by Nick Jones
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 kn
ow 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?’