The right guy, the right place, the wrong time.
THE DAY TRIPPER by JAMES GOODHAND
Series: n/a
Publication date: March 19, 2024
Published by: HQ Mira
Genre: time travel, sci-fi
SYNOPSIS
It’s 1995, and Alex Dean has it a spot at Cambridge University next year, the love of an amazing woman named Holly and all the time in the world ahead of him. That is until a brutal encounter with a ghost from his past sees him beaten, battered and almost drowning in the Thames.
He wakes the next day to find he’s in a messy, derelict room he’s never seen before, in grimy clothes he doesn’t recognize, with no idea of how he got there. A glimpse in the mirror tells him he’s older—much older—and has been living a hard life, his features ravaged by time and poor decisions. He snatches a newspaper and finds it’s 2010—fifteen years since the fight.
After finally drifting off to sleep, Alex wakes the following morning to find it’s now 2019, another nine years later. But the next day, it’s 1999. Never knowing which day is coming, he begins to piece together what happens in his life after that fateful night by the river.
But what exactly is going on? Why does his life look nothing like he thought it would? What about Cambridge, and Holly? In this page-turning adventure, Alex must navigate his way through the years to learn that small actions have untold impact. And that might be all he needs to save the people he loves and, equally importantly, himself.
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EXCERPT
SEPTEMBER 6, 1995 | AGE 20
It’s three-deep at the bar, and I get my order in seconds before they ring for time. I double up: a JD and Coke each and two beers to take with us. The lights are up and the music’s gone quiet as I weave the tray through the punters. Standing in the doorway out to the terrace, I am disorientated. There must be fifty tables outside between here and the river and it’s still packed out, darker and smokier than ever. I search the crowd but can’t see Holly.
I negotiate my way down to the water’s edge. She’s maybe ten tables away, oblivious, a ciggie poised skyward in her fingers like she’s posing for Vettriano. I smirk, enjoy my good fortune again.
“Excuse me, good gentlemen,” I say to a group of four in my path, voice cocky with booze and lust. They shuffle over, not breaking from their conversation. The resulting gap between their circle and the edge of the path isn’t wide enough—a careless elbow would send the tray of drinks into the river, possibly me with them.
“If you don’t mind, guys?” I lay a palm on the forearm of the bloke with his back to me. Their circle opens out and he turns side-on, ushering me past. “Nice one,” I say, glancing at him as I pass.
I look back at the ground. There’s a delay in my brain processing who it is I’m walking past. There’s a moment in which it seems that we’ll just carry on, pretend like we don’t know each other.
The air thickens. Time slows. I stop, a step past him. Look again. Razor-sharp short back and sides, hooded eyes, lopsided mouth. Preppy. It’s a face I catch myself imagining sometimes, never for long. A waking nightmare. Not that my imagination does it justice. Not even close, I now realize.
His recognition of me unfolds in slow motion. Perhaps like me, alcohol has dulled his synapses, delayed the inevitable shift of mode.
Blake Benfield. There have been times in the past when just hearing that name in my head has stopped me dead, left me incapable.
How long since we last ran into each other? I was sixteen—best part of four years, then. Feels so recent. Our paths crossing has always been inevitable; we grew up barely a mile apart. He spat at me that last time, called me faggot cunt. The many times before that I’d just legged it, hidden from his fury and his hatred. But you get too old to do that.
This crowded place seems so quiet now. Like there’s cotton wool stuffed in my ears. The two bottles tip over on my trembling tray, foam splattering to the ground. One rolls over the edge and shatters on the concrete. People turn.
How long have we stood here, him glaring at me, me unable to hold his stare? Saying nothing. A few seconds? Feels longer.
There’s the smell of burned-out house in my nose. The sound of his whisper in my ears that I try to drown out.
Don’t think about it. Do not think about that day.
Why do I shake? I’m a fucking grown man. Why am I shaking?
He takes a half step closer to me.
I once told him I was sorry. It was years ago—when I was still a kid. I was sorry. Does he remember?
I spin around. Where’s Holly? She must be watching this.
There’s no more delay. There is, of course, nothing for me and this bloke to say to each other. We have ventured into each other’s space, and that brings with it a remembering. And, as we always have, we must deal with that in our own way.
His knuckles graze my chin. I stumble backward and the tray falls to the ground. His swing is off, though; there is no pain. Not even surprise. We definitely have an audience now.
My response is pure instinct: palms raised, lean away. Easy now.
I don’t want to fight this man. I want to go back thirty seconds, walk a different route, have this night back for myself.
Blake closes the gap, my weakness an invitation. His second punch crashes into my ear like a swinging girder. My brain slaps side to side in my skull. Vision sways. My head boils, a cool trickle from my eardrum.
Where is Holly? Panic grips. I can’t just stand here and take this.
My eyes flit to our audience. He swings again, this time with his left. But I see it coming, dodge. He stumbles.
I drive my weight, shoulder first, into his ribs. He goes over, sprawled among the spilled drinks and shattered glass.
On all fours, he stares up at me. I’m perfectly positioned. I could kick him square in the face. End this right now. Why don’t I do it? Why can’t I bring myself to do it? I’d rather turn my back and cry than kick his head in.
He glares up at me. Why do I pity him? Why am I so uncomfortable towering over him like this? It’s like the positions we’ve always held have been reversed. The power is mine.
I let him find his feet.
He’s up and level with me again. He glares like a bloodthirsty dog, wipes his nose on the sleeve of his polo shirt. If we were alone, maybe I’d run. But with people watching, with Holly watching, that’s no option.
My punch lands perfectly. His jaws scissor against each other. For a second his head floats, eyes rolling.
I realize my error too late. I should’ve followed up when I had the chance. One punch is only enough in the movies, everyone knows that. His hands are on the collar of my shirt, cloth tearing as he holds firm. His forehead slams into the bridge of my nose like a sledgehammer. My face is suddenly and totally numb. I drop to the ground. A ruby-red stain spreads fast through the jewels of broken glass around me.
He shouts above me. Every filthy word I’ve long come to expect. Something soft disperses against my head. Spit.
The neck of the Stella bottle I dropped lies on the ground. Inches away. Blood gurgles in my mouth as I take a deep breath. I launch like a sprinter. Leading with the dagger of green glass, I’m aiming straight at his face and closing fast.
Blake backs into a table, stumbles, hands slow to cover his face. His eyes widen, abject fear. But this is no time to be derailed.
I see it too late. No time to react. One of Blake’s friends windmilling a table ashtray. The side of my skull cracks like thunder.
The ground feels like a cushion, drawing me in and bouncing me back. My vision finds enough order in time to see the sole of boot accelerating toward me, like a cartoon piano from the sky.
There is no pain. Just a sense of floating in space.
Time passes. More blows land.
The surface of the Thames billows like a black satin sheet as it rises toward me. There’s no fear. Is that Holly I can hear calling my name? It’s so distant, so hard to tell.
The river gathers me in like it’s here to take care of me.
Cool water spears my lungs like sharpened icicles. I sink forever.
A low hum builds in my ears. Lights fades to nothing.
And I sleep.
NOVEMBER 30, 2010 | AGE 35
My head throbs. It doesn’t matter if I open or close my eyes, the pain worsens either way. My mouth is like dust. Joints and muscles lie seized.
Last night is a blank. I hate that. I look above me. Focusing is excruciating. The ceiling is browny cream, textured in spikes like a Christmas cake. An unshaded bulb swings in the draft, the filament shivering. It’s really cold in here.
Where the fucking hell am I?
Excerpted from THE DAY TRIPPER by James Goodhand. Copyright © 2024 by James Goodhand. Published by MIRA Books, an imprint of HarperCollins.
Praise for The Day Tripper:
“Witty and wise, The Day Tripper had me pulling for Alex through all of his mixed-up days. James Goodhand brings a fun, fresh voice to the time travel genre in this gem of a novel. I loved it!”
—Shelby Van Pelt, New York Times bestselling author of Remarkably Bright Creatures
“The Day Tripper is absolutely astonishing, from first page to last. Warm, clever, hopeful, and superbly written. James Goodhand is a brilliant storyteller at the top of his game. I adored it.”
—Stuart Turton, Sunday Times bestselling author of The 7 ½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle
“The Day Tripper is a brilliantly-written exploration of the choices we make every day, and how those choices shape the people we become. It blew my mind and broke my heart, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since I finished it!”
—Gareth Brown, author of The Book of Doors
"A page-turner."
—Booklist
“Goodhand’s debut is a compelling look at the way decisions, good and bad, build up over time to create a life.”
—Library Journal
“A powerful, poignant twist on the time travel story that had me gripped right from the start.”
—Bobby Palmer, Sunday Times bestselling author of Isaac and the Egg
“I adored The Day Tripper. Utterly original, moving, and so brilliantly crafted.”
—Louisa Reid, author of The Poet
REVIEW
The Day Tripper by James GoodhandMy rating: 3 of 5 stars
I'm a big time travel fiction fan, so of course when I came across The Day Tripper, it immediately appealed to me. This is a new-to-me author so I didn't know what to expect with the writing style. From page one, the story is told disassembled and jumbled back together in non-lineal order. We are experiencing the disorientation right along with Alex as he slips from one moment to another in his life. It did take some getting used to, which caused my reading pace to lag for a time.
If you've read the synopsis, you get the general idea: Alex Dean suddenly finds himself waking up every day at different points in the timeline of his life. It all seemed to start after a near-fatal assault he experienced in the mid 90s. After this day, life as he knew it was gone. It's certainly intriguing to think about seeing the effects things make on your life almost instantaneously. For most, collections of bad decisions and actions can take years to manifest into dire consequences. Alex sees his life destroyed before he even knows the cause.
Much of the first half is pretty grim and depressing. I can't say that I was a big fan of Alex as his alcoholism, bad choices with his girlfriend Holly, and his broken family comes to light. He's a damaged man who was deeply influenced by his father's emotional abuse, and his murky relationship with Blake Benfield as a troubled kid. None of the details come out until much later in the book, but we do know that there are significant events in his past that are driving his bad choices. Typically, in a normal, linear storyline, you get the backstory of the character fairly early and that helps you understand them better and empathize with them. That is very hard to do when you're reading things so out of order and trying to make sense of what is even happening and how.
Since my last memory, since the fight, has timereally passed? What have I missed?What of Cambridge? What of Holly?
Alex is drowning in the current of his bad decisions from one moment to the next. Homelessness, alcoholism, prison time, rejection and shame from his parents, loss of the love of his life, and a short, failed marriage are things that he sees jumping through time in his life. He is desperate to find out what is happening to him, but more importantly, if he could alter anything and return to the promising life he once had. His one beacon of hope is a strange man that he encounters by the name of Dr. P.H. (Paul) Defrates. Paul seems to know quite a bit about his personal situation but isn't very willing to share any answers with him. He does explain Einstein's theory of time: how each moment in time is happening simultaneously rather than in individual, chronographic order. Alex seems to be viewing his life in a way that others can't because of an aberration that occurred. It's imperative that he finds out what jarred him into this new reality so he can try to repair his broken life.
Once Alex starts to face some hard truths about himself, he begins to make changes in his impulsive and unhealthy actions. This is when the "updates" start to occur and he finally believes that there may be a way to escape his doomed fate. In the end, the story is an uplifting one because Alex goes through a considerable amount of growth and is able to identify how he was his own worst enemy. He wants to make a difference in his own life as well as others'. He learns to express his pain, reach out for help, and share his gratitude and love with those that mean the most to him. In doing this, he gradually starts to heal-and the effects are clearly evident. Many people have regrets in life as they get older. Who doesn't wish that they could turn back time and do things a little differently? This story is an intriguing play on that idea, which fortunately ends with a lot of introspection in a positive light. While I didn't necessarily care for the main character for much of the book, I do appreciate the journey he went on and seeing the character development along the way. It was executed in a way that was a bit more dismal and gritty for my taste, but worthwhile if you hang on until the end.
“Change, Alex, comes about from a commitmentto making a difference. To deviating from the path of history.”“Walking into the headwind.”“Exactly!”
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