by Nick Jones
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 bla
me 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.