Chapter 8
Two weeks earlier
The Turnpike Inn, Bristol
20th September
8.16 p.m.
Han Trafford cursed as he spilt beer. He cautiously made his way to the bar table where James and Howie sat. Howie eyed Han and smiled as he clumsily carried three beers and three packets of crisps. Howie thanked him for the drink while James said nothing. His chin rested in his hands and his elbows were on the table while he stared into space.
“Come on mate, sup up,” said Howie, in an attempt to sound cheery.
James said nothing, while Howie and Han glanced at one another nervously.
Han had called Howie the evening before, and told him that James had returned from wherever he’d been for the past four days. Howie had rushed over to the house to see his best friend. When Howie arrived he couldn’t believe how much James had changed since he’d seen him last, just over a week ago. His face was lined and he had a bruise across the bridge of his nose. There was something else about his appearance which was different, but he couldn’t fathom out what is was.
But the worse thing was that James had no recollection of Howie as he was today. James hardly said a word, and when he did, he mumbled beneath his breath.
Howie had been friends with James since primary school, and was best man when James married Helena four years ago. The only time they’d fallen out was when Howie discovered that James had been having an affair. Helena had found out about his brief fling, and although they’d tried to work things out, their marriage soon broke down and was over in less than eighteen months.
Howie had been furious with James because he’d introduced him to Helena way back in senior school. Helena was his sister’s friend and Howie felt partially responsible for ruining her life.
“Perhaps we should tell Howie how you ended up back at home with me?” said Han.
James shrugged nonchalantly.
Han explained to Howie how he’d found James sprawled and unconscious across his bed in the early hours of the morning, and how he’d initially assumed James was an intruder and had secured him by tying his hands and feet before he awoke.
Neither James, nor his father, had yet broached the nightmare they’d shared. Neither had any idea that they both had been dreaming the same thing.
“How did you get that bruise?” asked Howie.
James rubbed the bridge of his nose and shook his head.
Howie looked at the knuckles on Han’s right hand.
“You’ve not been knocking him around?” said Howie pointing to Han’s swollen knuckles, and at the same time trying to sound funny.
Howie saw father and son throw each other a glance.
“Seriously, have the two of you been fighting?”
Howie watched the colour drain from Han’s face, and James shuffled nervously.
“What happened? One of you tell me.”
Neither were willing to share what both men had perceived to be nothing but a very realistic bad dream.
At last, James spoke.
“Look you guys, I don’t know what’s going on. If this is some kind of joke, then it has to stop. Howie, I guess dad told you that as far as I’m concerned you’re dead. You died a long time ago, and he killed you.”
Han shuffled in his seat as James raised his finger and pointed at him.
The conviction, with which he had spoken convinced Howie that James was saying what he perceived to be real.
He’s having a breakdown, thought Howie.
“How can I be dead? I’m here talking with you. I can tell you all our stories. I could remind you about what happened on your stag night, although your dad may not wish to hear. And we can talk about the weekend in Amsterdam, just before you started university, and I can…….”
Howie was interrupted by James as he stood up. His nostrils flared and his hands shook.
“None of what you say ever happened. You never made it out of your teens. You’re not Howie. Howie died, you sick bastard. Why are you both doing this to me? I just want to go home.”
“Okay son, we’ll finish our drinks and then I’ll get you home.”
“No dad, not to your house. I’m going back to my house.”
“Listen to us, we’re not making this stuff up. Look, I’ll prove it to you,” said Howie pulling his phone from his pocket.
He scrolled through the images on his phone and shuffled closer to James.
“That’s you and I, at Ashton Gate last Season, we hammered Walsall 8 - 2.”
James frowned.
“I don’t remember that. That game never happened.”
“Okay, okay then well how about this one?” said Howie, frantically searching through the picture roll.
He handed the phone back to James and showed him a picture of the two of them looking red faced and exhausted. Howie took the phone back from him and swiped on to the next picture where James looked even redder faced, and Howie was drinking milk straight from a plastic bottle. James shook his head.
“Are you saying you don’t remember that day?” snapped Howie. James shook his head
“Should I?”
“I should coco! The Upton Cheyney Chilli Festival last month? You beat me in the chilli eating contest, but only just.”
James stared at him with a blank expression.
“And what about this one? It’s you, me and Dean. It was taken on Dean’s birthday.”
“Dean?” asked James.
“Dean Barrington-Smyth, you can’t forget him, he has the poshest name in Bristol and hates it.”
“How do I know Dean Barrington-Smyth?”
“You worked together, before you lost your job.”
James shook his head.
“Okay, okay one last picture to prove we’re not making this stuff up.”
Howie shuffled through his pictures, searching further and further back in time. After a minute of searching through his archived photos, he handed the phone back to James.
“There!” he exclaimed, turning the phone around to face James. “You can’t argue with that one.”
James’ hands shook as he held the phone and stared at the image.
“What the hell are you pair of jokers up to. Why are you doing this….. what’s happening?” snapped James, in a weary and beaten tone.
“Nothing’s happening, I swear,” insisted Han, with his hands raised in defence.
“Photoshop,” grunted James.
“Don’t be so daft, why would he have done that?” demanded Han. “You can even see me in the background,” he added.
James looked at the photo again, expanded it and saw his father standing behind what appeared to be Helena, Howie and himself. Howie and James were either side of Helena, with their faces scrunched up against hers and both giving her a sloppy kiss on each cheek. Han wore a top hat and a grey suite, with a corsage in his lapel button. Showing the picture to James had the opposite effect that Howie had hoped for. He’d hoped showing a photograph of James’ and Helena’s wedding day would jog his memory. It didn’t, instead it threw him into a rage. Tears flooded down his cheeks, and he buried his face in his hands. The other drinkers in the pub looked on as James’ tears became uncontrollable. He stood up and headed for the toilets.
“What do you think’s happened to him?” asked Howie.
Han shook his head. He thought about the nightmare, the circumstances in which James had appeared in his bedroom and looked at the bruise on his knuckles.
“I need to tell you something, and you must promise to tell no one,” said Han.
“What?”
“You must promise, at least for the time being. Do you promise to keep this between you and me?”
“Okay, I promise.”
Han spoke in a hushed tone, but stopped when James returned from the toilet. James looked a little better, and his tears had stopped. Han sighed and shook his head.
“I’ll tell you later,
” whispered Han, as James made his way back to the table.
James stared at his untouched beer, while Han and Howie sat in silence.
“Whatever is going on between the two of you, won’t explain the fact that Howie Doyle died when he was fourteen. My best friend died when you ran him down in your bloody car. So I don’t know what the two of you are trying to achieve here…..”
“Wait, wait,” said Howie, stopping James mid-sentence. James tried to continue talking, but stopped, when Howie raised his hand and shushed his friend.
“So you think I died when I was at school, when I was fourteen?”
James nodded.
“So that means I can tell you stuff about us before I was supposed to have died, stuff that only you and I would know about. Am I right?”
“I suppose so,”
“Okay, we met at school, St Mathias Primary. We were in Mrs Wright’s class. We first spoke when you accidently kicked a ball in my face, and you made me cry. And from that point we became best mates. We were best mates throughout Dr Bell’s Junior school. On school camp at Botley, you ate a pork pie which had been in our hot tent all week. It was green, but you still ate it. Do you remember that?”
James almost smiled.
“The teachers thought I would be sick for a week, but I didn’t even have the shits did I?”
“That’s right. And I remember the time Cindy Pearson bent over and we were laughing because we could see her knickers. We must have been about eight……”
“And I scattered ink from my fountain pen all over her pants,” interrupted James.
James sat in silence and thought about what Howie was telling him.
“The thing is, you could have got this information from someone else who went to my school.”
“Why would I do such a thing. I’ve nothing to gain.”
“I have an idea,” said Han.
James and Howie looked at him.
“James, why don’t you ask Howie something about your childhood, but something only the two of you would know about?”
Han was right. If James could come up with a question about their childhood, to which only he and Howie would know the answer, then that would prove that Howie and Han weren’t making everything up.
“He’s got a good point, ask me something,” said Howie.
James nodded and gazed towards the window, and after half a minute turned to Howie and spoke in a quiet voice
“Okay. Let’s see if you can remember this. The day after Boxing Day, when I was about nine years old, Howie and I decided to swap Christmas presents that we didn’t particular like. I had been given something by my Nan and Howie had been given something by an auntie. After we’d swapped, I felt guilty about giving away a present that my Nan had given me, and wanted to swap back, but Howie didn’t want to. I got really upset and eventually Howie gave me the present back and I gave back his. Is this something you remember?”
Howie nodded immediately.
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Okay, what was it I so desperately wanted back, that my Nan had given me, and what had I swapped it for with Howie?”
“You had a little plastic motorcycle. It was about this big, had a silver frame and a blue seat and blue mudguards. You threw a tantrum when you wanted it back,” smiled Howie.
“And what did I swap it for?”
“A bag of marbles, which I had from my Auntie Jean,” replied Howie without hesitation.
James pushed back in his chair and thought about things. There was no way that anyone other than he and Howie Doyle would have known about it. He’d never told his parents for fear of being told off, and he’d made Howie promise to keep it a secret. James couldn’t explain what was going on.
The two discussed other things they remembered from school days, and concluded that after Howie was ‘supposed to have died’, James had no further memories of him.
“I can assure you I’m alive and well and I was never in a car accident. Your father never drove into me.”
“But it seems that James’ memories seem to have gone in a different direction from the day he reckons you died. From that point on, he has no recollection of the two of you being in each other’s lives,” added Han.
James picked up Howie’s phone and scrolled through his pictures again.
Han watched his son scrutinising the pictures, then noticed something that got his attention. James held the phone in his right hand and touched the screen of the smartphone with the forefinger of his left hand. It didn’t look right. Han pulled his own phone from his pocket and instinctively held it in his left hand and scrolled the screen with the fingers of his right hand.
“James, are you right handed or left handed?” asked Han.
“Left handed. Why?”
“So, how long have you been a lefty?”
James brushed away his father’s question. He seemed more concerned about the pictures on Howie’s phone. He looked at the photographs and ran his finger along a small scar below his right eye. He’d had it since he was a teenager after being bitten in the face by a Corgi dog. It had been a hot day and the snappy little animal had been in a bad mood. The dog’s owner was taking it for a walk and had it on a lead. James had bent forward to stroke it, and before the dog’s owner could warn James, the dog jumped up and sank his teeth into his face. James was taken to the health centre, where he was given stiches.
He continued to scroll back and forth, scrutinising the pictures on Howie’s phone. Each picture showed the same thing. He found the photograph, which was supposedly taken of him on his last birthday in a pub, and enlarged the picture so it filled the screen of the smartphone. He handed the phone to Howie.
“What’s not right about this picture?” asked James.
Howie stared at the image, and Han moved closer so he could also see the phone. Neither man spoke for a moment. They both glanced between the picture of James and the man sat across the table from them. It was Han who noticed it first.
“The scar on your face, it’s moved.”
Howie looked at the photo and then to James.
“It’s probably the camera on the phone. The picture must be displayed as a mirror image,” suggested Howie.
“I don’t think so,” said James grabbing back the phone and reducing the size of the picture. In the image, James was stood in front of the bar, and behind was an advert for Stella Artois.
“If the picture’s mirror imaged, why isn’t the writing behind me mirror imaged?” he said whilst holding the phone up to Howie and Han.
Han took the phone and searched for other pictures of his son. In each picture the scar was visible and was below his left eye.
Something had been troubling Howie about James, and not just the fact he seemed to be having a breakdown. His appearance was different, and it wasn’t until now that he understood what it was.
“How can this be?” asked James.
The three men stared at one another in silence.
Eventually James spoke.
“Dad?......... What on earth’s happening to me?”