THE DAY TRIPPER
ALL INFORMATION IN THIS POST IS COURTESY OF KALI LUCKHEE| PUBLICITY INTERN |HARPER COLLINS
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What if you lived your days out of order?
Named a Most Anticipated Title by Goodreads, Men’s Health, BookBub, and more
March 19, 2024
MIRA - HARDCOVER
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ABOUT THE DAY TRIPPER:
It’s 1995, and twenty-year-old Alex Dean has it all: 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.
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, even in a life lived out of order.
And that might be all he needs to save the people he loves and, equally importantly, himself.
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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
“A compelling look at the way decisions, good and bad, build up over time to create a life.” -Library Journal
“A page-turner." -BOOKLIST
“James Goodhand takes the time-travel genre and reshapes it into something wonderful. A tender, compulsive, miracle of a love story.” —Adam Simcox, author of The Dying Squad Trilogy
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EXCERPT OF THE DAY TRIPPER:
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?
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Excerpted from THE DAY TRIPPER by James Goodhand. Copyright © 2024 by James Goodhand.
Published by MIRA Books, an imprint of HarperCollins.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
James Goodhand has written two YA novels.
His YA debut, Last Lesson, was called "a powerfully charged study in empathy," by the Financial Times. THE DAY TRIPPER is his adult debut.
He lives in England with his wife and young son.
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