Sneak peak of the first two chapters of the new book, Joseph Bridgeman and the Silver Hunter, Book 2 in the Downstream Diaries. Hope you like…
Joseph Bridgeman and the Silver Hunter
PART 1 – Baby You’re A Rich Man
1.
Welcome back to this week’s thrilling episode of Keeping up with the Bridgemans. After persuading the sexiest woman ever to NOT have sex with me, I didn’t think my day could get much worse.
I was wrong.
A cold bead of sweat trickles down my spine. Thunderstorms and I have a history. I’m not feeling a huge urge to head downstairs, but like in the movies, the story doesn’t work if the hero stays put.
Hmm. I may be the hero, but I’m far from heroic.
Slowly, I descend the stairs, fingers creeping along the wall, eyes adjusting to the gloom. The last step is confirmed by repeatedly tapping my toes on the floor. Cartoon style.
By day, Bridgeman Antiques is a warm, welcoming place. Tonight, it’s Stephen King’s favourite shop of horrors.
The wind howls, shaking the front door like an angry ghost. Rain hammers the huge bay windows. A streetlight bathes the shop in a sick, aqua light, transforming channels of rain into swaying seaweed, dancing playfully over dark, ominous shapes.
It’s mesmerising and also spooky as hell.
I fumble for the light switch, click it up and down a few times and sigh. Nothing.
Dubious shadows reach out like broken fingers waiting to drag me into the darkness. It’s crazy how quickly your mind goes into creative-destruct mode, filling in the gaps with demons and monsters.
Right, come on… fuse box.
A weird light flickers near the front of the shop, like static on an old television. I hear the strangest sound too, buzzing, like overhead electric cables, crackling with power.
‘Is there someone there?’ I call out, voice weak and trembling. ‘Joe?’
I know it sounds nuts but once you’ve time travelled, you half expect to meet yourself in situations like this.
Thunder booms, threatening to blow the front door off its hinges. Lightning flashes on its tail, burning orange shapes onto my retina. It strikes again, illuminating a grizzly bear with jagged teeth like deadly knives.
‘Yaaaaaarrr!’ I shriek, which is embarrassing.
The bear isn’t real of course. Along with a suit of armour, it’s one of the creepier pieces in my shop and an ideal candidate for an episode of Scooby Doo. Fresh sweat races down my spine. My heart returns from the ceiling. I blame W.P. Brown for all of this. He properly freaked me out this morning, with all his talk of time-travelling adventures and – what did he call it again? Oh, yeah – ‘The Untethering’.
Pah! Makes me sound like a goat!
Time travel, the last bloody thing I want to do. And anyway, it doesn’t matter.
I’m retired.
The wind howls an ominous warning as distant thunder attacks Cheltenham like a bombing raid. ‘Come on, Joe,’ I say, ‘it’s just a storm, the fuse has tripped, no big deal.’
My heart stops as I realise the flickering is coming from one of my display cabinets. Cabinet 22, the one Bill found so fascinating. It was closed, but it’s open now, glowing white and surrounded by swirling dry ice.
I’m not kidding.
Dry flipping ice!
It plumes out, like a scene from a crap Eighties pop video. I can just imagine Cher, prancing around, performing air-grabs and belting out the chorus of, ‘If I could turn back time’.
Mental note: I must at some point phone the Eighties and ask for my soul back.
Static electricity ripples over my skin as though the mysterious Cabinet 22 is conducting the storm, using its power to lure me in.
‘Bollocks’, I tell the room. ‘There is a perfectly rational explanation for all of this.’
The Cabinet probably blew the fuse and the stuff that looks like dry ice is actually smoke. On cue, lightning banishes the dark. It helps me trace the power lead from the back of Cabinet 22, along the floor, to an upturned plug, metres from the wall.
Oh.
It isn’t plugged in.
I wonder – not for the first time – if someone spiked my drink. The light emanating from the Zoltar machine (from ‘Big’) is remarkably pretty. The objects displayed on the glass shelves within glow like pearls.
I’m drawn to it.
The sound of the storm fades and what I thought was static becomes a tuning sound, the whistle and whine of a radio, scanning the airwaves.
That’s when I notice it. A Roberts radio. Cherry red and brand new, the round dials white and gleaming, the grill polished, the waveband display, clear and well-lit. And how it glows! Vibrant and rich in colour. All the other items in the cabinet dull in comparison.
I glide towards it like a man in a dream, obeying its undeniable allure. My mouth hangs open, my head leans to one side. It’s not a good look but I can’t help it. My focus is on the radio. Then, if this wasn’t peculiar enough already, the dial begins to turn, all by itself.
‘Jeez Louise,’ I murmur, unable to tear my gaze away. ‘Definitely something in that drink…’
The ghostly dial locks onto a strong signal and the whole world fills with the sound of deafening rock and roll. A fast tremolo guitar riff. A minor into a G, a progression I recognise instantly.
Runaway, by Del Shannon.
Now, I love Sixties music (massive Beatles fan), and Runaway is a great pop song, but mix Paranormal Activity with Close Encounters and turn it up to eleven? Not so much.
Del croons out in his famous falsetto…’Why?’ He wails over and over again before he wonders if ‘…she will stay-ay, my little runaway. My run, run… run, run, run, runaway.’
The keyboard solo rips through the air, the song is getting louder, building to an almighty crescendo.
I reach for the volume dial and then pause, raw power crackling between my fingers and the radio. It’s deafening now, I have to stop it.
As my finger connects with the dial, there is a loud, shattering pop, like a room of lightbulbs blowing in unison. The world becomes a blinding, all-encompassing ball of light and Bridgeman Antiques is no more.
2.
Earlier that day…
W.P. Brown admires a cabinet filled with ornate, glass objects like he has all the time in the world. The mysterious time traveller arrived in my shop this morning. I’m wary because he’s been following me through time, and because he’s the only one – apart from Amy – who knows what really happened.
I clear my throat. ‘Mr Brown, when you said –’
‘Please! My friends call me Bill.’
‘Okay – er, Bill. What did you mean when you asked if I was ready for the Magical Mystery tour?’
W.P. Brown pulls his pocket watch out of his waistcoat and flips it open. ‘Mmm-hmm,’ he murmurs to himself and smiles back at me with easy confidence. ‘I’m here to teach you, Joseph. I am your mentor!’
I think this is the part where I’m supposed to hear a rousing crescendo of strings and we chest bump or high-five or something. But I don’t feel anything, other than slightly embarrassed. I’m British, which means I find enthusiasm a little awkward, something to be avoided at all costs.
‘Er, my mentor?’ I reply, tone flat. ‘For what?’
Bill pulls a small meerschaum pipe from his jacket pocket and lights up. He puffs on the mouthpiece, encouraging the dried leaves to singe and char, and a comforting waft of cherry tobacco reaches my nostrils.
‘Sorry, but I don’t think you can smoke in here,’ I tell him. I don’t know why I’m apologising – he’s the one polluting my shop. Although to be fair, I’m not sure about the rules, because it’s not really my shop. It belongs to a previous version of me, one I replaced. Let’s call him ‘Previous Joe’ because it sounds so much better than ‘the bloke I unintentionally murdered last week’.
W.P. waves his pipe at me cheerily and leans towards me. ‘Do you know how many people actually succeed in using time travel to change something in their own lives, like you did?’
I shake my head. ‘No. I don’t.’
I’ve always been a bit of a hermit and it didn’t occur to me that other people might be able to time travel too. All I cared about was saving my sister, Amy. She was seven when she died but I changed that. I went back to 1992 and saved her. Bill was there during some of my jumps, seemed to be following me and now, three days after I get home, he turns up again. It’s why I’m nervous of him. What does he want?
‘Only 6% of those who try actually manage to change their past.’ he says, ‘That already makes you special.’
‘Er, thank you,’ I reply, trying to be polite.
He scrutinises me with such intensity, I feel as though he’s trying to look through my eyes and into my soul. ‘You, Joseph Bridgeman, completed a double-jump. That’s very rare indeed. Ingenious, in fact,’ he breathes, eyes burning bright.
‘Right. Thanks…’
‘And now, here we are, The Magical Mystery Tour begins, my boy! As your mentor, I’m going to teach you everything you need to know to become a fully-fledged time traveller.’ He beams at me.
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. For a few seconds, the only sound in the room is the clocks on the wall ticking out of rhythm with one another.
Bill has an undeniable charisma, and I like him. But this is bonkers. There’s no question that time travel is cool, and the idea of learning how to do it properly, maybe travelling further back in time… it’s tempting. But right now? After everything I’ve just been through? It’s the last thing I want to do.
Bill has wandered away and is admiring a cabinet in the corner of the shop. All the cabinets in my shop are numbered, and this one is marked 22. It’s slim and around six feet tall, its glass chipped here and there, bronze edges rounded with age. It houses the most peculiar collection of items.
Bill turns back and looks at me, seems hopeful, excited even. ‘Fascinating,’ he murmurs.
I’m usually a good judge of character, and I get the feeling he’s not threatening. Weird, yes, but dangerous? Nope, I don’t think so. I might just need to let him down gently.
I move over to the door and turn the sign on the door of Bridgeman Antiques to CLOSED.
‘I’m sorry, Bill, but I’m done with time travelling.’
He nods, patiently.
‘What?’ I frown. ‘You don’t believe me?’
‘Well, I’ve been in a similar situation. I understand how you feel.’
‘And how’s that?’ I ask.
‘The life of a time traveller is tough, and the challenges upon your return can be difficult to surmount,’ he says knowingly. He walks back towards me and leans against the desk. He’s been sucking on the empty pipe; he starts to fill it with fresh tobacco. ‘And now, you’re home. You have things just how you want them. Hoping for a quiet life. Am I right?’
‘Well, something like that,’ I admit.
I’m not so much after a quiet life; I had one of those, and it was rubbish. (Unlike Previous Joe’s life, which seemed to be much happier and way more successful than mine, until I vaporised him of course.)
Now I’m back, I have stuff to work on, specifically: getting to know my sister, building bridges with my family and persuading Alexia to fall in love with me again. To cut a long story short, I need to be here, in the present.
I notice I’ve crossed both my arms. My whole body is screaming ‘no’.
‘You have much to learn, Joseph, but you don’t need to face the untethering alone,’ Bill continues, apparently unaware of my body language.
‘The untethering?’ I ask, despite myself.
‘Indeed,’ he says. ‘Yes. Like all Travellers, your first jump was tethered, restricted by your own timeline. There was only so far you could jump. But when you saved Amy, you broke free of the bonds of time. Now, you are untethered, which means, for a start that you can travel much, much further…’
Further?! My stomach clenches at the thought. 1992 was quite far enough, and that nearly killed me. The last thing I need is Obi-Wan dragging me off on adventures into the distant past.
‘It doesn’t make any difference Bill… I’m not going to travel again. I mean, why would I?’ I say.
Bill carries on. ‘The untethering comes with new rules though, some of which are beneficial. Objects, including your clothes, won’t disappear any more, I’m sure you’ll be relieved to hear.’
‘Bill, listen, please,’ I implore him. ‘What you don’t seem to be getting is that I belong here, in the present. I am totally done with time travel.’
He points his pipe at me. ‘That’s as maybe, Joseph. But what you don’t seem to be getting is that time travel is not done with you.’
At this, I start to feel the tiniest bit uncomfortable.
He fixes me with his wild eyes and when he speaks his voice is deep, confident and laced with excitement. ‘You are a time traveller, my boy,’ he says, pausing just long enough to grin, ‘and saving Amy was just the beginning.’
