Max was fourteen years old when he discovered his unusual gift.

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I was fourteen years old when it first happened. My aunt and uncle had just returned from a week in Spain, and had come round to show us their holiday photos. They were both bright red from the sun, the skin on my uncle’s nose starting to peel. They had brought us all gifts. These days it would be considered cheap tatt, but back then, souvenirs from foreign holidays were seen as something quite exotic. My gift was a leather belt with a designer logo stamped on it. I loved it. It may not have been a genuine brand belt, but it was from Spain. Very cool.

When my parents had handed out mugs of tea, and we were all settled, mum and dad in their armchairs, my aunt and uncle on the sofa, and me perched on my bean-bag, the photographs came out. My uncle took the stack of photos out of the envelope and peeled off the top picture. He explained that this was him and my aunt Polly by the hotel pool. My dad enthused how nice the hotel looked and the colour of the water in the pool. My mother gushed about the pool, look at it, you could just dive right in. She handed me the photograph. 

In the picture my aunt and uncle were wearing swimming costumes, and sitting on sun-loungers. My uncle was raising a plastic glass of beer to the camera and smiling widely. Then it happened.

It felt like I was falling, slipping, tumbling, down and down.

I was transported somehow, away from my home. I was now standing by the Spanish pool-side of the photograph. I was there, right there. The sun was beating down on my back, and the air was full of splashing and playing holiday-makers in the pool. As somebody handed the camera back to my aunt, she turned and looked at me, shielding the sun from her eyes with a hand. 

‘Max? Is that you?’

Still unsure what was happening, I turned and walked quickly away, weaving between the sun-loungers. My surroundings seemed so real, it felt as though I was really there. 

And then as quickly as it had happened, there was a popping sound, and I was pulled back, like an elastic band snapping, and I was back home, the photograph in my hand of the scene I had just briefly visited.  

‘Are you okay, love?’ My mother asked.

I told them I was fine. I didn’t mention that I’d day-dreamed for a moment, that I was actually there, in the photograph. There was surely some rational explanation. I must have been hallucinating. Maybe it was because I was tired. I made my excuses and told my family that I was going to bed. I needed a good night’s sleep and a fresh start the following morning. As I was closing the living room door behind me, and about to climb the stairs, I heard my aunt speaking to my parents.

‘While we were on holiday, we saw a boy who was the image of your Max.’

I gasped. Had it actually happened? Had I actually gone back through the photograph?

As I lay in bed that night, my mind was racing. This was just so strange. Could it be coincidence? I’d had this funny turn, imagined that I’d gone back through the photo, and then my aunt had commented that she’d seen someone who looked like me. It couldn’t have been me, could it? Maybe they’d just seen a boy who looked like me. 

When I woke the next morning, the first thought that came to my mind was, I wonder if I can do it again? What a way to spend the half term holidays. Imagine if I could go back through photos and briefly visit the scene captured? That would be something magical. And so, that afternoon, I took a family photo album from the shelf and retreated back upstairs to my room. 

I made myself comfortable on my bed, and flicked through the album. There were photos of the usual family gatherings, Christmas and birthdays, trips to the sea-side, caravan holidays to rainy North Wales. There were also photos of my parents before they were married. There was a photo of my father, a life-long Manchester United fan, at Wembley stadium for the Cup Final. He was surrounded by fellow fans, dressed in United shirts and red scarves. 

I stared at the photo, taking the image in and letting my mind wander. Nothing. Maybe I had imagined it the night before. I removed the photograph from the album. Holding the paper photograph in my hand, I tried again. Just as I was about to give up, it happened.

Once again I was falling down the rabbit-hole, tumbling down. 

I was standing on the terrace of the football stadium, the fans all around me, cheering and chanting. My father would be in the throng somewhere but I couldn’t see him in the sea of people, not that he would have recognised me anyway. I wasn’t born when the photo was taken. The crowd were getting more and more excited, as the action on the pitch escalated. There were cries of Shoot! and Hit it! from all around. When the goal went in, the place erupted, the crowd screaming and yelling in delight. The noise was deafening. I was pushed and shoved, this way and that, as the crowd celebrated the goal. United! United! United! 

Then came the popping sound, and I was dragged back to the present day and my bedroom. I laughed in astonishment. I had no idea why or how this was happening, but I was able to go back into the photos. For that brief moment, I would be back at the second the photo was taken. I felt like I had just discovered I had a super power. 

I spent the rest of my school holidays, going through the photo albums. I would take the photograph in my hands, and stare and stare until it happened. I revisited beaches in Wales from when I was a toddler, I attended birthday parties from before I was born, soaking up the fashions, the music and the atmosphere. I had no idea how all this was possible, but it was happening. I was able to go back and experience a snapshot of the time and place the photograph was taken. 

A few weeks later, the novelty had worn off and I was more into watching wrestling and superhero films, than meddling with the photographs. There was a new Turtles movie coming out that I was dying to see too. I put the photograph thing, as I referred to it, to the back of my mind, and continued with my other interests. 

One rainy Sunday afternoon, my parents were going through the photo albums. They drank cups of tea at the kitchen table and went through the albums, poring over each photo, reminiscing about the people and places, telling funny stories and sad tales about their lost relatives. I was more interested in reading my library books, having been through the photos quite recently. As I grabbed a can of cola from the fridge, my mother called me to the table. She waved a black and white photograph in my direction.

‘There’s your grandad. He was my father.’ My mother said. 

I didn’t touch the photo, instead, just cast an eye over the picture. My grandfather, a stocky man with a moustache and glasses, was dressed in a fine suit and sitting at a table decorated with white linen. I assumed the event was a wedding. There were a lot of wedding pictures in the albums.  

‘He died in an accident at work a few days after this photo was taken.’ She told me. ‘You never met him. He was the loveliest feller, such a nice guy.’

There was a sadness and longing in her voice, and a tear in her eye.

As I returned to my room, and my books, an idea rolled around my head like a pinball. What if I went back into the photo, and warned my grandad. I wasn’t sure what was happening with the photos, and it might not work, it might change nothing, but it had to be worth a try. I had the chance to give my mother back the father she had lost, of course it was worth a shot.

Later that evening, I slipped the photograph from the album and dashed up to my room. Feeling excited and anxious about the potential outcome, I picked up the photograph and stared at my grandfather, the man I’d never knew.

Then I was back there, back at the wedding venue. As a 1970s pop song about a dancing queen played out over the speakers, my grandfather sipped his pint of bitter and watched the wedding revellers around him. I approached him, feeling so strange.

‘Excuse me, you don’t know me, but I have a message for you. It’s important.’ I said.

‘Oh aye? Let’s have it, then. ’ He replied, eyeing me curiously.

‘Don’t go to work next week. Please. It will be worth it in the long run.’

‘Don’t talk daft.’ He scoffed. ‘I can’t just bunk off work. I’ve got a little girl to feed.’

‘Please, trust me. I can’t explain why, but it’s important you stay off work next week.’ 

‘Is this a joke? Has someone put you up to this?’ My grandfather replied.

‘No, I’m deadly serious.’ I insisted. 

‘I suppose I could phone in sick. I might even take the family to Blackpool for a few days.’

Before I could respond, the world around me popped and faded away.

Once again, I was back in my room. I looked around, everything was the same. Nothing had changed in my bedroom. Had it happened? I took the photograph back down to my parents. I joined them on the sofa in the living room. My mother looked away from the television. I handed her the photo.

‘You’ve been rummaging through the photo album again, then?’ she said, looking at the photo. ‘Your grandfather. I’ve not seen him for years.’

I felt sick. Had he gone into work and died after all? Had I failed in trying to prevent the accident?

‘Did he die? Was it an accident at work?’ I asked.

‘No, nothing like that. He was cheating on my mother and left her for the other woman. Nobody in the family has seen him in years. I think he’s living in Spain with her these days.’

‘Really?’ I managed. 

‘Yes, apparently, he went to Blackpool for a few days and met this woman.’

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom