -

‘We were in a mess,’ Alexia assures me, ‘when we arrived on Christmas Day you were arrested. They suspected you of kidnapping me and other women too.’

‘What?’ I snort, still staring at the letter. ‘What the hell?’

‘Yes, and like I said in the letter, it was only going to get worse.’

‘So, you were acting scared,’ I hiss, scowling up at her.

‘No,’ she snaps back. ‘I was scared out of my mind. The first time was very real, the second time was only slightly easier.’

‘You remember both?’

She raises an eyebrow, ‘You know, it’s strange, but yes, it’s like a memory, an event that happened and then happened again, only differently. I remember how it felt both times.’ She shrugs and sighs. ‘Listen Joe, I know you’re cross but you need to focus on the fact that you aren’t under police surveillance anymore. What I did was a good thing.’

I lose myself for a moment. I have no memory of what she’s talking about, of being arrested and accused. I suppose I should feel relief but it’s hard without the weight of the memories to back it up. Alexia has erased them from my life, from my timeline, and that’s when the penny drops.

Only the time-traveller can know these things, for everyone else there is only one, single reality.

I imagine stopping 9/11. If I managed to avert that disaster and then later told someone that both towers of the World Trade Center had collapsed, they would think I was mad. I would be the only person on Earth who knew what it was like to watch them fall.

I stare at her, ‘You changed the past.’

‘Yes,’ she says, ‘but I still completed our loop. Things were a little different but the end result was the same, I still travelled back, except…’ She smiles. ‘This time, there were no police.’ She takes a sip of tea and fixes me with her huge eyes. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t do as you asked Joe, but I was very careful and it worked.’

I sigh and eventually manage a weak smile. ‘Well, I don’t know any different, I don’t remember being in trouble.’ I ponder this. ‘So, yeah, I guess whatever you did, it worked, it all worked out fine.’ Alexia nods and we sit in silence for a while. She shifts in her seat and it’s obvious there’s something else. ‘Alexia,’ I ask, ‘what is it?’

She draws a breath and eventually replies, ‘Before I left, you accused me of not appreciating how important Amy was.’ She pauses. ‘I do Joe, but it’s complicated.’ She stands, gazing out of the window, her expression contemplative, ‘There’s a code of conduct, between patient and therapist, something I believe in, completely.’

‘Like a doctor?’ I suggest. ‘Confidentiality, that sort of thing?’

‘Yes, a bit like that,’ she shrugs. ‘We’ve crossed a pretty big line Joe.’ She laughs through her nose. ‘I can’t be your therapist anymore, it won’t work. I can’t remain non-biased, non-prejudicial, not after what’s happened.’

I’m processing what she’s saying but I’ve never been good at reading between the lines, especially when the handwriting is female. She’s resigning as my therapist, but I don’t fully understand what that means going forward. ‘Okay,’ I say, nervously, ‘I think.’

‘We need to start again,’ she says in a determined voice. ‘It might not seem like a big thing to you but it’s hugely important to me. I need to completely reassess you, not as a patient but as a person.’ She pauses, jaw flexing. ‘You’ve told me a lot about you and I realised after I got back that there’s something I need to tell you about me.’ She folds her arms and turns, eyes meeting mine. ‘I lost someone too.’ Her voice is low and breathy, as if she’s the one in therapy. ‘You need to know that. I don’t tell people that.’

‘Who did you lose?’ I ask softly.

‘My boyfriend,’ she replies. ‘Tom. He was killed in a car crash. He was 22.’ She smiles, the painful look of grief in her eyes. ‘It was a long time ago.’

‘It doesn’t get easier though does it?’ I offer.

‘No.’ She sighs. ‘No, it doesn’t.’ She manages another smile, a touch lighter this time. ‘I felt it was important that you know something about me before we start.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, ‘for telling me.’

She nods. There’s a silence between us, a chance to process, but I break it by asking, ‘What do you mean before we start?’

‘Hmmm?’ She replies, lost in her thoughts.

‘You said you wanted me to know something about you before we start.’

She stares at me, intently. ‘I’ve had time to think and I came to a conclusion.’

‘And what was that?’

‘That I don’t really have a choice.’ She draws in a breath. ‘I’m involved now.’

‘You mean you’re going to help me?’ I swallow, staring back at her. ‘Is that what you mean?’

‘Yes,’ she nods, instantly raising a hand, ‘but there are some conditions. I may not be your therapist but I do know what I’m doing. If we do this then we do it my way.’

Tears of relief push at the back of my eyeballs but I swallow hard. ‘Thank you,’ I breathe, shaking, aware of how woefully inadequate those words are. ‘Thank you.’

‘We do it my way,’ she repeats.

‘Yes, of course,’ I assure her. ‘Alexia –’

‘Alex,’ she interrupts, gently, ‘only my Father calls me Alexia.’

‘Okay, Alex.’ I nod, wondering what her Father might be like. ‘Mark says I can only go back to 2001 but with your help I’m sure I can go further, I know I can go –’

‘Joe,’ she says. ‘I meant what I said, we do this my way, which means you need to trust me.’

‘Okay,’ I say, my words coming quicker than my mind can process. ‘I do trust you. Are you going to hypnotise me? See if I can time-travel all the way back? I’m sure –’

‘You need to be patient,’ Alexia purrs.

I pause, another stream of consciousness ready to pour out. I wait, take a breath, and then nod obediently, if a little reluctantly. How can anyone argue with her and that voice? ‘I get it,’ I say, ‘I need to be patient, not be a patient.’

‘Exactly.’ She smiles. ‘Very good.’

I huff dramatically but accept the truth. She’s in charge now. ‘So where do we start?’ I ask.

She finishes her tea, considering the question. ‘We go to my office,’ she says confidently, ‘and we start where your fear began, we return to the very beginning.’

13.

Everywhere is dark. Grey and silent. There is nothing here except the steady thrum of my heartbeat, nothing that is until a single object falls into my vision; descending into the world like scenery onto a stage. It appears to be a cog, the centre of a giant bicycle wheel. Metal spokes begin to push from it, growing and forming into a huge steel snowflake. As carriages appear on its edges and lights glow in the darkness, I realise what I’m actually looking at. It’s a massive Ferris Wheel, colourful and magnificent.

I’m back at the fair.

Next come the stalls and trees that surrounded them, initially just blocks of colour; rough, child-like strokes, but then more, layer upon layer of detail, the finesse of an artist completing the scene. Blurred ideas become high definition. People appear next, like raindrops on dry soil. Initially just a few flashing into existence, crystallising into the landscape, but then more appear and more until the fairground is teeming with them, colourful but not yet animated. Something waits, I can feel it. A power; a force as strong as any. What is it waiting for?

The sky bleeds up from behind this world and a canvas of grassy earth appears beneath my feet and then it comes; a gust of wind, warm and alive rushes over me, carrying not only life but sound, and with that time begins. Slowly at first, like a hand cranked camera, one frame at a time. I hear the slow sound of laughter and music, followed by a distant, echoing pipe organ. They mesh together, grinding and gaining speed and suddenly, as if touched by the hand of God, the fairground comes alive, bursting with movement and noise. I smell roasting chestnuts and candy floss, and underneath that, freshly mown grass. I was a ghost but now I feel solid, somehow part of it all.

I take a step forward but don’t move. I can’t. I look down at my legs but they swim, grey and wet like eels below the surface of a lake. I swallow and feel a tingling frustration course through my feet and up to my stomach. Move, I command my useless legs. Move! They don’t, they remain passive, unable.

‘Joe,’ a woman’s voice purrs from the sky, clear and precise, next to me but invisible. ‘You are safe, you are in control.’

It’s Alexia’s voice. Calm and soothing. The questions that had begun to bounce around in my head stop. I relax, my heart-rate settles. Her words arrive on the breeze and swirl around me, calming me. ‘Joe, can you describe where you are?’ She asks.

‘I’m at the fair,’ I reply, instinctively looking to the sky, as though Finch is up there. ‘Cox’s meadow in Cheltenham.’

‘Good,’ Alexia says, slow and soft, ‘and what can you see?’

I soak in the details. ‘Lots of people, kids mainly, they look weird though.’ I’m able to turn my head and look around me but when I do, some of the scene is missing. It’s almost as though I’m looking at the set of a film, rigged specifically for a certain camera angle. The minute I change that, the illusion is broken, like seeing the crew and lights in a making-of documentary. ‘I can’t see everything though,’ I mumble, still struggling to understand why, ‘it’s foggy, pieces are missing.’

‘It’s okay, Joe,’ Alexia assures me. There’s a confidence in her voice that instantly makes it so. ‘Do you remember how you got here?’ She asks,

That’s a good question I realise. This is like a dream and that meant I didn’t wonder how a world could be grey and then painted, how time could not exist until I willed it to happen. I look out over the fair and remember how this started. ‘We walked down a staircase,’ I reply. ‘It was long and dark but eventually I reached the bottom, and now I’m here.’

‘That’s right,’ Alexia says, ‘you’re at the fair and it’s 1992 and I want you to stay here for a while.’ She pauses. ‘Would that be okay with you?’

‘I’m at the fair, Cox’s meadow, 1992,’ I say, ignoring her question, ‘but I can’t see everything, why can’t I move?’ I try again, but I’m glued to the spot, beneath me a blurred river where my legs ought to be.

‘Just relax, Joe,’ Alexia says, her voice closer now, ‘you are safe, you are comfortable, everything is okay and nothing bad can happen here.’ Her voice becomes a faint whisper on the wind. ‘Imagine you are watching a film, and you are holding the remote control. You can pause and play whenever you like. This is your film Joe, no one else’s. You are in control of time here.’

I think I understand and do as she asks. I move time rather than my body, shift my memory, and am instantly stood next to a stall. I have viewed this many times, but this time feels different. Viewings play out in real-time, they don’t stop and they don’t allow for analysis. I somehow pause this film and glance around me, interested to know how far I can stretch the details, but at the edges this scene is dark grey, swirling like wet paint on an artist’s palette. I look back to the stall which, in comparison, is gleaming with rich, colourful clarity. There are people, their faces frozen, every expression telling its own story. No one is looking at me though, no one sees me and I realise I’m a ghost after all.

I recognise a man, smartly dressed in a blue, three piece suit. He tips his hat at a jaunty angle and bends down to talk to a boy. I play the scene and he speaks, ‘Gonna give it a go, Sir?’ He asks, his words echoing through time.

I look down and see myself. The young Joseph Bridgeman.

‘Alexia?’ I call out, suddenly gripped by fear, realising what I’m about to see.

‘It’s okay, Joe,’ she says, her tone urgent but not panicked, ‘nothing bad can happen here, you are in complete control remember, and I am right here beside you. If you want to come back, you can at any time, just say the word.’

‘Amy,’ I whisper, the only word that exists in this place. I dare myself to look down but can’t. I swallow and close my eyes. Darkness. If I open them I will see her. A ghost; a very real one. Then I remember why I’m here and my resolve overcomes my fear. I open my eyes and look down and see Amy, my sister. She giggles, looking up at my younger self, blue eyes sparkling with excitement. I remember how much she had been looking forward to the fair, how she had spent the week like a bag of marbles waiting to burst open. She is so beautiful. I stop time again and just stare in awe at her perfection. Her pale skin, lightly freckled by summer sun. Her dark hair, bobbed to her shoulders, shining and alive in the brilliant light that emanates from a hundred bulbs. She’s wearing a light blue dress and matching hair band; a white cardigan draped over her shoulders. Her shoes are black and polished to glass. I remember how she insisted I saw my face in them. I feel a tear roll down my cheek, here and in the real world, the one far back in my mind somewhere. Time plays, and I’m glad. My fear is gone. The tears are joy and love, not pain. Seeing her is wonderful.

‘Or perhaps you would like a go yourself?’ The Artful Dodger whispers to Amy. She laughs again and I watch as she teases him. ‘My brother, Joseph, is an amazing shot,’ she says, ‘he will probably hit them all.’

More laughing. I pause the scene and look around the sea of faces. Most are children, some I remember. Sian is nearby, smiling and winking at the younger me. It’s odd to see her again, strange to know her in the present and be aware of how our lives play out, but this isn’t a time for reflection. I’m looking for the person who takes Amy, the bastard who steals her from this life.

‘Roll up, roll up!’ The Dodger shouts. ‘The world famous, eagle-eyed legend that is burning Joseph bridges is taking the stand.’

I see myself begin to shoot the targets and my new eyes are everywhere.

‘I can see her,’ I tell Alexia, ‘Amy’s still here.’

‘And what else can you see?’ She asks, ‘Try to relax even more, if you can, and don’t be afraid to go deeper Joe, let the canvas paint itself, don’t try, just empty your mind of what you think you saw and let the details come to you.’

It’s hard. Amy is still here but I know in a few seconds she will be gone. All around the stall is a sea of fog waiting to draw her in like sirens tempting sailors to damnation. I resist the urge to shout, to call back in time and stop this. I know it wouldn’t work, so instead I do as Alexia asks. I go deeper, I relax and something happens.

I see a shape. A figure weaving through and among the spectators, one that doesn’t belong here.

‘I can see someone,’ I whisper, my voice trembling, ‘a man.’

‘Good,’ Alexia replies, ‘that’s really good Joe.’

I look down and cry out, ‘No, oh no, she’s gone!’ I shout, ‘Amy!’ I feel tears again and panic building. I’m trapped in this body, useless and immobile. The un-seeable figure moves to my left. It’s definitely a man, I’m not sure how I know, but it is. I peer into the fog and see the shape of Amy’s dress disappearing, drifting down like a blue rag swallowed by deep water.

‘Where is she?’ I hear my younger self ask the Artful Dodger.

‘She was right there,’ he replies.

‘This is no good,’ I rasp, voice thick with fear, getting faster and louder, ‘I didn’t see who took her, this isn’t working!’

‘It’s okay,’ Alexia assures me, ‘try to stay relaxed, we can go back and watch it again.’

But I don’t want to, I know what I will see. I will just watch her drown in fog over and over, the slippery shape of her kidnapper taunting me forever. Young Joe begins to run, staggering in the direction of a merry-go-round. I follow him, floating like a drone, filming the scene. Amy is nowhere. I watch myself swaying towards the brightly lit carousel, red and gold, shining out of the blackness. I remember the painted wooden horses, mouths pulled back in evil looking grins. Children scream in the distance and I hear a song. The one I always hear, the one that wasn’t really there but is now and forever will be. The Beatles, ‘Run For Your Life’. I spin around, but it’s no good. I’m on an island made of crystal clarity, surrounded by a cruel, blurred kind of madness. Every shape a potential clue, every figure the kidnapper. Amy is gone and I am as useless now as I was then.

A camera flash blinds me, the last thing I need. I remember this happening, have seen it in my viewings many times and sometimes even in my dreams. When I view it, the camera fires and the moment is gone, like any other un-important detail. In my dreams though, it hangs for a second and I see the photographer. Occasionally he looks familiar, but I can’t place him. He’s out of focus, a shadow and I have often wondered if his picture might have captured the fear in my eyes.

This is different again. I blink, trying to shake the orange shaped bulb from my retina and, for the first time, I pause and study the photographer. He’s still only a dark, unintelligible shape, cut against the light of the carousel, but now at least I can take my time, really look at him. I turn to see what he’s shooting and am surprised when I see it clearly. Four lads, late teens, clad in leather jackets, looking sullen. I recall this moment, but on the night Amy went missing I must have discarded it. One of the lads has long hair and a cigarette hanging from his top lip. They are posing for the shot, rebellious and angry, but clearly positioned for this picture.

I turn back and the photographer is a little clearer, not perfect, but there are details now and shades of colour that were missing earlier. He lowers his camera and my jaw follows suit.

‘Alexia,’ I call out suddenly, and then again, louder.

‘I’m here, Joe,’ she answers. ‘What can you see?’

‘I couldn’t have known at the time,’ I mumble, shaking my head. ‘How could I?’

‘Known what Joe, what is it?’

If it wasn’t for the day I won the lottery, I’m sure the man behind the camera would have remained unrecognisable to me; the leap between the man he is here and the man he will become, just too big to make. He’s very young here, but I’ve seen him between youth and adulthood and it forms a solid stepping stone in my mind, one that makes this leap possible. ‘The person who took the picture,’ I say to Alexia, my voice trembling, ‘I know him, it’s the man from the record shop I told you about, it’s Vinny.’

Part Six - Tomorrow Never Knows

1.

The Bends; an amazing album by Radiohead – a band at the height of their powers – and also a condition divers suffer from if they try to surface too quickly. That’s what this feels like. I’m racing up from deep water, kicking and thrashing, silvery shaped bubbles streaming from my nose and mouth.

Excellent.

The present rushes into view and I sit up, gasping, sucking in huge gulps of air. My eyes are stretched wide, frantically searching my surroundings. It’s day, mid-morning at a guess. I’m in a chair, a cool reclining one like in the movies, and Alexia Finch is seated opposite me, right leg crossed over the left. She seems relaxed, unfazed by my sudden appearance and then I remember. She’s regressed me. I’m safe. No one can hurt me here.

‘It’s okay, Joe,’ she assures me, her caramel voice certain yet somehow soft and mellow. ‘You’re in my office.’

I nod, my eyes flicking between her and the details of the room. I’m trying to ground myself but it’s tough. I’ve just been regressed back to the night Amy went missing and it felt like yesterday. Seeing her is always hard, but having her close and not being able to communicate with her, or warn her, is heartbreaking. It re-opens wounds and makes the adjustment back to reality more difficult. ‘It was Vinny,’ I exhale and then swallow, controlling my breathing as Alexia has taught me. ‘It was Vinny who took the photograph.’

Alexia peers as me over her glasses, ‘Vinny is the record shop owner, right?’

I nod. She writes and I shake my head, ‘I would never have recognised him, not in a million years. Thinny Vinny!’ I snort.

‘Hmmm?’ She murmurs. ‘What?’

‘Oh, it’s a nick-name I guess, not that I would tell him,’ I say. ‘Vinny is a big guy now and it was a shock when I first traveled to 2002, he was a lot thinner back then and had hair, but it’s nothing compared to 1992.’ I shrug, ‘He’s as thin as a rake with hair down to his shoulders.’

‘You’re sure it was him?’

‘Oh yes,’ I nod eagerly, ‘it was definitely him.’ And with that I feel a faint sense of hope. Vinny was there that night. Vinny; somehow weaved into all of this. I don’t yet know what that means but it feels good. I wasn’t alone at the fair after all.

‘And he was taking pictures,’ Alexia comments without looking up from her note pad.

‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Photographing a group of lads, very moody, and one of them had a guitar so I’m guessing they’re a band.’

Alexia looks up, ‘It’s good you know it’s Vinny, but how does this help?’

I consider the question carefully. ‘Whenever I view that night, whether it’s one of my viewings or a regression with you, it’s always the same. I can only see what I witnessed with my own eyes.’ I pause, staring down at my hands. ‘It’s just a replay.’

‘But you saw more tonight, more than you have before, you saw Vinny.’

I nod, ‘That’s true but I never saw Amy go.’ I draw in a tight breath and sigh heavily. ‘And I never will. I’ve been over that moment a thousand times. It’s like a fog, a malevolent force drawing her away from me. I’ve scoured every inch of that memory.’

Alexia stops writing and looks up, ‘And you hope the photograph will give you a new perspective, a new angle.’

‘Exactly,’ I reply. ‘Vinny was facing in the opposite direction to me, he can see things I never can.’

Alexia drifts for a moment, deep in thought and then asks, ‘Do you mean you could view through Vinny?’

‘Maybe,’ I reply. ‘I have viewed through other people. If I spent some time with him in the present, if I got closer to him, his past might bleed into my mine and I might view some of his memories.’

‘Okay, well, is that an option?’

I sigh, ‘It is, but I can’t control my viewings, I can’t make them happen. They’ve always come to me, and often it’s things I don’t want to see. Yes, I might view some of Vinny’s past but it could be years before I eventually stumble upon his memories of that night.’

‘But the photograph,’ she whispers.

‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘It might have captured Amy and, more importantly, who took her.’ I sit up and stretch, rubbing my eyes vigorously with my palms.

‘Joe,’ Alexia says firmly. ‘Why don’t you lie back down, we can do some breathing and grounding exercises.’

‘What?’ I shoot back. ‘You aren’t serious?’

She adjusts her glasses and leans forward in her chair, ‘You promised you would do this my way.’

‘Yeah, I know, but we’ve just found a clue, we can’t –‘

‘Joe,’ she interjects, cheeks flushing a little. ‘It’s important that we’re careful here, we’re regressing you, going deep into your past. It’s not to be taken lightly and at the moment, you’re pinging back to the present like a yo-yo. It won’t be good for your energy, for your balance.’

Energy and balance? Jeez.

‘Er,’ I chew at my lips, searching for a polite way of getting us moving again, ‘could we do this later?’ I suggest, lamely.

She scowls. I’m not very experienced when it comes to women, or emotions, or reading situations for that matter, but a little birdy tells me she wouldn’t appreciate being told that she’s cute when she’s angry. Instead I say, ‘We need to go and see Vinny now and find out if he still has those pictures.’ I spread my palms. ‘And when we get back we can do some more of that breathing stuff.’ I grin. ‘I promise.’

She tuts, shaking her head. ‘Breathing stuff,’ she hisses, picking up her notepad. ‘I want us to keep a journal of this, everything you feel and see.’

‘Sounds good,’ I say easily, sliding off the chair. ‘Let’s do that.’

‘I mean it Joe.’ She glowers, folding her arms.

I nod enthusiastically until eventually her shoulders drop. ‘Okay,’ she sighs, flicking her eyes to the ceiling, ‘you win, this time. But Joe?’

‘Yeah?’ I say.

She strides purposefully across the room, grabs her coat and fixes me with a firm stare. ‘If you have a nick-name for me, like Thinny Vinny, you better keep it to yourself.’

2.

I’m not a big fan of cars so we walk, and I regret the decision immediately. Alexia power walks and I struggle ten feet behind her, panting and out of breath trying to keep up. By the time we arrive at ‘Vinny’s Vinyl’ I’m spent. It’s only taken us fourteen minutes, door to door, which is a bloody record for me. I have my hands on my knees, sucking air. Alexia is smiling, getting her own back I’m sure, enjoying my breathing exercises after all. With perfect timing, the midday sun breaks through a gap in the troubled sky, illuminating a paved area outside Vinny’s shop. There, gleaming like a golden chariot is a beautiful, brand new Harley Davidson motorbike.

Now, I don’t know much about bikes – they’ve never been my thing – but this one evokes an immediate response in me.

Power. Freedom. Getting your motor running and heading out on the highway.

Thoughts of traffic, road-works and the M25 are banished. This is all about the dream. The Harley’s black body is encased, almost licked by chrome piping and intricate detailing. Its single headlight shines like the eye of a cyclops.

‘Joe,’ Alexia smiles, ‘you can close your mouth now.’

I do and then shake my head, ‘She’s lovely though, isn’t she?’

Alexia snorts, ‘They’re always girls!’

The shop door opens and music floods out. Billy Joel, ‘Just the Way You Are’.

Vinny appears, climbing the steps. His enormous bulk is somehow squeezed into black leathers. The jacket has long tassels hanging from the back of the arms.  His head is freshly shaven, around his neck is a Union Jack bandanna. He looks every bit the new biker, the middle-aged wannabe, and it takes a great deal of determination to not laugh. I don’t mean laugh at him in spite, I mean with sheer joy at seeing him so bikered up!

He walks towards us, beaming, accompanied by the musky smell of fresh leather. ‘I’m Vinny,’ he says, ‘pleased to meet you.’

‘Alexia Finch,’ she replies. ‘We were just admiring the bike.’

Vinny nods, running a hand over the wide handle-bars and checking the panniers at the rear. ‘I only picked her up yesterday, she’s a beaut, ain’t she?’

We agree as a woman emerges from the shop. She’s in her early forties I’m guessing, black hair, dark eyes, heavy make-up. She’s also clad in leather but, unlike Vinny, her outfit seems to be a part of her. She’s lean and tall, tough yet sexy somehow, like Chrissie Hynde. She eyes us, places a crash-helmet and gloves on the bike and walks over, laying her hand on Vinny’s shoulder. ‘He’s been promising me this little trip for years, haven’t you Vinny?’ She says playfully, smiling at us. ‘I’m Louise.’

Vinny introduces her to Alexia. Louise nods and then squints at me. ‘And you must be Joe,’ she says, cooly, eyes darting to Vinny. The two of them share a smirk, which instantly makes me feel guilty of something.

‘Going on a trip?’ I ask.

‘Yeah,’ Louise says, flicking a thumb at the bike, ‘Vinny promised me that one day we would tour the U.K. on one of these.’

‘And when I make a promise,’ Vinny says, ‘I keep it.’

‘Eventually,’ Louise adds, dryly, checking the panniers and polishing the bike.

I know Vinny was married once but I’m pretty sure her name wasn’t Louise and he’s never mentioned a girlfriend. A flicker of worry passes through me.

‘I know what you’re thinking Cash,’ Vinny whispers, ‘but she’s a good girl, known her forever.’ He leans in, ‘She ain’t here for the money.’

I frown, ‘I’m happy for you Vinny.’

And I am. I don’t get the vibe Louise is here for the money or destined to break Vinny’s heart. There seems to be something between them, something fun, something real.

‘So, where are you going?’ Alexia asks him.

‘Weston-Super-Mare today,’ Vinny announces proudly, ‘then we’re following the coast and meeting up with some of Louise’s friends.’ His eyes glimmer with excitement, ‘To be honest, I don’t really know, but that’s all part of it I think.’

Billy Joel reaches a crescendo, singing about loving someone just the way they are, and I recall my conversation with Vinny, about what he would do if he won the Lottery. Work in the shop, not change much, was his answer back then. This is better though, I think. This is living.

‘Vinny, I need to ask you something,’ I say, ‘something important.’

‘Okay,’ he nods. ‘Shoot.’

I narrow my eyes, ‘You used to take photographs.’

Vinny looks confused, ‘Blimey Cash, that was a long time ago.’ He looks at me awkwardly, ‘Does she… have you?’ He looks at Alexia and then back at me, ‘Have you told her?’

‘Yes,’ I assure him, ‘she knows everything.’

He echoes loudly, ‘Okay, so how do you know I took pictures?’

‘I saw you,’ I sigh, ‘the night Amy went missing, you were at the fair in ’92. Cox’s Meadow. Do you remember?’

Vinny winces, frowning in deep concentration, ‘I didn’t even live in Cheltenham back then, but we used to come ‘ere,’ he pauses and shrugs, a look of guilt washing over him. ‘We were all a bit…’ He mimes a cigarette in and out of his lips, ‘A bit, you know…’

‘Vinny?’ Louise calls, interrupting his admission of weed-fuelled summers, ‘I’m sorry Vin, but we need to jam if we’re going to meet up with the rest.’ She leans against the bike. ‘Sorry,’ she says again, that one for us and accompanied by a genuine smile. ‘But they won’t wait long.’

‘It’s okay,’ Alexia says, ‘we understand.’

I lean in to Vinny, ‘Do you think you might still have them?’ I press, ‘The photographs, I mean.’

He folds his arms, leather creaking. ‘I might,’ he says quietly. ‘But they would be up in the loft, God knows where…’

‘Would you mind looking?’ Alexia asks him, her voice wonderfully persuasive, like a feather knocking down a brick wall. ‘It’s very important.’

Vinny looks over his shoulder at Louise and then back at Alexia. ‘Of course. We wouldn’t even be going on the road-trip if it wasn’t for him.’ He nods at me. ‘I can’t promise anything, but I will look, okay?’

I smile. ‘Thanks Vinny,’ I say, ‘you’re a star.’ And a hoarder too, I hope as we head inside.

3.

Vinny lives in a flat above his shop; a kind of messy bohemia crossed with hints of a recent burglary. Alexia and I navigate our way through the wreckage and wait as he rummages noisily in his loft above us. He descends from a hatch in the ceiling – only just big enough for him – looking like an elephant at the circus, teetering on a thin metal ladder, which strains and creaks beneath his weight. He’s balancing a cardboard box against his right hip, OLD STUFF written in permanent red marker on its side.

‘If they’re anywhere, they’ll be in here,’ he pants, wiping sweat from his brow, placing the box down. ‘It’s bloody boiling up there.’

Alexia and I share a look. Vinny looks like a lobster and whilst I suspect the loft is warm, the biking leathers and his considerable bulk are also playing their part in his rapid broiling. There comes a throaty roar from outside; the Harley, throbbing and growling as Louise twists the throttle aggressively.

‘She’s always had a bit of temper that one,’ Vinny says with a shrug, ‘but I kind of like that.’ He scratches at his chin, looking at the box. ‘I used to take a lot of pics back then. I wanted to be a music journalist, then I wanted to be in a band, then I became a roadie and finally just ended up selling vinyl.’ He whistles, as though time has gone by quickly for him, ‘Spent my whole life lowering my expectations of myself.’

‘Don’t we all,’ I agree, tapping him on the arm. ‘But you’re going to make up for it now Vinny, on your road-trip, living the dream.’

‘Yeah,’ he smiles, staring off, wistfully, ‘I hope so.’ He nods. ‘Right, let’s get this open and ‘ave a look.’ He gives me a worried look. ‘I can’t guarantee anything though, I binned tons of stuff a few years back, lots of old photos too.’

We follow him into his kitchen where he clears plates, cups and paperwork from a table in the middle of the room and re-distributes them on any available surface, which ends up being a difficult task. Then he begins to empty the box of memories out onto the table. It’s filled with the kind of random memorabilia we all seem to horde; certificates, old cameras, trophies, signed school shirts, cassette tapes. Vinny chuckles and sighs occasionally as he spreads them out in front of us.

‘Well I never,’ he mumbles happily, pulling out three small photo albums, ‘I didn’t think I had any left.’

Vinny distributes the albums between us and we begin searching. Most of my pictures are black and white, live performances of sweaty, long-haired rockers; all spotlights and silhouettes. They’re not your usual dross though, they’re good, well framed and artistic. I fan through them quickly.

‘I don’t even remember being at the fair,’ Vinny says, flicking through his memories. ‘Are you sure it was me?’

I nod, ‘It was you Vinny, you looked different, but it was you.’

He looks down and pats his leather clad tummy, ‘Yep, put on a few pounds since then.’

I smile at the understatement.

‘Joe,’ Alexia murmurs, voice trembling, ‘I think I’ve found it.’

She passes me three photographs and the kitchen fades away, my focus pure and intense. The first photograph is a group shot of a band and I recognise them instantly as the lads from my viewing of the fair. They are wearing heavy coats, have long hair and a serious look in their youthful eyes. They’re leaning up against a tree, the lights of the fair just visible behind them. It’s a close-up shot, nothing else to see. I flick it behind the others and the second image tightens my focus even further. This one is framed back a little, the band on the left, the fair on the right and, in the distance, dark trees. I can see shapes, figures and what looks like a girl. My heart stops and I feel like I’m being stretched, my hands trembling as I pull out the final photo. This is the one, the one I’ve been hoping for. In it, the band are framed far left, the fairground is out of focus in the background and on the right is Amy, her figure clear and sharp against a dense forest behind her.

‘I remember now,’ Vinny whispers. ‘Of course. The band were called Dreamless Sleep I think, they were good, split up not long after of course – the good ones always do – but yeah, I remember.’ He leans over my shoulder and points, ‘So that’s Amy.’

‘Yes,’ I manage, my fingers gripping the picture tightly.

Alexia joins us. ‘She’s alone,’ she says quietly, the mystery building in her as it is in me. ‘Where is she going?’

Amy is walking away, her back to the photographer and Alexia is correct, she’s alone; there’s no one else near her. It’s a chilling image, seeing her walking alone in her blue dress towards a dark and ominous looking wood in the distance.

‘Where’s she going?’ Alexia asks again, almost a whisper this time.

‘I have no idea,’ I say, my voice coming from somewhere else, ‘but I always imagined she was led away from the fair by a kidnapper or maybe someone she knew.’ I swallow, head spinning and stare at Alexia, my eyes welling up. ‘This is a clue, new information, we know the direction she’s heading.’

‘I’m so sorry…’ Vinny murmurs, shaking his head.

I turn to him. ‘For what?’ I ask.

‘I remember hearing about this, the girl who went missing, but I never connected it to you. It was just one of those stories you hear about.’ He stares at the photograph. ‘And to think I had this picture all this time… I never look at them, I didn’t think to check –’

‘It’s not your fault Vinny,’ I say firmly. ‘You didn’t know, it’s okay.’

His face is impossibly sorrowful, the pain obvious. ‘But will this help?’ He asks.

I take in a long breath, my eyes fixed on the image of my sister on her final walk. ‘Yes, it will.’ I exhale.

We hear the patented rumble and roar of the Harley and Vinny winces. ‘I should go,’ he says and I agree, telling him again that it’s okay, that he’s made all the difference.

As Vinny rides away, swerving a little tentatively, Louise – riding pillion – gives me the best smile I’ve seen in years and I realise Vinny might be in trouble - and I mean that in a good way.

Alexia and I watch them until they disappear from view. I turn to her, the photograph still in my hand. ‘I was convinced he wouldn’t have this, you know,’ I admit with a sigh.

‘Me too,’ she nods and then smiles. ‘But he did.’

‘Yeah,’ I reply thoughtfully, ‘but it doesn’t explain what happened to her or where she was going.’

We begin walking home, slower this time, thoughtful and searching. We dance around the same questions, asking them over and over but in slightly different ways, hoping to unlock something.

‘Why would she go into the woods?’ I ask, ‘On her own like that?’

‘I don’t know,’ Alexia replies. ‘But what if she wasn’t taken by anyone.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘What if she was meeting someone?’

I stop and stare at her. ‘That might be it, you know,’ I say, ‘maybe she was told to meet someone there, someone she trusted.’

Alexia squints at me, pursing her lips. ‘Joe,’ she says carefully, ‘did the police, did they…’ She pauses, seemingly lost for words. ‘Did they properly search the woods?’

I realise why she’s nervous. She’s asking if Amy could be buried there. I nod quickly, ‘They checked every inch of that wood and the surrounding area, they found nothing.’

‘Okay,’ she sighs, relieved. ‘So what happened?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say with renewed purpose, ‘but we’re going to find out and when I finally get back to her, we’re going to stop it.’

4.

We’re seated in my study in front of my ageing Apple desktop and I’m struggling to explain the current limitations of my time-travelling abilities and failing dismally. I have a sudden brainwave and open up an email Mark sent a few days ago, one with an attachment, entitled, “Time-travel-calculator.xls”.

Alexia arches an eyebrow. ‘Are you kidding?’ She snorts, ‘A time-travel calculator!’

I grin, ‘Yeah I know, Mark made this for me. To be fair, it’s the only spreadsheet I’ve ever enjoyed. It helps me figure out how long I can stay after I land in the past. I put today’s date in here.’ I point at the screen, leaving finger-prints on the shiny glass, ‘The date of arrival here, and then it spits out the amount of time I get to stay, here.’

‘And what’s that?’ Alexia grimaces, pointing at a very long string of numbers and letters to the left of the spreadsheet.

‘That’s data.’ I sigh, curling my lip in sarcasm. ‘The clever bit I will never understand.’ I tap a coloured area of the spreadsheet, ‘This is all that matters, it tells me how long I get to stay in days, hours and minutes. For example, in this scenario, I arrive in November 2005 and could stay about six hours before being pulled back.’

Alexia squints at the screen, ‘And how did Mark figure this out?’

‘He compared all my jumps and made some assumptions.’ I shrug and fold my arms, ‘It isn’t perfect but it gives us a good idea.’

‘And, according to Mark the furthest you can go is 2001?’

I nod, ‘And when I do manage to go that far, I’m pulled back in seconds, not hours.’

Alexia draws in a slow breath, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. ‘So why not go back to 2005 – you get some time there after all – and try jumping again?’ She looks at me, quizzically, ‘Wouldn’t that work?’

I shake my head, staring at the keyboard. ‘When I land, I’m like a drained battery.’ I pause, pursing my lips. ‘There’s no way I can time-travel again. No, if I do this, it will have to be in one jump, all the way, all or nothing.’

‘And you think the picture of Amy will help?’

I turn to her, ‘Yes, I hope so.’

Alexia nods but I can see she isn’t convinced. She stands, stretches and walks to one of the many freestanding shelves that are dotted around my study. They are a focal point and something I, too, am often drawn towards. They are filled with some of my favourite antiques and curiosities, a treasure trove for the inquisitive. Alexia picks up a pair of opera glasses, which are tainted gold encased in red leather and studies them. ‘Martin told me about your antiques business, said it was quite the going concern once.’

‘Yes,’ I admit with a sigh, ‘it was.’ I pause a beat, ‘Once.’

‘He said you had quite the gift.’

‘Hmmm?’ I ask, turning to her.

Alexia peers through the opera glasses and then back at me. ‘He said you had a real knack for valuing objects.’

I smile, wryly, ‘Valuing. Not really. I’m no expert, I don’t even have a specialism, but I do get…’ I pause, frowning, searching for the right words, ‘I do get a feeling from certain objects.’

‘A feeling,’ Alexia nods as though what she’s hearing is perfectly normal. ‘Do you think it’s linked to your time-travelling?’

‘Maybe,’ I admit, holding her eyes, narrowing my own. ‘Older objects do seem to hold more power, as though they have a story to tell.’

Alexia rotates the glasses in her hand, ‘So what’s their story?’

I wonder how much to tell her, but considering we’ve already been through the ‘Joe’s mad, oh no, wait a minute, he’s not’ thing, I decide to tell her the truth.

‘A girl was given those glasses by her father. He ran the Opera house. It burned down a few years later and those are one of about eight pairs still in existence. The girl must have lost them and she will want them back, and if fate decides, she’ll find them again.’ I blink, deep in thought and continue, quietly, almost to myself, ‘I think objects call to us, like the photographs in Vinny’s loft. They wait for us to find them.’

‘And you know all this just by touching them?’

‘Partly.’ I shrug, ‘Also by spending a bit of time with them, getting to know them.’

Alexia places the glasses carefully back on the shelf. ‘No wonder your antiques business did well, people love a good story.’

‘Yes,’ I agree, remembering how I used to feel about my work. ‘I had a small shop. I could have expanded probably, but then the website came along.’

Alexia looks confused, ‘Martin said you did well out of that, what happened?’

‘I did, initially,’ I say, ‘but it was the beginning of the end for the Bridgeman Antiques Empire.’ I manage a smile. ‘It meant I didn’t need to interact with anyone anymore. I could find objects and then sell them online.’ I sigh. ‘I just lost interest in most things really.’

Alexia walks back to me and picks up the photograph of Amy. ‘And you think this will be enough for you to go further than you have before, to stay there longer?’

I consider the question. ‘I’ve used objects to help me focus before, things like newspaper articles, tickets, anything to ground me in the moment I’m aiming for. It helped me hit specific dates, like Cheltenham races or the time I went to see Mark at his house, all of those jumps were way more accurate than before.’

Alexia places the picture back down and smiles at me, complex and sincere. ‘Maybe something led you to that photograph,’ she offers.

‘Yes, it’s given me a new perspective and a strong connection to that night, something visual I can attach to.’ I take a breath and as I do my confidence begins to build. ‘It’s given me something else too, something I haven’t felt for a long time.’

‘And what’s that?’ Alexia asks, staring back at me.

‘Hope,’ I breathe. ‘It’s given me hope.’

* * *

The fabric of time. I’ve heard the phrase many times before but never really connected with it, never truly considered what it might mean. Now, it echoes through me as I phase and shift in what I thought was reality. I’ve spent my life believing that existence is solid, that it makes sense, but now all of that is in question. I am starting to wonder if reality might just be a thin veil, like a layer of painted silk that no-one dares touch but somehow wraps up and makes sense of our world. All of my jumps so far have been instant, a sudden landing in space and time.

This one is different though; very different.

I have Amy’s picture in my hand and its importance in my heart. As I reach further and further back in time I feel myself pushing through this fabric and find myself falling, drifting and alone, and realise with absolute horror that there may be nothing on the other side.

Nothing.

I call out but my voice is lost in a vacuum. Deathly silent. Falling, dropping deeper into nothing. Seconds become years as I try to remember who I am and where I came from, what I’m doing here. I’m no longer sure. Perhaps I’m dying, I wonder, when suddenly, out of the darkness, I see shapes. Images flickering around me like cards in a deck, dealt at great speed by invisible hands. Each an image of my life. I focus on one, sky, blue and black, pricked with stars and in the distance I see lights, a fairground. I remember. I’m Joseph Bridgeman and I’m here to save my sister. I reach for the fairground and hold it in my mind; teeth bared like a rabid dog.

Amy!

Focus.

Amy, hold on!

I’m so close. I feel my body return, hear the sounds and feel the warmth of summer flood over me. The smell of grass, the feel of it against my hands as I touch the ground. I’m on all fours; solid. I made it. I’m here!

I look up and for one beautiful second I am in 1992, the night Amy went missing. I try to stand but the pain is instant. My clothes disappear, I’m naked and then the blue veil of time descends over me and I’m catapulted back, hurled though time like a rag doll. I scream and when I open my eyes, I’m back to where I started, my spare room, 1992 close but as unreachable as ever.

I didn’t connect, not enough.

I’m alone, on all fours and naked. I stay that way for a while, shuddering, before dressing and heading downstairs. I find Alexia where I left her, in my study. She looks up at me and winces. ‘It didn’t work,’ she guesses, carefully.

‘No.’ I take a step towards her and wince. ‘I was close, but I couldn’t stay.’ I exhale loudly in frustration, tears banging a warning from the centre of my skull, ‘I couldn’t stay.’

Alexia walks over to me and places a hand on my shoulder. ‘It’s alright, Joe,’ she says, softly. ‘It proves there’s a chance doesn’t it?’

I shake my head. ‘It was instant, almost violent, it threw me back.’ I look up her, my body shaking. ‘It’s as though time was angry,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘Like it didn’t want me there.’

Alexia lifts her chin, a look of defiance spreading over her, ‘Listen,’ she says, firmly, ‘you aren’t good at asking for help. You’re impatient, you want to run at this but you can’t.’ She stops, takes a moment and calms herself. ‘You need my help,’ she sighs, a gentle smile spreading over her, ‘and we need to do this my way.’

I draw in a shaking breath and eventually nod. She’s a hypnotist. I have to do as she says. It’s the rules. I’m reminded of the other day, when she told me that if I had a nick-name for her I should keep it to myself.

Never, I repeat, NEVER tell her she’s my Hypnotic Caramel Bunny.

5.

‘It’s no use,’ I sigh, hating the grinding whinge of my own voice even more than usual, ‘Mark’s right, 2001 is as far as I can go.’ I clench my jaw and stare at nothing. ‘I finally understand how to time-travel, but I can’t reach Amy.’ I exhale, loudly and deliberately. ‘This is horrible, it’s like torture.’

Alexia is standing at the lounge window, facing me but a dark silhouette against the daylight, her features impossible to read. She lifts her head and I hear her inhale. ‘Hmmm,’ she murmurs, slowly.

‘What is it?’ I ask.

She folds her arms and leans back on the window sill. ‘You once called me a stage hypnotist,’ she says. ‘Do you remember?’

‘Did I?’ I say, innocently, knowing damn well I did. I can’t see much of her face, but I recognise a scowl when I feel one. ‘Well, I didn’t mean it.’ I sigh, ‘It’s the only experience I’d had, that’s all.’

‘So, you’ve seen a stage show?’

I nod, ‘Yeah, a while ago now, there was quite a buzz at Uni about it.’ I snort, ‘The guy was funny actually, he really understood his audience, you know, cracking jokes and finding out things about people, things he could use.’

‘And what kind of thing did he do?’ Alexia purrs.

‘Oh, silly stuff really, but quite funny.’ I think back but it’s all a bit of a blur, everything from that time was seen through thick beer goggles. ‘Actually I do remember one thing,’ I say, sitting up out of my funk, ‘he spoke to this girl, right at the beginning of the night and tried something on her that didn’t work, he explained that “sometimes it’s just like that” and then let her go back into the audience.’

‘Carry on,’ Alexia nods. ‘What happened then?’

‘He did his whole show, had people clucking like chickens and speaking in French accents, really stupid stuff that drunken students lapped up like tequila but then, right at the end, the girl – the one from the start of the night – suddenly jumped up on stage and started singing Staying Alive and dancing like John Travolta.’ I laugh though my nose and smile, ‘It was actually really funny and the crowd went berserk, she was properly into it too and the weirdest thing…’ I pause, trying to remember her name, which in itself is ironic because I can’t. ‘She was the quietest one in our year, really shy and reserved and here she was, going for it, big time.’

Alexia walks towards me, her silhouetted hips swaying hypnotically. She grabs a chair and sits, eyes on mine. ‘It’s a programmed response,’ she says.

‘What, that made her dance?’ I ask.

‘Yes. The stage hypnotist planted something in her mind at the start of the show and there it sat, waiting for him to do or say something that would trigger the response.’

‘I saw something like that on T.V.’

Alexia nods and then dips her head, eyebrows hiked, waiting for something. I almost ask what, but then it lands, the reason she’s talking about this. I swallow and lick my lips. ‘You think you can do that to me don’t you.’

‘Maybe,’ she replies, voice low and breathy. ‘I’ve done similar things to do with stress or smoking or eating disorders,’ she pauses. ‘Okay, so not quite like this, but it’s the same principle.’ She leans in and I smell her shampoo again, clean and soapy. ‘We send you back and I program you to jump again.’

‘I like it,’ I admit, pinching my lips. ‘It’s ingenious, but it won’t work.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Because the idea of jumping again, it’s like,’ I pause, frowning, ‘it’s like saying that because you just jumped a stream you can jump all the way to bloody France.’ I stare up at her and when she smiles, I find myself laughing a little. ‘Okay,’ I smirk, ‘it was a crap analogy but you get the idea. It would be days before I would be able to travel again.’ I shake my head. ‘Listen to me, talking about time-travelling like it’s a marathon or something.’

Alexia leans in. ‘Now, that is an interesting analogy,’ she says. ‘When we think we can’t do something, it’s often our mind holding us back. People are capable of amazing things Joe, feats of strength, incredible endurance. It’s mind over matter.’ She stops and shrugs. ‘Maybe that’s something I can replicate, put you under, deeper than before, and convince your mind you can do this, ‘program’ you to jump again, all the way back to 1992.’

Alexia’s eyes sparkle when she imagines things, I don’t mean they’re wet or shiny I mean they contain stars that swirl and catch the light like silver filings on a moonlit lake. I could get lost in there and not mind one bit. Seeing her excitement at this new idea brings a little hope, which is especially welcome after my recent trip to 2001; a stark reminder that time is a relentless bully, always waiting, ready to administer pain and judgement.

‘Do you really think it could work?’ I ask.

‘Yes, and I can prove it to you,’ she says with a sudden and mischievous smile. ‘If I were to say the words… Step Ladder…’ She waits, eyes fixed on me.

I feel mild panic set in. What the hell has she done, or more importantly, what am I about to do? What triggers have been buried, waiting for the Step Ladder to strike?

She laughs, ‘I’m kidding Joe.’

I glower at her. ‘That wasn’t funny.’

She shrugs, knowing it was, ‘You said yourself that something needs to change, maybe this is it…’

Mark told me to try small things, to look out for ways to alter my ability, to improve my distance. Perhaps the marathon analogy is a good one after all. Alexia is my new coach and she’s going to train me to push through the wall, to conquer my fears.

Mind over matter.

Rahhhhh!

‘You asked me to trust you,’ Alexia interrupts my personal mantra, ‘maybe now it’s your turn to trust me.

I nod, realising I do trust her and that comes as something of a revelation. I stare at her, lost for a moment and then straight down at the floor.

‘What is it?’ She asks.

‘Nothing,’ I lie, not wanting to tell her that this is how my viewings usually start, by getting close and building trust. ‘It’s nothing,’ I repeat, voice flat, ‘I’m okay.’

‘Alright,’ she replies, ‘but you can talk to me Joe.’ Her voice is kind and soft as silk. ‘If you want to.’

I nod and realise that I could, for hours in fact, which is ironic of course because we don’t have time for this, and time waits for no man.

Especially not me.

6.

I decide to time-travel from my study this time; a place rich in nostalgia and rooted deeply in my past. Alexia wanders around, leaning in occasionally to look at the various objects and antiques with a new sense of interest. ‘Have you decided on a location yet?’ She asks.

I clear my throat. ‘I have, Your Honour,’ I answer with mock seriousness.

She looks up, smiling, ‘Go on.’

‘Cheltenham Science Fair, 2005.’

‘Okay,’ she nods, ‘that’s a good year to aim for.’

‘Yep,’ I agree. ‘A good mid-way point between the present and 1992, I get a good few hours before being pulled back.’

‘Why then?’ She asks, ‘Why the Science Fair?’

I hold up my slightly frayed ticket from the event, ‘I didn’t go out much then, but the theme of this caught my eye.’ I pass her the ticket.

‘Are you kidding me?’ She gasps, laughing. ‘Time-travel?’

‘I know,’ I smirk. ‘Ironic isn’t it?’

I’ve chosen this because it’s a very strong memory for me. It could have been the theme I suppose, but I suspect it has more to do with the host, an attractive Spanish woman. She was utterly mesmerising, which is a detail I decide not to share with Alexia.

Alexia hands me back the ticket, ‘And you have your other focus items?’

‘Yes,’ I reply, thumbing the front page from a newspaper from the day and a copy of Amy’s photograph that Alexia has printed for me. I stare at my sister’s image, feel its power and the pull of time.

‘And you have money for a taxi?’ Alexia asks. ‘Nothing after 2005, remember.’

I nod, ‘You can’t be too careful.’

‘Correct,’ she agrees, formally. ‘You can’t.’

‘Although it won’t stay there for long.’ I add, imagining how – shortly after serving its purpose – the money will disappear from some poor, unsuspecting cabbie’s wallet.

She nods slowly, deep in thought, and then runs a hand through her hair, which is down today, light brown curls bobbing on her shoulders. ‘Right, so you arrive in 2005, at the bloody time-travel conference.’ She grins, allowing herself a good laugh this time. ‘Sorry, it’s just –’

‘Funny,’ I butt in, ‘I know.’

Alexia rolls her shoulders. ‘Right Alex, come on, focus,’ she tells herself, resetting.

I draw in a deep breath and assure her I’m going to concentrate.

‘Okay, Joe,’ her voice is lower and more business like, ‘you are going to arrive and find a safe place, somewhere you can relax, maybe even fall asleep and then,’ her voice becomes the chocolatey smooth version I love, her words arrive slowly and deliberately, ‘you are going to slip back, deeper and further down, until finally, eventually, you will reach the fairground.’ She stops. ‘I want you to focus on your breathing now. I want you to listen to my voice and nothing but my voice. Can you do that?’

‘Yes,’ I say. I could listen to her forever.

‘Good,’ she assures me, voice like warm rain in a cool day. ‘Think of the photograph, of Amy walking towards those woods, but don’t let it worry you. It’s a beacon Joe, something you can hold onto.’ She pauses but I don’t know for how long because I’m not really here anymore. I’m under her spell and beneath the veil of reality, but as instructed, that doesn’t worry me, it actually feels good. ‘When you look at that photograph,’ she continues, ‘you’re going to feel power and energy, you’re going to feel like you do now.’

I feel amazing, I realise, a controlled energy coursing through me. Alexia’s words are like fuel, filling me. I feel as though I could go back a hundred years but I need to focus.

Focus Joe, Alexia purrs. You can do this. Aim for the Science Fair.

The Science Fair. Cheltenham Town Hall.

Don’t think about the host.

She was gorgeous. Dark skin, dark eyes and jet black hair like a wild horse’s mane. Her sultry Spanish accent holding the attention of every man in the room.

Man, she was hot… one beautiful señorita.

7.

Alexia’s voice and the present leave me, like a wave lifting you up off your feet near the shore. It’s a calm transition. Refined. This is the way to travel, I decide. This is the business class of time relocation. I’m aware of my surroundings, but can’t yet place them. It could be because I’m under hypnosis, which is a very strange thing to know, like waking up in a dream. A Spanish woman is talking, her accent round and beautiful. I catch up with her mid-sentence.

‘… It states that the time-traveller re-enters another parallel universe, and that the actual quantum state is a quantum superposition of states, where the time-traveller does and does not exist.’

I feel my ears pop, like pressure on a plane and a bright light fills my vision. I hear a loud gasp, the sound a crowd makes when a firework explodes dramatically above them. I feel the undeniable crackle of an audience in front of me.

‘My goodness!’ The woman exclaims.

I turn and see her, stood in front of a lectern, the host of the Science Fair, exactly as I remember. Tall, dark and impossibly sexy. She removes her glasses, hand noticeably shaking and stares at me, mouth agape. ‘Where did you come from?’ She asks, visibly shaken.

‘From the future,’ I reply easily, my words not only amplified by my own lectern microphone, but also arriving clearly and without thought or fear. Hypnosis is a wonderful thing.

Another loud gasp from the audience, accompanied by some laughter this time and then applause. I squint, shielding my eyes from the fierce spotlight and look out over a packed Cheltenham town hall, a sea of faces, rumbling with excitement. I raise my hand and smile and the place erupts with applause. I’ve not been on stage since Uni – when it was a form of complicit torture – and the thought of doing it again would normally strike me dumb with fear, but under Alexia’s spell I’m actually quite enjoying it. I look back at the woman and smile. She tries to return the gesture but it comes across as a nervous kind of sneer. She flashes another panicked look stage right and takes a step away from me. She swallows, looks out at the audience and says, ‘Well, ladies and gentleman, this is quite the surprise, a time-traveller from the future.’

More applause and some wolf whistling. I shrug and say, ‘I have to go I’m afraid.’ The on-stage microphone squeals and the crowd offer a murmured wave of good-natured laughter.

The host nods, putting her glasses back on. ‘And where are you going?’ She asks, playing along, but with all the subtlety of a lion tamer.

I sniff and flick my thumb over my shoulder. ‘I have to try and time-travel again,’ I explain, earnestly. ‘It’s a second jump, a new thing we’re trying.’

More applause and some whoops from the very engaged and entertained audience.

‘Fascinating,’ the host marvels, her voice finally returning to some kind of normality. ‘And tell me, what is your name?’

I blink, watching the particles of dust dance in the beam of light that separates us from them. The question of whether it was wise to share my plans out loud finally arrives. She wants to know my name. I’ve just told Cheltenham Town Hall I’m a time-traveller.

Shit.

Fuck.

I’m on stage. In front of a load of people. My clothes might… Oh God, no, don’t even think about that, I’ve got plenty of time before that…

‘Are you okay?’ The woman asks, her eyes flashing nervously towards the assembled security who look ready to pounce on me at a moment’s notice.

‘I, er, I better not tell you my name,’ I murmur, blood pounding in my temples. ‘I really, probably should… I mean, I have to go now.’

The host takes another nervous step back and addresses the crowd, ‘Well, Ladies and Gentlemen, please give a huge round of applause to our first bona fide time-traveller.’

They do as they’re told by their ever professional speaker and the place erupts with a standing ovation. I stare out at the vast canvas of faces, most seem happy at the unexpected interruption in proceedings, some appear a little confused, but they are all clapping. All that is, except one; a man standing just off to the left hand side of the front row. He’s staring at me, intently, his jaw set, eyes dead like stone, a statue whose expression is unaffected by the applauding fools around him. I raise my hand against the spotlight, trying to get a better look at him, but he turns and walks away. For a moment I think I recognise him – perhaps we met when I was here the first time – but the feeling passes and I can’t place him. Before I can try again I’m interrupted by one of the security guards, a large bulldog of a man who has taken my left arm firmly and is suggesting I exit with him.

It finally breaks the last remnants of the spell I’ve been under.

This wasn’t the plan, this wasn’t the plan at all and it won’t be long before somebody wants answers; real ones, not the stage versions that have so entertained the crowd.

‘I need to find somewhere safe,’ I murmur, to myself.

The guard shrugs, ‘This way.’

I follow him into the dark wings to the side of the stage, moving past sound and lighting engineers, all of them with a confused look, and down a set of wooden steps into a small back office. There, another man is waiting, short, round, middle-aged and mousey looking. He stands, blinking rapidly, like a rodent chewing corn. ‘So,’ he squeaks, eyes fixed on mine, ‘you decided to have a little fun, yes? To arrive on stage during Miss Barquero’s presentation, to create a scene, yes?’ He pauses, folding his arms. ‘Yes? That about right?’

‘No,’ I reply, ‘I didn’t mean to…’  A pain in the base of my neck forces me to wince. ‘I really do have to go,’ I say, eyeing the only door.

He scowls at me. ‘Not until you explain what you were doing up there,’ he insists, nodding at the security guard who moves to cover the only door. ‘Appearing out of nowhere like that.’

‘You can’t keep me here,’ I say, each word squeezing me a little further out of my previous trance-like state, my situation becoming more real with every breath. Relax Joe, I feel Alexia’s words rather than hear her voice, stay calm.

I draw in a deep breath. ‘It was just a joke,’ I say, ‘I just wanted to be on stage.’

The mousey man – I’m presuming he is the event organiser – studies me. ‘Hmmmm,’ he replies, ‘well, you can wait here and explain to Miss Barquero – when she’s finished her presentation – what you were doing and you can apol–’

‘No,’ I snap at him.

‘Yes,’ he sneers. ‘You can’t just –’

Right. This requires quick thinking and my very best Jack Nicholson in ‘The Shining’. I flash them both a look, one that hints strongly at madness and then shake my head and shudder, a deliberate attempt to appear unstable. When I talk, I do so quickly and with deliberate, nervous tension. ‘Okey Dokey,’ I almost shout, ‘I’m just going to leave okay, no problems, no need for screaming and shouting and kicking, okay, okay, okay?’ I hold up my forefinger as if stopping myself not them and then speak quietly and with sinister conviction, ‘Screaming, now we wouldn’t want that would we?’ I nod, bobbing my head deliberately like a clapping monkey, eyes dancing with fake madness.

The mousey man swallows and I hear a loud click in his throat. ‘Well, no,’ he murmurs, ‘let’s just stay calm and…’ He nods to the security guard, ‘Why don’t you escort Mr… er, just escort him out, yes?’

I smile, baring all of my teeth and follow the guard out into a corridor. My attempt at madness worked well, but if I don’t get out of here quickly I strongly suspect the police will show up. I follow the surly Guard to the main doors where he folds his arms, waiting for me to leave. I offer him a brief smile and walk out into bright, afternoon sunshine.

Brain freeze has started but it hasn’t taken hold yet. I have some time. I look around at the hordes of people and then down at myself. I really don’t want to end up naked here. According to Mark’s spreadsheet of time-travel I have seven hours before I get pulled back, which means three and a half hours before my clothes go ping and my belongings go pong.

Jump one; complete. Slightly rough landing but near enough. Jump two was supposed to be completed in a state of hypnosis. Alexia planted some stuff in my head. As I walk to the nearest clothes shop, cash in hand, I cross my fingers – literally – and hope that my secret hypnotic trigger still works, still gets pulled somehow.

8.

After some speed shopping (man style), I have a new set of clothes. Jeans, checked shirt and deck shoes; a good look. The clothes I was wearing on my arrival are in a shopping bag in my hand. Like me, they can’t stay here and in a few hours will be sent back to where they belong. According to Mark’s spreadsheet I have seven hours to get this done, meaning my clothes, money and copy of Amy’s picture will get exactly half that. I hail a taxi.

‘Where to?’ The driver asks.

‘Cox’s Meadow please,’ I reply, climbing in.

The driver nods and we pull away. I lean back in my seat, looking down at the picture of Amy walking towards the woods. She is my beacon, I need to focus on her, remember that this place is just a stepping stone. Alexia’s words are in me and the rumble of the road helps ease me back into a more relaxed state. I begin to feel something, a buzzing within me, a kind of charging energy. I continue to stare at the picture and realise that this is my trigger. Alexia has programmed me to feed off the photograph and I can feel my batteries charging up in preparation for a second jump.

‘You’re a genius, Miss Finch,’ I whisper, energy building in me, ‘and I love you.’

We arrive at the entrance to Cox’s Meadow, which is nothing like I remember it, but why would it be? This is 2005, thirteen years after the fair. I step out of the cab and pay the driver, telling him to keep the change. He thanks me and drives away. He won’t be thanking me later when that money goes bye bye.

Cox’s Meadow was just one big field back in 1992 but it’s been utterly transformed. The surrounding trees and fences are still visible here but the centre has been excavated as part of Cheltenham’s flood defences. I look around and decide that a nearby field – one that I remember and appears to be identical to the past – will be my best bet for a safe jump. I feel brain freeze take a chilling nip at the back of my head and then travel the back of my skull like the firm, deadly lick of an icy snake. I manage one last look at the photograph in my hand before it disappears along with the clothes and my bag. Whatever power that photograph gave me, it will have to be enough.

The large agricultural field is quiet, recently mown and surrounded by hedgerow. I walk to a large tree in the very corner of the field and look back towards Cox’s Meadow, imagining the fair in full swing. I want to be sure to arrive safely, without being seen or landing in the middle of a stall, so decide on a direct jump back to this spot.

Okay then. Time to relax. Time to start my breathing, to find my inner peace and calm; or something like that anyway. I’m just doing just what my hypno-kitten told me, which is yet another nickname I must never tell her.

I smile, take a long, deep breath and begin, and against all my expectations, within minutes, it starts to happen. I sense the fabric of my location moving, the silk veil of reality fluttering gently as if caught by a breeze. This field, this place, is just an illusion and I can move through and beyond if I wish. I close my eyes and think of Amy, of the fair and the night she disappeared. This is going to work, just as Alexia said it would. My heart is beating faster but I command it, with the lightest touch I can muster, to steady itself. I feel a shifting of the earth beneath me and the sudden cool air of a winter evening. I open my eyes and it’s dark. The world appears to be phasing somehow, in and out of itself, breathing through time like a lung inhaling and exhaling. Day becomes night, grass becomes soil and then tall grass again, long stems that sway in a summer breeze followed by cool stubble; the seasons accelerating around me. People appear, flickering into life, but they are shadows, gone before I can make out any detail. I watch time cascade around me. This second jump is very, very different, nothing like my normal way of travelling. I can feel panic setting in and nausea too as my mind spins faster.

‘What’s happening?’ I whisper, dropping to my knees, looking down at my hands. My skin is pearlescent, like fish scales, it shines in the brief moonlight but then – as the sun returns – becomes translucent, the blood beneath pulsing and coursing like an angry river. I whimper, crying out for it to stop, but it won’t. The merry-go-round of time accelerates, faster and more aggressive, spinning and swirling around me.

I look down and unbelievably find myself floating, thirty feet above a building, hovering in the air like ‘Wile E Coyote’ in Road Runner, realising much too late that I’m done for. I flail helplessly and scream but there’s no sound. Colours and shapes blur and I’m instantaneously transported into the middle of a road, traffic thundering, a huge truck about to smash me to pieces, but then it, too, is gone. I’m in and out of time and space and for one horrible moment I feel as though I’m going to explode, but then it all stops and there is nothing except the wonderful, steady warmth of early evening.

I open one eye, wincing, trembling.

I’m in the field, thirty feet at least from where I expected to be but near enough. It’s early evening. I smell summer, see the sunset; candy pink and red, exactly as I remember it. In the distance the fairground, its lights not yet owning the night.

1992. I made it.

I swallow, my head still spinning from the tumbling journey. I go to move but a huge surge of pain rushes through me, so strong I nearly puke. I try again but I’m pinned somehow. Fresh pain courses though me, forcing me to cry out in agony. I look down and it all makes terrible and horrifying sense.

I’ve landed, have arrived, right in the middle of a barbed wire fence. Sections of it protrude from my clothing at sickening angles, pinning my right thigh, left arm and mid section. I manage another scream but then the pain forces my mind to shut down and the world I was aiming for turns black.

9.

Time has passed but it’s done so under my radar, stealthily and without reference. The all-encompassing darkness that engulfed me lifts slightly, shifting to a warm grey with shimmers of golden light. I swallow, my throat dry and sore and try to open my eyes, but they aren’t playing that game today. I try to move but my body isn’t playing either. I’m deep somewhere, at the bottom of an empty well perhaps? Or a cave, or a tomb…

I hear a man’s voice, deep and authoritative, echoing around me. Then a woman, soft and kind, and a small supporting cast of background discussions, muffled by my addled brain. I hear machines too, whirring and beeping their self-important little tunes.

I realise four things simultaneously. I’m drugged. I’m in a hospital. I’m alive.

And, oh my goodness, I’m in pain.

Whatever those machines are pumping into me, it isn’t enough. I try to do the eye opening thing again, hoping to catch the attention of a sympathetic nurse, one who understands my low pain threshold, but can’t.

The man’s voice arrives again, this time cutting through the fog. ‘We’ve just received these X-rays,’ he says, followed by the familiar sound of acetate being unfolded. ‘Look, three sections of barbed wire and two more here.’ He taps something. ‘One embedded in his thigh and through his side and here, another right through his abdomen. He’s lucky it didn’t pierce any major organs, but…’ He trails off, his breathing irregular.

‘But what?’ A woman to my left asks. I recognise her voice. It’s Alexia.

The doctor draws in a long, dramatic breath and then exhales, slowly. When he speaks he sounds almost embarrassed. ‘If this was some kind an accident,’ he tuts, ‘why are there no puncture wounds?’ He doesn’t wait for an answer, he continues questioning himself. ‘There are no signs of entry, no ripping or dragging, no torn flesh. The barbed wire is perfectly inserted, as if the stuff has somehow grown in him and then been cut neatly at the edges. It’s more like some kind of sick torture.’

Another voice, this one a little further away, ‘Or, the world’s weirdest acupuncture.’

I feel my mouth twitch, my body’s feeble attempt at a smile. ‘Mark,’ I hiss, my voice a pathetic croak happening at the very back of my throat.

I feel a hand on my wrist for a short time and then on my side, lifting bandages I presume and checking my wounds. I finally manage to open my eyes and a brilliant golden world floods into view. I squint and groan, shifting my weight slightly. I cough and something sticky rattles in the back of my throat.

‘He’s awake,’ the nurse says.

I blink some more and see Alexia. She smiles but it can’t hide her concern. At times like this, when your world is filled with darkness and pain, beauty seems clearer somehow, and Alexia’s face is like the sun. She shudders, the back of her hand covering her mouth.

‘It’s okay,’ I manage.

The doctor, a short, pale man with a thick beard, leans close to me. ‘You are in Cheltenham General Hospital Mr Bridgeman, we’re prepping you for surgery, how are you feeling?’ He asks, eyes narrowing. ‘Are you in pain?’

Nah, I’m fine, it tickles really.

‘Yes,’ I murmur, ‘but I’ll live.’

A shadow approaches, initially blurred but unmistakably Mark. ‘Hello mate,’ he says, with his own version of a painful smile. ‘You had us worried for a bit there.’

‘You’ve been in an accident,’ the doctor says. ‘Do you remember what happened?’

I blink, staring up at the ceiling, my time-travelling adventure flooding back into my mind. The second jump, the fairground and then the landing. Smack bang in the middle of a very spiky fence. I tense my abdomen and feel a flash of brilliant pain, strong and white. I pant and wince. I can feel the metal in me, hot like a grill.

‘Yes,’ I finally reply, ‘I remember.’

Alexia leans in. ‘Joe,’ she says firmly, ‘you don’t need to say anything.’ Her eyes widen and she shakes her head. ‘Why don’t you rest? We can talk to the doctor later.’

I nod, as best I can, letting her know that her warning has been received. She’s right. I need to keep my mouth shut. Explaining this one isn’t going to be easy. The nurse to my right checks my wounds again.

Prepping me for surgery? Oh, shit.

I turn my head and look down as she lifts the bandages that cover the right side of my abdomen. I see my skin, angry and raised, and three dots of shining metal, like polished rivets flush with skin. Barbed wire, right though the fleshy bit of my side but it’s been cut by time itself, the metal within me travelling through time as I did, the rest left in that field.

I close my eyes, wondering when I last had a tetanus injection, but my thoughts are interrupted by the nurse who suddenly cries out. I see her stumble back, sending a tray of instruments crashing to the floor. ‘What on Earth!’ She exclaims, pointing at me, ‘Doctor, look.’

The pain, glowing hot inside me eases, instantly, as if a magic balm has just kicked in. I let out a long, deep sigh and begin breathing normally, only then realising how tense I must have been. The doctor steps forward. ‘That’s impossible,’ he gasps, pressing gently around the edges of my wound, leaning in for a closer look. ‘It’s steel, it can’t just…’

‘Can’t just what?’ Mark asks.

The doctor turns to him and then points at the light-box, the one showing a skeleton X-ray version of me with comedy barbed wire all over the place. ‘It makes no sense, we have the X-rays, they show it, they prove it.’ He speaks quietly as if to himself, lost and confused, ‘There was barbed wire, embedded deep into the muscle.’

Mark curls his lip, ‘What do you mean, was barbed wire?’

‘Well, that’s the thing,’ the doctor replies, ‘it’s gone, it, just,’ he swallows, staring at me, ‘it just vanished.’

10.

The next hour consists of prodding, two more X-rays and a parade of hospital types who either frown, fake-smile or ignore me completely as they discuss the bizarre case of me. Alexia and Mark wait patiently in the corner of the room as I repeat my excuses.  I’m too tired to talk. I need rest. Etcetera. Finally, the room empties, the throng of doctors, nurses and consultants no doubt decamping for a more private discussion, loosely entitled, What the fuck just happened? And, What the hell are we going to do about it?

Mark folds his arms, leaning back against one of the walls in my small, but at least private, hospital room, ‘Well, that was intense.’ He sighs.

‘Yeah,’ I nod.

I press my elbows into the bed and manage to pull myself up to a forty-five degree angle, which makes all the difference when you’re trying to talk. A new version of pain has arrived but it’s a dull, gnawing ache, like after you’ve had a tooth removed and the anesthetic has worn off. I know how bad toothache can be, but trust me on this; barbed wire wins and the relief that it has vacated my body is huge.

‘What happened?’ Mark asks.

I shrug, ‘I had a bad landing and bought some of the fence back with me, but it didn’t belong here, not in this time.’

Mark nods, exploring his bottom lip. ‘So it came back, same rules as your watch and your clothes.’

‘Yep,’ I reply, ‘I guess so, it’s a bloody relief, I can tell you.’

Alexia sits next to my bed. I turn to her and smile and as I do her eyes fill and swim with water. ‘God Joe, I’m so sorry,’ she sniffs, ‘I didn’t think for a minute that we would…’ She sniffs again and exhales quickly, forcing back tears, ‘Didn’t think this would happen.’

I reach for her hand. ‘Alexia, listen to me,’ I say, my voice scratchy. ‘What happened isn’t your fault – ’

‘But if I hadn’t insisted you try and jump again, well you wouldn’t be in this…’ She winces, shaking, looking me up and down, ‘In this mess. I was so worried about you.’

‘I’m okay,’ I assure her and also myself. ‘Unbelievably, it just feels sore now.’

Mark sighs loudly, pushes off against the wall and walks around to the other side of the bed, studies me and then sits on the edge. He frowns, looks at Alexia and then back at me. ‘Ever since you left my house I’ve been going crazy,’ he says, more serious than I’ve seen him lately. ‘You need to be more careful Joe, I almost called you to tell you that, I mean you need to be super super-careful with this.’

‘Yeah,’ I sigh, nodding at Alexia, ‘she keeps telling me the same.’

‘Well, maybe you should listen,’ Alexia replies, giving my hand a gentle squeeze. ‘There’s two people here who care about you.’

I frown and realise that moments like these define our place in the world. If we are found – like I was, I presume – and admitted to hospital, the people who come to our bedside tell our story. Go back two months and mine would have been a very sad one.

‘I have been careful,’ I say, defensively.

Mark hikes an eyebrow, spreading his palms over and above my battered body, ‘Yeah, sure, you’ve been really careful.’

‘Up until now I’ve been fine,’ I protest further, deciding not to mention the moments before landing in 1992, hanging thirty feet above a building, the sudden rush of on-coming traffic. ‘This was just a slip-up, I can –’

‘Joe,’ Mark interrupts, forcefully, ‘we don’t have long, those doctors are going to be back in a minute with more clucking consultants, keen to see the barbed wire man. How far back did you go?’ Mark’s eyes narrow. ‘All the way?’

‘Yes.’ I sigh, the memory of the fairground still fresh in my mind. I stare at him, my lips pulling back against my teeth in frustrated determination. ‘I was so close but I couldn’t stay, I couldn’t stay focussed.’

Mark shakes his head, ‘But your limit was 2001, we talked about this, how did you –’

‘It’s my fault.’ Alexia shrugs, her voice thready, ‘I thought I could help. I programmed him to time-travel again after he landed in 2005.’

‘A double jump,’ Mark whispers.

I’m tense again and have to force my body to relax. ‘It’s not your fault,’ I tell Alexia again, ‘or yours,’ I assure Mark, ‘but you said I needed to find my Eureka moment, something that would change things, up the game, let me go back further.’

‘Yeah, but not like this.’ Mark sighs, looking around the room and then back at me, ‘I mean look at you, you’re going to end up killing yourself if you carry on like this.’

We sit in silence for a while, listening to the beeping of machines and distant voices in the corridors. I shift occasionally, testing my movement and the pain associated with it. It’s amazing really, but now the wire has gone, I’m feeling pretty good. I stare at the X-ray and can see how the barbed metal was inside the muscle and fatty tissue, how it missed the important bits of me like the arteries and bone. Lucky, I tell myself, you are bloody lucky Joe.

‘Listen,’ Alexia says eventually, ‘it’s taken me years to learn to meditate, to be able to hypnotise myself, we shouldn’t have…’ She corrects herself, ‘I shouldn’t have expected it to work on the first attempt.’

‘Right,’ Mark agrees, fixing me with his gaze. ‘No more jumps until she’s happy you’re ready.’

I shake my head. ‘You don’t understand,’ I say, solemnly, ‘I don’t think it works like that.’

‘What do you mean?’ Mark asks.

‘I managed to jump again,’ I say, eyes working between them, ‘all the way back but it was only just within my reach.’

‘Maybe you can learn to get better,’ Alexia assures me.

‘It’s not like that,’ I almost snap back at her. ‘I managed a second jump and okay, I messed up, but it was such a stretch to reach ’92.’

‘You can try again,’ Mark suggests, ‘when you’ve recovered.’

‘Maybe,’ I murmur, ‘but time doesn’t wait Mark, not for anyone, and every day I spend here is a day further away from that night.’ I swallow, deep in thought as the realisation lands, an idea that’s been brewing away in my subconscious for a while now. ‘Don’t ask me how I know but I can feel it. Time is like an ocean. We travel through it, rising up as the past fades into darkness below us, and every day here just moves me further away, making it harder and harder to get far enough back.’ I stare at Mark, ‘Don’t you see?’

‘Joe,’ Alexia interjects politely, ‘I know it might feel like that, but it’s –’

‘No,’ I snap, surprised by my own venom, ‘I’m not imagining this, I know. Time is against us, against me.’ My voice cracks. ‘We need to try again, sooner rather than later, before it’s too late.’

‘Joe, come on mate, stop now.’ Mark flashes Alexia a weak smile, a concerned gesture that makes me glow with happiness and frustration in equal measure. ‘Alexia is right mate,’ he continues, ‘you’re going to have to do it her way. You need to heal, then spend time learning and practicing, getting better at this, but doing it as safely as possible.’ He shrugs, and raises both eyebrows. ‘That is, unless you’ve got some magic way to take her with you that you haven’t told me about.’

There is a long silence, the air heavy with his words.

Some magic way to take Alexia with me.

Alexia and I stare at each other, deep understanding rushing silently between us. I turn back to Mark, mouth agape, eyes big and round. He looks back at me in utter confusion. ‘What?’ He asks with genuine innocence, ‘What did I say?’

‘I can take her with me,’ I murmur, excitement coursing through me. ‘If someone is touching me as I travel, they travel too.’

Alexia pulls her hand from mine as if I’m planning to do it right there and then. ‘There’s no way Joe,’ she scoffs, loudly. ‘Absolutely no way I’m doing that again.’

Mark raises his hands and snorts, ‘And I have absolutely no idea what the hell you two are talking about.’

11.

I’m a fast learner when it comes to avoiding things; Mark, on the other hand, is just a fast learner. As I explain the fundamentals of dual time-travelling he listens intently, a deep frown carved into his brow. ‘So, hang on,’ he interjects, glancing over at Alexia who is staring out of my hospital window, ‘you travelled with him?’

‘Yes,’ Alexia replies without turning, her arms folded defensively. ‘Joe seemed in pain and I reached down to grab him,’ she pauses, ‘and then we –’

‘Time-travelled,’ Mark finishes for her, piecing things together quickly. He turns back to me, ‘How far did you go, what were the dates?’

‘We left on the 19th, got pulled forward to Christmas Day.’

‘Fascinating,’ his voice becomes a monotone stream of consciousness. ‘It’s chaos trying to find order, pulling you around until the balance is restored, things appear to be random but they aren’t, almost like entropy.’

I move my legs carefully as he talks and am surprised by how little pain I feel. It could be the huge contrast of course, but as I shift my weight and lift myself higher in the bed I actually feel okay. Bruised and aching, but okay. ‘I hope my tetanus is up to date.’ I smile, rolling my shoulders.

Mark grins, ‘Exactly what I was thinking.’

‘This is just some kind of joke to you is it?’ Alexia snaps, turning her gaze onto us, eyes blazing, ‘I’ve been worried sick.’

Mark and I know enough to stop talking. Alexia shakes her head, cheeks flushed. Her anger was sudden and I suspect the majority of it is born from guilt. I can see it in her eyes. She blames herself for the state I’m in.

Hey, get me; an expert on women all of a sudden.

‘Alexia,’ I say, lifting myself upright, ‘for the last time, this isn’t your fault. I’m a grown-up, I can make my own decisions and I take full responsibility for what just happened and whatever happens next.’

‘Next?’ She snorts.

‘Yes. I made it all the way back to 1992,’ I shrug as if that’s the easy bit. ‘Okay, so I made a bad landing but I can get better at that, and if you came with me we could…’ I pause, taking a breath, ‘We could actually save her.’

‘Joe,’ she says, voice quiet and controlled, ‘there is absolutely no way I am travelling through time again.’ Her voice wavers a little but she lifts her head, jutting her chin forward, ‘For one, it hurts; and two, we don’t know the long term damage we could be doing to ourselves.’ She moves her gaze to Mark, ‘And we don’t know the damage all this meddling could be having on the world either. Your ideas and theories are just that, unproven, not validated, they’re conjecture.’

Mark nods. ‘You’re right,’ he admits simply. ‘It’s the butterfly effect and completely unknown.’

Alexia eyes him and his apparent agreement with suspicion, but doesn’t speak and for the next few minutes the three of us stare at anything but each other.

I eventually catch Alexia’s eye again. ‘Will you just think about it?’ I ask. ‘Please.’

Alexia studies me, frowning, but then slowly her earlier determination shifts into something else, something cooler and altogether more disconcerting. ‘I’m sorry Joe,’ she says, her voice clipped and flat, almost robotic, ‘but I can’t be part of this.’ She inhales, offers me a painful smile and then walks away without looking back.

Shit.

I sigh heavily, glancing over at Mark, who somehow managed to blend into the wall the whole time. He walks over to the bed and perches next to me, ‘She’ll come round.’

‘You told her she was right,’ I snap. ‘You agreed that we shouldn’t be messing with this.’

He leans in, ‘Sometimes it’s worth a fight, other times it’s better to let them win the first round, wait for the sting to come out of their tail.’ His brow narrows, ‘Trust me, I’ve learnt the hard way.’

I hope he’s right this time.

‘How long have you known her?’ Mark asks.

‘Not that long,’ I reply. ‘Why?’

Mark shrugs, ‘Just wondered.’ He looks me up and down again and then locks eyes with me. ‘She called me, asked me to come here, seems to genuinely care about you.’ He leans in, ‘But I’m not sure she’s going to time-travel with you again.’

‘You might be right,’ I admit with a frown.

‘But I will. If you need someone to come back with you, I’ll do it.’

I feel a swell of pride and love for Mark, my old friend, back when it matters the most. I place my hand on his shoulder and nod. ‘Thanks,’ I reply, voice wavering, ‘I appreciate it.’

‘But it needs to be her doesn’t it?’ He offers, voice flat and without inflection.

I nod with a sigh, ‘She started all this and if she came with me I’m convinced she would help me jump again.’

‘But why does it have to be her?’ Mark asks, ‘Can’t we just find another hypnotherapist?’

I smile back at him. ‘I trust her,’ I say simply. ‘And that matters.’

Mark draws in a long breath. ‘Okay,’ he nods and then repeats it again, almost defeated by the simplicity of my reasoning. A short silence follows and Mark seems distracted, wrestling with something else.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask, carefully.

‘You saw something didn’t you?’ He asks, staring down at his hands, ‘You viewed something you shouldn’t have.’

‘Sorry,’ I say, genuinely confused, ‘I’m not with you.’

Mark still doesn’t look up. He swallows, ‘With Sian I mean, you saw something, it’s why you talked to her on your own, why you met her all those years ago.’

‘Mark,’ I say, voice breathy, nervous. ‘Listen –’

‘You didn’t come on to her at all,’ he almost laughs, shaking his head. ‘You were warning her. She was seeing someone else, wasn’t she?’ He finally looks at me but I don’t see anger in his eyes, I see something else. He doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘It’s okay Joe,’ he says, gently, ‘I mean it.’ He looks around the room, his shoulders hunched low. ‘I’m just sorry I didn’t believe you.’

The past comes rushing back, all the years I wanted to tell Mark that his wife was having an affair and all the years since, wondering if I should have done things differently. ‘What will you do?’ I ask.

He shrugs, ‘It’s a long time ago and at the moment…’ He pauses, finding a sad smile, ‘We’re doing okay actually, things are good.’ He stares at me, blinking, ‘Sometimes the right thing to do is nothing.’

I nod. ‘That feels right mate,’ I say, ‘but not for me, not for Amy.’

Mark holds my stare, ‘Of course. If you need Alexia Finch then maybe I can persuade her to help you.’ He clenches his jaw, ‘Will you let me try?’

I’m locked into the tractor beam of Mark D’Stellar’s persuasion. ‘You might as well,’ I murmur, ‘I think I’m going to be stuck here for a while.’

He nods and an hour later I’m alone.

Stuck here, but not for too long, Joe.

I can feel the heavy weight of time beneath me. My analogy of the ocean and its depth, haunting me, the past growing more distant with each and every moment.

12.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Ugh. Week one, they flushed me full of antibiotics and various people in white coats prodded, scanned, and stroked their chins. Week 2 – I was up and walking again, also see hobbling – some police bloke who reminded me a bit of Kiefer Sutherland paid me a visit. He seemed suspicious as hell, but left with nothing but a headache. In the end, all their questions led to the same conclusions. There was no way to make sense of my barbed wire disappearing trick, and no legal reason to detain me in hospital. So, today, I simply discharged myself and limped out of there. The metal from the fence caused some scarring of the muscle on the inside of my right thigh. That still aches like hell, but apart from that the only evidence of my torture are the circular scabs left by the exit wounds. They itch, which I think means they’re healing. Oh, and my new walking style, which has all the painful-to-watch qualities of a chiropractic patient leaving the ministry of funny walks.

It may hurt, but when you’ve been bed ridden, being mobile again is a huge pleasure. I shuffle along the road to Alexia Finch’s house, a wooden walking stick – shaped like Charlie Chaplin’s cane – in my right hand for balance. I glance up at the late January sky, which is angry and dark, and as I knock on Alexia’s door hear the first spats of rain on the path behind me. It reminds me of the day Alexia arrived at my house, calling up to my window, telling me she believed me.

Alexia opens the door, eyeing me carefully over her dark, thick-rimmed glasses. She’s dressed in dark jeans and a grey jumper that crosses over her chest in thick layers. Her hair is up and neatly bound in a complicated arrangement of circles. I haven’t seen or spoken to her since she left the hospital, since she told me she couldn’t help me anymore. She looks me up and down and then welcomes me in with a smile. I follow her, shuffling into her kitchen, embarrassingly out of breath. That’s when I’m hit by a cacophony of aromas; tomato soup, fresh basil, celery, warm bread. My stomach clenches and spins.

‘How are you feeling?’ She asks, offering me seat.

‘Okay actually,’ I reply, sliding carefully down into the kitchen chair, leaning on my walking stick as I do. ‘Never better.’ I sniff the air, enthusiastically, ‘Hmmm. Smells good.’

‘I thought you might need it after all that hospital food,’ she says, heading to the oven and then aggressively stirring a large saucepan on the hob. I’ve seen her house before. It’s immaculate, tidy as a show home, but her kitchen is the exact opposite. It’s cluttered with spices, books and ingredients, clearly a place for the soul. Alexia returns with two steaming bowls of soup and a large warm loaf, which she tears open allowing clouds of steam to escape. The smell is divine and we eat; small talk and good food enough for a while.

Eventually Alexia says, ‘Mark came to see me.’ She doesn’t look up, she begins wiping her bowl clean with a small chunk of bread.

‘Yeah, I know,’ I admit.

She looks up, ‘He tried to persuade me to help you.’

‘And did he?’ I ask, a little too quickly.

Alexia tilts her head in thought, ‘I’m scared, Joe. You got hurt but it could have been so much worse.’

I nod, my time in hospital ensuring I’m prepared for this conversation. ‘I’m not asking you to take responsibility Alexia. It’s my life and I’m willing to risk it to save my sister.’ I fold my arms, ‘You must understand that?’

She stares at me intently, ‘I do, but it doesn’t change the fact that if you get horribly injured again, or even die, I will have helped.’ She sighs. ‘I’m sorry Joe but I can’t be part of that.’

She’s afraid; she cares about me and under different circumstances that would mean something. But, right now, in this moment, her concerns are just a hurdle, an obstacle to be overcome. Mark got close, but Plan A hasn’t worked and even though I know this will be hard on us both I decide to move to Plan B. I offer Alexia a thin, understanding smile. ‘You know, I’ve blamed myself for Amy’s disappearance over and over again but I think I finally understand.’ I pause, leaning in. ‘It isn’t my fault.’

Alexia studies me, her face a complicated canvas of emotions. She begins nodding, her lips gently pursed in approval. ‘That’s good, Joe,’ she replies, soft and caring, ‘really good.’

I pull out my Father’s diary and place it on the kitchen table between us. ‘We blame ourselves, but sometimes it’s just the world, it can be cruel and unfair.’ I tap the diary, feeling the power of the words within. ‘Reading this made me realise that Amy’s death has been a poisoned baton, handed down to every member of my family.’ I wait, allowing my words the space they need to land. ‘And I refuse to hold that baton anymore, refuse to play my part.’

Alexia frowns, uncertain, suspicious. ‘So you’re going to let it go?’ She asks, tentatively, ‘Accept the past and move on?’

‘No,’ I say simply. ‘Don’t you see? You were right. I was afraid of failing. But I’m not anymore, in fact the only thing I’m afraid of is not trying. I’m going to save Amy and all I ask of you is that you come with me on the first step of that journey, get me to base camp, help me reach that. Then, it’s down to me to climb the mountain alone.’ I pick up the diary and turn to a bookmarked page.

‘Joe,’ Alexia murmurs, eyes glistening with concern, ‘you don’t have to read if –’

‘Yes,’ I cut in, determined, ‘I do.’

13.

MARCH 1996

Every day I wake and it’s the same; a few blissful seconds of life before the dark wave pulls me under and reminds me that Amy, my beautiful daughter, is gone.

Four years. Yet it feels more like a thousand, and still so many questions, unanswerable questions, that repeat over and over in my mind. They gnaw on some delicate, sensitive part of my brain, day and night – especially night – they burrow in and there they stay, never letting go. Ever.

Memories of happiness haunt me. How am I supposed to cope with this?

I built a family. Something good, and if things went wrong, I fixed them. I always fixed them. But I can’t this time. Life is broken. Permanently.

And the worst thing of all, the thing that scares me the most, is that I don’t care anymore.

– – –

I stop reading, aware of a pain in my throat; a tightness that feels as though I’ve swallowed a large tablet without water. I glance up at Alexia who is staring down at her hands, her expression impossible to read. She looks up. ‘Have you read this before?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Just once.’

She nods, ‘You’re using it to persuade me aren’t you?’

‘Maybe,’ I reply, ‘but you need to hear it. You need to understand why I have to do this.’

‘But it’s emotional blackmail Joe.’ She glowers at me. ‘That’s not fair.’

Alexia’s right of course. I came here with an agenda, and I’m using my Father’s words like weapons; cutting through her final defences. I’m not proud of myself, I can’t deny that seeing her again and eating together has been good, really good in fact, but time doesn’t sleep, time doesn’t enjoy company.

I clear my throat and move to my Father’s last diary entry. I try to read the words rather than feel them. It’s the only way I will get through this.

JULY 1999

I first heard it around six months ago. A whisper at first, barely audible, calling my name.

Thomas… Thomas.

I would search the house, convinced I would find someone playing a nasty trick on me. I never did of course, because the voice wasn’t real, but that didn’t matter. It kept going and that’s when it started asking me the same question, over and over again. ‘Do you know?’ it would hiss. I had no idea what it was asking me. I would call out, asking for more, asking what it meant.

And then the voice would tut and even laugh and then disappear for while, leaving me sobbing, frustrated. Judy asked me to go to the doctor and I did. I took their drugs and nodded and, for a while, all was quiet but then it started again.

‘Do you know?’ the ghoul would taunt me, whispering slowly ‘Do you know?’

‘Know what for God’s sake?’ I would cry out and then wait, shivering.

Looking back, I realise now that the voice was trying to help me. You see, all the questions I had after Amy disappeared, in the end actually boiled down to just one. The voice kept asking ‘Do you know?’ and I finally figured out what it meant. It was asking if I knew whether she was alive!

‘I know,’ I told it eventually, smiling and crying.

‘Good,’ the voice whispered in reply. ‘Tell me.’

‘She’s dead,’ I managed, voice shaking.

‘Yeeesssss,’ came the slow reply, ‘and you know what you must do.’

I cried for days, finally accepting that Amy was gone. I have no idea how I knew, whether she was kidnapped, assaulted and then murdered but, either way, she was dead and in the end, the ‘how’ makes no difference, which I appreciate may sound cold but it’s true, for me.

She’s dead and she’s never coming back. I don’t expect anyone to comprehend why this knowledge brings me peace. Only those who have been through what I have could possibly understand that. But it does. Somehow.

I only hope that my family will understand.

The voice is calling me again, it’s time you see. Time to go. I cannot remain here. I need to be with Amy.

My life here is done. It had a purpose. Once. But not anymore.

Forgive me. I love you both very much.

_ _ _

I close the book and feel tears gathering, the buzzing of grief at the back my throat again. I grimace and rub at my eyes with the back of my hand, ‘Sometimes,’ I begin, my voice slow and wavering, ‘things happen and we accept them, but not this, I can change this, lift this awful curse on my family, undo all this pain.’

Alexia glowers back at me, ‘Joe, this isn’t fair.’ But the fire has gone out of her resolve.

‘What is fair?’ I ask, ‘A seven year old girl missing? Lost and never seen again? Is that fair? My Father was a good man Alexia, he looked after us, cared for us, but in the end he went mad, voices told him to kill himself and he listened because he felt the world was against him.’ I lift the book and shake it in my hand, like a preacher and as I do a photograph dances to the floor, sliding like a leaf through the air before landing at my feet. It’s a picture of Amy and my Father, perhaps six months before she went missing. It must have been pushed hard into the back of his diary because I hadn’t spotted it before. I pick it up and stare at the ghosts of my family, happy and unsuspecting victims of a dark future. I lose myself in it for a while, sigh heavily and then hand it to Alexia.

‘She’s beautiful,’ Alexia says, softly.

‘Yes,’ I agree, ‘and if we save her, we save him too.’

Alexia looks up at me, frowning, ‘You can’t know that.’

Again I raise the diary, ‘Losing Amy drove him mad. Remove that reason and he won’t kill himself. It’s simple as that.’ I pace the kitchen, my limp almost gone, ‘And I meant what I said before, in the hospital. I can feel time running away from me, the past becoming darker each day. We need to do this Alexia.’ I stop and lift up my head. ‘We need to do it now.’

She stares at the picture and then up at me, eyes alight with something new. Her frown softens and eventually, seemingly reluctantly, she nods.

‘Is that a yes?’ I ask.

She nods again, ‘But we need to do this quickly, before I change my mind.’

14.

‘Will this be enough?’ Alexia asks carefully.

I fan the items out over the floor of my study; newspaper articles – some original, some printed out, police reports of Amy’s disappearance and various photographs. My focus items, my links to the past. ‘Yes,’ I reply, ‘I think so. I’ve spent the last few hours soaking them in.’

‘And you’re sure about the landing this time?’

I nod, ‘Super safe as Mark would say.’

‘Did you talk to him?’

‘Yeah,’ I nod. ‘He wished us both luck.’

She nods and flashes me a quick smile, ‘Okay. So, the plan is we both travel to 2005 and then I send you back to 1992.’

‘Yep,’ I say easily, as if we’re discussing flight times. ‘Absolutely.’

‘And in 2005, we don’t need to worry about our clothes disappearing or brain freeze pulling you back.’

‘I’ve triple checked it on Mark’s spreadsheet. The first jump is ten years. Presuming we get that right and land in 2005, we will have twelve hours to prepare for the second jump.’

‘Plenty,’ Alexia nods. ‘But what then?’ She asks. ‘What about when you get back to 1992, how long will you have there? Does it reset? Is it the same rules?’

‘I’ve done a few calculations.’ I shrug. ‘My second jump will be thirteen years back in time, if the rules reset, then I get an hour, tops.’

Alexia’s eyes narrow a little and she offers the briefest of smiles. ‘It’s enough,’ she assures me and then walks across the room towards my vinyl collection. She finds something and when she looks back at me I’m struck by her natural beauty. Her hair is up and plaited today. She’s dressed in a green jumper and jeans with flat shoes and hardly any make-up, and yet she’s truly beautiful. For a second I almost tell her, but suspect these emotions are typical for someone about to make a dangerous journey. I’m sure that plenty of men going to war fell in love in a heartbeat.

‘How about this one?’ She asks, lifting an album and raising her eyebrows.

She’s holding a classical record, one I don’t even recognise.

‘Hmmm,’ I reply, as politely as I can, as if I’m actually considering it. She nods and tells me to close my eyes, a mischievous look in hers. I sit, crossed legs on the rug in the centre of my study and do as I’m told. I close my eyes and wait and when I hear the needle descend and the music begins, I smile. It’s perfect.

The Beatles have played an important role in my life. Taught me about unity, passion and ability. They have been my soundtrack. Why would that change now? I don’t need hippy trippy mellowness, I need confidence, bravado and a good old dose of British rock.

‘Tomorrow Never Knows’ spills from my speakers and fills me; its futuristic drum beat and vocals transcend time itself. Lennon sings of floating Downstream, compels me to turn off my mind.

I’m listening, John. I’m with you mate.

I open my eyes and Alexia is now opposite me, also cross legged. The music is loud and she smiles, shaking her head. ‘This isn’t quite what I had in mind,’ she shouts.

‘But you like it?’

‘Of course!’ She scowls. ‘I love it! It’s the Beatles!’

I’m reminded of the man I met on the train on my way to Bristol. He was right after all. You’re either a Beatles or a Rolling Stones fan. Never both.

Alexia takes my hand, ‘You’ve carried this your whole life, the weight of Amy and your father.’ She leans forward, ‘It’s important you let go of it all.’

John sings of ‘surrendering to the void’ and I draw in a long, deep breath. ‘Fear,’ I say.

She nods, ‘You’ve been given an opportunity to go back and change things, to save Amy.’ She pauses again, eyes locked on mine. ‘If you’re going to do this you need to let go of fear. I know you’re brave, that you would do anything to save her. Just don’t be afraid to fail or it will hold you back.’

She’s right – as always – and I feel lighter than I have for years, and as Tomorrow Never Knows reaches its midway point I feel my whole body tingle with nervous excitement.

It’s all going to be okay.

‘You’re falling into a deep sleep, Joe,’ Alexia purrs. ‘Completely relaxed and totally under my control.’

‘Totally,’ I reply, her hands warm and soft in mine. I feel the pull of time, can visualise the shape of 2005 and the place I have chosen for us to land. I get an overwhelming sense that Alexia is meant to be with me, she is supposed to do this, and feel the present sliding away like an avalanche as Alexia and I cease to be.

15.

It’s darker and a little cooler than it just was. My eyes remain closed but I feel nature and the gentle push of a late evening breeze on my skin. I open my eyes and take in my new surroundings.

‘Is this right, Joe?’ Alexia asks, ‘Is this okay?’

I look around and nod. ‘This is Leckhampton Hill,’ I say, smiling. ‘I used to walk here a lot when I was younger, it has a great view of the whole of Cheltenham.’

Alexia is kneeling opposite me, holding my right hand. She stands and I follow her, walking towards the edge of the hill, our hands locked together. We look out over the town, a sparkling mass of white and golden lights.

I point. ‘You see there? That’s the fairground.’ I shrug, ‘Well, where they held it back in ’92.’

‘And that’s why you came here, because you can see it?’

‘Yes,’ I say, nodding. ‘It helps to visualise exactly where I want to land and from up here, I can see it all. Plus, this hill is somewhere safe, somewhere I have good memories.’

‘And we’re definitely in 2005?’ She asks.

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I think so. It feels like it.’

She continues to peer out over Cheltenham, ‘But how do you know?’

‘Brain freeze is part of it – and I don’t feel that yet – but I’m starting to get my bearings with all of this time-travelling I think, starting to get a sense of where I am in the overall picture.’

The moon is full and high and there isn’t much traffic on the roads. The night air is cool but pleasant. I estimate that morning will be here within an hour or two and am hit with a feeling I haven’t felt for a long time. The wondrous, magical sense of nature and being connected with it while everyone else sleeps.

Christ. I am a hippy after all.

Before meeting Alexia and becoming the time-travelling weirdo I am now, I was a different kind of weirdo. I used to get up at 3 a.m. and walk around Cheltenham. It suited me because no one was around. The feeling you get on an empty beach or in a forest so dense with trees you can’t imagine buildings. There’s something wonderful about being awake, while the world sleeps. Animals and creatures exploring around you. I realise something else too, something new. I realise that it’s good to have someone to share it with.

‘Joe,’ Alexia says, ‘I know we don’t have long but I wanted to tell you something.’

I turn to her. ‘Okay,’ I say, nervously.

She swallows, looks down and then back up at me, her eyes glistening in the moonlight, ‘I’ve enjoyed getting to know you and I want you to come back safely.’ She pauses and frowns as though she’s done a very bad of job of something extremely simple.

Her hand is still in mine and I give it a jovial shake. ‘I will,’ I say laughing and then manage to stop myself before saying something really stupid.

Alexia bites her bottom lip and then leans in and I have absolutely no idea what to do. I freeze. Her head is close to mine and she kisses my right cheek as I stare over her shoulder, mouth agape. I feel the amazing warmth of her lips, pressing against my skin, the sweet smell of her hair. She holds the kiss for a few seconds and then pulls back, smiling, with an awkward shrug. ‘That was for luck,’ she says.

‘Thank you,’ I manage, glad of the darkness and hoping it hides my shock, ‘I needed it.’

‘Right.’ Alexia sighs. ‘Come on, we need to concentrate, we need get you back, Joe.’

I nod and focus on the site of the fairground, in particular the field next to it. I soak in the space around me, the date, the evening. I don’t think about losing Amy, or failing, I focus on finding her, on saving her.

‘And you’re sure you don’t want me to come back with you?’

I turn to her with a scowl, ‘We talked about this.’

‘I know,’ she admits, giving me an awkward look. ‘But now we’re here I guess I –’

‘No, Alexia,’ I say firmly, ‘I cannot put you in danger like that. Your job is to send me to 1992.’

‘But I might be able to help,’ she pleads.

I give her hand one final squeeze and then carefully let go. ‘Trust me, this is right, this stage of the journey is mine and mine alone.’

She nods her reluctant agreement and I breathe a quiet sigh of relief. I told her what she needed to hear and left out how fierce and dangerous the last jump was. There’s no way I would take her with me, but the fact that she would even consider it makes me glow inside.

‘You’ll be okay,’ she assures me. ‘Just stay relaxed.’

John Lennon was right. Love is all, and he got it spot on when he said, love is everyone. I can hear him still, ‘Tomorrow Never Knows’ playing in my mind and when Alexia speaks, her voice somehow harmonises with his.

‘Let go of your worries and thoughts Joe, just let go.’ Her voice is silky, yet sparkling like Diamonds. Alexia in the sky with Diamonds. My smile widens, I can feel 1992, so close I can almost touch it.

‘Nothing bad can happen to you, Joe,’ she assures me. ‘You’re going to find Amy and save her.’

‘This is not dying’, John sings and I think, You’re right, this is living. Putting right that which is wrong. I close my eyes, listen to Alexia’s voice and time slips away. She is gone. I focus, breathing slowly and with purpose, knowing that this time will be different to the last. I am in control now. There is no barbed wire, there is no way that’s going to happen again. I clench at the thought though, the pain still raw and fresh in my mind. Why the hell am I thinking about barbed wire?! My heartbeat increases and I sense gravity around me, like the moment at the very crest of a rollercoaster, just before the drop. I feel that falling sensation now and moan as I open my eyes.

I can see places, mashed together in a distant and endless landscape, one I don’t belong in yet. The passage of time distorts, splintering, speeding up and spinning around me like paintings drawn into a huge whirlpool. I look at my hands and arms. My skin is silvery, translucent and shiny and I see my blood pumping beneath the surface. I’m phasing again; in and out of existence. ‘No!’ I cry, but my scream is distant and weak, garbled like digital interference. I am dough being stretched by the hands of a million hours. This is worse than before; day becoming night at impossible speed. Panic bites at me. I close my eyes again, the pressing sensation of gravity and motion sending waves of nausea through me. I breathe and, in the midst of the storm, do what I can to draw in the calmness that Alexia brings.

Don’t let it in Joe. I hear her say.

It’s fear. Let go of fear.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I see Amy and my Dad. I see Shane Rammage, Liv and her abusive boyfriend, and I see myself and the years spent alone.

I’ve been surrounded by fear.

When I open my eyes again, the rotating imagery has slowed a little, just enough to see the field next to the fairground. It passes by me quickly though, like a passing truck on a motorway. I see people in the distance, the Ferris wheel, lit up and brilliant. But, then it’s gone, replaced by Cheltenham High Street during the day and then an unknown office, people working, God knows when. I could land in any one of these snapshots and be miles from Amy and my goal, not to mention months away from the night she went missing.

I see the fairground come around again and then it hits me. Suddenly. And it all makes sense. Revolutions per minute. RPM. 33 RPM. The world is vinyl, and time is song, etched forever into its surface. John Lennon may have been the Walrus, but I am the needle at the end of a tone arm and all I have to do – if I am to listen to the right track – is land right in the gap between the songs. The slower I drop and the more careful I am, the smoother the listen, the neater the entry.

I hold this imagery in my mind and smile. Sometimes what we need is right in front of us, we just have to connect the dots and embrace what we already know. The fairground arrives again and I descend, gliding down into the nearby field with a newfound confidence and control. Silently and slowly I sink down, static drawing me towards the rotating Earth. There are people near me, but they can’t see me; not yet. I’m catching up with time and when my feet finally touch the ground I feel the undulating rotation of the Earth itself and the brakes of the universe pushing up through me, grounding me.

Houston.

The needle has landed.

I breathe and laugh as sound floods into me; the fair, traffic, voices, music. The present becomes the now. 1992; the night Amy went missing. I take in my new, yet very old and familiar surroundings. I remember this night as a fourteen year old boy, walking here with Amy, the sky, candy pink and orange. She loved it. I glance to the horizon now and see the burning red glow of a setting sun and above me the dark blue of early evening. Amy and I arrived just as the fairground lights came on. I turn and watch them again flicker into life as a crowd roars its appreciation. Not far from here, Amy and I have just arrived. That thought triggers the first bite of brain freeze at the top of my spine. It passes but I estimate I have thirty minutes.

It’s okay though. Half an hour is enough to save her.

I’m coming Amy, I’m coming…

Part Seven - Got To Get You Into My Life

1.

This time, my landing in 1992 – compared to my previous barbed wire massacre – was smooth and controlled. I appeared out of no-where, landed in a field next to the fairground like a stylus onto vinyl and none of the people around me noticed my arrival. It’s almost as though they were hypnotised; programmed not to notice a man suddenly popping into view. Or perhaps, we only see what we can comprehend or understand. Either way, I’m here and no one is screaming, which in my book of time-travelling shenanigans is a positive result. I remain still for a few seconds, breathing and soaking in 1992.

Part of me doubted I would ever make it this far, another part always knew I would and is currently whooping and cheering and congratulating. I roll my shoulders and frown, aware that I have nothing to celebrate. I may be near Amy in the practical sense but I’m still no-where near saving her. As if to remind me – for the second time since my awesome arrival – I feel the chilling bite of time nibbling at the nape of my neck. I estimate I have thirty minutes here – I’m getting better at this so I think I’m pretty accurate – and need to make every one of them count.

I draw in one more long, controlled breath and then head towards the entrance, a giant horseshoe-shaped sign, illuminated against the ink blue sky by a string of light bulbs. It reads: ‘WELCOME TO KING’S FUNFAIR!’

A shudder of familiarity runs over my entire body like surf. It’s one thing to remember a place in time, but it’s completely different to actually relive it; especially as an adult. I remember passing under this sign with Amy, a lifetime ago. As I enter the fairground, walking between stalls and rides, the sweet smell of candy, mixed with the bitterness of diesel generators I realise I’m smiling. My mission is to save Amy and I am focussed on that, but there is a wonder to time-travel that’s impossible to ignore. It’s raw and powerful and dare I say it’s even addictive.

My thoughts are broken by another cheer as the black outline of the Ferris Wheel bursts into life, multicoloured lights travelling its spokes in a quick, hypnotic rhythm. I’m reminded of my last conversation with Alexia. She made me plan and I’m glad of that now. 1992 is a retro, sensory overload and I need to stay focussed. Amy is here but I don’t know exactly where at this moment in time. I’ve viewed this event many times of course – strapped-in, like a rollercoaster – but now I’m here, I can’t seem get my bearings, in place or time. Frustration kicks in; I knew that it would. I just want to scream Amy’s name, grab her and run, but that could cause a scene – which could change things of course – but I need to be smarter than that. Mark’s warnings are still raw in my mind. I don’t want to create new problems in this timeline if I can help it. Plus, this may be my only chance; so I need to be smart. I’m going to head to the rifle range, try to talk to Amy after she wanders off and perhaps distract her long enough so she doesn’t go to the woods in the first place. Sounds simple enough. But. Before any of that I have my usual priority, the same thorn in my backside as always.

Clothing.

I have thirty minutes here, which means my current clothes will go pop in fifteen. It’s the rules. I didn’t make them, but I know one thing for sure; a naked, middle-aged man won’t last long at a funfair. I need to find something to wear. Pronto.

A song starts to play in the distance, accompanied by screams as one of the rides begins its trade. KWS; Please Don’t Go. I remember it; an ear worm of a tune and agree with the sentiment entirely as brain freeze nips at the base of my neck again, chilling my spine. That’s when I see a girl, about Amy’s age, holding hands with a man. I freeze, unable to take my eyes from them.

Jesus. Is that…?

‘Can I help you sir?’  A basso voice to my right asks, making me physically jump.

I turn and face a man much taller than me, a few pounds heavier and – I would guess – around half my age. SECURITY is embroidered on his shirt in gold FBI style lettering. He’s chewing gum, head cocked to the side, blue eyes piercing into me.

I look back at the girl who isn’t Amy after all. She’s a little older and happily holding what appears to be her Father’s hand. I exhale loudly, my heart starting back up with a jolt. ‘Er, no I’m good,’ I manage to say to the security guard. ‘Er, thanks though.’

The guard narrows his stare, ‘Interesting choice of clothing.’

‘Yeah.’ I laugh, a little too loudly. ‘It’s a dare. You know what kids are like.’

He glances over at the girl, the one I seemed so interested in and folds his arms. ‘Hmmmm,’ he mumbles, suspiciously. ‘I’m watching you.’ He holds my stare and is about to continue his questioning when he’s distracted by a group of kids who look way too young to be smoking. He heads off towards them, shouting and pumping his fist as I let out a huge sigh of relief.

I got away with it but I’m burning minutes here, can feel the weight of every second. I walk purposefully towards the perimeter of the fairground, praying I don’t suddenly end up in my birthday suit.

2.

I duck under a fence and sneak into the ‘staff only’ section of the fairground. I’m moving as quietly as I can but don’t have the luxury or time to sneak. There are around twenty caravans and motorhomes here of various sizes, the temporary abodes of the fairground workers. Most are locked and have nothing outside and I’m just beginning to give up hope when I hit the jackpot. There’s a washing line hanging between two of the biggest caravans and it’s loaded with dry clothes. I hear voices and music seeping from inside them so grab the nearest items that look as though they might fit, and fall back into the shadows. Beggars can’t be choosers, my mother used to say. She also used to say, Lying and stealing are next door neighbours.

As I sneak away – t-shirt and jeans in hand – I strike lucky on a pair of flip-flops, left on a step outside. I grab those too and head for the outer perimeter of the workers’ enclosure. I find a good changing spot behind a generator and under the cover of a large tree. I strip, hiding my soon to be gone clothes and pull on my new jeans. They are stone-washed, baggy around the leg, tight at the waist and too short. But, they’re better than nothing. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for the t-shirt. As I pull it over my head and down I’m horrified to discover it doesn’t reach much further than my belly button. I pull it hard with both hands until the fabric begins to tear. I let go and sigh in frustration as it crawls back up, revealing a good two inches of my torso. I complete my ‘Definitely a weirdo’ outfit with the flip-flops and dread to think how I might look. I spare a moment to hate time-travel but know I can’t wallow. I need to make a plan. Quickly.

Get to the rifle range, watch Amy and follow her.

I jog quickly back towards the fair, icicles forming in my skull, the lights and sounds making me feel queasy with anticipation and worry. I reach the main drag. I’ve been in this time for ten minutes or so but it’s busier already, darker too and packed full of people. I catch my reflection, squashed and distorted in a mirror designed to make you look like a munchkin. It isn’t funny though. I look like some kind of Kids from Fame reject. My t-shirt is white, cropped at the waist and has an image of Michael Jackson in black leather. Under it, sprayed in red letters is the name of his album, BAD.

Yep. I couldn’t agree more. I look really, really bad.

Although, to be fair, most of the people around me are freaks too. I’ve seen this fair in my viewings and imagined time-travelling here many times, but nothing could have prepared me for actually being here. The weirdness, the culture shock of familiarity, impossibly mixed with newness; the depth of my past seen through adult eyes. And, unlike my viewings, I can interact now and everywhere I look I see new memories. Kids wearing crazy looking clothes, which to me look retro but are, of course, not at all. Music that belongs on a ‘90s classic radio station playing out, confident, fresh and new. Adults look as though they have walked in from some terribly over the top sit-com. Even their features look odd, as though they have been shaped from a mould very different to the people I left behind. They cut an irregular shape in the world and I realise – smiling again – that it’s their hair. For starters there’s a lot of it; horrendous fashion mistakes; perms (Julia Roberts has a lot to answer for), quiffs and flat-tops; all of them misguided horrors. And there’s something else different too. Everyone has their heads up. Either looking at each other or, at the very least, where they’re going. They seem… present.

No mobile phones.

I laugh. I can’t help it. 1992 is (and was) wrong in so many ways, yet there’s a big part of me that remembers liking it immensely. I was fourteen; the future was all there for the taking. My smile fades as I realise this very night was probably the last time I felt that way.

I assure myself that if I change this, if I save Amy then it might also change other things for the better too. That thought sends gooseflesh bursting over me, running hot up my back and cold over my shoulders.

Save Amy and I change it all.

3.

That’s when I see Vinny, chatting enthusiastically to the lads in the band who are sauntering, moody and serious, through the crowd. I have to stop myself from calling out to my friend who won’t know me for another twenty-odd years. I notice Vinny has his camera out and realise they must be heading for their photo shoot. Is it that time already? Shit. I need to move. I’m guessing they are heading near the rifle range but I need to be sure. As they pass me, I ask two teenage boys where it is and they look me up and down. One sneers and then points behind him. ‘Down there, past the ghost train,’ he says, then spits and they both begin to laugh. I run, not caring one bit how I look or what anyone thinks of me.

I push through the crowds, which have ceased to be a nineties novelty and returned to the malevolent sea they’ve been my whole life. Everyone is a potential suspect and I berate myself for forgetting that. Someone here knows what happened to Amy. Raw suspicion consumes me as I run, sweat pouring down my back, at odds with the scratching ice along my spine. A thought occurs to me. What if fear makes brain freeze worse?

I don’t have time for speculation or conjecture. I do my best to banish negativity from my mind. Ahead, I catch up with Vinny and the lads. I walk just behind them and in the distance see the carousel, golden horses spinning around. As a fourteen-year-old I staggered there, panicked and shouting after Amy went missing. I’m close. I run past Vinny, not even daring to glance back and there, shining like an oasis in a desert, I see the rifle range. It’s smaller than I remember but still enticing, with large gifts available to those with an eagle-eye. My heart is doing its best to escape and just when I think I can’t stand the suspense any more I see her. I see Amy and everything is still. Sounds drift away and I feel the overwhelming burst of energy that only love can bring. My sister, not in a dream or a viewing, but alive and beautiful. Seven years old and innocent, giggling and smiling. I see myself too, fourteen years old, unaware of the horror that is about to unfold. I swallow, rubbing sweat from my eyes. I tell myself to breathe and manage two steps forward.

The man running the stall – I always thought of him as the Artful Dodger – leans down and whispers in Amy’s ear and then leans back, grinning. Amy is doing her thing, charming him with conversation. I remember this, she’s telling him her brother is a good shot. Artful Dodger laughs as a crowd draws in. Again, I manage a few more steps, closing the twenty or so feet gap between me and my past.

‘Roll up, roll up!’ The Dodger cries. ‘The world famous, eagle-eyed legend that is burning Joseph bridges is taking the stand.’

I may be, but brain freeze reminds me that time is actually the one calling the shots. I wince, gritting my teeth against the pain that rips from the base of my spine all the way over my skull and into my jaw. This is the worst it’s been, and I expected it to be, but I’m damned if it’s taking me yet. I watch Young Joe step up and take the gun. He glances to his right and I follow his gaze to Sian Burrows, flanked by Vicky Sharp and Wendy Nelson. Sian – once a vision of beauty and utter perfection to me – looks impossibly young. Her make-up is heavily applied and I see the ghost of who she will become hidden behind the veil of youth. She smiles and winks – I remember how that used to make my whole body swim – but my reaction as an adult is pure revulsion. As if that wasn’t bad enough, to my horror, Mark’s future wife – for some weird, unknown reason – turns and fixes her gaze on me. Future me. Old, oddly dressed me. I look away but when I look back she’s still looking at me, now tapping at her friends and pointing in my direction. What the hell? Why is she looking at me? She scowls and then smiles and I am utterly lost. Does she know something I…

A tap on my shoulder. I turn expecting FBI Security Guard to be there but instead I’m greeted by another man. He’s casually dressed, middle-aged and well groomed. His eyes sparkle with a suspicious intensity but when he speaks he’s calm and controlled.

‘What are you doing?’ He asks and I’m taken aback by the directness of his question and the speed at which my situation seems to be unravelling.

‘How do you mean?’ I ask, eyes darting between him and the range. I hear the first metallic ding of a target being hit and the rippling cheer of the gathered crowd.

‘Listen, this isn’t what you think, I’m not here to...’ But I stop, because I can see something in this man’s eyes. He doesn’t care what I say, isn’t going to buy any of the crap stories I’m about to feed him and he isn’t going to just let me wander off. He’s probably a father, supremely protective and suspicious of blokes who hang out at fairgrounds watching children.

Shit, shit and shit again. This cannot be happening!

‘What are you really doing here?’ The man asks, pale lips tightening.

Another shot rings out and I see my younger self celebrating, as Amy takes a few careful steps away. She looks around nervously and then commits to leaving. She’s going, fleeing the rifle range and heading out to the woods alone. I look back at the man but this time I don’t see him, I see Shane Rammage. I see cola stained teeth and smell the bitterness of his breath. My hand curls tightly into a ball and the last thing I see as I punch him to the ground is pure, unexpected shock that I hit him at all.

4.

I don’t wait to make sure he’s down, don’t even know if he hits the floor because I turn on my heels and run. There are gasps from people around me and I hear someone call out, angrily, but I’m gone and against every internal alarm in my body I run away from Amy. I need to separate myself from the scene of the punching and then double back.

My legs howl their disapproval, my barbed wire injuries not yet fully healed. I growl back at them, warning them that this isn’t the time, that they should man up and get on with the job in hand. I dart left and run straight into the middle of a potential pile-up. Dodgems. Electrified bumper cars, with long poles attached to a crackling metal ceiling, whir and spin violently around me, headlights flashing. The metal floor – or track – is shaped in an oval and thirty feet across. I lunge, jump and almost fall across the floor, waiting and then sprinting, like the hero in the game Frogger. I almost make it but at the last minute a car veers towards me, catching my shin and sending me spinning around like a top. I pirouette and fall flat on my backside – which I’m sure was a hell of a thing to see, especially in this get-up – and stare up at the drivers. A woman and a girl.

‘Are you alright?’ The woman asks, concerned and nervous all once, her hand protectively placed over the girl. I nod and crawl away on my hands and knees to the rubberised edge of the track and then slip away into the shadows. The dodgems ride is a wooden construction, raised about three feet from ground and surrounded by fencing. I look around and when I’m sure no one is watching I climb up and over the fence, crunching down into stinging nettles that are nearly as tall as me. The prickling sensation is instant but adrenaline is a wonderful thing and the feeling wears off quickly as I crash through them. I reach a tree and wait, panting like a wounded animal. In the distance I hear shouting but it’s mixed with the screams of nearby teens being flung around by machinery. I haven’t been followed, but every second feels like an axe above my head.

I risk cutting back around the edge of the dodgems, to where I started. I lean out from behind the safety of a box-like construction – the pay desk, I realise – and see the rotating horses of the carousel in the distance. I decide to run, quick and light on my feet across the main drag of the fair and cut behind another ride opposite; some horrible pirate ship that is noisily churning the stomachs of its victims. I keep moving but stay behind the various stalls and rides and realise that up ahead the ground, earthy and rough, begins to incline. Between two stalls I risk a stop and peer out, getting my bearings. I’m back near the rifle range again and see the Artful Dodger talking to a group who begin searching the area. They might be looking for me, but more likely they’re looking for Amy on the request of my fourteen-year-old self. I know I’m close. I turn and continue moving behind the scenes, working my way along the amusements until I reach the last, a children’s ride, tame and small, it offers little cover. There, in the distance, I see the wood and, to my huge relief, Amy, her blue dress floating like a ghost in the darkness.

I run, vaguely aware that to my left – my eyes are still adjusting to the comparable darkness of the field – Vinny and the band are posing for their shots. I don’t take my eyes from Amy, she’s fifty feet away from me now. Suddenly the field is lit up like daylight, a sudden and brilliant flash. I see my shape, a long silhouette on the grass ahead and realise it’s the picture that Vinny took and then found again in his loft.

I risk one final look behind me and feel a massive wave of relief. There is no lynch mob, I’m just a shadow to them now, as dark and unseen as Amy.

I’ve made it this far. Just stay. Stay long enough to save her.

There is moonlight and my eyes continue to gradually reveal more information, but there is no denying the icy blue veil of my return has begun. The pain has been building, and brain freeze is gripping me, preparing to throw me back to 2015. Through its vivid blueness, I make out the dark line of trees against the sky and see Amy, running as I am. I call her name but she doesn’t stop.

‘Amy!’ I shout louder and this time, she turns. The dark shape of her head lightens and her features, initially just flat shapes, transform into those of my long-lost sister.

I am in an ocean. It’s impossible to describe – after so many years – what it’s like to see her again; how all the pain and suffering can somehow be swept away in an instant, as though my old life was a nightmare and I’m finally awake, thanking the Gods it wasn’t real. She is more beautiful than I could ever have remembered her, glowing with life and vitality but her eyes tell a different story. They are wide and filled with fear and just like that, the wonderful spell of our connection is broken.

‘Amy.’ I gasp, tired and in pain, hands resting on my knees. ‘Wait. What’s wrong?’

She looks at me and then quickly back at the wood. ‘Who are you?’ She asks, nervously, stumbling backwards.

I swallow and nod, realising quite how scary this must be for her. ‘Listen,’ I say, forcing myself to be calm and to speak as gently as I can, ‘your brother is looking for you. He wants you to come back to the fair. Will you do that?’

‘My brother?’

‘Yes.’

‘My Daddy says I shouldn’t talk to strangers,’ Amy takes another step back, again glancing over her shoulder towards the wood. I don’t move, don’t attempt to close the gap and when she looks back, she pauses, assessing me. ‘You said my brother asked you to come and get me?’

‘Yes,’ I assure her.

Even in the half light of the moon, I can tell she’s studying me, deciding. ‘Okay,’ she murmurs. ‘What’s his name?’

‘His name is Joe,’ I reply. ‘And Amy, he really wants you to come home.’

5.

Amy has finally stopped backing away but her eyes remain fixed on mine with a fearful, suspicious gaze, far from trusting, but perhaps accepting that I might not be the bad guy. I draw in a breath and then I ask her the question – the one that is burnt into my brain, ‘Amy, can you tell me where you’re going? Are you meeting someone here?’

She chews the side of her mouth nervously, pulling at her dress, her white cardigan, hooked low over her elbows. I notice, for the first time since arriving here, the pattern on her dress; white birds – swallows maybe – swooping and gliding over her. I want to scoop her up in my arms and just hold her and it takes all of my resolve to resist doing exactly that. She looks at me with something new, puzzlement perhaps. ‘Why are you crying?’ She asks with a tenderness that sets a fresh tear coursing down my right cheek. I wipe it away. ‘I didn’t realise I was,’ I answer, instinctively. ‘I injured my leg.’

‘Oh.’ Amy, shrugs, studying me thoughtfully. ‘Does it hurt?’

I nod, ‘Yeah, but it will be okay.’ And that’s when brain freeze comes along for another bite of my skull. I wince, groaning and gritting my teeth against the pain. I desperately don’t want to scare Amy but this is agony.

‘Does your head hurt too?’ She asks, anxiously.

‘Yes,’ I manage, smiling a little, ‘but it’s not too bad, it doesn’t last too long.’

Amy’s innocence, her willing concern, seems to open a gap for me and – perhaps stupidly – I seize it. ‘Whatever it is you’re running away from, maybe I can help?’ I suggest.

‘You wouldn’t understand,’ Amy replies, with a coldness way beyond her years.

‘Try me,’ I say, whispering the words.

Amy looks up, as if she’s about to tell me everything but then stares back down at the ground, biting her bottom lip. ‘I can’t,’ she hisses, voice catching in the back of her throat. ‘I can’t tell you and you can’t make me.’

I want to assure her that I’m not going to make her do anything but I don’t get the chance. The distant drone of music is broken suddenly by a very clear and angry shout; a man’s voice calling Amy’s name. I instinctively look back towards the fair and see a group of shadows gathering at its edge, black shapes cut against coloured lights behind them. It was only a matter of time, I think, as a triangular beam of torchlight scans the field like the eye of a lighthouse, slow and deliberate, followed by another and more shouts. I turn back to Amy but she’s running, ten feet away from me already.

‘Amy, wait!’ I cry, lurching into motion and running after her.

My eyes have adjusted fully to the dark now but the wood is darkness itself and as Amy slips behind its veil I fear I’m going to lose her again. The trees are old, their thick trunks packed tightly together. I push between them like the ball in some dark, broken pinball machine. I call her name continuously, the timbre of my voice higher each time as utter panic kicks in. I glimpse her briefly, maybe twenty feet away, a flash of her dress, like a sheet in the wind but then she’s gone. Close behind me I hear the concerned shouts of men, but they sound more like the howls and barks of wolves. I gasp for air, my internal compass spinning out of control.

‘Amy!’ I cry, voice breaking. ‘Wait!’

I stumble and fall flat on my face, cold wet earth filling my nostrils. I snort the gunk away, rubbing my face and pause just long enough to see a strip of blue cloth hanging from the barbed, twisted branch of a bush. I crash through into it, its thorns seeming to help sharpen me away from the edge of time-travelling. I call out again but my mouth is so dry nothing comes, just a croak, accompanied by the coppery taste of fear. I crash through the undergrowth into a clearing, lit by moonlight. The blue cast over the scene is so rich that it has the quality of a stage set, spotlights covered by cyan gels.

Brain freeze.

No, you don’t. Not yet.

I see Amy in the centre of the clearing, her back to me. She turns. She’s shivering and crying, eyes wide and doll-like. Torchlight cuts through the trees behind us, passing over her and then flicking back suddenly, illuminating her.

‘I’ve found her!’ A man’s voice shrieks and then others join him, distant but closing.

My mind doesn’t wait, doesn’t need to decide anything. There is only one thing left to do now; try to drag Amy with me when I travel home. I run towards her, both of us lit by a beam of torchlight that is now way too close. I launch myself, awkwardly, into the air. Time seems to slow, as if it knows how important these precious seconds are. I’m mere inches from Amy now, feel the hands of time clawing at me as I reach for her and all at once, it happens. My skin glances Amy’s arm but before I can get a grip I time-travel, the all too familiar sensation of gravity flipping me over and around. And then I’m consumed by a freezing cold darkness.

6.

I’ve travelled from day into night before, from warmth into cold and then back the other way but nothing could have prepared me for this. This is an ideal use of the term, ‘What the fuck?’. It’s what it was invented for. The clearing in the wood is gone and I’m plunged into icy cold water. The weight of the past, replaced by the pressure of water, deep and surging. I scream but all that comes out is a terrible droning sound, the final sound a human makes when they find themselves without air or hope.

I feel like I’m back at school, head down the toilet, getting a swirly, but this one is going to end me for good. I kick and thrash in this freezing hell, bubbles breaking and dancing away from my face. My arm catches something, something that reacts and then moves. I blink hard, trying to focus in the dark, murky water. The current is strong and thankfully it’s guiding me towards a shape in the water; Amy.

I’ve bought her with me.

She’s thrashing and clawing, as if surrounded by some invisible foe. I reach out, desperately close, but can’t close the gap between us. My heart wants to burst with joy that I didn’t leave her in the wood, but my chest is screaming. I need to breathe and the surface, a silky grey mass above me, looks a long way off.

I remember a trick my Dad taught me once. If you can’t breathe in, then breathe out a little, try and kid your lungs into thinking they’re moving. I exhale – a short blast of air – and it works, just enough to give me a chance. I turn and kick, reaching out towards her and our arms meet, search frantically and then grip each other. Amy’s nails dig into me, pinching my wrist. That’s when I hear her scream, her own monotone burst in the depths of this awful place. I pull, kicking hard towards the surface now, but we don’t move. I try again but there’s a strong current, dragging us both through the water. Her hand tightens as our potential tomb is suddenly lit by a brilliant flash of lightning above, offering me the single most horrendous image of my life. In that dreadful moment I see Amy’s expression, eyes stretched wide in utter panic, her mouth open to the water in a terrifying scream.

Her hand slips from mine and I feel the edges of my sanity fraying like rope. No oxygen. Nothing left. I scream, but I’m empty, my lungs burning to inhale as another bolt of lightning cracks in the world above. I can no longer fight my body’s natural instinct and shoot for the surface. Up I go, away from Amy. I break through the water and gasp, breathing and coughing, desperate for air. Thunder rips through the sky above me, the sound deafening. I draw in another breath and go down again, searching. I think I see her, she’s deep and as the powerful current draws me, I let it take me for a moment, hoping to reach her but she’s gone and all I see is blackness, like ice cold death around me.

Utter despair fills me but I carry on like this, up to the surface and down again until I can no longer feel my body. I’m weak and finally accept that if Amy’s dead and I drown too, that would be okay, but something stops me. What if she isn’t dead? What if I’m busy drowning here and she’s on the bank calling out for me. The water is deafening on the surface, I would never hear her. I tread water, exhausted, water lapping against my mouth, making me cough and gag. The undertow is strong but I realise this isn’t the sea. The water is earthy, like a dirty river. I’m in a lake and I can see the edge, not far, maybe as close as twenty feet. To my right is a large storm drain, circular and open like the mouth of a huge whale, drawing me towards its iron teeth. I fight and manage to swim away but it takes every ounce of strength I have to reach the bank. Not just because of fatigue but because I still believe Amy might be down there and I’m leaving her. I’m abandoning her.

I crawl and drag myself out of the water, heavy with thick brown mud. Eventually I collapse onto my back, panting and crying, the rain pelting me as thunder and lightning continue to unleash their power on the world, tearing at the sky like swords in battle.

Ten minutes since she went down. She’s dead, Joe. She drowned. You pulled her back here – wherever here is – and you killed her.

‘Amy!’ I cry, lifting myself up, scanning the bank for any signs of movement. The water surges and moves like the scales of some restless beast. A fork of lightning cracks overhead but this one is a brilliant and electric blue. Suddenly the whole place turns blue and I realise with something akin to pure terror that I’m about to travel again. Brain freeze descends, here to claim me and, with what feels like raw lightning coursing through me, I’m gone again.

7.

I cough, ejecting gritty, earthy water and then lift myself up onto all fours and puke. It’s mainly bile, yellow and bitter. When I’m done, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and sit, taking in my new surroundings. I’m back in Cox’s Meadow and – by the look of it – back in 2015. The early morning sun is announcing itself, breaking gently through the layer of thin mist that currently sits over the park. I’m disorientated and still a little nauseous but my mind – almost in spite of itself – begins to piece together how I got here.

There was a second jump. Two jumps here, two jumps back, makes sense I suppose, but man, it seems to have spun my brain sideways. It’s probably why it’s taken a while for the pain to arrive. Not physical pain, not barbed wire or brain freeze but emotional; the kind that hits you right in the gut.

I look up to the sky and shout, ‘Is there anything else?’ Challenging some unseen force to tell me if it’s going to get any worse. But the sky doesn’t answer. It’s grey and cold and, compared to the storm I just left, utterly featureless. I look around, half expecting to see someone watching but instead see something that makes my heart skip a beat. The storm drain, the one from my last stop; the mouth of the whale.

And that’s when it clicks. Years ago – back in the early noughties – Cox’s Meadow was excavated to create a flood defence. Somehow, Amy and I time-travelled back to the night of a terrible storm. I stare down at my hands and study the nail marks that have drawn blood on my wrists and forearms. I grimace and can do nothing to fight the tears now. They come and I let them. I sob, shuddering, cold and alone, guilt wringing fresh grief out of me. Amy was petrified and I dragged her through time and drowned her.

I’m not sure how long I stay like this, but when I finally stop crying I do feel a little better. All the frustration and fear and panic that built up needed to come out I guess, but it doesn’t change the fact that I didn’t save her. All I did was change the way she died. I shake my head and exhale slowly. There’s only one person I want to see now so I walk, cold and damp towards the exit of the park. It’s a gradual incline, not steep at all really, to reach the path that winds its way around Cox’s Meadow. I walk like a zombie but stop at a bright yellow sign, which reads, ‘Danger: Flood Storage Area. Water Levels Can Rise Rapidly.’

Yes they can, I think. They sure can.

I have a choice to make. Accept what happened, or go back in time and try again. I’m a time-traveller after all and have more knowledge about that night than ever. But it isn’t going to work like that and I know it. I can feel it. Time is like the ocean. The deeper you go, the higher the pressure and the harder it is to see. I only just made it that last time. If I manage it again, it will be a miracle and I can’t perform those on my own.

8.

Making a reverse charge call at 4 a.m. is embarrassing enough, but doing it naked takes the grand prize. I enter a nearby phone box and call Alexia to the rescue, doing my best to cover myself with an old newspaper. The phone box stinks of piss and cigarette butts but at least I’m out of the January air.

Two rings and she picks up. ‘Joe?’ She asks, quick and nervous.

‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘it’s me.’ And to my surprise I almost cry again. Just hearing the worry in her voice. I swallow, shivering and weak but manage not to lose it.

‘Did you do it?’ She asks.

My mouth opens and five things try to come out all at once. I try again but how do I tell her that I failed? How do I explain, after losing Amy once, that I did it again? That time is against me, on some kind of endless loop. ‘I lost her,’ I whisper, the words causing physical pain, tightening my chest so I can hardly breathe.

‘Where are you?’ Alexia asks.

I explain and twenty minutes later my therapist in shining armour pulls up next to the phone box. I peer at her through the glass. She gets out, grabs a bag and walks to the door. ‘I picked these up from your place.’ She hands me a bag of clothes and turns her back.

I pull them on and although my body is tired, dirty and cold, I feel better instantly. ‘Thank you,’ I murmur, stepping out of my temporary changing room.

Alexia looks tired – I’ve clearly just woken her up and she’s thrown some clothes on – but she’s a welcome sight for my very sore eyes. She takes my arm, offering me a gentle, kind smile. I do my best to smile back but it’s lame and she gives my arm a squeeze. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Let’s get you home.’

Her car is a Toyota Prius; a hybrid. Smart, futuristic and immaculately clean. I’ve always thought they were pretty boring but the way Alexia drives is anything but. I would ask her to slow down but I’m so glad to feel warmth returning to my body – particularly my feet – that I just sink back in the seat and keep quiet. The roads are quiet too and Alexia is making the most of it. She zips through Cheltenham, eyes fixed ahead.

‘So, what happened?’ She asks, running an amber light.

‘I was close,’ I begin, my voice weak but at least audible. ‘Everything we did worked. I got all the way back to 1992 and I found Amy, I talked to her and…’ I clench my hands, remembering the jump into the icy water and Amy’s face, my new nightmare.

‘Go on Joe,’ Alexia says. ‘Then what happened?’

‘I lost her again, I managed to grab her but we time-travelled, I dragged her back to Cox’s Meadow and straight into a flood.’ I sigh, my breath leaving me in deep, shuddering gasps. ‘She drowned, Alexia, and it’s all my fault.’

We pull up at another set of lights, which stay red for a while. Alexia turns to me, ‘You couldn’t have known Joe, it isn’t your fault.’

I nod. But I don’t agree. It is my fault. All of it.

* * *

Things are bad but if you’ve ever been to a festival then you will know what a difference being clean and warm can make. I take a long, hot shower, shave, put on fresh, clean clothes and join Alexia in the kitchen. She’s made tea and toast and by the time I’ve finished munching my way through my third round, I’m a different person. Everything remains well and truly fucked and I still blame myself for everything, but at least now I feel able to face it again. I grabbed my Father’s Rado watch from my study, and fiddle with it nervously. One firm shake and the automatic action kicks in and the second hand begins to tick.

Alexia pulls a number of pages from a cardboard wallet and spreads them out onto the kitchen table. She’s clearly decided that asking me to re-play events isn’t going to do me any good and I’m relieved. She taps one of the pictures, ‘Cox’s Meadow was excavated in 2001. In 2005 we had the worst storm in 100 years. Bad flooding, the lot.’

‘I remember,’ I say, meaning the first time but also more recently, first hand.

Alexia slides another picture towards me, this one a wider shot, showing the scale of the flooding and also the lip of the storm drain, its shiny blue paint at odds with the environment. It makes me shudder to see it again and I look away, frowning.

‘You can’t blame yourself, Joe,’ Alexia says, ‘we could never have planned for this.’ She reaches over and places her hand on my forearm. I look back and meet her eyes, which are fired up and confident. ‘Now we know what might happen we can plan. Right?’

‘Maybe,’ I say, staring at the table.

She nods as if we’re in total agreement, ‘And what about the suspect, did you see him?’

I consider the question but it doesn’t make sense, on any level. ‘Sorry, what?’ I ask, shifting in my seat and engaging with her properly now.

‘The suspect,’ Alexia repeats, curling her lip. She begins fanning out more photographs and clippings from the wallet. ‘Did you manage to stop him? Find out what he wanted?’

As I stare at the multitude of new information I shake my head in disbelief. ‘If you’ve ever wondered if my actions in the past affect the future then you can stop now.’

‘So, you saw him?’ Alexia asks, excitedly.

‘No.’ I shrug. ‘I am him.’

9.

Alexia fans out even more news articles, reports, witness statements and photographs across the table. Most feature the familiar picture of Amy running towards the wood with the band in the foreground, except now, there is a new addition. A man, running after her. Me.

‘What are you saying?’ Alexia asks.

‘I’m saying that I’m the suspect.’ I pick up one of the news reports and read the headline, ‘MYSTERY MAN INVOLVED IN GIRL’S DISAPPEARANCE.’ And then study the image below. A man, dressed up in my weirdo gear running after Amy. If I didn’t know it was me it would make a chilling and very suspicious image. I glance up at Alexia. ‘When I left the present, this photograph showed only Amy running towards the woods, now it shows me too. I remember it being taken, remember the flash behind me, but didn’t think how it might change things.’ I reach for another article, this one a full page print. ‘You and I went to Vinny’s, we found the original picture in his loft. It had been hidden there for years.’

‘Vinny?’ Alexia says quietly. ‘The record shop owner?’

‘Yeah,’ I say, realising that we might never have needed to go there together, not in her timeline anyway. I’m guessing, that after I was spotted in ’92, Thinny Vinny must have handed the photograph in. It’s all different.

‘But Joe, we’ve had this picture all along,’ Alexia gasps. ‘You’re the one who gave it to me!’ She picks up one of the wordier pieces of evidence, ‘This is a witness statement from one the parents who followed the suspect…’ She pauses a beat, ‘I mean, you into the wood.’

We have different memories. My changes have affected everything and everyone except me. I think of an angle that might help Alexia. ‘Remember when you went back and changed things?’ I ask. ‘When you came back I had – and still have – no memory of the police interviewing me. You do, because in that instance you were the traveller. The time-traveller is the only one who remembers what it was like before.’

I’m still processing, marvelling at the inner machinations of it all, when Marty McFly suddenly pops into my mind. At the end of Back to the Future he’s stunned to discover his family have changed beyond all recognition. His parents are just back from a game of tennis (Mom, you look so… so thin!) and his brother is wearing a suit, which apparently he ‘always wears to the office’. All of this is new to Marty. I always loved that scene but it has more layers now, more weight than I realised at the time. Marty has an entire lifetime of family memories that he is supposed to know, but never will. It’s actually pretty dark when you think about it. How long before Poor ole Marty is exposed? How long before people spot that he doesn’t know anything, about anything?

Alexia sighs. I can see she’s going through what I did, trying to imagine how her experiences could be so different to mine. She blinks. ‘It’s strange,’ she says, staring blankly at the table. ‘Finding this man was like an obsession for you. You and I talked for hours about who it could be.’ She pauses and exhales loudly, ‘And it was you.’

‘Yes.’ I nod, imagining how this photo – not clear enough to be obviously me – would have driven me mad. I would have needed to find this man, to know who he was and what he was doing there that night. A chill runs through me as I recall another mystery man, the one who intervened at the fair, the one who cost me precious minutes. There was something about him, something familiar. I can feel it, embedded like a piece of silver in my mind; the light catching it occasionally, offering an angle from which to pull, but then it’s gone again. I almost tell Alexia but decide it’s a complication we don’t need, not at the moment.

She sighs, ‘Well, picture or no picture, we need to do it again.’ Her voice is firm, her eyes bright with confidence. ‘We know more now. We can send you back prepared.’

I draw in a shallow breath and frown, ‘I don’t know Alexia, it was…’ My hand covers my mouth, ‘It was horrible, I don’t know if I can do it again, knowing how it might end.’

She nods, her caring smile warming me. ‘Listen to me. We’ve come this far and you nearly saved her. Everything that happened can be undone.’ She says the last word with such commitment that it sends a ripple of gooseflesh over me. She leans in, ‘And, there’s a positive angle to this you know.’

‘And what’s that?’ I ask, failing to see a single one.

She smiles and, with a nod, says, ‘It’s proof that if you change things, you alter the outcome.’ She takes my hand and gives it a good, firm squeeze, ‘Save her and Amy will be here, waiting when you get back.’

10.

We’re back in my study. Alexia pulls the album Revolver from the shelf, flips it over, scans the back and then glances at me, smiling, ‘Same again, but with a little twist.’

Having Alexia has made this bearable. I explained to her earlier that all I could see was Amy drowning and she’s been working tirelessly at lifting my spirits and taking my mind elsewhere. We sit cross legged opposite each other, déjà vu burning the seconds between us and I hear the wonderful crackle of the stylus hitting the road as, ‘Got To Get You Into My Life’ begins to play. I snort air from my nostrils and smile, ‘Good choice.’

Alexia returns my smile and nods along with Paul as he sings of taking a ride and not knowing what he’s going to find there.

‘You’re a time-traveller Joe,’ Alexia speaks slowly and clearly, enunciating the words between the beat and the lyrics somehow. In her own hypnotic way she’s harmonising again, ‘And you’ve been given this second chance for a reason.’

Maybe I have, I think as Paul sings of wanting to hold someone, how he knew, in time, they would meet again.

‘You’re falling into a deep sleep, Joe,’ Alexia commands me, voice like warm milk. ‘Completely calm and totally under my control.’

‘Absolutely,’ I reply, feeling her hands reach for mine. 2005 feels so clear to me now and for the first time since coming back to the present I feel like I might just reach there again.

‘Got To Get You Into My Life’ reaches its grainy chorus and I smile as Alexia and I tumble back to Leckhampton Hill together.

* * *

We arrive in 2005, calmly and gently, just as before, and spend some time talking under the moonlight. We walk and I tell her that I have good memories here – I think I might have already told her that – but it’s obvious I’m more nervous this time. We reach the edge of the Hill and look out over Cheltenham, our attention on Cox’s Meadow.

Alexia takes my hand, ‘It will be okay Joe, and remember, when you come back this time, Amy and I will be waiting.’

‘Do you really believe that?’ I ask.

‘Yes,’ she says with absolute conviction, ‘I really do.’

I inhale but don’t say anything. I had faith the first time but that was before I let Amy drown, before I messed it all up and delivered a fate potentially worse than the version time had planned for her.

‘Let go of all of those worries,’ Alexia whispers, as if reading my mind. ‘Don’t forget, it’s fear that will hold you back and it’s testing you now, that’s for sure.’

I close my eyes and I see Amy, underwater, and suspect I would never have banished it from my mind if Alexia hadn’t kissed me again. My eyes remain closed as our lips join together. There’s no awkward build up this time, no stupid one-liners or embarrassing gestures. Our kiss deepens, her tongue finds mine and we explore each other and it’s wonderful. My innermost fears seem to fade in importance as I connect my heart to Alexia’s and charge it up on her kiss. The moment is passionate and filled with love. I move my arm around her back, pulling her close to me and I can, finally, imagine us together, how it might be.

Our kiss eventually breaks but our eyes stay locked for a while. ‘Was that for luck?’ I ask her playfully, with a confidence I could never have imagined before meeting her.

‘Yes,’ she replies.

I pull her close again and we hug. I whisper in her ear, ‘And this is the part where you re-focus me and tell me I need to concentrate.’

‘It is,’ she nods, ‘and you re-assure me you will come back safely.’

We kiss once more and then I take a step back and travel. I leave again for 1992 – for what I hope will be the last time – and I do so, thanks to Alexia, with something akin to hope.

11.

I feel the familiar sensation of gravity departing, my body lifting and the mass of the world dropping away.

Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. We’re expecting a little turbulence and would recommend for your own comfort and safety that you return to your seats and strap the hell in. This is going to get rough.

Except it doesn’t. I’m in a dark void again, with images of my past spinning around me, but this is different, I feel more grounded somehow. I don’t have anything like the same confusion or nausea I suffered before. I stare up at memories orbiting around me and laugh as I realise what this reminds me of. A Victorian Zoetrope, a decorated cylinder with slits cut vertically into the sides that, when spun, gives the illusion of movement. Seems my mind has decided to use one of these as a metaphor for travelling.

The name – like many of my favourite words – has its roots in Greek. Zoe, meaning “life” and tropos, meaning “turning”, and the version I see before me is my life turning; college days, lectures, halls of residence, drunken nights out, Chad crashing his car. I watch them flicker by, the same images returning every twenty seconds or so and realise that everything is from the same year. 2002. Why is that? The last time I travelled I focussed on the fairground sifting through a host of random memories, willing myself to Amy, pushing back to 1992. Why am I stuck here? The thought sends a shiver through me. What if this is as far as it goes now? Did I really believe that I could just keep popping back to 1992 and tweaking the past to suit me?

Pure fear tightens around me and, for a moment, I’m teetering on the edge of despair, the needle of my sanity, dangerously close to the edge. But then Alexia’s voice soothes me. ‘Perhaps, this isn’t different at all,’ she says, soft but clear. ‘Maybe you’re just seeing it differently, getting better at this time-travel thing.

I draw in a deep breath and focus – pushing my fear aside as best as I can – and see something I hadn’t noticed before. In between each image – each scrapbook style memory from my college years – is a slitted gap, and through that gap I see other spinning shapes in the darkness. More Zoetropes! If I time my step carefully perhaps I can jump from 2002 to the next one and so on.

I count, timing the spaces and when I’m sure I’m in rhythm I jump. 2002 is gone and I’m surrounded by new faces and locations that are clearly 2001. I know this because I was twenty-three years old in 2001 and I joined another band, this time as a keyboard player and backing singer. I see myself on stage, a few times, early gigs and memories flickering by. I don’t allow myself to become distracted though. I repeat the process of jumping through the years, again and again, until I reach 1993 and my luck finally runs out.

It’s my fifteenth birthday party, a year after Amy went missing. I remember this day clearly, how my parents tried so hard to still celebrate, in spite of all the pain. My memories are clear but the images here are faded and disjointed. I stare frantically between the gaps of what’s left but I can’t see any more Zoetropes after this one.

I cry out in frustration, peering into the blackness for any sign of the fairground and then everything stops. I can’t breathe and my heart is still. I see something, faded and paper thin, the colours only just visible against the jet black world around me. I think my mind is playing tricks on me but then I see it again, a glimmer of colour, like oil on a wet road. I squint, terrified that if I take my eyes away for a second it will disappear for good.

I step between and beyond the images of 1993, and enter the final Zoetrope – for what I suspect will be the last time – and see the lights of the Ferris Wheel, one single image left on this final carousel. I suck in a huge breath, my heart catching up on the beats missed and spring towards it, covering my face as I leap into the past. I can make it, my hearts sings, but my mind disagrees and perhaps that’s why – when I open my eyes – I find myself in 1992 but fifty feet above the fairground with the weight of the world suddenly pushing me to the ground.

The last time I landed here, I was the vinyl equivalent of Neil Armstrong. One small step for Joe, etc. Well, this time, it’s one giant leap for mankind and I don’t think I have ever been so glad to see a bouncy castle. I fall, accelerating and screaming like a man being eaten alive and then hit the rubber, watching in horror as five kids – who had been happily leaping and bouncing around before my unexpected arrival – are launched into the air. One almost reaches the top of the castle, before returning and bouncing onto his head and then out onto the entrance ramp. All of the kids are screaming. So am I. The shock of falling so far and counter-bouncing a load of kids is compounded by a crowd of angry parents who just witnessed the whole, crazy thing. Luckily none of them were looking up at the time of my appearance – why would they be? – and all I can do is apologise wholeheartedly. The parents growl and tend to their little darlings, who – thank goodness – all seem fine. In fact one kid, a boy of around six, looks up at me with a smile that says, ‘Can we do it again?’

I don’t think so kid, I shrug back. I don’t think I’m ever getting here again and that, along with a good hard bite of brain freeze, sharpens me up. This is my last chance and I had better make it count. In my favour, 1992 doesn’t have the same culture-shock factor as before. It means I adjust quicker and I’m running, the fear of losing Amy again pushing me along. I have a plan and if I’m going save her this time, it needs to work. I catch up with myself by the caravans taking a Michael Jackson BAD t-shirt.

‘Pssst.’ I whisper.

Other Joe turns and jumps at least a foot backwards. ‘Jesus Christ!’ He hisses, face contorted in absolute shock. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘It’s a long story,’ I explain, ‘but you need to do something for me.’

Other Joe snorts, ‘Why is it always me? Why do I have to do what you say?’

Well, there’s a paradox in itself.

‘Because I’ve been here before,’ I reply, angrily, ‘I’m you remember, and what you’re about to do tonight doesn’t work, you don’t save her.’

Other Joe takes a step towards me now, eyes tightening, ‘What do you mean, what happens?’

I get a flash of Amy screaming in the icy water but banish it from my mind. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I try to assure him, ‘you just need to do exactly as I say and everything will be alright.’

Other Joe tilts his head and studies me, ‘Who takes her?’

I almost tell him that he’s the one who takes Amy (in one version of events anyway) but think better of it, ‘I don’t know who took her, but I know how to save her.’ I glance over his shoulder, ‘Pass me a t-shirt and jeans will you?’

Other Joe shakes his head, as if the world will never make sense to him and grabs some clothes off the line. He passes them to me and I open the t-shirt up. It’s Madonna Into the Groove. I almost hand it back, wondering what the security guard would make of my new outfit but instead ask him to pass me a plain red hoodie.

‘It won’t fit you,’ Other Joe replies.

Christ, he’s like a teenager. ‘Just grab it will you.’

He tuts, hands me the hoodie – which fits just fine – and we sneak away with our respective stolen clothing. ‘Right,’ I say, as we walk. ‘Listen carefully, and do exactly as I say.’

12.

Other Joe has been briefed and I’ve positioned myself strategically at the side of a burger stand, which offers a decent view of the rifle range, the Dodgems and the wood. I can see Other Joe, near the rifle range, being questioned (bang on time) by the tall security guard, the one with the gold lettering on his shirt. Watching myself is still a very strange experience. Seeing how I move, how I react, how awkward I look. It’s not something you ever get used to but, to be fair, Other Joe is doing a pretty good job of sticking to the plan. The guard finishes questioning him and then runs off to tackle some kids who are smoking. So far, so similar.

I glance over at the rifle range and see my fourteen-year-old self and Amy discussing my shooting prowess. There are now three of me here. Teenage Joe, Other Joe and yours truly. It could get bloody crowded if I kept coming back but deep down I know that could never happen. This will be my last trip, whether I like it or not.

The first ding of a target being struck rings out, and on cue the other man arrives, the busy body, the suspicious one. Seeing him again sends a ripple of dread through me, the fact I feel I know him scratches at my subconscious. He moves slowly and deliberately towards other Joe and they begin talking. The conversation seems to last a little longer than our original one – although it’s hard to tell, as I was crapping myself – but it ends up exactly the same. Other Joe clenches his fist and swings a good hard punch, knocking the man to the floor. I watch Other Joe run, except this time he doesn’t head for the Dodgems, this time he whoops and shouts and taunts the crowd before running off in the opposite direction to me and, more importantly, the opposite direction to the wood.

If you want a job doing properly, I congratulate us both, then do it yourself.

I seize my chance and move, hoping that this time Other Joe’s diversion will buy me enough time with Amy. As the third air-rifle shot lands I see Amy drift away from the stall and I follow her, keeping a safe distance of twenty feet or so. She moves through the crowd, occasionally looking back, but doesn’t seem bothered by me. I suspect she’s looking for her brother and not this impossibly old version walking behind her.

As we reach the edge of the fair I risk one more look behind me. As far as I can tell we aren’t being followed, not this time, and although I can feel its early chill, brain freeze hasn’t bitten down yet. I’ve managed to get here quicker and estimate I have at least twenty minutes before I’m dragged back. That’s a lot more than I had the last time and plenty to persuade Amy to trust me and do things differently. I turn back and peer into the darkness of the field, which is suddenly illuminated by the flash of a camera. I see Amy running, and also Vinny and the band posing for their shots. The photograph, except I wasn’t in it this time, which sets me wondering if everything will be back to how it was in the present. Holy Paradoxes, Batman! I shake my head and break into a run.

‘Please Don’t Go’ by KWS starts up (again) somewhere in the distance. I call Amy’s name but she doesn’t stop. I run faster and when I catch up to her I’m doubly careful not to scare her. I need to gain her trust and I have an idea how to do just that.

‘Amy,’ I say, ‘your brother, Joe, is looking for you, he sent me to ask you to come back to the fair.’

There. That’s pretty much ten lines of our previous conversation distilled into one. Perhaps time is on my side after all.

Amy studies me carefully, just as she did before, with nervous curiosity, ‘My Daddy says I mustn’t talk to strangers.’

‘And he’s right,’ I agree softly, ‘but I’m not a stranger, I’m a good friend of Joe’s and you can trust me.’ I stay perfectly still. ‘He’s very sorry he lost you and if you come back, it will make him really happy.’ I crouch down and meet her eyes and wait until she looks at me before I speak again, ‘Why don’t you come back with me now, find your brother and –’

‘I can’t.’ Amy sniffs, glancing behind her. ‘I have to go.’

‘Has someone scared you? Did a man ask you to come here?’ I’m guessing now, clutching at one of a thousand straws that have grown in my brain over the years. ‘If you tell me, I promise I won’t tell anyone else.’ Amy bites at her bottom lip, blinking rapidly and I can tell I’ve almost got her. ‘Pinky Swear,’ I whisper, a term we shared years ago, a secret bond. Suspicion drops from Amy’s face in an avalanche of emotion and she stares at me, calm and intrigued all of a sudden, ‘Who are you?’

‘A friend,’ I say, ‘and I’m here to help, but you need to tell me what’s going on.’

‘I’ve seen you before,’ she murmurs. ‘You’re like me?’

‘What do you mean?’

Her eyes glaze over, the life behind them dimming somehow and when she speaks again her voice is flatter and colder, as though she’s suddenly accepted some dark fate. ‘It doesn’t matter now. It’s happening,’ she murmurs, ‘I’m going soon.’

She turns and begins to run, leaving me crouched on the ground, mouth agape and head spinning. I wince, rubbing my forehead – not because of brain freeze, that’s still way off – but because it feels like some elusive truth is trapped in my head like a genie in a lamp.

Seen you before. You’re like me. Going soon.

And then, in an almighty rush of understanding it all makes sense.

My sister, Amy Bridgeman, is a time-traveller, like me.

13.

‘Amy!’ I shout, deciding to risk it all. ‘I know why you’re running away. You sometimes find yourself in strange places don’t you?’ I pull myself to my feet. ‘With no idea how you got there.’

Amy stops, her head low. She’s biting her bottom lip again, ‘How do you know?’

‘Because it happens to me too,’ I confide, desperately searching for angles that might make sense to a frightened seven-year-old. ‘And it’s scary isn’t it?’

Amy looks as though she might be about to cry. ‘Yes.’

I walk very slowly towards her as I speak, ‘Tell me what happens to you.’

She nods and I see relief as she starts talking, her words like the fizz that escapes the first twist of a bottle top, ‘I can’t control it, it just happens. I feel dizzy but then it’s okay because I kind of stop being here.’ She blinks rapidly, closing her eyes. ‘And when I wake up I’m in the same place but it’s different, really, really different.’ She opens her eyes again. ‘I see Mummy sometimes, she’s got grey hair, and I’ve seen you there too.’

I nod, trying to hide my emotions as the elusive, and now completed, puzzle finally reveals itself. Amy is a time-traveller, but I was wrong about her being just like me. Amy travels forwards into the future. The last time we were here I thought I dragged Amy back to 2005, but it was the opposite. When I grabbed her, she dragged me and she’s going there again, soon.

‘Amy, do you want to know something really cool?’ I ask, trying to keep her calm, trying to keep her focus on me.

‘What?’ She frowns.

‘I can come with you if you like.’

She stares at me, suspiciously, ‘Really?’

‘Yes,’ I nod, confidently. ‘All we need to do is hold hands.’

She tries to speak but doesn’t seem able to, her throat moves and bobs and as her eyes swell with tears I clock that she’s not just scared, she’s embarrassed too. ‘But I don’t want you to see me,’ she snaps, ‘I don’t want anyone to know that…’ She pauses, about to cry, and it breaks my heart. Time-travel has side effects, which are bad enough as an adult, but must be utterly petrifying as a seven-year-old. Alone and in an unknown world, Amy finds herself naked too.

No wonder she’s been so scared. No wonder she didn’t want to tell anyone.

I need to think quickly, but if I get this wrong, I lose her again. ‘It’s the same for me you know,’ I say as softly as I can. ‘I end up in crazy places and then my clothes disappear and I have to find new ones.’ Amy stares at me, her mouth and eyes so wide I almost laugh. I don’t of course, this is serious and I sense an opening here, some chance to connect in this dark, shared embarrassment between brother and sister.

Amy sniffs, rubbing tears angrily from her eyes. ‘It’s horrible,’ she snaps.

I nod and pull at my t-shirt. ‘Do you think I chose these clothes?’ I smile. Amy looks me up and down and manages something akin to a smirk. ‘Once, when I travelled, I appeared on stage and another time right in the middle of a racecourse with horses jumping over me!’ Amy giggles, wiping the last of her tears away as I continue. ‘So, yes, I understand and will make sure you’re safe and covered up but listen,’ I tip my head forward and fix her with a friendly but firm stare, ‘I know where you’re going next and I need to come too.’

Amy seems to forget the worries that a minute ago owned her so completely – such is the gift of children I guess – and narrows her brow, ‘You know where I’m going?’

‘Yes, and I want to come too, so I can make sure you’re safe.’ I raise both hands, palms flat. ‘I want you to trust me now.’ Amy finally relents. She nods twice and raises her trembling hands to meet mine. I inch my hands carefully to her wrists and gently grip them. I don’t want to scare her but I need to make sure that when we hit water, I can hold her tightly enough. ‘You know when you jump into a pool on a warm day but the water is cold and it makes you scream?’

‘Yes.’ Amy nods, listening intently.

‘This is going to be a bit like that, but don’t be scared because I’m with you.’

It wasn’t my fault that Amy drowned the last time. The lake has always been her fate, but not this time. This time, I’m going to save her. Amy’s eyes glaze over again. ‘I’m going now,’ she says, her voice flat and without emotion.

‘Okay,’ I say, preparing myself as best I can without panicking her, ‘and I’m going with you. On the count of three we hold our breath.’ I begin to count and Amy joins in. ‘One, two, three. Huuuuup.’

14.

Knowing I’m about to hit dark, icy water means I’m less disorientated this time but, apart from that, it’s just as horrendous as before. Simply knowing what’s happening doesn’t change your body’s reaction one bit. Freezing, churning water shocks me rigid as I scream, silvery bubbles escaping my mouth in a cascade of desperation. Luckily, I’ve had the wherewithal to maintain my grip on Amy and feel her hands squeezing mine.

Above us a massive flash of lightning illuminates our surroundings momentarily and I see Amy’s face again. Her hair is wild and snaking outward in an explosion but this time she isn’t screaming, this time she’s holding her breath and looking directly at me, and I see determination and focus in her eyes. Like me, she’s kicking against the current, which feels like giant hands tugging and pulling at us.

I pull Amy close and kick with everything I have but it’s no use. The power of the current is incredibly strong and it’s dragging us towards the storm drain. Against my instincts I begin to swim with the flow rather than against it. Amy tries to pull away and I hear her desperate screams but tug her closer still and continue on, swimming with the current but edging slightly to the side with each stroke. Swirling hands pull and roll us, but rather than sink, we rise up and move towards the bank a little. Amy thrashes and panics and, just as I think we’re winning, slips free of my weakened grip, shooting upward. I follow, breaking the surface as another huge crack of lightning flashes overhead, followed by an angry roll of deep thunder.

Amy is near, coughing and shouting, but already drifting away and it’s immediately obvious that she can’t swim. Dread threatens to take me but this is different to last time; Amy has never made it to the surface and, although I can see she’s struggling, this thought gives me some hope. She cries out, I call back and tell her not to fight. I don’t think, I don’t panic, I just swim and manage to reach her before she sinks. In a voice as loud as I’ve ever found, I tell her to lie on her back and let me pull her ashore. She wraps her hands around my neck and my body goes to work, dragging us both to the safety of the bank, only twenty feet away but it feels like a mile. I glance back at the storm drain, at the vortex of deadly water that has dragged Amy to her death more than once, and snarl. Not tonight. My lungs may be on fire, my head thumping as fast as my heart but I won’t stop until I’m sure she’s safe. I kick and push and although progress is slow – and it’s hard to see where I’m going with the rain pounding the surface like ball bearings – I am moving, I am saving her.

We finally reach the water’s edge and crawl through silky, thick mud before collapsing onto the bank, exhausted. I hold Amy close, I never want to let go of her again, the girl who, for the first time in history, lives beyond this moment. She’s coughing and crying but she’s alive, and as the lightning and thunder continue their angry exchange, I begin to laugh. Amy looks up at me, scared but also confused by my sudden outburst. Again the lightning strikes but this time it looks like fireworks, like multi-coloured bursts of joy, as though the night is joining in with my celebration. The air crackles with the after shock of power and Amy joins me; initially smiling, then giggling and then belly laughing. Full and loud. We are both flat on our backs and laughing like a pair of demented hyenas.

Suddenly, thunder deafens us both, so loud it shakes the ground and Amy stops laughing, pulling herself against me. ‘We won’t get struck by lightning will we?’ She asks.

‘No way,’ I snort. ‘There’s no way.’

That could easily happen. Oh God, the irony!

In the distance, on the lip of this basin of a field, I spot a building. It’s small and boarded up – in the future it’s a café, I think – its roofline will offer some shelter. I stand and reach down, lifting Amy up onto her feet. ‘Come on,’ I say, wiping mud from my face. ‘Let’s get out of the rain.’

Amy blinks up at me through a torrent of water and nods her agreement. We walk quickly towards the building, both of us wincing as bolts of lightning find their way to earth. Ten feet from the building – which I remember now is a disused toilet block – another bolt of lightning flashes overhead and we break into a run. Only when we reach the comparative safety of the building do we find our humour again. Amy is shouting, whooping and shaking her fist at the sky. It appears, initially, to be anger but it’s more than that, it’s a release from fear, I realise, and perhaps a latent understanding that tonight, against all odds, we are victorious. It was close though and I wonder, as I watch my sister snarl and laugh in the face of nature, if she knows how close, that we robbed death tonight.

I join in, shouting and asking the storm if it has anything else to throw at us. Amy looks up and smiles and I feel like a stone is lifted from my chest and suddenly my lungs and heart have room again. My grief. Gone in an instant and all it took was a smile.

Our elation subsides a little, probably due to the adrenalin wearing off but mainly the cold, setting into our bones. Amy’s teeth begin to rattle, her arms shaking along in rhythm. ‘I’m cold,’ she hisses, lips peeled back and dark. I can’t tell in this light but I bet they’ve turned blue.

I take off my hoodie, wring it out as best I can and hand it to her. She puts it on and I’m pleased to see it covers her, almost to her knees. I begin running on the spot, like a crazed hamster on a wheel. ‘Do the same!’ I shout and she does, and within thirty seconds we’re laughing again. After a whole minute of this madness I see steam rising. We stop and I draw her close. ‘I’m sorry that was so scary,’ I say.

‘I thought I was going to drown.’ She shivers. ‘But you saved me.’

‘I wasn’t going to let that happen to you.’ Not again. I squeeze her and it’s as if the pressure of that forces my tears to arrive. I let them come. For once, they’re tears of joy.

Amy peers out over the lake, the scene of the averted disaster, ‘Where are we?’

‘We’re still in Cox’s Meadow,’ I reply, hugging her. ‘But this is a different time, the worst flood in Cheltenham’s history.’ New understanding of the past rides in on my words. Before I intervened, Amy drowned here and probably died in the depths, pinned by the powerful draw of the storm drain. Logic dictates that if her body then travelled back to 1992 she would have been buried twenty feet deep, in earth not yet excavated. No wonder we never found any trace of her. No one would ever have thought of looking that deep. I grimace at the thought and pull away to get a good look at her. Amy stares back at me, pale and cold but magically alive. ‘When is this?’ She asks, the question perhaps her first attempt at accepting her new time-travelling status.

‘2005,’ I reply.

Amy looks around and then up at me, ‘Is this where you’re from?’

I draw in a shivering breath, uncertain Amy will understand what’s happening. Christ, I only just about get it myself. ‘I’ve come back from 2015.’

‘Wow.’ Amy exhales loudly. ‘That’s a long way away.’

‘Yeah,’ I say, urging her into another twenty second jog on the spot. ‘How many times has this happened to you?’ I ask as we run.

Amy shrugs, ‘I don’t know, a few.’

‘And what have you seen?’

‘Stuff. Weird things.’ Amy replies without looking up. ‘Everything is… different.’

‘It’s the same for me,’ I say. ‘But I go back and see things I sort of remember.’

We both stop, panting and a little warmer. My mind – busy up until this point – decides it’s time for my next little panic attack. I’ve saved Amy but for how long? We’re both dislocated after all, both scheduled to return to our respective times but God only knows how that’s going to work. I’m due back to the present and Amy, back to ’92. And, to add some spice to that little marinade I’ve been dragged here, by future girl!

Thunder and lightning continues to hammer the sky as if time itself is angry at me and my ‘double jumping’ antics. I need to think fast and prepare for whatever it’s going to throw next.

‘Amy,’ I say, with careful urgency, ‘I need to tell you some things that are very important, okay?’

She looks up, wide-eyed and innocent and nods.

‘Good.’ I smile. ‘You can learn to control your travelling just like I have.’

Amy frowns, ‘Control it?’

‘Yep.’ I nod. ‘And the most important thing is that you mustn’t be afraid anymore.’ Amy shrugs but doesn’t say anything. She looks at the floor. I get it. I remember being seven and being told not to be afraid. It isn’t that easy though, is it? Plus, I don’t even know if what I’m telling her is true, whether she can really learn to control her gift/curse. All I know is that saving her from drowning is only one of many possible time-travel related deaths ahead of Amy in the next twenty-three years.

Amy shrieks and pulls the hoodie I gave her down over her knees, flushing with embarrassment.

‘It’s okay, honey,’ I assure her, realising her dress must have just disappeared. ‘You’re okay. No one’s going to see anything.’

She glances back and nods through gritted teeth. Brave girl.

‘How come your stuff doesn’t go?’ She asks, with a hint of envy.

‘It does normally,’ I say, glad of the anomaly, ‘and it will soon I guess but I’ve jumped more than once and I think it takes time a bit longer to catch up with me, to realise what I’ve stolen.’ I give her a wink and earn a smile but then she scowls, her right hand reaching for her temple. It’s a gesture I recognise all too well – brain freeze – and I don’t need Mark’s calculator to know that if her clothes have just gone, then it won’t be long before she does too.

I kneel and place my hands carefully on her shoulders. ‘Amy,’ I say sternly. ‘Where you are standing when you travel is the most important thing.’ She looks at me, clearly confused. I carry on, searching for words that will make sense to her. ‘Think about the fair. It was fine in 1992 but look at it now.’ She looks out on the flooded meadow, a wild, almost biblical scene and then back at me. I say, ‘When you do travel, I want you to think about the safest place to travel from.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Amy shivers. ‘I’m really cold.’

Damn it. I’m doing a pretty shitty job of briefing my sister for a lifetime of time-travelling. Amy gasps and then cries out in pain, a sound that makes me clench my whole body in empathy. ‘Has everything gone blue?’ I ask, trying to get a sense of exactly when she’s going.

Amy stares at me with that don’t be silly expression again. ‘Not blue!’ she says, wincing in pain. ‘Red.’

Red. Like Alexia. My first thought is blue for boys and red for girls but the actual answer is more obvious, more universal somehow. Direction of return. Opposite trajectories. Amy is going back to 1992 and that must be red.

Her eyes search the air as if transfixed by magical, invisible creatures. ‘I’m going soon,’ she says in the same monotone voice she adopted the last time.

The rain thickens to a heavy downpour as Amy cries out again. I need to get her somewhere safe, and quickly. I scan the area, desperately trying to find a good spot, trying to merge the landscape I see before me with my memory of the fair. I stop suddenly. Is this where the entrance was? It’s hard to be sure – the layout is so different –but I can imagine it, thirty feet away, lighting up the night like a giant horseshoe. If it is, then it’s a good place for Amy to return to. It’s safe and high up and more importantly the same in the past as it is now. No trees, no barbed wire, no buildings. ‘Follow me,’ I shout, voice raised against the storm.

‘Where are we going?’ Amy cries, understandably reluctant to step out into the freezing rain again.

I reach for her arm but then pull back. Be careful, Joe. What would happen if I travelled with her again? Don’t even go there! ‘Just trust me,’ I shout. ‘Come on!’

Amy nods and we run, feet splashing in the mud to the spot I remember, the place that welcomed me to the fair in 1995. Amy is crying now, hands pressed to her temples. ‘It hurts,’ she hisses.

‘I know,’ I say lamely, searching the environment for any more clues that I’m right about our location. It doesn’t help. All I can do now is hope.

‘Will I see you again?’ Amy asks.

‘Yes,’ I reply, then thinking on my feet, ‘but you mustn’t tell Joe about this when you get back.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it might change things.’

She seems sad about this but then nods, ‘I’m good at secrets.’ She squints, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. Amy Bridgeman is many things. Stupid is not one of them. She doesn’t say it but her expression says, Pinky Swear. I suspect she knows who I am, probably knew from the start, but she doesn’t say it. She’s attempting to smile but I can see her teeth clenched against the pain.

And then she goes.

I watched Other Joe disappear once and that image stayed with me; it was amazing, but nothing compared to watching Amy leave. Her moment of departure is instant, shockingly so. Her physical self ceases to be, her outline momentarily embodied by rain that hasn’t yet realised it shouldn’t be held in the air any more. I see a glass-like, beaded sculpture of Amy in the rain, lit by distant lightning and then she’s gone, the water falling away, leaving a space where my sister was.

I stand for a few seconds in awe. Amazed at the things I get to see, things that will never become normal for me. The minutes pass, the wind drops and the rain thins to a cloud of descending mist. And then the pain of my own brain freeze arrives with such a fierce and aggressive rush that it almost knocks me off my feet. I scream and break into a run, heading for the nearby field, praying I can make it in time; not to God, but to time itself, I think.

I bargain as I stagger towards the field, which is waist high in crop. ‘All I’ve done is put something right. A seven-year-old girl drowned. What good could that have done?’ I cough and wince as the icy warning locks in, pushing my way through the tall corn. ‘All I did was put it right!’ I shout, as a single flicker of lightning in the distance is followed by a low rumbling response, as if time was listening but is bored of my mortal wishes.

I reach the very centre of the field and close my eyes. My last thoughts – as I return to 2015 – are imagining all the ways a vengeful time could have taken Amy between now and then.

15.

I’m in the same spot I left in the past, right in the middle of the field. It’s dark here too and for a moment I wonder if I’ve travelled at all. But then I notice the ground, now stubbled with an inch of hard crop rather than waist high corn and feel the instant and wonderful release from cold pain.

Is it definitely 2015 though, I wonder? It’s hard to tell and I can’t exactly check my iPhone – not that I’ve got one – but you get what I mean. I draw in a breath and realise for the first time in weeks, I don’t actually know what to do next. There is no plan for after the plan. A shiver runs through me, partly the cold but also the thought of twenty-three years passing in the blink of an eye. I peer across the field towards lights and see the building that, minutes ago, Amy and I sheltered underneath. I’m reassured. It’s back to how I remember it in the present. The boards are gone and it’s been refurbished into a café overlooking Cox’s Meadow. It was a toilet once. Nice. Very nice in fact because it means I’m… ‘Home,’ I whisper to no one, rubbing my aching shoulders.

I take a step but my body feels as though it’s made of metal, cooling and on its way to setting hard. I swallow and my throat burns. I take another step but I’m doing it with my entire body clenched. It’s such an effort in fact that I’ve stopped breathing. I pause, hands on my knees and suck in a long breath, head pounding. I feel utterly empty. Like I haven’t slept for days, run a marathon, legged it up a mountain and then stood around getting cold, until I can no longer feel the blood in my veins. In other words, I feel like crap, like I’ve been poisoned.

A half moon lights the way as I stagger, one painful step at a time, towards the road. It’s quiet and empty but for a fox that pauses when it sees me and then slips into the shadows. It moves quickly. I, on the other hand, do not. I’m about forty feet from the edge of the field and calculate that at this zombie rate I should make the town centre by morning; just in time for my current clothes – God only knows where they are supposed to be – to ping away somewhere. Naked in town and walking through sludge. Ever had that dream? Well, it could be my –

I see car lights. Hear an engine revving loudly, screeching tyres. A very modern beam of bluish light scans over the café and then spins across me. The car parks up, its interior light flicks on and I see a man but don’t recognise him. I lurch to my left and totter, uncertain my legs will carry me to the safety of a nearby hedgerow. Another person gets out of the passenger side. A woman, I think, but she’s a shadow against the streetlights.

‘Joe?’ The woman calls, a plume of grey breath rising from her as she breaks into a run.

My heart races at the sound of my name. ‘Alexia?’ I reply, but my voice is weak, like a heavy smoker about to keel over.

The woman is running fast now and when I finally realise who it is my legs give way and I drop to my knees, mouth hanging open. ‘Amy,’ I gasp. ‘Amy, help me...’ Seeing her causes an intense fire of emotion to sear through me, in spite of my exhaustion. She’s a woman now, of course; tall and as beautiful as I imagined. She calls my name again and just as I’m about to fall forwards, she kneels and catches me. I can’t think anymore. She’s hugging me. My grown-up sister is hugging me.

‘It’s alright,’ she says, voice familiar but deeper and richer than I’ve ever heard. ‘You’re okay now, I’ve got you.’

I close my eyes and hold her tightly, never wanting to let go; Never again. Tears come, a release from the pain that has built up over the years. My words begin to fall. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, my voice raspy and arriving in bursts. ‘It took me so long to get to you, it was so hard Amy, I wasn’t sure I would –’

‘It’s okay now,’ Amy assures me as my world goes black.

I float below consciousness, aware but not awake. I can’t feel my body but I’m aware of being laid flat in in the back of a car, the one I guess they arrived in. They? Amy and a man. Who is he? I try to move, the leather creaking beneath me. Amy is holding my head. She tells me that I will be okay and then instructs the man to drive faster. I glance at him. He’s late twenties, maybe early thirties. Short hair, intense expression. He nods as Amy speaks. I look up at her and she says, ‘You’re safe now Joe, everything is going to be okay.’ I manage a smile. She’s an angel, I think, as she strokes my head and I go again, into blackness.

No sounds for a while. I’m vaguely aware of being carried, like a dead body in the night, and then of warmth. Dry, clean sheets and then a different kind of darkness. I’m falling. A little voice (the one tuned to Bad News FM), tells me I’m dying, that I failed and this is all just a dream, but I ignore it for once. I tell it to shut the hell up. This is isn’t a dream. This is real and Amy is here and I fucking did it man, I fucking did it.

16.

I sit bolt upright with a gasp, eyes adjusting to the brightness of morning. I’ve slept, at least a few hours anyway, and although I still feel like crap it’s a vast improvement. Initially I have no idea where I am and panic but, slowly, the events that carried me here unfold in my mind, like layers of wrapping paper on a parcel and I relax. Amy is alive.

‘Amy?’ I call, my voice hoarse but audible.

I hear movement and then footsteps and then Amy enters the room and I get my first proper look at her. She’s wearing a blue and white striped shirt and dark blue jeans and her hair – bobbed as a child – is now long; shining and golden brown. She smiles and, as if on cue, the sun burns long shafts of light across the bedroom. I feel a surge of happiness rush up from my feet and explode over me. This is the moment I’ve dreamed of for so long and here she is, my sister, alive and well.

Amy walks towards me and with each step my mind shifts between the girl I knew and the woman before me. I can still see her, aged seven, at the fair, but somehow I manage to merge the two of them together into the thirty-year-old woman stood before me. Tears are burning at the back of my eyes but I fight them. I want to see this moment, to be present and alert. I pull myself up in the bed, giving Amy room to sit. She does and asks me, ‘How did you sleep?’

‘Well,’ I reply, rubbing my face. ‘How long was I out?’

‘We found you on Thursday night,’ Amy replies. ‘It’s Saturday morning now.’

‘Wow, I guess I needed it.’ I sigh, remembering how out of it I was when they found me. ‘Who was the man with you?’

‘That’s Ollie.’ Amy pauses, narrowing her eyes slightly. ‘You don’t recognise him do you?’

I blink, frowning, ‘No, should I?’

‘No,’ Amy replies, offering me a gentle smile. ‘It’s exactly as expected, and that’s fine.’

‘Amy,’ I begin, tentatively, ‘you understand I don’t remember anything about this time, don’t you?’

Amy nods and takes my hand, ‘I know, but don’t worry, I’ve got it all planned out.’

She always had a gift for making those around her feel better and I’m glad to see she hasn’t lost it. In fact, I would say Amy has now mastered it. My brain feels fried, struggling to grasp onto this alternative version of my life but, somehow, a few words from Amy is enough to calm me, for now. I draw in a breath and glance around the room. ‘I need to understand what’s happened,’ I say slowly, ‘I just left you in 2005 and now I’m here, and you’re here. It’s a lot to take in.’

Amy looks straight at me, and nods with empathy. ‘I’m sure it is, but trust me, it will be fine.’ She gives my hand a good squeeze and then leans in and kisses me on the cheek. ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes. Okay?’

I nod and she’s gone. I hear activity downstairs. The clattering of pans and the unmistakable sounds and smells of freshly ground coffee and frying bacon. My stomach groans and gurgles loudly. I’ve been snacking on rubbish for weeks and can’t recall the last time I ate a decent meal. Multiply that with my double jumping, demented yo-yo time-travelling antics, and it explains why I felt so broken.

I take in the room again, more information this time. There are pictures of Amy. One with her dog, I guess, and one of me and her together. I don’t remember it being taken of course, but that’s something I’m going to have to get used to. I close my eyes and, unexpectedly, I doze off again.

Amy wakes me, a coffee in one hand and a bacon and egg sandwich in the other. ‘I made it just how you like it.’ She grins, and oh my goodness, she’s right. The bacon is crispy, the egg just the right side of runny. The bread is white and soft with plenty of butter and ketchup. And the coffee is a strong, flat white and absolutely wonderful. I wanted to be polite and eat slowly as we talked, but that was before I took my first bite. I eat quickly and as I rub the last bit of bread over the now clean plate Amy laughs, ‘Is that better?’

I look up to the sky, thanking the heavens and then her. ‘I can’t tell you. My stomach felt like a bottomless pit but you filled it.’ I breathe in slowly, ‘Thank you.’

It’s strange. As the food hits my stomach it feels like my mind is re-booted and slowly its systems are coming back on-line. The smell of coffee reminded me of Liv and that avenue of thought leads me to Alexia and Mark and Vinny. Are they okay?

Amy is waiting patiently, her expression, I suspect, a mirror of my own concern. ‘This is real Joe,’ she says, taking my right hand in hers again. ‘This isn’t a dream.’

She read my mind. ‘I know, but it’s almost too good to be true,’ I reply. ‘I can’t believe I’m here, but it’s hard.’ I’m hit with the painful realisation that although I have Amy back, our life together starts here, for me anyway. I’m Marty McFly.

Amy tips her head and fixes me with a determined stare. ‘I’ve been preparing for this day for a long time,’ she says, her tone serious. ‘I’m going to fill you in on everything you’ve missed.’ She pauses. ‘And we start now.’

I nod. She seems so confident and that’s infectious, but questions are lurking in every corner of my mind. I’ve saved Amy and that victory feels good, but it’s hard to accept when there is so much still unknown. I may as well have been in a coma for the last twenty-three years. ‘Amy?’ I ask, voice tentative. I look down, sigh and then manage to meet her eyes again. ‘What about Dad?’

Amy frowns, but I can’t tell if it’s confusion or if the question is difficult for her to answer. Those three words seem to echo through time, back to that terrible day when I found my Father, dead behind the wheel of his car. Amy’s answer will either open the world up a little more or close it again on that part of my life, like a bear trap. I suspect it has only been a second since I asked her, but it feels like a minute has passed between us. Finally she answers, and with an innocence that makes my heart bloom, ‘He’s okay Joe, he’s at home.’ And then with a frown, ‘It was different for you wasn’t it?’

‘And Mum?’ I ask, ignoring her question.

‘At home too, she’s starting to forget things but she’s not too bad.’ She leans in. ‘But why Joe, what happened to them?’

She means, what happened to them, once, in a world she only glimpsed as a child. My family were ghosts and they haunted me – even my Mother in her own tragic way – but now they’re real again. An image forms, very clear in my mind, of my parents; happy, retired and together. It all makes sense. The pain and suffering that crashed through my family never happened. Amy never went missing. Dad never killed himself. Mum didn’t become depressed and therefore, perhaps the onset of dementia hasn’t hit her so hard, or so soon. Tears burn and even though I try to fight them they fall. I wipe them away. Amy is frowning, shaking her head. ‘They weren’t okay were they?’ She asks carefully. ‘I saw it once.’

‘It doesn’t matter now,’ I say, voice just above a whisper. ‘None of it matters now.’

We sit in silence for a while, just the sounds of distant cars and life, the ticking of a clock, our breath. Peace at last, I think, imagining our family together. After a while Amy says, ‘When I found you, in the field, you called out a name.’

I nod. ‘Alexia.’

‘Yes, that was it.’ Amy replies, but then pauses, blinking, and I see the shadow of a frown appear. ‘Who is she?’

I lean my head back and shrug. ‘Alexia is…’ But then I pause, trying to understand why Amy wouldn’t know Alexia and then the answer knocks me sideways, and in that moment the weight of time-travel bears down on my heart.

‘The domino effect,’ I whisper, a much better analogy in my case than butterflies. ‘She doesn’t know me anymore,’ I mumble. ‘Not here, anyway, not in this timeline. Why would she?’

After my family fell, Martin pushed me towards Alexia, but that was then and this is now. He never gave me the business card of a talented, brilliant and gorgeous hypnotherapist. He never introduced me to the woman I now love.

‘Was it someone special?’ Amy asks, carefully.

‘Yes.’ I stare back at her, but then, because Amy doesn’t deserve to feel anything close to guilt, I add, ‘But it’s okay, it will be alright.’

But I’m not sure it will. Things may have balanced out – and of course, I cannot and will not ever complain – but it’s clearer to me now than ever before. Time-travel can give with one hand but take with the other. There is always a consequence. There is always a deal. Nothing in life is free and it never was.

17.

Most of Saturday was a blur, just the occasional, brief conversation with Amy followed by long and uneventful bouts of sleep. In true jet-lag fashion, I wake early on Sunday and find Amy waiting by the door, dressed up warm, my coat in hand.

‘Let’s go and explore,’ she says, beaming, and we’re out of the house by seven a.m.

It’s a beautiful winter’s morning; cold, dry and fresh. The occasional glimmer of Sun manages to peek through grey clouds as we walk slowly and quietly through the back streets of Cheltenham. Amy is giving me some time and space, I guess, and the silence is strangely golden. I can’t help but glance at her every few steps though, soaking in my sister, trying not to stare.

Eventually we stop outside a shop on Montpellier Road, a beautiful regency style building. It’s big, roughly the size of a large house; the majority of its frontage taken up by two huge windows, displaying a multitude of delights. My eyes move over the contents of the shop, feeding on the details. I spot ornate furniture, oddities and rarities and antiques from all walks of life and corners of the U.K. All demand attention, all fascinating in their own right. I’m drawn, helpless, like a magnet towards them. My wide gaze settles on the entrance, a wooden door, painted royal blue, with a brass handle. Above it, and spanning almost the entire width of the shop, is a sign – one that looks as though it were made fifty years ago. It has hand painted, flamboyant type, dark grey text with pale gold edges. It reads: ‘Bridgeman Antiques’.

‘This is yours Joe,’ Amy says, with a tentative smile.

I try to speak but pause, uncertain. In my previous life I let my small antiques business die, another victim of losing Amy I guess. I’ve often looked back and wondered if I could have made something of it. But that was a long time ago and those dreams belong to a different man; so much so that I find it hard to comprehend what I’m looking at. ‘I can’t believe it,’ I manage finally, ‘Amy, this can’t all be mine, it’s too much.’

She pulls out a set of keys, opens the front door and steps inside. I try to follow but my legs don’t work, in fact they would much prefer to buckle and be jelly. ‘I don’t deserve it…’ I frown, looking away.

Amy walks back to me, takes my hand and waits. Eventually I face her and she says, ‘Listen to me Joseph and you listen good.’ She takes my other hand, speaks slowly and clearly, all the while looking at me. ‘There is no one on earth who deserves this more than you. You’ve worked for this, believe me, and you’re good at this job. You were born to help people find what they’re looking for.’ She smiles, clearly remembering things I don’t.

‘You love it here and you’re very happy and you often joke about your morning commute.’

‘My morning commute?’ I mumble.

‘Yes,’ Amy laughs. It’s a very good sound. ‘You live up there.’ She points to the first floor. ‘Now, come on big brother, let’s go and have a look inside shall we?’

As we enter, a tiny bell rings above the door and I know, actually feel, like I’m home. The smell of the place, aged and musty with a hint of brass and polish, laced with history. Just about the most perfect smell I can imagine. Old things, antiques, each one waiting for someone to come along and claim them. I remember how I described this link once to Alexia, referring to a set of opera glasses. ‘They call to people,’ I told her. Perhaps people are like that too. I hope so.

Amy walks ahead, towards a desk in the centre of what feels like the world’s biggest and best sweet shop. ‘You open at 10 a.m. and close when you feel like it,’ she says. I stare at the desk, which is clearly mine, the way it’s laid out neatly (I know, who would have thought it?), right down to the choice of lamp and pen. It’s as though I’ve found the ultimate personal shopper. One who knows exactly what I want and need in every aspect of my life. Amy opens her handbag and gives me a bunch of keys, ‘I labelled these for you. It’s straightforward and the alarm code is my birthday.’ She frowns. ‘That was your idea, not mine.’

‘Amy,’ I murmur.

‘You don’t open on Sundays unless you get one of your feelings, in which case sometimes you –’

‘Amy,’ I say again and she stops. ‘We need to take it slowly, okay?’

She looks at the floor and frowns. ‘Oh, right, yeah, sorry.’

‘It’s alright,’ I assure her. ‘It’s just a lot to take in and I still have so many questions.’

She nods and hands me a black moleskin book, similar to my Dad’s diary. ‘I made this for you,’ she says. ‘Over the years, each time something important happened I noted the date and wrote a brief description for you, I thought it would help you catch up, to understand the chronology of things.’

I take it and leaf though the pages. ‘Thank you,’ I say, knowing how woefully inadequate that is as I stare at the pages of my secret life.

‘I’ve been thinking about this since I was seven,’ Amy says proudly, ‘I so badly want it to go well, but it’s hard for me too, you know.’

I nod, considering this. ‘I’m sure it is.’

Amy manages a smile but it bends my brain to think how much has changed. A million questions fight and brawl in my mind. I draw in a breath, and ask one at random, ‘How did you know I would arrive in that field, at exactly the time I did?’

Amy sighs and her smile breaks a little, she looks almost sad. ‘When you came back and saved me at the fair I asked you what year you had come from.’

‘I remember,’ I say, ‘I told you 2015, but I’m surprised you remember that, all things considered.’

‘I remember everything from that night,’ Amy replies seriously, her face shifting for a fraction of a second into the girl I remember. ‘I’ve been watching you closely since January 1st and I was with you that morning – the old you I mean – and that’s when it happened. You disappeared, right in front of me. I knew it meant you would return soon and I knew exactly where you would be.’

I exhale loudly. ‘That must have been scary for you and him.’

Amy shakes her head and takes a step towards me. ‘Joe, in this timeline you never got past the point of viewing, you never discovered you could time-travel and I never talked about it. The old you had no idea what was about to happen, he just vanished, making space for you.’

‘I guess the loop had to close,’ I ponder. ‘Time puts things right in the end.’

‘Yes and I didn’t tell him because there didn’t seem any point, and also I was worried I might break something.’ Amy shrugs. ‘You know, change things again.’

‘You did the right thing,’ I say, the words coming easily. Perhaps because I’m me now, and this version knows all about time-travelling. I’ve saved Amy. Mission well and truly accomplished, yet, something inside me, something deep down, isn’t sure I’m ready to give this time-travelling thing up. Not just yet.

Amy hands me a set of keys and nods towards an open doorway and stairs that I’m guessing lead up to my home. ‘Why don’t you go and get familiar with Casa Bridgeman?’ she suggests.

‘Okay,’ I reply, nervously. ‘But what about you, where are you going?’

‘Joe,’ Amy says, softly. ‘You did your job all those years ago. I’m thirty now and I’ve managed all this time.’ She winks and gives my arm a squeeze. ‘You don’t need to worry about me.’

‘Amy,’ I reply, looking down my nose at her, eyebrows raised, ‘I will worry about you as long as I live.’

She smiles. ‘Likewise Joe, but listen, I thought you should have some time to yourself. You know, to get used to this place.’ She pauses a beat. ’Maybe you can read some of your book too?’

The moleskin is in my right hand, a lifetime of memories waiting to be discovered. ‘Yes,’ I agree, nodding to myself and looking around the shop, realising that actually some time alone might be a good idea. ‘Okay but when will I see you again?’

‘It’s Sunday, you can keep the shop closed and no one will bother you. We usually see Mum and Dad on a Sunday, Mum cooks, but I’ve told them you’re away, you do that quite often. So, just don’t answer the phone. Hole up here for a while and…’ She pauses, searching for the word.

‘Decompress,’ I finish for her with a wry smile.

‘Exactly.’ Amy smiles and I see understanding. Perhaps she’s had her own version of this during her formative years; a need to be alone after travelling, a need to reconnect with time and place. Like a needle, I think, we need to drop slowly and find our groove again.

Amy leans in and kisses my cheek. ‘I’ll pop in tomorrow and check you’re okay, there’s always food in your fridge and freezer, but call me if you need anything. My number is on speed dial, just press one.’

With a jangle of my new favourite bell, Amy leaves and I’m alone again, except I’m not. I’ve got my family back and can feel their foundations again, a surety I haven’t felt since I was a teenager. Trust me on this. Even if you don’t always get along with your family, you’ll feel it when they’re gone; the gap they leave is impossible to fill.

I smile. Amy on speed dial and a full fridge. I was lucky to find half a pint of milk on the turn in my previous life.

I’m liking the present more and more.

18.

I tour my new/old house and every angle is an assault on my senses. It feels as though I’ve snuck into some other bloke’s house and I really dig his style and although I’m an imposter I have no doubts that – in time – I will learn to be very happy here. This is confirmed when I discover my study. It’s been directly lifted from my old house. Everything is here, and in the corner I find my favourite chair, a reading lamp and my beloved vinyl collection. I wonder if the albums are the same or if I will have chosen different ones this time around? I browse through them and am relieved to find my Beatles collection intact, and pleasantly surprised to even find a few new ones too. I had no memory of this place, yet each room feels instantly familiar and it only takes a few hours for me to feel something akin to settled. Once I feel satisfied I’ve seen every nook and cranny I decide this is, indeed, my home and also decide that I like it here. More than the last one. That was a ghost house, this feels alive, and I vow that no matter what I will continue the process of living here, and I’m going to start right now. I’m going to do what you do in your own place. I’m going to take a bath.

Half an hour later I slide back into the hot water and finally feel the stress of the last few months (and if I’m honest, years) dissipating a little. In my own words it’s time to decompress. And time is a great healer. For some.

My thoughts return to Alexia and my heart sinks. Time-travel is amazing, it’s given me sister back, but it can also be painful. Without Alexia Finch none of this would have happened and I’ve lost her. This morning, when I asked Amy if I had someone special here, she looked thoughtful and careful as she said no. She said there had been someone a few years back, but not for a while. And you know what? I was glad.

I soak for a while, moving my hands through the water, letting my mind settle. When my finger tips finally look like prunes I get out of the roll-top bath (good choice), dry off and find my razor and shaving foam exactly where I expected them to be. I am nothing if not consistent. I begin to shave, staring at myself, trying with each stroke of my blade to adjust. Mirrors. They kind of freak me out a bit now. Once you’ve seen yourself, I mean in the flesh like I have, you kind of expect the man opposite you to shout boo!

I finish shaving, splash cold water on my face and browse my wardrobe and chest of drawers. I own good clothes, much better than the ones I left in my old life. Amy’s influence maybe. Either way, I find myself thinking again that life here is good.

I’m drawn to my favourite place, my study and my beaten up leather chair with the studs still missing in places. People are drawn to objects I think, and it appears this chair and I were destined to be together. I open the book written by my sister about a family I love and hope Alexia and I are the same; that we will be drawn together again.

I open the book to page one and begin. The first entry is dated August 12th 1993 and for the next few hours I am utterly engrossed. The book, part diary, part journal, part newspaper, is brilliantly written, each entry a pleasure. It’s almost like your favourite novel, one you read a long time ago but have sort of forgotten about. Characters appear, and when they do you think ‘Oh yeah! I’d forgotten that’s when they turned up’. And so it is for Mark and Vinny and Chad and a whole host of others – thank the stars – who still feature in my life. Things are different, of course. I never won the lottery, which means Vinny and Louise never got that trip on the Harley, but I suspect something similar will play out. Things seem to have a way of chasing through the sieve of time eventually. ‘We won the lottery,’ I whisper, staring at the ceiling and smiling. I never spent a penny of it.

I close the book. I’ve been skimming and I don’t want to. I need to take my time, but there’s only so much ‘This is your life’ you can take in one hit. My brain is glowing with new information that I’m somehow supposed to remember.

I wonder – not for the first time – if I should just fake a severe head injury.

19.

My decompression continues slowly. It’s Monday morning before I finally pluck up the courage to venture downstairs again. I still feel very much like an imposter, a clone who has inherited a whole load of goodies from some poor sod who was me not so long ago. It’s just plain weird, but I as I browse my place of business I try to re-assure myself that I didn’t murder Other Joe. I am him. I’m Joseph Bridgeman. I catch my reflection in a large, gilt framed mirror and hike an eyebrow, ‘No, I’m Joseph Bridgeman.’ I smile.

Okay. I’m weird. So, no change there then.

The next hour or so is spent meandering around, familiarising myself with my stock of antiques and collectibles. As I pass each item, I get an undeniable urge to touch them. Perhaps because there are so many in one place, so many I haven’t connected with yet. Either way, I’m careful for now. The last thing I want is a load of new viewings when I hit the pillow tonight. Plenty of time to find out if the old Bridgeman magic is still there. Plenty.

Whilst this shop is bigger than the one I rented years ago, and more varied in terms of items, there are similarities and one specific thing unites the past with the present; the undeniable randomness of the contents. Antiques centres can appear jumbled but often they aren’t really. They are organised by period or a specific collector’s specialism. But in my case, there is no thread, no preferred items. My stock is a random – and, in my opinion, fascinating – mess of desirable pieces. Rare and collectible coins are mixed up with Second World War memorabilia. Early 20th century furniture (art deco and art nouveau), sit alongside porcelain jars and old cameras. I heard that Winston Churchill once sent a dessert back to the kitchen, explaining that it, ‘had no theme’. Well, as a collector, I have no theme either, no speciality or leaning. I merely keep old things safe until their destiny walks through the door to claim them.

Me? An old romantic? Who would have thought?

I eventually make it back to the focal point of the shop; the big oak desk, the owner’s desk. I sit back in my leather Captain’s Chair and stare at the phone, one of those old black ones with the spinny dial in the centre and dare myself to pick up the receiver. It takes an age, but eventually I dial her number, heart thumping in my ears as the dial rotates, clacking back to zero each time. I don’t get her of course, I get her receptionist, who I then persuade, very forcefully, to put me through.

‘Hello, this is Alexia Finch,’ she announces in her best and most professional phone manner, ‘how can I help?’

I can tell she’s annoyed because, well, I know her. Unfortunately, when I speak I’ve regressed to the man I was before I met her, the bumbling one. ‘Hello, yes, er hi,’ I stutter awkwardly, ‘I was wondering if I could make an appointment with you.’

So I can work on you falling in love with me. Again.

‘Okay,’ Alexia replies, tone professional, ‘I can put you through to my secretary, she has my diary and can make you an appointment.’

‘Hmmmm,’ I mumble, ‘but I wanted to speak to you directly.’

‘Okay,’ she waits.

I swallow and blurt, ‘I run an antiques business and I would like some help dealing with people.’ I pause, drawing in a breath before adding, slowly this time, ‘My name is Joseph Bridgeman.’

I feel a fleeting moment of connection through the wires of this old telephone line. Alexia Finch is only a few miles from here. The woman who chose the track, ‘Got To Get You Into My Life’ with a smile. The woman who kissed me. The woman who cared. But when she speaks, the temporary spell is shattered and I am reminded that the space between us is huge, the connection is only in my mind.

‘Okay, Mr Bridgeman,’ she says, efficiently. ‘How about next Monday, say four o’clock?’

‘Yes,’ I say, flatly. ‘Thank you, that’s great.’ Really, really, great.

‘Good,’ Alexia replies, formally. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you then.’

‘Thank you,’ I say again, resting the receiver gently back into its cradle.

She doesn’t know me, she doesn’t know me at all. I recall the last time I saw her on Leckhampton Hill. She re-assured me. ‘It will be okay Joe,’ she told me. ‘When you come back, Amy and I will be waiting.’ But she was wrong.

I draw in a long, slow breath, ironically just as Alexia taught me. That’s when the bell above the front door rings and I jump out of my seat. I didn’t lock it, what kind of shop owner am I?

A tall man enters the shop. He’s around fifty years of age and smartly dressed in a blue striped shirt, light grey trousers and matching waistcoat. His hair is dark, well cut and swept back neatly over his head. He has the look of man who pines for a bygone era, old fashioned but not out of fashion, confident enough to be firmly grounded here. He pauses by the door, glancing around as if waiting for someone, but then steps inside. He approaches my desk and then pauses, just a few feet between us. I’m about to explain that I’m not open today, when he speaks. ‘Hello Joseph,’ he says, pulling a gold pocket watch from his waistcoat, ‘bang on time I believe.’

Oh crap. He knows me. Probably has an appointment. My first encounter with someone from Other Joe’s life and I’m woefully under-prepared. ‘Yes,’ I say, without a clue what will come out of my mouth next. ‘Good to see you. Yep, bang on time.’ I think I recognise him from somewhere, but can’t place him yet. I glance down at my desk, there’s a calendar there, maybe that will tell me who I’m expecting.

The man smiles, ‘I saw something in your window that caught my eye.’ He leans in a little, eyes sparkling, ‘Can I show you?’

‘Of course,’ I say, as though I’m watching a play, one I arrived at late and don’t have a clue about the plot or who the characters are. I follow him to the window and he points out the item in question. It’s a Zoetrope, just like the one I imagined when I travelled back to Amy, the last time. My heart skips a beat and I turn back to him.

‘Could I have a look?’ He enquires politely.

I nod and pick the Zoetrope from the display, placing it on a table behind us. The man waits for my permission and then gently spins it. Through the slits around its edge, a horse gallops over jumps.

‘We’ve met before,’ the man says softly. ‘Do you remember?’ His eyes dance playfully as he rubs a hand across his jaw, which I notice – for the first time – is bruised and slightly swollen.

Sharp fingers pinch my heart and my legs go weak. I remember him. ‘I don’t understand?’ I manage to say to the man from the fair, the one who asked me very directly what I was doing there, the one who seemed out of place, the one who interfered, the one I had to punch and cause a scene. ‘What are you doing here?’

The man nods as the Zoetrope slowly comes to a stop. ‘This is a beautiful piece Joseph, but it’s not quite what I’m after.’ His voice is precise and clipped like a British newscaster from the sixties. ‘Not to worry though.’ His eyes sparkle as he adds, ‘We can’t always get what we want, can we?’

A second wave of connection rushes through me as I realise the fair isn’t the only time I’ve seen him. He was on the train the day I went to see Mark D’Stellar. He’s the business man who struck up a conversation with me.

‘I can tell by your expression, that you do remember me.’

‘Yes,’ I murmur. ‘You’re the Rolling Stones fan, you’ve been following me.’

He shrugs easily. ‘Yes, I have been keeping an eye on you I suppose.’ He pauses. ‘Did you spot me at the science fair too?’ He recalls the date efficiently. ‘Cheltenham Town Hall, 2005, front row.’

‘Yes,’ I manage, vaguely remembering a smartly dressed man, the only one not entertained by my sudden arrival on stage. ‘Who are you?’ I steady myself against the table. ‘What do you want?’

The man straightens his back, draws in a breath and says, ‘Please forgive me Mr. Bridgeman, where are my manners?’ He tips his head and hands me a business card. ‘My name is William P. Brown and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.’

I hike my eyebrows, rotating the card in my fingers and then look back at him. ‘And what do you want Mr Brown?’ I ask again.

‘My friends call me Bill,’ he says, with a wave of his hand, ‘and I’ve been following you because I need your help.’ He cocks an eyebrow, and smiles warmly. ‘Well you and your sister to be precise.’

My guard is still up and I know the mention of Amy should panic me, but my initial fear is transforming into something else and I find myself smiling back at him. I’m intrigued and I have a very strong sense that our meeting is going to be somehow important. He nods, grinning confidently as though we’re sharing some marvellous secret together and somewhere, deep in my guts, I suspect we are. ‘Are you ready?’ Mr William P. Brown asks, mischief and adventure glowing in his eyes. ‘Are you ready for the Magical Mystery Tour?’

Also By Nick Jones

If Science Fiction Thrillers are your thing, then check out my human hibernation series, described by some as Blade Runner meets Minority Report. The year is 2091. With accelerated warming and global population out of control, the survival of humanity hangs in the balance. On the brink of extinction, science delivers one last hope. Human hibernation.

The Whisper of Stars - Amazon U.S.

The Whisper of Stars - Amazon U.K.

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The Embers of Hope - Amazon U.K.

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Acknowledgements

As always, there are plenty of people to thank. All of you – in some way – help my dream of becoming a proper writer sneak into reality.

Ian Hughes: It’s simple really. I couldn’t do it without you mate. The Unexpected Gift was a blast from start to finish and the laughter echoes through these pages. This book is as much yours as mine.

Kay Renfrew: At every turn you were there, to either gently steer me back on course or give me ‘that smile’, the one that tells me Joseph Bridgeman is back in town. Thank you for all your help, enthusiasm and your unwavering belief in me.

Steve Parolini: You gave me your time and that’s the most valuable thing of all. I won’t forget it. You are my guide through this sometimes harsh landscape of Indie Authorship.

I owe you a lot, and if this gig ever gets big, you’ll be right there with me.

Dawn Lewis: You are much more than my editor and proofreader. Your positive feedback and guidance in the early stages was a welcome validation that The Downstream Diaries Book 1 was going to work. For me, each Episode didn’t fully exist until you gave it the nod. Thank you. See you for Book 2 ; )

My Mum: You not only read my stuff, but you tell me it’s good too, and that means a lot. If you’re just being nice. I love you.

The real Mrs Wiggins: Whilst you are nothing like the character in the book, you are a safe place for me to take shelter. Love ya.

The guys at work: Support from you lot is a constant lift. Thanks all.

You, the reader: When I started this journey, I knew the fight would be one reader at a time. Slowly your numbers build. Thanks for reading me. It’s great to have you aboard.

A note from the Author

This book was always going to be a novel, but was first released in episodes (under the title DOWNSTREAM) on Kindle between February and August 2015. There were a number of reasons for choosing this format and release style.

I’ve always been interested in serialised fiction. It surged in popularity during Britain’s Victorian era, due to a combination of more people reading, technological advances in printing, and improved economics of distribution. For me, the similarities with the Kindle revolution (advanced technology, low distribution cost, voracious audience) were obvious and, by being able to give the first episode away FREE, it seemed like a good way for readers to try me out.

Also, as an Indie Author, only being able to release one book a year was frustrating. I wanted to release stuff more often, so challenged myself to write something quickly, edit on the go and work to a strict release schedule. As an experiment, I enjoyed writing in episodes immensely. Will I do it again? Definitely. Every time? No. Some novels are meant to be novels. This story just suited the episodic approach. For those who don’t know, Ian Hughes is my partner in fictional crime – he helps plot and I do the hard bit – his words. We are planners at heart but interestingly, although we had an ‘idea’ how Downstream would end, we didn’t really know until Episode 5; and let me tell you, it doesn’t get much better than seeing a book’s finale unravel before your eyes. Ian and I agreed that what we’ve learned from this experience will influence our approach on novels going forward.

It doesn’t mean I will release everything in episodes, just that we may adopt some of the techniques. Episodes are a buzz and we want to keep charged! And finally, as the novel took shape, I realised I was going to have to tread the line between comedy and drama carefully. Joe, the main character, uses comedy to deal with very difficult situations. To me, that’s life and certainly I intend no offence to anyone struggling with any of the issues explored here; particularly anyone going through the difficulties of dementia.

So, sit back and enjoy all seven episodes as one novel. ‘The Unexpected Gift of Joseph Bridgeman’. I hope, on reading it back-to-back, you feel it hangs together as one story.

Nick Jones, August 2015.