by Nick Jones
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. Ther
e 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 invisi
ble 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.