{"id":4887,"date":"2026-01-04T00:53:51","date_gmt":"2026-01-04T00:53:51","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/nobody-true-herbert-james\/"},"modified":"2026-01-04T00:53:51","modified_gmt":"2026-01-04T00:53:51","slug":"nobody-true-herbert-james","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/nobody-true-herbert-james\/","title":{"rendered":"Nobody True – Herbert, James"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Book Preview<\/h3>\n
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\nNOBODY TRUE<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nJames Herbert<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u2026So that this I, that is to say the soul by which I am what I am, is entirely distinct from the body, is even easier to know than the body, and furthermore would not stop being what it is, even if the body did not exist.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nRen\u00e9 Descartes<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nCogito, ergo sum \u2013 I think, therefore I am.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nRen\u00e9 Descartes<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI think therefore am I?<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nJames True<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cIt\u2019s not that I\u2019m afraid to die. I just don\u2019t want to be there when it happens.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWoody Allen<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n1<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI wasn\u2019t there when I died.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nReally. I wasn\u2019t. And finding my body dead came as a shock. Hell, I was horrified, lost, couldn\u2019t understand what the fuck had happened.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nBecause I\u2019d been away, you see, away from my physical body. My mind\u2014spirit, soul, psyche, consciousness, call it what you will\u2014had been off on one of its occasional excursions, to find on its return that my body had become a corpse. A very bloody and mutilated corpse.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt took me a long time to absorb what lay spread before me on the hotel\u2019s blood-drenched bed\u2014much longer, as you\u2019ll come to appreciate\u2014to get used to the idea. I was adrift, floating in the ether like some poor desolate ghost. Only I wasn\u2019t a ghost. Was I? If that were the case, shouldn\u2019t I have been on my way down some long black tunnel towards the light at the end? Shouldn\u2019t my life have flashed before me, sins and all? Where was my personal Judgement Day?<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIf I were dead why didn\u2019t I feel dead?<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI could only stand\u2014hover\u2014over the empty shell that once was me and moan aloud.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHow did this come about? I\u2019ll give no answers just yet, but instead will take you through a story of love, murder, betrayal and revelation, not quite all of it bad.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt began with a hot potato\u2026<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n2<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI was six or seven years old at the time (I died aged thirty-three) and on holiday with my mother, having dinner in a Bournemouth boarding house. It was just the two of us because my dad had run out on us before I made my third birthday; I was told he\u2019d gone off with another lady\u2014my mother made no bones about it, despite my tender years I was always the sounding board for her vexations and rages, especially when they concerned my errant father. The nights were many when my bedtime story was a denunciation of marriage and cheap \u201ctarts\u201d. The topic of breakfast conversation often had a lot to do with the failings of men in general and the iniquities of wayward husbands in particular. I must have been at least ten before I realized that the equation \u201cmen = bad, women (specifically wives) = good but put-upon\u201d, was a mother-generated myth, and that was only because I had several friends whose fathers were terrific to their sons and their sons\u2019 friends, as well as loving towards their own wives. I got to know about marriages built on firm foundations and I have to admit to an envy of the other boys and girls who had normal home lives. Why did my dad betray me, why did he abandon us for this \u201ctart\u201d? It bugged me then, but now I understand. The icon of worship that was Mother eventually lost some of its shine. Yes, in later years I still loved her, but no, I didn\u2019t turn into Norman Bates and murder Mother, stow her bones away in the fruit cellar. Let\u2019s say my view of men in general, and my father in particular, became more balanced. Lord, in my teens I even began to understand how some wives\u2014the nagging, abusive kind\u2014could drive their husbands off. No disrespect, Mother, but you certainly had a mouth on you.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nBack to the potato.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWe\u2019d had, my mother and I, a wet morning on the beach and a damp afternoon in the seaside town\u2019s cinema. I rustled sweet papers and my mother wept her way through what must have been a matinee re-run of Love Story. Having only just got dry, we got wet again walking through the drizzle back toe the boarding house. I remember how starved I was that evening when we sat down for dinner in the bright, yet inexplicably dreary dining room, the sweets during the film not enough to fill a growing boy\u2019s belly (the burger was by now a mouth-watering memory), and I tucked into my meat, veg and potatoes without any of the normal blandishments or threats from my mother. The boiled potatoes were smallish but steamy hot and in my enthusiasm I forked a whole one into my mouth. I\u2019d never realized until then that potatoes could get so scorching\u2014that certainly wasn\u2019t the way Mother served them up\u2014and I burnt the roof of my mouth as well as my tongue on the blistering gob-stopper. Aware that spitting it out onto the plate in front of a room full of strangers would get me into a whole heap of trouble with Mother, who liked to maintain a \u201crefined\u201d (one of her favourite words) demeanour in public, I swallowed.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nShe looked up in surprise, then horror, as I sucked air to cool the potato, the horror having nothing to do with concern for her distressed son but because of the spectacle I was making of myself. Heads turned in our direction, forks froze mid-air, and the low buzz of conversation ceased as my breath squeezed through whatever vents it could find around the blockage in my throat. I\u2019m pretty certain that my watery eyes were bulging and my face a torrid red. The noise I made was like a discordant flute played by some tone-deaf jackass, and when the offending vegetable was drawn further into my throat by air pressure the pitch became even higher, developing into a peculiar wheezing. I was panicking, the option of hawking out the obstruction already missed because it was now lodged just behind my tonsils. My only choice was to swallow and hope for the best.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI could feel the lump searing its way down my gullet and I\u2019m not sure which was worse, the agony or air deprivation. Anyway, I fainted. Just keeled off my chair, Mother liked to tell me for years afterwards in long-standing disapproving tones. One moment I was sitting opposite her and making funny sounds and even funnier faces\u2014eyes popping, cheeks as red as red peppers, mouth thin-lipped oval as I tried to quaff air\u2014then I was gone, vanished from view. There was little reaction from the other diners\u2014they merely cranked their heads to look at my still body on the floor, because I\u2019d passed out in a dead faint. Mother probably apologized to everyone present before running round the table to tend me. Fortunately, I was no longer choking; I\u2019d swallowed the hot potato during my fall, or when I\u2019d landed with a hard thump.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nNow this is what I remember about lying on the cheap lino flooring: I had found myself observing from above as my mother sank to her knees beside me and lifted my head onto her lap. She lightly slapped my cheek with four fingers, but I didn\u2019t feel a thing, although I knew it was me stretched out there on the dining room floor, with six or seven pairs of strangers\u2019 eyes paying attention as Mother frantically\u2014and, it has to be said, with some embarrassment\u2014tried to revive me. It was as if I were watching another unconscious person who just happened to look exactly like me.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI recall that I enjoyed the sensation before I became frightened of it. Young as I was, I was aware that this self-observation and the floating above my own body was not the natural order of things; I soon began to wonder if I would be able to get back into myself. And as anxiety occurred, I was inside my body once more, eyes flickering open, the burning deep down in my gullet now mellowed. Mother gave one small gasp of relief, then immediately began apologizing to the other diners, whose raised forks resumed the journey from plates to open mouths as if someone had switched their power back on. Dazed as I was I understood that all interest in me had been lost: the clatter of cutlery and mumble of conversation had resumed. Only Mother remained concerned, but even that was tempered by her flushed self-consciousness.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nShe had helped me to my feet, and then rushed me to the communal bathroom upstairs to flannel my face with cold water. I was okay though: the potato had already cooled inside my belly. I was mystified and not a little excited about what had happened to me\u2014not the fainting, but the floating near the ceiling above my own body. I tried to tell my mother of the experience, but she shushed me, saying it was all imagined, only a dream while I was insensible from eating too fast. I soon gave up trying to convince her, because she was getting more and more cross by the moment. As you\u2019ll have gathered Mother didn\u2019t like public scenes.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nSo that was the very beginning of my out-of-body experiences\u2014OBEs, as they are generally referred to.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOf course, it\u2019s not something that most sensible people can believe in.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n3<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI didn\u2019t have another OBE for a good few years and by the time I was in my teens\u2014I was seventeen, to be precise\u2014I had all but forgotten about it. I suppose I eventually had come to believe that it had been a dream as Mother had said, so it played no important part in my thinking as I grew up; I didn\u2019t quite forget about the experience, because when it happened again I immediately related the two events. This time the circumstances were far more serious.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAs a kid I\u2019d always loved drawing and painting*\u2014drawing in pencil or pen and ink mainly, because tubes of paint were a bit expensive for a single-parent family (and, being dead, my father discontinued the alimony payments, which were never official anyway because my parents hadn\u2019t actually divorced. Apparently, he\u2019d died\u2014I don\u2019t know what killed him\u2014when I was twelve years old, but I didn\u2019t learn about it until a couple of years later). I\u2019d spend most of my free time sketching, even creating my own comic books\u2014graphic novels, as they\u2019re grandly called nowadays\u2014writing my own adventures to go with the action frames. Some of those comics were not so bad, unless my memory is gilding them a little; I\u2019ll never know anyway, because Momma Dearest threw away the big cardboard box I\u2019d kept them in, along with the few paintings I\u2019d done and short stories I\u2019d written, when we downgraded and moved to a poky flat in a less reputable part of town. No room here for all that junk, she\u2019d told me when I complained that my box of valuables hadn\u2019t turned up. I could appreciate the problem, but it would have been nice to be consulted. Maybe then I could have at least saved some of my favourite stuff. Pointless to blame her\u2014she had enough worries coping with life itself and the day-to-day expense of existing.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n*Art and English: they were my top subjects at school. In fact, so certain was I that my future career was going to be drawing and painting, making up advertisements\u2014I called it advert-ie-sements in those days\u2014to go in newspapers and on wall posters (this was \u201ccommercial art\u201d I soon learned, now \u201cgraphic design\u201d), that other lessons didn\u2019t concern me very much. Maths I hated\u2014I think I\u2019m \u201cdyslexic\u201d as far as numbers go\u2014history was okay because it was stories, although I could never remember the dates of all those historic events (unnecessary in these reforming and \u201cnew-ideology\u201d times, I gather). Geography was dull, RI\u2014religious instruction\u2014not too bad because, again, it was about stories. Between art and English, I enjoyed art the most. Sure, I loved writing tales and essays, but I got more satisfaction from pen, pencil, and paint. Eventually, I began to appreciate the masterpieces, initially the works of Rembrandt, Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, all the great but obvious guys, later moving on to artists as diverse as Turner and Picasso (I loved the latter\u2019s earlier stuff, before he started taking the piss), from Degas to Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema\u2014yep, I know, all the populist stuff, but so what? Only later, when I enrolled in art college, did I learn to value the trickier and more imaginative works.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nShe used to take in sewing at home and was pretty good at it, until too much working in inadequate lighting ruined her eyes. She received some income support, although it wasn\u2019t much, and the old man had a small life insurance policy, which she claimed as they were still legally married. It wasn\u2019t a lot, but I\u2019m sure it helped a little, and I suppose it was the best thing my father had done for us. As soon as I was old enough I got a job stacking shelves in a local supermarket and collecting wayward wire trolleys from nearby streets and car parks\u2014they might escape the store\u2019s boundary but they couldn\u2019t run forever. Another problem with Mother was that the more she worked alone, often through the night, the more neurotic she became about people. I think she became a bit agoraphobic\u2014she was, and still is, something of a recluse. She began to stay at home all the time, weekdays and weekends. The clothes stitching and repairs she did for chainstore tailors was delivered and collected, and by the age of eleven I was doing most of the shopping. Two summers before that was the last time we took our annual holiday at the same old boarding house (the proprietors of which had never forgotten my fainting spell over dinner and liked to remind me affectionately of it the moment we arrived). Partly it was because Mother could no longer afford it, but mostly because she couldn\u2019t handle people anymore. Everyone, she maintained, was out to cheat her, from the milkman to the employers who used her sewing skills. According to her, all men were like my father, undependable, had questionable habits, and were not very nice. Regarding this last judgement, I guess the bad poison worked on me, for I never had the least curiosity about my dad, and certainly no desire ever to meet him. At least, not until later in life, when curiosity did finally kick in; before that he was just a cold-hearted bastard who had no love for me and Mother, just as I had no interest in him.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nEventually I managed to get a smallish grant that would allow me to go to art college and study graphic design (I never had the luxury of studying fine art like many of the students who had nice rich daddies\u2014my sole aim was to get all the training I could for a career in advertising) as long as I had a proper weekend job and could pick up the occasional evening work. God bless supermarkets, bars and restaurants\u2014there\u2019s always employment out there if you\u2019re able and willing, most of it paying cash-in-hand.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAt art college I learned about photography, printing, model-making, typography and design itself\u2014news and magazine ads, posters, brochures, that kind of thing\u2014and I met and mixed with some good people from varied backgrounds (not all had rich daddies). There were also plenty of attractive girls around, many of whom were pioneers of free spirit living\u2014and, importantly (to us boys), free loving. I had one or two girlfriends during my time at the place and there were no hassles when we broke up; the barrel was too full to get heavily involved with just one person, and that applied to both sides. My only problem\u2014my only big problem, that is\u2014was transport.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe art college was on the other side of London and daily journey by tube and bus was eating away at both my grant money and earnings from those weekend and late-night shifts. So, ignoring near-hysterical objections from Mother\u2014those machines are death-traps, you\u2019ll kill yourself within a week\u2014I bought myself an old second-hand Yamaha 200cc motorbike. Not much of a machine really\u2014a mean machine by no means\u2014but good enough to get me from A to B, and cheap to run too. I\u2019d had to save and scrape together every penny I made, working double-shifts most weekends, but because of that labour I cherished the old two-wheeled hornet even more. Trouble is, Mother was almost right.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI\u2019d moved away from home\u2014I admit it: Mother, who had become a little crazy by then, was driving me crazy too\u2014and into a run-down apartment with three fellow students, two guys and a girl. It was closer to the art college and saved me a small fortune on tube and bus fares. I still needed the bike though for buzzing around town.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe accident happened on a wet, drizzly day, a typical winter city day, and the air was chilled, the streets greasy. I\u2019d skipped a model-making class (it was an unnecessary part of the curriculum as far as I was concerned: I had no intention of making a career out of fiddling with glue and little sticks of wood and cardboard) so it was late afternoon, four o\u2019clockish. The kids were coming out of school, mothers collecting them in four-wheel-drives and hatchbacks. Aware there were school gates up ahead, I\u2019d slowed down considerably (and thank God for that), but as I said, the street surface was slippery and visibility in the early winter evening none too good. I was about to pass a parked Range Rover when a kid of about five or six ran out from behind it. I learned later that the boy had seen his mother parked on the other side of the road and, in his eagerness to get to her (her and the little white Scottie yapping in the back of the car), he had raced out without looking.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI remember I had two choices, but nothing at all after that: I could run straight into him, or swerve to my right, across to the other side of the road. The only trouble with the second option was that there was a van coming from the opposite direction.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI liked to think afterwards that I made the decision quickly and rationally, but it could be it was merely a reflex action. I steered to the right, the machine began to slide under me on the slippery tarmac (so I was told later) and headed into the path of the oncoming van. It seemed the van was braking hard already, because the driver had seen the boy about the same time as I had and had guessed he might run out. But of course, the wheels beneath him had trouble with the road surface too and both van and motorcycle slithered towards each other.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt was fortunate that the van had also reduced speed, otherwise the crash would probably have been lethal to me. As it was, the impact was hard enough to break one of my legs and send me skittering across the road using my helmet as a skateboard. As well as the damaged limb, I sustained massive bruising and a hairline fracture of the skull\u2014the crash helmet saved it from cracking like an egg.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe kid\u2019s sunny little face, blue eyes sparkling as he ran towards the yapping dog in the car, blond curls peeking out from beneath his infant school cap, the bright blazer two sizes too big for him, is still imprinted on my mind as if the accident occurred only yesterday, even though the resulting crash was a complete blank to me. I just know that if I\u2019d injured that small boy\u2014or, God forbid, if I\u2019d killed him\u2014then I would never have forgiven myself.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nBut here\u2019s the thing of it: although hitting the van and its immediate aftermath have no place in my memory bank, the moments that followed are still very vivid to me, because I left my body for the second time, and on this occasion it was for a lot longer. It was as if my other side, my mind, my consciousness, my spirit\u2014I had no idea what it was at the time\u2014had been jolted from my physical from by the van\u2019s impact. As if the psyche, or whatever, had taken a leap from its host.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nNo doubt you\u2019ve heard or read about the debates concerning whether the human body is merely the shell that contains the soul, but hell, I was just a teenager at that time, a callow youth who was fairly lucky with the girls, was reasonably good-looking, was healthy, and loved what I was studying and looking forward to a successful career because of it; what did I care for spiritual and religious concepts and theories? I\u2019d hardly given the conundrum a second thought. I have now though. I\u2019ve given it a lot of thought now.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI suddenly found myself standing by the roadside, on the pavement. And I was looking down at my own body, which had ended up in the gutter by my feet. For a few moments, nobody moved; everything was eerily silent. Then the little boy I\u2019d just avoided knocking down began to bawl. His distraught mother left her car and ran across the road to him, gathering him up in her arms and squeezing him tight. When she whirled around to look at my motionless body in the gutter, her son\u2019s head buried into her shoulder, I saw her face was white with shock. I could only imagine the emotions she was going through, the relief mixed with the fear and concern for the unmoving body lying a few metres away, one leg sticking out from the knee at a ludicrous angle, a trickle of dark blood seeping out from beneath the bashed crash helmet. Other kids, tiny boys and girls in scarlet and green blazers, who had witnessed the accident, began to wail and clutch their mummies, a daddy or two also comforting their offspring. The van driver was still sitting in his van, a dull look of incomprehension on his moon-shaped face.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAs for me, well, I was no longer me, but something aloof from my own self. I felt no pain whatsoever and, for the moment, no confusion either. I was just there, looking down at myself, completely emotionless right then. Soon though, very soon, reason began to kick in.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAlthough there was not yet fear, I became curious, then anxious. Was I dead? Was I now in the state that followed death? What was I supposed to do? Hang around , wait for someone\u2014something\u2014to come and fetch me? If so, where was I going? And how would I explain this to Mother? Shit, she\u2019d be cross.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI bent down to get a better look at myself. My body was lying face up and I appeared quite peaceful, almost serene, as if I were taking a nap. The only thing that spoiled the picture was the awkward-angled leg and that thin trail of blood seeping from beneath the yellow crash helmet and forming a puddle on the hard grey surface of the road. I felt no alarm, unlike the majority of the onlookers, the kids and their mums, maybe a teacher or two, but I was surprised. And did I say curious? Yeah, I was very curious.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHow could this be? Why was I suddenly two persons? I had divided into two, hadn\u2019t I? Something caught my eye. The fingers of one of my hands were twitching, so there was some kind of reaction, if not life itself, still going on. I don\u2019t know why but the movement caused me to examine the hand attached to whatever I had become.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAnd I could see it, just as if it was properly made of flesh and blood.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI wriggled my fingers, a more vigorous effort than those other twitching fingers in the road, and was satisfied that I could both see myself and move myself. My head snapped up as onlookers hesitantly approached the unconscious other me\u2014the real me\u2014as if I were a bomb that might explode at any moment and I was disappointed when no one seemed to notice the other self, the upright one who could wriggle his fingers at will, not by reflex.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI said something, I don\u2019t know what\u2014maybe I was telling them that I really was all right\u2014but none of them so much as glanced my way. Their attention was directed entirely towards the damaged figure lying in the gutter.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThey gathered round so that my body was blocked from view and I spoke again, but was ignored as before. Then a weird thing happened\u2014well, something peculiar on peculiar: I began to float in the air.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt was an easy, fluid rise and, or so I thought at the time, completely unintentional. I found myself hovering over the gathering crowd, my own crumpled figure coming into view once more. (Later, I came to realize\u2014once I\u2019d begun to get used to this strange state that is\u2014that the floating had, in fact, been quite deliberate: subconsciously I was afraid of losing sight of my own body even for a moment, probably because I sensed it was my only anchor to reality and normal earthbound life). I could hear the people murmuring, someone shouting for an ambulance, a man kneeling beside my body, the van driver lurching unsteadily towards the crowd to see the damage, all the while saying over and over again like a mantra to anyone who would listen, \u201cIt wasn\u2019t my fault, it wasn\u2019t my fault, he came straight at me\u2026\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAnd curiouser and curiouser, there were filmy shapes on the edge of the crowd, human figures that were not quite focused (not to me anyway), forms that you could see right through and which shimmered occasionally like unsettled holograms. They were just standing by watching the action, no different from the other onlookers except they were transparent. One looked up at me\u2014I was pretty sure it was a man, although the shape was difficult to define\u2014and he opened his mouth as if speaking to me. I heard nothing though, apart from the anxious mumbles of the real crowd. But there was something familiar about the spectral man and I didn\u2019t know why. Something\u2026 No, I had no idea. There was something benevolent about him though.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOften in my dreams one situation can swiftly and easily meld into another, the shift seamless but illogical in the cold light of dawn. Well, that\u2019s how it seemed to me.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nFrom floating above the scene, I was suddenly and fluidly inside an ambulance where my physical body was strapped to a cot and covered by a red blanket, an ambulance man (who would be called a paramedic these days) easing off my battered helmet to examine the wound in my skull. This, quickly and fluidly again, changed into a hospital emergency theatre where people in white gowns and masks calmly tended my body. I assumed my head and other parts had been X-rayed before the surgeon got to work on me, but I must have missed that bit because I have no recollection of it at all. I hung around the ceiling of the operating room for a time, watching over the medics with concern: if I wasn\u2019t dead already, then I certainly didn\u2019t want to be. Too young to die, I assured myself.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nNext thing I knew I was in an intensive care unit, standing by a bed in which I lay unconscious with a swathe of bandages around the top part of my head. There were three other beds around the room, these filled with patients fitted with IVs and tubes and wires hooked up to little machines. Fade into Mother weeping at my bedside. A nurse lifting an eyelid to check my pupil. A doctor giving me the once-over. My mother again, weeping as before. Then complete fade-out until I woke up.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI think what had actually happened during this, my second out-of-body experience, is that the other me, the one with no flesh and blood form, had returned to my body from time to time. To my unconscious body, that is. And because I was in a coma for a couple of days, with no conscious thought, I had no natural memories of that period.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWhen I finally came round, much to the relief of my mother and my friends, I kept quiet about the odd experiences, a) because I didn\u2019t understand them myself and b) because I didn\u2019t want everybody to think the head trauma had short-circuited the wires in my brain.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI recovered quickly, you do when you\u2019re young. My leg took a little while to mend (still had the occasional twinge up until my death), but the hairline fracture in my skull soon healed with due care and attention of the medics and nurses (I dated one of the nurses for a while when I got out, a pretty redhead of Irish descent but no accent). Despite heavy bruising there was no internal damage. In short, I\u2019d been bloody lucky; and so had that little boy, thank God.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nPhysically, I was soon back to normal. Mentally? That was something else.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOh, and the motorbike was wrecked, by the way, and I never bought another one. Death or injury comes too easily on those things.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n4<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nFigure this\u2026<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nA woman walks into a London police station, her step awkward, slow, kind of stiff. Much of her face is covered with dark drying blood. Blood also ruins her blouse and jacket just below her left breast.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIn faltering words, she speaks to the duty sergeant, who is more than a little surprised, maybe nervous too\u2014the visitor\u2019s face (the part that could be seen) is chalky white in stark contrast to the burnt umber bloodstains. And her clothes are a mess, stockings or tights laddered, dirt on her knees and hands. She is wearing no shoes.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe woman\u2019s voice is somewhat forced and gargled, as if internal blood has risen and is congealing inside her throat, and the policeman struggles to make out the words she says. But he understands enough to catch the meaning.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe deathly pale woman is telling him that she wishes to report a murder. Her own. A name is almost spat out, but it is coherent. Then the woman drops dead. Or so the policeman thinks.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nA police doctor is called, who quickly examines the body and asserts that the woman is, indeed, dead. But the doctor is puzzled and adds another diagnosis.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe corpse is taken away and because there is some confusion, if not mystery, about her condition, a post-mortem is swiftly carried out.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe pathologist confirms the doctor\u2019s first conclusion: at the time the woman had walked into the police station, her body was already in the first stages of rigor mortis, indicating she had been dead for at least forty-five minutes.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHow so? Later.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n5<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI continued to have those OBEs. Sometimes they were vague, like a partially remembered dream, while at other times they were perfectly clear yet somewhat unreal in their flow, like movies that have been badly producer-edited. There were gaps in the order, you see, as if I\u2019d reverted to my sleeping body for a while where even my subconscious seemed to be in repose.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe thing is, they no longer needed to be sparked off by any sort of trauma, they started to happen of their own volition when I was near to sleep, body and mind completely relaxed. They occurred only perhaps once or twice a year at first, but then I began to control them\u2014at least, I tried to control them. I\u2019d lie in bed alone and concentrate on leaving my body at will, but nothing transpired at those first clumsy attempts, either because I wasn\u2019t relaxed enough, or was trying too hard. I learned that OBEs are not something that can be controlled entirely at will.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI also realized that between the hot potato incident when I was seven and the motorbike accident when I was seventeen, there had, in fact, been a few other OBEs, when I\u2019d wandered through empty darkened school classrooms, visiting my own desk, or flights when I seemed to be high over the city, with thousands of lights below, many of them moving traffic headlights. I\u2019d put these down to dreams, very, very clear dreams. What did I know? I was just a kid. But dreams always fade with time, if not on awakening, and these excursions or \u201cflights\u201d never did. I nearly always remembered them.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAs I got older I began trying consciously to put myself into the OBE state, lying in bed at night and imagining I was looking down at myself from a corner of the ceiling. At first, I\u2019d choose a point above me, think of a small bright light glowing there, then I\u2019d will myself to join it. Nothing really happened though, at least not for a long while. I even used doped\u2014marijuana only, nothing hard\u2014to see if it would help, you know, put me into a relaxed state, free my mind, transcend the norm, but it never worked. I almost gave up until one day in my last year at art college I was bored and listless\u2014a hand-lettering class, I seem to remember, always a drag for me\u2014when suddenly and without warning I was gone.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThis was weird phenomenon (I agree, it must always sound weird to anyone\u2014which means most people\u2014who has never been through it themselves) because it was daytime, the sun shining gloriously through a window\u2014maybe its warmth enhanced my drowsiness\u2014and nothing physical had jolted me; no trauma and certainly no accident. One moment I was trying to get the curve on a Century Old Style cap \u201cS\u201d right with my 3A sable paintbrush, next I felt a kind of shifting within me, as if I were being gently hovered out of my skin, and then I was floating above my own head.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nNow on this occasion and after the initial surprise\u2014oddly, there was no apprehensive shock involved\u2014I decided I was going to examine the experience rather than just live it. It was as calculating as that. No alarm, no concern that I might not be able to re-enter my body again, no panicky thoughts about death. I could see myself with exquisite clarity, my figure and everything around it finely defined. I noticed the tip of my paintbrush was poised about a millimetre above the letter \u201cS\u201d and my arm\u2014my whole body, in fact\u2014was perfectly still, as if I\u2019d been frozen there. Other people in the artroom were moving: the girl student next to me was wiping her T-square with a clean rag, while on another table, a friend of mine was carefully dipping his brush into an inkpot as our tutor, a thin dandified Swiss with a wispy blond moustache and slicked-back hair, was turning the page of a typeface book opened out before him on the desk top, unconsciously tucking an overspilling cream handkerchief back into his breast pocket with his free hand as he did so. A round clock with a dark-wood frame ticked on the wall. Someone sneezed. Someone else said, \u201cBless you.\u201d A putty rubber fell off a table and a student bent to retrieve it. All was normal. No one was taking any notice of me.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI wasn\u2019t scared. I guess I was too curious for that. I just felt cool about the whole situation. And because of that lack of anxiety I was able to examine my situation calmly.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI decided to see if I could move about and instantly I could. Just by willing myself I floated to the other side of the artroom, observing the heads and hunched shoulders of the students at work as I did so. I half-expected some of them to look up as I passed over, perhaps disturbed by the breeze I must be creating, skimming along like that. I thought my tutor might bark, \u201cYou there, True, come down from zat ceiling and get back to your pless!\u201d in that prissy accent of his, but he continued to study his book, one finger of his hand dipped deeply into his breast pocket as he settled the silk hanky. I could see myself\u2014I\u2019d stretched both hands out in front of me like some ethereal Superman and they were plainly visible\u2014so why couldn\u2019t the teacher and students see me? (At that time, of course, I hadn\u2019t yet come to understand that it was my mind filling in what it expected to see.)<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHovering over a bright window, I turned back to the class. The notion of passing through the window glass had occurred to me, but while remaining perfectly level-headed, I was a little anxious about wandering too far from my natural body. I really did not want to lose sight of it, and I think that was quite reasonable. What if I got lost outside? What if there was a point where the spirit (or whatever I was up there, hovering inches away from the ceiling) became too separated from the physical body and something, some invisible connection, snapped, making re-entry impossible?<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAnyway, during that time in the artroom I was, as mentioned, pretty cool about the situation, even if I was reluctant to let my material self out of sight. I looked around, took notice of things, considered how I felt about my condition, then, and only after several minutes, I became eager to get back into my body. (It was like resisting one last chocolate from the box because you\u2019ve already had too many.) And the moment I felt that way I was back.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI don\u2019t recall any journey across the room, nor dipping myself into my natural form; I was just there, looking at the world through my physical eyes once more. Only then did I begin to feel some panic, but it was mild. I think I was too stunned to experience overwhelming anxiety. Soon I was plain curious as well as elated. I\u2019d gone through something rare\u2014at least I thought it was rare, because I\u2019d never heard of this sort of thing happening to anyone on a regular basis, although I\u2019d read of one-off dream-flying and of survivors who claimed they had left their bodies while close to death.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI sat there bemused, worrying that my cracked skull had its aftermath, that the impact had messed with my brain and was creating hallucinations, fantasy trips. But I\u2019d been too passive during the experience and observed too much too clearly for this to have been and illusion. Besides, everything else in the room had been quite ordinary and the other students\u2019 behaviour perfectly normal.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nLaying my paintbrush down, I sank back into my chair. What the hell was going on? I remembered the hot potato incident, then the immediate consequences of the motorcycle accident. I\u2019d told the doctors of my out-of-body experience and they\u2019d just smiled benevolently and explained that when the head\u2014the brain, more specifically\u2014took such a hard knock, it often went into some kind of seizure, perhaps losing control for a short time, so that visions in the unconscious state might seem like reality. Nothing to worry about, but a few tests would be in order.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nScans showed nothing amiss as far as my head was concerned; fortunately, the fracture had been minimal, the bone barely penetrated, and the brain itself revealed no evidence of swelling or injury. Rest up, give yourself time for the leg to heal and the skull\u2019s light fracture to knit together. Any trauma to the head could be dangerous and cause concern, no matter how light the blow, but in this case, there appeared to be no such problem. A little surgery on the leg was all that was required.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt was some months after the artroom OBE that I began to think back and re-examine some of the \u201cdreams\u201d I\u2019d had from the age of even onwards, dreams that had not gradually faded from memory as they were supposed to, those that had lingered in my thoughts because of their extreme clarity and almost rational content. In them, I\u2019d visited places I\u2019d only heard or read about, art galleries (paintings and sculptures had fascinated me from an early age), playgrounds, and homes of schoolfriends. I\u2019d spied on my mother as she sewed the lapels of handmade suits while pausing every so often to watch her precious soaps and game shows on the small television we owned and which lit up an otherwise dreary corner of the room. There was no sense of adventure with these dream excursions, nothing exciting about them at all really, and this was what eventually made me realize they were something other than natural dreams.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThat\u2019s when I started reading up on the phenomenon and discovered it was more common that I had first thought. I learned that certain curious and dedicated people had achieved by research and perseverance what came naturally to me. Even so, nothing I read compared exactly to my own experiences. Others, apparently, had not attained such clearness of vision or logical continuity; their OBEs were more dreamlike and lacked control, and generally were broken up by blank periods of unconsciousness so that their flow was interrupted, to be remembered later only in vague episodes. However, I did pick up some useful techniques for putting myself into a receptive state, not quite a trance-like mode, but a kind of open responsiveness that encouraged the phenomenon to occur. Things like alert relaxation, where the body is in repose, but the mind is acutely aware if itself rather than the physical body; or the method of loosening the body completely, resting it limb by limb, piece by piece from head to toe; or the perception of outside from within, as if my eyes were merely portals through which I could observe the outer world; or shrinking inside myself, so that my skin and flesh were like an ill-fitting suit, loose enough to escape from. Then there was the mirror image method, whereby a person thinks of themselves floating about their own body, just a foot or two away; the image is clear, and exact replica of himself or herself wearing the same clothes, sporting the same five-o\u2019clock shadow or make-up; the person then imagines he or she is now looking down at their own body from above, that now it\u2019s the physical self that is being viewed. It\u2019s supposed to make the transition easier, but it never worked for me.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIn fact, all I had to do was make myself as relaxed as possible, relieve my mind of extraneous thoughts, and will myself to leave my body, sometimes looking at some particular spot on the ceiling or far corner of the room so that my \u201cspirit\u201d had a destination. Then I\u2019d wait for it to happen.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWhich it didn\u2019t, more often than not. But sometimes I was successful and the more I was, the more I started to control my \u201cflight\u201d. Initially, I never left the room I occupied, but gradually I began to venture further to other rooms in the flat, cautiously graduating to outside locations, so that ultimately I was able to fly above rooftops, explore places I\u2019d never physically visited\u2014Buckingham Palace was dull, while the homes of some complete strangers could be interesting, even scary. It seemed I was limited only by my own boldness (I have to admit that in those early days I was somewhat timid; the fear of being unable to find my way back to my body was too strong. I was also afraid that the further afield I travelled, the easier it would be to break the psychic link to my physical self).<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI slowly learned though that I only had to think of myself back inside my flesh and blood from for it to be so. It would happen in a rush, a dizzying race through space that took no longer than a second or so, and always I\u2019d arrived back safely, with no hitches whatsoever.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI can\u2019t say that I explored this thrilling new state to the full. For one, it didn\u2019t work every time, and for two, after the original excitement, I began to lose interest. I don\u2019t know why, it was just the way it was. Maybe deep down I was really afraid of the capability, some part of my subconscious feeling it was an unnatural state to be in, and that sooner or later something would go wrong, and I\u2019d be punished.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIn a way, I was right.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n6<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nDid I ever tell anyone of these OBEs? And if I didn\u2019t, then why not?<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nSimple answer is, no, I didn\u2019t tell a soul. The reason why is not quite that simple, but you\u2019ve a right to know.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI\u2019ve always been a private person, never one for sharing all my deep-seated angst or emotions. Something I learned from Mother, I guess.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nShe brought me up to hide my feelings, to put on a face in front of others, particularly strangers. It was all to do with her pride and her shame at being deserted by her husband. Our reduced circumstances embarrassed her and when we moved into our little flat on the rougher side of London, she cut off all contact with friends and acquaintances. You know, I never knew if I had any other living relatives when I was growing up and eventually it didn\u2019t matter to me anyway; Mother and me, we kept to ourselves. I was content enough. I spent most of my time drawing, sometimes painting (when I had the paints, which were usually Christmas or birthday gifts), writing little stories, and reading\u2014God, I\u2019d read anything that came my way, from comics to books to the back of cornflake packets. I loved movies too, and Mother and I went at least twice a week, sometimes twice in one day. For me it was all escapism, I suppose, all these things taking me out of both my environment and my circumstances; it must have been the same for Mother as far as the movies and TV soaps were concerned.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI think that in her mind she lived in some kind of dream world, a place the ugly realities of life could not touch. She was fooling herself, of course, life itself isn\u2019t that easy to shut out.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nNow you might imagine that all this would have turned me into a mother\u2019s boy, but nothing could have been further from the truth. I was always independent as a kid, self-contained you might say; I loved my mother, but I could never understand her, couldn\u2019t be the doting son she so much wanted. Just as she disappeared into her film world where everything had a tendency to turn out okay in the end (there were romantic magazines and novels also to keep her dreams occupied), so I retreated into my own small planet, which was a whole deal more exciting that the real one. Although I could never bring them home because of Mother\u2019s strict rule that outsiders were never welcome, never allowed to be \u201cinsiders\u201d, I had many good friends at school and later at art college, and as soon as I realized I was capable of taking care of myself I was rarely at home, despite Mother\u2019s accusatory pleas to stay with her. I was no rebel, but I was aware that there was something more, and something better, going on out there and I wanted some of it for myself. Guilt always dogged me though\u2014I did truly love my mother\u2014but I soon learned to accommodate it. Besides, I\u2019d discovered football, which I became pretty good at, and not too long after that, I discovered girls.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nBut still, the growing-up years are always influenced by your parents and home background, so Mother\u2019s insistence on privacy where all things personal were concerned stuck with me. By the time I was twelve, I couldn\u2019t even tell her things; I\u2019d learned from her to keep my thoughts and emotions to myself and I think, ultimately, she was kind of pleased about that herself\u2014other people\u2019s emotions (yes, even her son\u2019s) could be a \u201crotten nuisance\u201d. She was complex: she wanted me to love her and be her \u201cbest friend in all the wide world\u201d, but she\u2019d been too badly hurt by my father\u2019s desertion to trust any other man, perhaps even any other person; she didn\u2019t really want to hear my troubles or concerns, because that always brought her back to the real world, and the real world had let her down badly. I can admit it now, and I half-knew it then: Mother was a little screwy. If I did upset her by, say, coming home late, or deliberately disobeying her wishes (I can\u2019t say orders, because she was never strong enough to give orders as such\u2014they were always suggestions and sometimes pleadings, rather than dictates), she would regale me with the sins of my father, how he\u2019d left us, been untrue to both of us, run off with some floozy, didn\u2019t care if we starved to death, or were put out on the streets. Eventually, I closed my mind to all this, but even so, the guilt somehow transferred itself to me.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThere I go getting off the point. The thing of it is, I\u2019d learned from an early age to keep personal matters to myself, initially because that was the way Mother wanted it, and ultimately, perhaps inevitably, I became embarrassed about life with Mother. In some ways it worked well for me when I reached my older teens, because the girls seem to like that slight air of mystery that hung on me like a dark cloak, made me seem deeper that probably I was. It was something I used to my advantage anyway.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nSo, enough of all that. I\u2019ve still uncomfortable about our mother-son relationship, but it just might help explain why I kept quiet about the OBEs. I\u2019d learned to keep such things to myself.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAnother reason was that I was scared of being laughed at. Or misunderstood, thought to be out of my skull. The pragmatic side of my nature also figured: easier for me to put the experiences down to lurid dreaming, no matter how real they seemed to be. By talking about them, I was admitting their fundamental reality to myself and, frankly, they were a distraction I didn\u2019t need in my life. Besides, the OBEs were infrequent enough not to be a problem.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOne more reason, and I think this was as important as the others in its way. Say you were a friend of mine\u2014or, maybe even more significantly, a girlfriend of mine\u2014and I told you I could travel invisibly sometimes, mostly at night when my body was totally relaxed, that my mind could leave my body to go on excursions. Say I told you that and you didn\u2019t think I was totally crazy, you half-believed me. How would you feel about me being able to spy on you at any time, that I could be watching you in your most private moments? You wouldn\u2019t like the idea. In fact, I don\u2019t think you\u2019d ever trust me again. Everyone needs their privacy, their own space. It\u2019s what makes us civilized.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nNow and again, I felt the overwhelming need to confide in a close friend or special girl, but common sense always prevailed, something\u2014call it instinct, if you like\u2014always shut me up before I said too much. Later, even marriage could not persuade me to disclose my little secret; maybe I\u2019d kept it to myself so long it had become unimportant.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIn truth though, it was never an issue.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n7<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nSomething else for you to consider:<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nYou\u2019re physically near to someone, a person you love more than any other in the world, more than life itself. That person is about to be murdered.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThat person you love so much is helpless.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAnd so are you, even though you\u2019re present at the scene and you\u2019re free to move around. You cannot protect your loved one no matter how hard you try.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nYou have to watch as death slowly, and oh so painfully, begins to claim its victim.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n8<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nMy name is\u2014was\u2014James True. Anyone who knew me called me Jim: James was just for passports and tax returns. I was pretty average, five-eleven tall, slimmish, good mid-brown hair, blue eyes, not bad-looking. Like I said, average, quite ordinary. I did have a lively imagination though, which was just as well given the career choice I\u2019d made at an early age.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI dreamt a lot. I don\u2019t mean daydreams, reveries; I mean sleep dreams. Always lucid, full colour, Dolby sound. Reality dreams, but not too logical. Busy, wear-you-down dreams. The medical profession deny the possibility, but often I wake mornings more exhausted than when I\u2019ve gone to sleep. Hard day\u2019s night, and all that. I always figured I was putting in another seven or eight hours\u2019 labour when I slumbered.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nContent was anything from fantasy to mundane everyday stuff. Usually a fair bit of angst in most of them. I\u2019d lose something, couldn\u2019t quite reach something, would be placed in an embarrassing situation\u2014you know the kind: in a crowded room or at a bus stop wearing only my vest. Nothing abnormal though, nothing any different from the dreams of other dreamers; it was their lucidity, I suppose, that made them special plus the fact that I could always remember them. I\u2019ve no idea if any had particular significance, because I rarely tried to analyse them. Except for one that was recurring.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIn this dream, which came maybe once or twice a year, I could kind of fly. I say kind of, because it was more like long floating hops: I could rise from the ground, sometimes high over buildings, or zoom along several feet above the surface, pushing myself off with my hands every fifty yards or so, gaining altitude whenever it was necessary to rise above people or obstructions. I always thought that these particular dreams were informing me that I was a dreamer, that I had high expectations, perhaps wanted to break away from reality, aspired to things that could only be fantasy, that my own pragmatism, which was tempered by the realities of life itself, unfailingly brought me back down to earth\u2014literally, in the dreams. The way I saw it this was no bad thing. It meant I was grounded. And that was a plus in my eventual profession, where the ideal was advanced\u2014the best soap powder, the finest lager, the greatest value\u2014all of which claims had to stay within the realms of possibility and true to the advertising standards code (I admit that often\u2014no, most times\u2014we pushed those selling virtues to the limit, but we never quite lied).<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI soon got over my motorbike accident at seventeen\u2014the hairline skull fracture had been caused by my crash helmet having been dented by the edge of the kerb, but it was one of those lucky fractures (if such a break could ever be deemed lucky) that cause no pressure on the brain and it healed itself within weeks. No surgery was required. Headaches for a few weeks afterwards were the only penalty, and mercifully even these were not severe. My broken leg took longer to mend and I hobbled into college on crutches for a couple of months, but there were no long-lasting effects, no permanent limp, just those periodic twinges.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nBecause my bike was wrecked I had to stick to London Transport after that, despite high fares and shit services. At least Mother was relieved. It was a drain on my cash, but it only made me take on more evening and weekend work. In fact, day college became a bit of a rest period until my principal hauled me into his office and threatened expulsion if I didn\u2019t get my act together again. Fortunately, one of my flatmates was given the money by his father to buy a second-hand car, which turned out to be an old American army Jeep that we all loved\u2014it might have been cold in winter, because it had no canvas top, but boy, the Jeep gave us great kudos at the college when we rode in together. Despite its lack of comfort, it was babe bait, and we took full advantage.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAfter completing the three-year course and gaining my national diploma in design, I started looking for a job in advertising. It took me a year of living on social security, hawking my work round one agency after another (same excuse always: come back when you\u2019ve had more experience. So how the hell do you gain experience if nobody\u2019s willing to take you on?). Anyway, I finally struck lucky\u2014if you could call it that\u2014by getting a job with a finished art studio and minor agency. I started as a paint-pot washer, coffee maker, errand runner, art filer\u2014all this after three years art school training\u2014but I was glad to be employed and I made the most of it. It took a while to work my way up to the drawing board, but once there, my training finally kicked in. It was a cheapskate company though and once I felt I\u2019d gained the initially elusive and hard-earned experience, I moved on to a big advertising agency.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nEmployed at first as a typographer because I\u2019d exaggerated my qualifications a little, I quickly worked my way up to art director on some pretty big accounts. I was used to the work ethic, you see; all those years working through art college as well as evenings and weekends had instilled in me a discipline that could only be for the good. I enjoyed hard work and now, when it was bringing with it substantial financial reward, I found my enthusiasm for the job was even greater. You\u2019re under great pressure in advertising because of its high turnover of fresh ideas, campaigns and ads always wanted yesterday, constant meetings both internal and with clients, briefings from clients, your own briefings to photographers, artists and commercials directors and producers. Long working weekends again, late nights too. Then there\u2019s the social side of the business. Smart, attractive girls, intelligent colleagues, long, boozy lunches balanced out with long and sober bouts of overtime. Add the humour. There\u2019s a lot of humour in advertising, a lot of wit, much of it against the client, although they could never be aware of that. And to top it all, there are the politics. Outside politics itself, the advertising game must be the most political business of all. Unless you can avoid it, it\u2019s dog-eat-dog, all inspired by vanity and insecurity in equal doses, envy, ambition, suspicion, and the quest for money and power.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI always tried to steer clear of it, mainly because it was all too time-consuming and petty; but that didn\u2019t mean I didn\u2019t have to watch my back. Some knives were pretty lethal. The two good things I had going for me were ability (to get on with the work) and talent.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nLucky happenstance brought me in contact with a dream copywriter. Oliver Guinane was brilliant with words and ideas, totally secure in himself, and he loved to work as a team. We were around the same age, had the same enthusiasm for the job, agreed on what was \u201cin\u201d, what was \u201cout\u201d, and what was plain garbage. Best of all, we admired and appreciated each other\u2019s flair for the job.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI\u2019m not sure that in the correct order of things I would have chosen Oliver as a best buddy\u2014he was a little bit brash for me and didn\u2019t always treat everyone as an equal; but he had many other qualities that more than made up for the, well, the deficiencies. Oliver was generous to a fault, had great charm and wit, frequently produced wonderful copy and ideas, and was unselfish with the latter; he also had great energy. With his handsome face, light-brown eyes and full reddish-brown hair that curled around his ears and over his brow, he was also a female magnet, much like that old Jeep, which often meant that I could leave him to the chat-lines while I played the quiet interesting one. Occasionally we\u2019d switch and I\u2019d take on the gregarious role, but Oliver could never stay quiet and interesting for long; his natural boisterousness\u2014and vanity\u2014would eventually take over. He was no good playing stooge. Didn\u2019t matter though, we were a great team both professionally and socially.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWe had good times together and through our teamwork we produced some memorable campaigns for accounts as diverse as banking and hair products, alcohol and automobiles. Our reputation grew, as did our salaries, and soon we were being headhunted by other reputable agencies.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWe only moved twice though, once to J. Walter Thompson, then to Saatchi & Saatchi, as it was then called. After that, with quite a bit of soul-searching, some sleepless nights and earnest debates (with Oliver as the prime mover in this new and risky plan), we took the plunge and started up our own outfit.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWe were lucky. The economy was healthy, house prices were booming, and a lot of money was coming in from abroad. Bank managers (as they still were at the time) were not quite throwing money at businessmen who wanted to expand or start up new companies but, encouraged by their own banking grandees, were generous towards new ventures that had legs. Oliver and I gave a polished presentation to our friendly city bank manager, as if we were pitching for a new account, with my copywriter doing most of the talking while I showed some of our better award-winning work (yep, we were that good) and the manager bought it all.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWe approached an excellent account director we knew from another agency and poached a good fresh junior copywriter and art director from Saatchi\u2019s. Oliver had a girlfriend at that time (foolishly, I\u2019d introduced her to him at the old agency) who was a rep for a high-blown and high-priced photographer whose food and product stills were as good as his people work. She was a clever, beautiful brunette, fashionable, and keen with big brown eyes and a slim, leggy body most women would die for and most men would kill for. Her name was Andrea Dodds and eventually I married her. But now\u2019s not the time to go into that. We hired Andrea to be our office manager and second to Sydney Presswell, our financial manager and third partner, who looked alter the business side of things (he was the account director we picked up from another agency). She was presentable, good at handling clients (I used to be one of her clients), and stood no bullshit. Did I say she was beautiful? Well, she was\u2014and still is.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWe took on just one secretary, Lynda, to begin with, who also acted as receptionist and telephone operator; a run-around junior, a young kid named Raymond who aspired to be an art director, but who\u2019d had no art school training; a typographer called Peter and the young creative team I mentioned, Paul and Mark. Finding the right premises wasn\u2019t that easy, but after a lot of searching and a lot of rejections, we stumbled upon premises with two vacant floors slap in the middle of Covent Garden. It had just come on the market and it was pricey\u2014actually, too pricey for us\u2014but we knew instantly it was exactly what we were looking for.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWe set about the hardest part of the whole venture: acquiring clients. Legally we had contracts with our ex-employers which forbade Oliver and I approaching our existing clients for the next three years. Of course, that did not prevent those clients approaching us once the news got out that we were quitting and branching out on our own. So one or two who trusted our abilities solicited us instead. We gained two quite big accounts that way, but we needed a third large one to make us viable.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWe went after new business with a passion, toiling day and night to come up with outstanding presentations and better marketing strategies than the companies already had. Media buying was handled by Sydney for a while, until we were established enough to bring someone in on a full-time basis. We ruthlessly targeted any business that we felt was right for us and whom we considered was receiving less than perfect service\u2014mediocre advertising, poor media choices, etc.\u2014from their existing agency, and we failed to win them over more times than we succeeded. Nevertheless, through sheer nerve, perseverance and, I like to think, talent, we gained three new clients, one medium-sized and two smaller, but easily making up for the third biggie we thought we needed. Heady days, and you know what? I miss them. Yeah, I miss a lot of things\u2026 We called it gtp in the fashion of the day, the acronym for Guinane, True, Presswell, of course, set in Baskerville lower case, letters touching. It looked pretty cool.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe agency did take off. Around town we became known as a creative hot shop and we began pitching for and acquiring more and more accounts, some blue chip but mainly clients who wanted that little bit of extra creativity in selling their products, clients who were not afraid to take fresh marketing leaps that would not go unnoticed by the public or the trade. You\u2019d be surprised how many big budget spenders could only live with the known, concepts without risk, strategies that dared not stray from formula or jeopardize the marketing manager\u2019s position. Internal politics are always rife in both small corporations and big ones (the bigger the worse, in fact) and they\u2019re third only to advertising, which, as I\u2019ve said, is second only to politics itself.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe companies that came to us were already aware of our reputation for risk taking and they were usually primed for something different. Maybe nothing truly off the wall, but at least something individual. We didn\u2019t win everything we pitched for by any means\u2014easy to say you\u2019re looking for something \u201cdifferent\u201d, but not always easy to go with it once it\u2019s presented\u2014but we acquired enough business to expand our offices and staff. We even managed to win a few advertising awards along the way, all voted for by our peers in the industry itself.*<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n*Interestingly, now that Oliver and I were joint bosses, we actually felt more responsibility towards our clients. A long-standing joke in advertising circles is how an art director is constantly devising ways of including a palm tree in the left-hand corner of his layout no matter what the product might be because it meant a photo-shoot somewhere in the Bahamas, a beautiful excursion for himself (and possibly, but not necessarily, for the copywriter) accompanied by glamorous models, plus photographer and his assistants (you couldn\u2019t sell dog food this way, you might insist, but don\u2019t think it hasn\u2019t been tried). Another and even more heavily disguised objective is the D&AD award for best advertising, when fabulous\u2014and very expensive\u2014film or TV commercials (or brilliantly smart ones, but a little oblique as far as selling the product is concerned) are proposed by the agency. These litter the whole media range, great concepts that fail to do their job because the brand name either goes unnoticed, or is never remembered (I\u2019m sure you could mention one or two wonderful TV commercials without recalling the brand they were selling).<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt\u2019s a vanity that reveals a lack of respect for the client, but then, more fool the client who allows it to happen. The answer is simple, although often not easy: the truly great advertising always combines a clever (and often amusing) idea with distinct branding (and I don\u2019t mean a large company logo); GREAT COPY, GREAT VISUAL, CLEAR PRODUCT IDENTIFICATION, is the legend that should be pinned to every marketing manager or company advertising director\u2019s office wall, and creative teams should constantly be reminded of it. So, this was our company philosophy and no headlined layout or storyboard ever left our office for client presentation without it being fulfilled. Okay, I won\u2019t pretend we did it every time. Rush or panic jobs, copy deadlines, overnight work, client procrastination, together with their insecurity and occasional inability to recognize a superb concept, all are inherent and expected in the advertising business, so we could not always deliver of our best, but hell, we tried, oh how we tried.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOliver and I were in our element, working like dogs, our enthusiasm never diminishing. Often we\u2019d book a hotel suite for a weekend and work day and night to produce a fresh and sometimes even original advertising campaign. We used hotel rooms because now and again we needed new surroundings, different venues somehow helping with an objective approach to the brief. Frankly, it\u2019s not unknown in the business for some agencies to lock their creative team away in a five-star hotel for a couple of nights and feed them cocaine for inspiration and to keep them going. It isn\u2019t standard practice, but it does happen sometimes when agencies are desperate, out of time, and the great ideas aren\u2019t coming. We didn\u2019t do that though, because I for one just couldn\u2019t get into drugs of any sort. Sure, I did some hash at art college, and later, when finances started to allow, I tried coke, but it never seemed to work for me, only made me hyper-tense. Same with alcohol to some extent; it took a lot to get me smashed. I don\u2019t know why\u2014something in my metabolism, I suppose\u2014but I was glad. Drugs are bad news, as I later found out. Besides, I didn\u2019t need any chemical substances to stimulate my imagination; that could take care of itself, and anyway, there\u2019s nothing quite like the high you get through creative brainstorms.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nMaybe we worked too hard in those early years, took too much on, but Oliver and I, and to some extent Sydney, were overly ambitious and we ran on adrenaline. We seemed to have unlimited energy\u2014although when we crashed we really crashed\u2014which great to begin with, but too much of it could easily have led to early burn-out. As well as producing the creative work, we had the responsibility\u2014the burden\u2014of running our own company even though Sydney took much of the administration side of things onto his own shoulders. We still had to attend too many meetings, many with clients\u2014oh God, those bloody long lunches\u2014but we always made important decisions as a threesome.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nSo, we worked hard and we played hard, and possibly it was the pressure of both that instigated the first cracks in the partnership. The fact that I stole Oliver\u2019s live-in lover didn\u2019t help either.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n9<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI\u2019d known Andrea Dodds for several months before I introduced her to Oliver, because I\u2019d worked with two of her lensmen on a couple of jobs. She was tallish, slim and, as I told you earlier, had fantastic legs. At that time she wore her dark-brown hair long and straight so that it fell over her narrow shoulders (these days she has it cut short, urchin-style, the sides flicked away from her face). I\u2019d learned that she was single, had no current man in her life, lived in a tiny flat near Dolphin Square, Pimlico, and I was just priming myself to make a move on her. It wouldn\u2019t usually have taken me so long to ask her out\u2014it certainly didn\u2019t with other girls\u2014but Andrea was an exception. Why? Because I\u2019d already half-fallen in love with her and I was terrified of rejection. Funny how easily you can lose your confidence when something matters too much. Of course, Oliver\u2019s charm antenna was at full alert the moment he spotted her talking to our art buyer in the corridor of our old agency. He asked me who she was and, stupidly, I hauled her in to our office to make introductions.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI groaned inwardly as soon as I saw his eyes light up and he held onto her hand for much too long. I knew I was whipped before I\u2019d even started, but I bore no grudges. It served me right for being so boneless.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nSoon she had moved in with him. So soon, in fact, that I was stunned. I hadn\u2019t quite given up hope for myself as far as she was concerned, because there still seemed to be something going on whenever she and I made eye contact. Andrea was no flirt, but she made me feel special when we spoke together or arranged times and dates for photography. She could have rely been doing her job, massaging the ego of an important client, but I didn\u2019t think so; there was something incredibly sincere about her, and something very, very sweet.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nStill, I had to accept the situation and I couldn\u2019t be mad at Oliver for having the boldness to jump in first whereas, like some lame fool, I\u2019d hung back, too cautious to make my move.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOllie and Andrea. They made a hot couple. I couldn\u2019t begrudge him, even though secretly I continued to pine for her. Get over it, I eventually told myself. Oliver was more her league. Besides, there were plenty of other fish, so go fish. And I did for a while, but I never quite got over my original crush. It was when Oliver and I were in the first exciting but anxious throes of setting up our own agency that he suggested bringing Andrea on board as an account manager and assistant to Sydney.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt took me all of two seconds to agree: from experience I knew she was more than just competent and I had no doubt she\u2019d be an asset to our fledgling company; she might have been soft in the looks and attitude department, but believe me, she was shrewd as far as business was concerned and had always driven a hard bargain for the photographers she represented (and I was no pushover\u2014I always treated my clients\u2019 money as if it were my own).<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nSo, initially on a lowish salary but with the promise it would grow as quickly as the agency itself\u2014we were all working on spec those days\u2014she joined gtp. And took to it like a duck might take to Evian, charming both prospective and existing clients, selling our talents as passionately as she\u2019d previously sold the skills of her photographers.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOur team expanded as the client list grew and all seemed well but, like I said, maybe we worked and played a little too hard, because eventually the cracks began to appear. And most of the problems were to do with Oliver.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWe\u2019d both stretched ourselves to the limit, Ollie and I, but the relentless grind took a greater toll on my friend and colleague than me. After a while he seemed to be running on empty, becoming irritable with staff members (especially Sydney, who did his best to keen us all sane), going to the edge with clients (most of whom were good and intelligent people\u2014although even those who were not had to be treated with a modicum of respect). Sydney Presswell came into his own on such occasions, smoothing things over, turning any add observations Oliver might have made into nothing more than humorous banter.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nNevertheless, the work was always good; Oliver never let the agency down on that score. He usually managed to pull some little creative gem out of the bag at the last possible moment, when timing was crucial and we had to present an ad or campaign that the client could run with. And if he didn\u2019t, then I did. We were still a great team, but I was beginning to grow anxious about my buddy. Couple of times I took Oliver aside and told him of my concerns\u2014you\u2019re cracking, pal, you\u2019ve got to ease up on the playtime, grab a break, somewhere warm and sunny, pay Andrea a bit more attention maybe\u2026 He just shrugged it off, gave me the Ollie-grin that said everything was cool. He wasn\u2019t sleeping too well lately, he would indeed cut out extracurricular activities, and anyway, mood swings were part of his nature. Often on these occasions, he would also remind me that it was his creative input that had won us many clients, a fact I couldn\u2019t deny. Sure, I told him, but we\u2019re more worried about your health nowadays, not your input. You don\u2019t look good, sport, and those mood swings are affecting Andrea in a bad way.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nShouldn\u2019t have said it. Oliver exploded, told me to keep my nose out of his personal business, then stormed out of the office we shared. We didn\u2019t see him for the rest of the day and I regretted having spoken out. Still, it seemed to do the trick\u2014for a while, at least. Ollie arrived back at the agency early the next day, bright and shiny and with a box of expensive cigars as a gift for me. Andrea, who had looked a little flaky for some time now, was with him and she seemed almost as chirpy as he was. I assumed they\u2019d had a heart-to-heart and a new leaf had been turned by Oliver. Both looked refreshed, as if they\u2019d had a good night\u2019s sleep, hopefully in each other\u2019s arms.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt couldn\u2019t last though; Oliver\u2019s jittery moods soon swung back and forth like a personality pendulum and I began to suspect it was more than just overwork and booze that was the problem. But it was Sydney who finally put me wise by pointing out the symptoms.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nInsiders call it either the curse or the crutch of the trade, but I subscribe to neither view; sure, coke and cannabis are popular in the business\u2014speed, too\u2014but they\u2019re more of an occupational hazard than a prevalence, recreational rather than obligatory. Creativity can often extend itself to taking mind-expanding substances, and advertising must be one of the most pressurizing careers one could choose. There\u2019s always the exhaustion factor too, when both your brain and body become so fatigued they require a little charge now and again. I\u2019m not advocating drugs as a prop\u2014far from it\u2014I\u2019m merely explaining how the trap is set. I\u2019ve known good people who have succumbed to its lure, and now I was concerned that my best friend and business partner had become yet another victim.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nTo cut it short, Ollie\u2019s condition grew steadily worse, the pendulum becoming caught on the downswing. One evening I was pigged out on a sofa in my apartment\u2014only a slim triangle of pizza left in its shallow box, bare feet resting over one arm of the sofa, my head propped up by a couple of cushions at the other end half-empty can of Stella resting on my stomach, cigarette butt smoking in a crowded ashtray on the floor\u2014when the annoying chime of the doorbell roused me from my mindless vigil over a docu-soap on the TV. With a groan, I dropped the lager can beside the ashtray and swung my feet to the carpet. Hitching up my jeans beneath the loose sweatshirt I wore, I grumbled my way to the door.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAndrea was outside, her face wet with tears, mascara staining her fair skin. She threw herself into my arms, blurting out her woes as she did so: she\u2019d had enough, Oliver was out of control, he\u2019d lashed out at her, hurt her, sworn at her; she had fled and this time it was for good. I hadn\u2019t even known there\u2019d been other occasions and I felt a rising anger as she told me her sad tale.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nApparently, Oliver\u2019s coke habit had reached critical mass, one of the results being his physical abuse of Andrea, and she had left him and had no intention of ever going back. I hadn\u2019t realized that their relationship was anywhere near this sorry state, so good was their cover-up at the agency. I was stunned.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nTo cut the story even shorter, she stayed with me.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI\u2019m not proud of it, but I was incredibly angry with Oliver at the time, because not only had he stolen my girl (okay, she hadn\u2019t actually been my girl at the time) out he was now physically\u2014and mentally, I soon learned\u2014abusing her. Just having her there in my own home, distressed and desperate, revived all those feelings towards her that I\u2019d suppressed since I\u2019d lost out to my sidekick. I admit, I\u2019m a sucker as far as women or girls are concerned. I offered to ring him, or to go and see him personally, tell him face-to-face what a jerk he was being, but Andrea wouldn\u2019t allow it. We collapsed onto the sofa together and she begged me to let her stay, if only for the night.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nShe never went back to Oliver. Again, I\u2019m not proud of it, but we made love that very first evening. All those emotions, those frustrated desires, burst out of me like floodwater from a breached dam.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOliver didn\u2019t show up at the office for two days, but when he did, he was perfectly calm and reasonable. In truth, he was almost arrogant as far as Andrea\u2019s departure was concerned and I think that hurt her more than anything else. His indifference was a shock for us both, but it helped us overcome the guilt Andrea and I were feeling. He\u2019d had space to think, he told us, and realized he was screwing up Andrea\u2019s life, not to mention his own. He might also be screwing up the business we had all worked so hard for. And he was definitely screwing up his long friendship with me. All that had to change and he knew this might be his last chance.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nFrom now on the drugs and the booze were out, hard work and sobriety were in. He wasn\u2019t going to ask Andrea to come back to him until she felt she wanted to (to be honest, he didn\u2019t seem to care too much on this point; it was as if the ball was entirely in her court) and I felt it wasn\u2019t the appropriate time to explain how she had already moved in with me. That could come later.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThings were awkward between us for a few weeks, but Oliver made the effort. I don\u2019t know how he fought\u2014and conquered\u2014his demons, but he managed to. He came off the drugs and the difference in him was quickly apparent. He became my old, true friend once more and although it took a while to get his creative juices flowing again, eventually the magic returned. We became like the team of old, a regular Lennon and McCartney of the advertising game. I don\u2019t know how it came out that Andrea had moved in with me, but it seemed to happen naturally and there was certainly no overt resentment on Ollie\u2019s part. Maybe he had already begun to tire of their relationship before the big upset\u2014never in the past had Oliver been one for long-term relationships\u2014and so he accepted the new situation without apparent rancour. Perverse though it might sound, I thought he was genuinely pleased for me, because I\u2019d never been able to disguise my attraction to Andrea in the past; now, at last, I\u2019d found someone with whom I could settle down. Oh, now and again, I caught him giving me an odd, reflective stare, but I thought it was remorse.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nEverything soon got back to normal and we became frantically busy, pitching for new accounts as well as maintaining those we already had. We employed more staff, creating two new art director\/copywriter teams, hiring a couple more secretaries and another account executive, and eventually took over the whole building to allow for our expansion. We were a terrific, young creative hot shop and more than a few advertising awards came our way, either for press and poster campaigns or television commercials.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWithin a year Andrea was pregnant with our child (so left the agency in her seventh month) and we were married\u2014in that order. Time went by and, bar a few downsides not worth mentioning at this point, life was pretty good. Or so I thought.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nSeven years later I was still enjoying my career, was happily married, and had a wonderful daughter called Primrose. (Yeah, I know. Advertising people, eh? In fact, it took only three months to call her Prim\u2014Primrose seemed such a heavy handle for such a squirt, pretty as she was.) I still had OBEs, which I was learning to control more as well as initiate. They remained my secret and continued to fascinate me.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nLittle did I know it was those OBEs that would lead to my premature demise.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHopefully, you\u2019ve stayed with me so far. It\u2019s just that I thought it important that you knew some of my history\u2014it\u2019s pertinent to all I\u2019m about to tell you. Believe me, I\u2019ve left out heaps of personal stuff because I didn\u2019t want you to lose interest along the way.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nBut now I\u2019m ready and\u2014hopefully again\u2014you\u2019re primed to hear my tale. Everything I\u2019ve told you leads to the horrendous event that was to change my life\u2014or I should say, my existence\u2014forever\u2026<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n10<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cIt\u2019s too big for us,\u201d I said, keeping my voice steady, avoiding Oliver\u2019s glare. The debate\u2014all right, the argument\u2014between Sydney, Ollie and myself had been going on for over an hour at least. \u201cWe\u2019re just not ready.\u201d I leaned back in my chair, arms folded across my chest, staring at my outstretched feet, ankles also crossed.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cNot if we expand.\u201d Oliver was leaning forward in his seat, wagging a finger at me.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cThe time isn\u2019t right for us to take on more staff. We just don\u2019t have the capacity here.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOliver slapped his thigh hard and I winced; the slap must have made his leg smart.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cThen we move!\u201d was his reply.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cAre you kidding? It was difficult enough taking over these premises. We\u2019re too busy for the disruption anyway.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cThere is another way.\u201d Sydney Presswell was sitting behind his broad but minimalist desk, and his voice, as usual, was quietly soothing. Sydney had always been a good advocate between myself and Ollie, whose interaction these days was becoming more and more volatile; we barely agreed on anything lately, particularly when creative work was involved.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWe both turned our heads towards our finance director\/manager.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nSydney had piled on the weight over the years\u2014too many drawn-out client lunches\u2014but still managed to look dapper with his grey receding hair and grey suits the latter always worn with deep blue or red ties. The flesh of his neck puffed out over his shirt collar a little, but his aquiline nose and soft grey eyes beneath finely arched eyebrows gave him the appearance of a benevolent patriarch. He wore those understated glasses, no frames, just plain lenses supported by hinges and plastic nose pads. Although now going through his third divorce, no lines furrowed his smooth brow and only slight bags hung beneath those pale-grey eyes.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWe waited for him to speak again, perhaps both of us relieved that our increasingly angry confrontation had been interrupted.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cWe could merge,\u201d he said simply, leaning forward and interlacing his fingers on the desktop before him.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nNeither Oliver nor I reacted. I just stared.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nSydney\u2019s pale face was impassive. \u201cBlake & Turnbrow have been chasing us for some time, as you know. They\u2019re much larger than us and have offices worldwide. Together we could easily manage our respective clients and any more we might care to pitch for. Blake & Turnbrow are keen to amalgamate with us.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cTo take us over, you mean, don\u2019t you?\u201d I said, my annoyance now focused on him. That in itself was unusual, because Sydney was the easiest person in the world to get along with.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cNo, I don\u2019t mean that,\u201d he said, his retort mild, not at all offended. \u201cIf getting into bed with a prestigious global agency will help us expand and find bigger clients, why should we balk at the idea?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cBecause, Sydney,\u201d I said with disguised impatience, \u201cit means giving up control of our own business.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cWait a minute, Jim,\u201d Ollie put in. \u201cIt doesn\u2019t have to mean that at all. Lets take the helicopter view.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt irritated me further when my copywriter used ad-speak: \u201coverview\u201d wasn\u2019t good, but \u201chelicopter view\u201d? And a \u201ctakeover\u201d was a \u201ctakeover\u201d, not the sharing of a bed. A suspicion struck me: was Oliver really surprised at the suggestion, or had he and Sydney already discussed the prospect in my absence (I was often away from the office on photographic shoots or making TV commercials, allowing plenty of opportunities for cosy get-togethers for my partners)? Or was I just being paranoid?<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cObviously Blake & Turnbrow like our client list, as well as the creative talent in this agency,\u201d Oliver went on. \u201cBut then don\u2019t we envy their client list and some of their creative teams?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cIf we get taken over\u2014\u201d I began to say.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cMerge,\u201d Sydney insisted.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI didn\u2019t drop a beat. \u201c\u2014there\u2019s no guarantee that some of our accounts won\u2019t leave us. They signed up with Guinane, True, Presswell, not with Blake, Turnbrow, Guinane, True, Presswell\u2026\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cBTGTP has a nice ring to it.\u201d Oliver smiled and I wasn\u2019t sure if he was deliberately winding me up.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nBefore I could respond, Sydney cut in once more. \u201cCompanies rarely switch agencies unless they\u2019ve been let down by bad marketing strategies, mediocre creative work, or poor servicing: we\u2019re guilty of none of those. However, we might fall down on the first and last points if we pitch for and win this new account.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cI\u2019m still not sure why such a large corporate bank should approach us,\u201d I muttered, a little sourly I think. \u201cThe agency they have now is one of the biggest and best.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYes, and it\u2019s become complacent. The bank has been with them for twenty years or more and I think they\u2019ve both become tired of each other. It happens to every account eventually, no matter how solid the relationship has been.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nSydney unlocked his fingers and rested back in his chair. \u201cFortunately, the bank\u2019s marketing director is a very old acquaintance of mine and for the past year I\u2019ve been rekindling our friendship. We belong to the same club and more than once I\u2019ve let him thrash me at golf.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cThis is the first time you\u2019ve mentioned it to us,\u201d I said grudgingly.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cBecause I\u2019ve had nothing to report until now. Geoff tipped me the wink only a few months ago and I\u2019ve been working on him since. He\u2019s well aware of my interest, of course, and I think he\u2019s enjoyed the little game between us. I want the carrot and he loves to dangle it before me. Naturally, I\u2019ve allowed him to enjoy himself at our expense\u2014and I mean that literally.\u201d He looked meaningfully at me, and then at Oliver.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cBritish Allied Bank is beginning to lose out in the market place,\u201d Sydney went on. \u201cIt\u2019s competitors, the other big banks, are regarded as more friendly towards small businesses and more trendy as far as the younger market is concerned. Certainly British Allied is banker to many vast corporations, but never underestimate how important the smaller businesses are. What they lack fiscally as individuals, they more than make up in quantity. Not quite as important, but certainly worth considering are the young non-account holders, the upwardly mobile C2s, who have to be encouraged\u2014or enticed\u2014to open a bank account. Like the small businesses their numbers are incredibly high and well worth bringing in. Catch \u2018em while they\u2019re young is the motto of all the banks, because they rarely change banks during their lifetimes.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cSo we\u2019re seen as more cutting edge than British Allied\u2019s present agency? Is that why they want us to pitch?\u201d Oliver was jigging a foot on the carpet, a habit of his when his energy was running high.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cPrecisely,\u201d Sydney replied. \u201cBut naturally, there will be other agencies pitching, including their present one, which has to be given a chance. I\u2019ve learned from Geoff, though, that we\u2019re the only hot shop; all the others are good and well established, but don\u2019t have our reputation for high-concept campaigns. I think, provided we come up with the right pitch, if we hinted that we could possibly be associated with another much larger agency in the near future, it might be to our advantage. Of course, if we did win it, it would be the biggest single account we\u2019d held financially. The advertising budget would be phenomenal.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cAre you saying both deals go hand-in-hand?\u201d I asked, frowning.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cNot at all. But a merger would help in regard to back-up. It\u2019s all very well having wonderfully innovative ideas, but if we can\u2019t service the account fully, then what\u2019s the point? The bank will be all too aware of our limitations as much as I know they\u2019ll like our ideas.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI turned to Oliver. \u201cWhat do you think?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe grinned, and his foot was still tapping. \u201cI say let\u2019s take it to the max. Let\u2019s burn the blacktop, go for both.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe spoke in precise, clipped tones, an \u201celitist\u201d accent he\u2019d never even tried to modify for street-cred purposes; estuary-speak had become the norm in our game, but he was having none of it. I liked him for that, even though he had an irritating penchant for jargoneze. He never tried to hide his wealthy, upper-class background and, with his shortish brown-almost-auburn hair, loose strands of which hung over his forehead, and military-straight back, intelligent brown eyes, home-counties accent, he would never have succeeded in doing so anyway. Even though his clothes were casual, they had a sharp neatness to them, a kind of preciseness that matched his clipped voice.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cI think we\u2019ve a good chance of winning the account,\u201d he went on, \u201cparticularly if they\u2019re tired of the old staid bank advertising they\u2019ve become used to and are looking for something fresher and more original.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cAnd the takeover?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cMerger,\u201d Sydney persisted.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOliver shrugged. \u201cWhatever. It might be an extremely beneficial move.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYou\u2019d give up everything we\u2019ve worked for?\u201d I was beginning to simmer.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cIt wouldn\u2019t necessarily mean that, chum. Try seeing it from the north.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI hated it when he called me chum, especially when it was coupled with the jargon.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cSydney and I already more or less agreed it would be a smart way for us to expand.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAh, so Sydney and Oliver had already discussed the matter without me.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cBeside which,\u201d Oliver put in, resting his elbows on the cushioned arms of his leather swivel chair and making a steeple under his chin with his fingers, \u201cwe three would each receive quite a large sum for the company.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cThat sounds like a buyout to me,\u201d I said.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cNot at all. Financial remuneration for the partners would be merely part of the deal\u2026\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThere was a light tap on the door and it opened a little. Lynda, our receptionist\/switchboard girl, poked her head through the gap. She looked directly at me.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cPhone call for you, Jim. Your wife.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cDid you tell her I was in a meeting?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cShe said you\u2019re always in a meeting.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI couldn\u2019t argue with that: over the last couple of years, my whole life seemed to revolve around meetings, which was frustrating for someone who wanted to work only on the drawing board. I knew Oliver felt the same as far as copywriting was concerned, but somehow he was better than me on such occasions, especially where clients were concerned. Ollie was also terrific at presentations and his social skills were excellent, whereas I tended to be too stiff and was hopeless at cosying up to the clients, particularly those I didn\u2019t like.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cAh, tell her I\u2019ll ring back in a couple of minutes, will you?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nLynda smiled and retreated, quietly drawing the door closed after her.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOllie was looking at his wristwatch. \u201cLook, Jim, I\u2019ve got something on tonight so I have to get away,\u201d he said, his foot stopping its tattoo on the carpet.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI breathed a loud sigh. \u201cOkay with me,\u201d I said. \u201cBut I still think we should take things one step at a time.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYou think we should pitch though?\u201d Sydney leaned forward over his desk again.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYou two would outvote me anyway, wouldn\u2019t you?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cOh no, Jim,\u201d said Oliver, standing up and brushing an imaginary crease from the knee of his trousers. \u201cAlso, I want to think on bedding down with Blake & Turnbrow myself. Let\u2019s touch base again tomorrow morning when we\u2019re fresher. I have to admit, though, right now I\u2019m inclined to push the envelope. We could all benefit from a paradigm shift.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI assumed Sydney understood the lingo; I did, just about.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cIf we\u2019re going for the new account we have to start work right away.\u201d Despite the warning, there was no impatience in Sydney\u2019s manner, nor in his grey eyes. There was only his usual impassiveness.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cWe wouldn\u2019t start on it tonight anyway,\u201d said Oliver to Sydney. \u201cLet\u2019s sleep on it, okay?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nSydney nodded and I got to my feet, still wondering if I\u2019d been left out of the loop somewhere along the way. Ollie hadn\u2019t seemed very surprised by either of the two propositions, nor by the possible linking between them. I followed my copywriter out of Sydney\u2019s office back to the one we shared as the agency\u2019s creative directors, Oliver switching on the light as we entered.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nMoving behind my desk and picking up a long steel cutting rule that rested there, slapping the flat side against my open palm, a habit of mine when I was tense, I began to say, \u201cWe oughta talk\u2026\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cRing Andrea first, Jim,\u201d he interrupted. \u201cIt might be something urgent.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nReluctantly, I placed the heavy rule back on the desk and picked up my phone, pressing 9 for an outside line. We needed to discuss things, Ollie and I. I dialled my home number.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cHello, please?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt was Prim\u2019s breathy little voice.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cHey, squirt, it\u2019s Daddy.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cDaddy! Are you coming home now?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI smiled as I thought of her standing in the sitting room, phone clutched in both hands, her curly hair kept away from her face with an Alice-band. Lush brown hair like her mother\u2019s, a few shades lighter though, with a reddish hue when the sun lightened it; tawny brown eyes full of innocence and fun.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cSoon, Prim,\u201d I told her.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYou got to, Daddy. You\u2019re looking after me tonight. Don\u2019t you \u2018member?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nUh-oh. Sure I remembered. Andrea was meeting two of her girlfriends this evening for a quietish girlie night out and I was the appointed childminder.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cDid you think I\u2019d forgotten? Anything special you want to do?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cLots and lots. And cards.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nSeven years old and I\u2019d already taught her how to gamble. Taught her to cheat a little too.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cNo DVDs you want to watch?\u201d I needed some thinking time tonight.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cJust games, please.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI laughed. \u201cOkay.\u201d Plenty of time to think once I\u2019d put her to bed. \u201cNow run and get Mummy for me, will you?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cLove you!\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nShe was gone and I pictured her running to the kitchen\u2014she was of an age when kids are always in a hurry, rushing from one interest to the next. A snapshot view of her came to mind, a holiday photo, the sun directly behind her so that the curls around her face were orangey red, a halo of fire, her features softened even more because they were in light shadow, her brown eyes deepened so that they were like Andrea\u2019s. I wanted to eat her.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cJim?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAndrea\u2019s voice, low-pitched, even now seductive to me.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cHi. You rang me,\u201d I told her.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYou haven\u2019t forgotten I\u2019m out tonight.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cNo, I\u2019ll be home in plenty of time.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cNo last-minute meetings. You know what you\u2019re like.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIn truth, I did want to discuss Sydney\u2019s proposal some more with him and Oliver, but maybe a breather would be useful at this point: I was getting just a bit rankled with this talk of a merger\u2014it still sounded like a sell-out to me\u2014and needed time to think on it to calm myself.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cI\u2019ll be home within the hour,\u201d I assured Andrea. \u201cWhere are you meeting the girls?\u201d The dinner with two girlfriends of old was a bi-monthly get-together to yak and catch up on the latest gossip.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cSan Lorenzo\u2019s.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI was impressed. \u201cHope you\u2019re not paying.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cWe always go Dutch. You don\u2019t mind, do you?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOf course I didn\u2019t; we both needed own-time every so often. \u201cNo, you have a good dinner, order the best on the menu.\u201d She deserved it; I was always ringing home at the last moment to tell her I was going to be stuck in yet another meeting, or that I\u2019d be working till late. \u201cTell you what, I\u2019ll cover the whole bill. You can treat your friends.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cNo, Jim, that\u2019s not necessary. I don\u2019t want to start a precedent.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cUp to you, but really, I don\u2019t mind.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cThanks anyway. Prim\u2019s already eaten, but can you fix something for yourself. There\u2019s plenty of easy stuff in the fridge.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cNo prob. I\u2019ll see you soon. Oh, and Andrea\u2026?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYes.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cI need to talk to you later.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI caught the faint rush of anxiety in her voice. \u201cIs something wrong?\u201d she asked.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cNo, no. Just things going on here that I\u2019d like your opinion on. Nothing that can\u2019t wait till later.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cOkay, Jim. I\u2019ll see you soon, then?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cAlmost on my way. Bye for now.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI replaced the receiver and sat at my desk for a while. Oliver had left the office during my telephone conversation and I was alone. People leaving for home were passing by the open door, some of them calling in a brief \u201cG\u2019night\u201d on their way. Preoccupied, I waved a casual hand.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nSomething was making me uneasy and at the time I thought it was due to both the suggested merger and the pitch for the new account (which I didn\u2019t think the agency was quite ready for).<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOnly much, much later did I realize I was intuitively troubled over something that had nothing to do with business.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nBut then, I\u2019d understand a lot of things once I was dead.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n11<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe hotel was one we\u2019d used before for brainstorming sessions. Rooms and service were top-grade and we\u2019d hired a suite with two bedrooms, one for me, the second one, across the large lounge, for Oliver.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThis was a week or so after my meeting with Oliver and Sydney in which we\u2019d discussed the possibility of \u201cmerging\u201d with a bigger advertising agency and whether or not to pitch for the British Allied Bank account. I\u2019d reluctantly agreed to the latter, but the idea of amalgamating with Blake & Turnbrow\u2014a sell-out as far as I was concerned\u2014was still in abeyance. My partners knew my view, which was in the negative, but I guess they thought I\u2019d come round eventually. They were wrong: I wouldn\u2019t. I\u2019d worked too bloody hard\u2014we all had\u2014building our own creative shop to let it be gobbled up by a rival agency, no matter how global and how many blue chip accounts it carried. I suppose ego came into it somewhere\u2014I didn\u2019t want to lose control of our company, which inevitably would happen despite Sydney\u2019s assurances that it wouldn\u2019t be the case.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe point of booking into the hotel for the weekend was to keep us away from telephones\u2014unless we wanted to ring out\u2014and all the other nuisance stuff of running a company. Also, and I\u2019m not quite sure why this is true, getting away from our normal surroundings somehow led to fresher ideas; strange how a different environment can promote new concepts. As well as that, everything was on tap for us, room service ruled. We only had this one weekend to come up with a brand new press poster, and television campaign for the British Allied Bank, an advertising campaign with a budget of several million pounds.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe team was just Oliver and me, and I must admit that, despite my reservation about the account possibly being too big for us to handle, I had become more and more excited as the preceding week had worn on. It\u2019s called the Buzz, and there\u2019s nothing quite like it.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOn this Saturday night, the second night of the weekend\u2014we\u2019d be working all day Sunday as well\u2014the hotel room\u2019s thick-carpeted floor was covered with sheets of thin layout paper, rough-scamp ideas on every leaf. And there were some good thoughts on those sheets, pithy copy lines with strong visuals, and I was pretty pleased with most of them.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nBut there was a problem. I wanted to go with the idea of humanizing the bank by simply informing the public that human beings were running the individual accounts, not computerized automatons, and all had names, families and other interests, but were experts in their particular fields of finance, always with the customer\u2019s interest at heart. Oliver, however, wanted to try a much more grandiose approach, showing how grand and mighty the corporation was, how its network spread throughout the world, and how it employed superior specialists in all matters of finance. I saw the latter as far too anonymous for the ordinary people who would use the bank\u2019s services; and Oliver saw my concept as too limited, even though I explained that the advertising would be good for bank staff as well as prospective customers, putting staff on a plateau, letting them know they were appreciated by their employers while still trying to hook new customers. We even argued over the media, because I wanted newspaper ads along with television whereas Ollie wanted to use glossy colour supplements, forty-eight-sheet posters and enormously expensive sixty-second commercials.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe answer, of course, was to split the budget on different campaigns, using the bank\u2019s size and grandeur as an umbrella under which all aspects were covered, but neither of us saw that at the time. I think by that second night we were both too wired for compromise\u2014literally, in Oliver\u2019s case, as I was soon to find out.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWhat was missing was a mediator, a cool voice of reason that would argue both cases, then come up with a compromise solution suitable to both parties. That was the role Sydney usually played, but although he\u2019d looked in on us earlier that day he\u2019d long gone by now. If he could, he had told us, he would call in later when we\u2019d both had the chance to cool off a bit.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nBut now it was almost 11 p.m. and I didn\u2019t think he would return at this time of night. Probably wanted to catch us when we were refreshed the following day, Sunday.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI stared at the layouts scattered around me on wall-to-wall carpet and, whether it was sheer weariness or I\u2019d been half-convinced by Oliver\u2019s persuasive reasoning, I was about to give in. Too much time and energy was being wasted on useless yatter and not enough on getting the job done. I\u2019d work up Ollie\u2019s idea with visuals, then together we\u2019d see how it would run as a TV commercial. Maybe we could show how huge the bank\u2019s network was by showcasing real individuals\u2026 Anyway, that\u2019s the way my thoughts were heading and I could just see the glimmer of a satisfactory solution up ahead and not too far away.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI heard the toilet flush and soon after the bathroom door opened, Oliver sweeping through. His shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows, his silk tie at half-mast, shirt collar unbuttoned.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cRight, let\u2019s just harmonize on this fucking thing,\u201d he said without looking at me. His voice was angry and, when he took the chair at the suite\u2019s desk bureau, the toe of his shoe began its familiar drumbeat on the carpet.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cChill out, Ollie,\u201d I said, not rising to the bait. \u201cI think\u2014\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cChill\u2026?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt was snapped out and I stiffened, taken aback.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cWe\u2019ve got until Monday morning to come up with the goods,\u201d he went on. \u201cPresentation\u2019s at the end of the week, and you\u2019re telling me to chill out! What is it with you? Doesn\u2019t anything ever puncture your cool?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cHey. C\u2019mon,\u201d I began to protest.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cFinished layouts, full-colour posters, storyboards\u2014Jim, we\u2019ve got to get our shit together on this, we\u2019ve got to ink the paper! But no, as usual, you\u2019ve got to have your own way. Your idea has to be the one we go with.\u201d The your came as a sneer.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI was, well, I was astonished. Oliver and I had had our spats over the years, always about work, but on balance it was generally his ideas that went through. The split was about sixty-forty in his favour.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cThis is stupid\u2026\u201d I said, beginning to lose some of that cool just a little bit.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cDon\u2019t call me stupid!\u201d he came back. \u201cYou\u2019re the one who\u2019s stupid.\u201d His eyes were wide; he was staring at me in a way that was somehow familiar. His knee jerked as the heel of his toe-cap continued to punish the carpet.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cOllie, I\u2019m not calling you anything. Look, let\u2019s just ease up, give ourselves a break. Maybe carry on early tomorrow morning after a good night\u2019s sleep.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cFuck you,\u201d he said, reaching behind him for his cigarettes on the bureau top.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAs he looked away I suddenly remembered why that wildness in his eyes had seemed familiar. Without another word, I rose and strode towards the shared bathroom.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nCigarette halfway to his lips, he noticed I\u2019d left my chair. \u201cWhere the fuck are you going?\u201d I heard him say.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIgnoring him I went into the bathroom and did not bother to close the door behind me. A black-marble shelf containing two basins ran beneath the full length of the long wall mirror and I squatted so that its surface was at eye level. I moved over to the second basin, studying the smooth, flecked marble beside it and saw exactly what I feared might be present: a small amount of scattered granules of fine powder and smears where Oliver had gathered up some of the residue with a damp finger to wipe into his gums.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nJust to make perfectly sure, I licked the tip of my own finger and dabbed it on the hard marble surface, then tasted it. Although rarely one for any kind of drugs, I had tasted cocaine before, and this was the real McCoy. Oliver was doing blow again.*<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n*Sydney had taught me how to spot this years ago when we first suspected Oliver was a user. Unlike the cokeheads and their habits you might see in Hollywood movies, addicts who bend over glass tables or flat mirrors to snort cocaine, one finger closing a nostril while the other provides passage to the nose\u2019s inner membranes, leaving a slight residue of fine powder like dandruff on a dark suit, coke is never wasted this way. It\u2019s too expensive to leave even the smallest spillage. No, true addicts will always tongue-damp a finger so that it picks up whatever\u2019s left. They will either lick their finger again as though it was some kind of narcotic lollipop, or will rub the substance into the gums. Where drugs are concerned there is no wastage. Doesn\u2019t happen.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI stormed from the bathroom to confront my friend.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYou silly bastard!\u201d I told him.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHis turn to freeze for a moment. The flame from his lighter hovered a couple of inches away from the cigarette, then was extinguished without completing the job. He glared back at me, but said nothing.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYou told us you were finished with drugs. Didn\u2019t you learn your lesson last time?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cAll right, all right, okay, okay. So what if I am back off the wagon? Where\u2019s the harm?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cIt nearly broke the partnership before!\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYou remember what Sinatra said: A nip every now and again pulls you through the day.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cI saw the movie; he was talking about booze, for fuck\u2019s sake.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cSame thing, chum.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cThe hell it is.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cSame thing and no hangover.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cIt\u2019ll ruin you.\u201d I shook my head in dismay.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cSo will constant work overload. Besides it sharpens me up.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cSometimes,\u201d I told him, \u201cit makes you think the crappiest idea is awesome.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cHey, I give you good copy.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cNo, Oliver, you don\u2019t. Trouble is, you don\u2019t know it when you\u2019re high. Don\u2019t you remember how strung out you were before?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYou\u2019re exaggerating, chum. I can handle it.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cDon\u2019t fucking call me chum.\u201d Maybe it was the \u201cchum\u201d usage that made me a little bit cruel. \u201cYou lost Andrea, remember that?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI didn\u2019t like the dark grin he gave me. Nevertheless, I softened my tone.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYou promised you\u2019d quit, Oliver. You\u2019re letting us all down, but mostly yourself.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cAh, fuck it!\u201d An ugly snarl accompanied the curse. \u201cIt\u2019s my problem, not yours.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cNo, it\u2019s our problem. We\u2019re the ones who have to deal with it.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAnger spoiling his good looks, he jumped to his feet, shoving the lighter back into his pocket and tossing the unlit cigarette onto the carpet.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYou know what you can do with the agency.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cHey, c\u2019mon.\u201d Even though I was more than a little annoyed I raised both hands placatingly. \u201cYou don\u2019t mean that. See, this is what happens when you\u2019re doing coke. It makes you bloody schizophrenic.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cAt least I\u2019m not the one that\u2019s holding the agency back. You were frightened to pitch for this account until Sydney and I persuaded you. Even worse, you\u2019re scared of tying in with a bigger agency so that we can expand.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI felt the skin of my face tighten. \u201cLet\u2019s leave it there, okay? I don\u2019t want to get into this right now.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cNo, Jim, \u2018course you don\u2019t. Let\u2019s face it, chum, you don\u2019t like change, you never have.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI could have pointed out that we\u2019d built the agency together, account by account, and I was equally a prime mover in everything we had achieved; but it wasn\u2019t worth it\u2014it was no good talking common sense to him when he was in one of these stupid moods. He had been hitting the bottle all evening, first emptying the miniature whiskies from the mini-bar, then ordering a bottle of Black Label from room service, while slipping into the bathroom every so often for cocaine hits. And I\u2019d thought he had a bladder problem.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cWe\u2019re both tired,\u201d I said evenly, grimly aware that there was no point in trying to reason with him. Alcohol and coke were a bad combination. \u201cLet\u2019s call it a day, carry on tomorrow morning when I\u2019m fresher and you\u2019re straight.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cWhy? You think that\u2019s going to change anything? You\u2019ll still be holding me back, as ever.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYou don\u2019t know what you\u2019re saying, Oliver.\u201d I refused to rise to the bait, suspecting the bitterness of his words had more to do with whisky than powder. \u201cEnough for tonight, okay? We\u2019ll start again in the morning.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYou won\u2019t change your mind though, will you? You still won\u2019t agree to a merger.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cThis isn\u2019t the time to discuss it!\u201d I shouted back at him. I wanted to give him a smack, wipe the supercilious smirk from his face. Instead, I said through suppressed anger, \u201cI\u2019m turning in and I think you should do the same.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cWhat?\u201d he raised his arm and peered at his wristwatch. \u201cGoing to bed at half-past eleven. Well I\u2019ve got better things to do.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe grabbed his jacket hanging over the back of a chair and tramped across the sheets of layout paper towards the door, crumpling them, leaving scuff marks over my Pentel visuals.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cOliver, don\u2019t,\u201d I called after him. \u201cThis is bloody silly.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cFuck you,\u201d he said as he pulled open the door to the long hallway beyond and turned to give me a contemptuous look. Never before had he regarded me with that kind of expression and I was shocked. He looked as if he could kill me.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThen he was gone, slamming the door behind him, and that was the last time I saw Oliver while I was alive.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n12<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nMaybe it was the vodka, then the brandy, then the gin I\u2019d consumed from the mini-bar that made my OBE so confusing; I\u2019d downed them all in rapid succession after Oliver had left the suite.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nNow on my own, surrounded by trampled layouts, I\u2019d grown more and more angry. Trust Ollie to walk out on me when there was so much work to be done by Monday. And trust the fool to go back on his word that he\u2019d keep off drugs for good. Now our partnership was in jeopardy all over again. I needed a copywriter who could judge what was good and what was awful. I needed a business partner who could think clearly when important decisions had to be made. I thought Ollie had learned his lesson from last time around.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt was past midnight when I went through to the room next door and threw myself onto the bed, an almost empty miniature of gin clutched in one hand. I supported myself on an elbow and drank the last dregs (shit, I hated gin) and let the tiny bottle drop to the floor as I flopped onto my back. Oliver, Oliver, why did you have to do it? Why now at this crucial time? The bank was probably one of the most significant accounts we\u2019d ever take on and, once we became committed, we couldn\u2019t be seen to blow it. Okay, it might not seriously knock us back in the industry, but it could damage our reputation as a winning hot shop a little. As for the so-called \u201cmerger\u201d with Blake & Turnbrow, we needed to talk about it coolly and rationally without internecine disputes even before negotiations had begun.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nMan, I was tired. Sick and tired, I guess. I\u2019d never liked arguments and this one was a dinger. Ollie and I used to be tight, but now the relationship appeared to be over. For good? Who could say?<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nClosing my eyes I felt the room shift around me; by no means a seismic shift, but a smooth displacement that had more to do with exhaustion than the alcohol I\u2019d consumed. I opened my eyes again and stared at the ceiling. Orange light came through the windows from the street below, this occasionally brightened by a whiter light, traffic approaching from a side street opposite, so that shadows moved around the darkened room like playful ghosts, growing then waning as headlights outside moved on.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI wasn\u2019t drunk\u2014I\u2019m sure I wasn\u2019t drunk\u2014but anxiety, mental weariness and booze were never a good mix. For a moment I was disorientated, but the room soon settled itself again. The hum of late-night traffic that filtered through the windows\u2019 double glazing was almost soothing. We would get through this, I told myself, and things eventually would go back to the way they were. Compromise was all that was needed here, and Sydney was good at smoothing over difficulties and offering solutions to disputes. I\u2019d give him a call in the morning, get him over here, let him sort things out. Sydney had always been the perfect middleman, the soother of awkward situations. Hopefully, he would back down once he saw how anti-\u201cmerger\u201d I really was and, in turn, he would help dissuade Oliver from such a drastic course.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nMy eyes closed again and this time they remained closed. Within seconds I was gone.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt was as easy and as quick as that. One moment I was drowsy, sinking into sleep, the next I was out of body, hovering near the ceiling, gazing down at myself.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nSometimes\u2014in fact, most times\u2014I had to work at it, consciously putting myself into a state of relaxation, imagining myself outside of my own physical form, seeing myself lying below in my imagination only, until the image became sharper, clearer, and suddenly I would actually be there, some other place, watching myself, no longer confined to the shell of my physical body. Usually, a great sense of freedom accompanied egression, a feeling of limitless space around my spirit form, a knowledge that I could fly to any destination I chose without constraint; but tonight I was confused, my mind not as liberated as my spirit. It was as if a thick yet invisible harness held me to my body, the bondage of reality perhaps. It could have been that my body, the part of me that was permanently chained to the physical world, sensed more than my spiritual self did and so was reluctant to release me, somehow afraid of the parting.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThis state did not last long though, because a moment or two later my body dwindled below me as I zoomed away, through the ceiling, then the ceiling of the room above, swifter and swifter until I was out into the night sky.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt\u2019s difficult to describe the feeling accurately, because it involves so much that is unknowable to most people. To begin with there is an incredible sense of wellbeing, for there are no physical torments such as pain, weariness, hunger or hangover anymore and, although there is some initial apprehension, this quickly vanishes with familiarity and you begin to enjoy the sensation. Most of the time you\u2019re not in control of your destination but sometimes, if your mind is clear and compliant enough, you can direct yourself, you can choose a place and suddenly you will zoom off to it. Same thing if you envisage a particular person. It\u2019s a bit like those rare times when you realize you are dreaming and so for a while can direct your own actions in the dream. Usually this interesting state doesn\u2019t last long, because a little consciousness soon encourages full consciousness, and you find yourself awake again, annoyed you hadn\u2019t made more of the experience.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOn this night though, I was unable to govern my journey and found myself inside a kind of kaleidoscope of images, none of which appeared relevant to me. I seemed to travel back in time, because I saw myself as a little boy, skateboarding down a hill, picking up speed, shouting with both glee and fear as I increased speed, and then I watched myself sailing through the air, because the skateboard had hit some obstruction in its path (I wasn\u2019t sure, but I thought it was my mother\u2019s handbag lying in the roadway, and that was ridiculous, because why should her handbag be lying there?) and the board I had been standing on clattered over and over on the hard concrete while I glided smoothly through the air, screaming because I knew I was going to hit solid ground before too long. But instead of smashing into concrete, I found myself lying on cheap lino flooring, gazing up at a ring of faces that stared down at me, one of which was my mother\u2019s, embarrassment as well as anxiety written across her plump features, and I remembered I\u2019d just swallowed a steaming hot potato, a potato whose fire singed the inside walls of my chest, and then I was in another place, in a room filled with oldish-looking furniture, and I was watching a little boy, an even younger me, playing with a plastic Skywalker and Darth Vader on a rug in front of an electric fire, only two of its bars working, and I was desperately trying to ignore a row that was going on between a man and a woman who shared the room with me, and I could see that the woman was my mother, only she was much younger than she was today and she was almost pretty, despite the roundness of her face, and she was shouting at the man who, for some reason, had no face, his image masked beneath one of those pixel cover-ups, you know, little squares of different hues technically superimposed on screens so that the person being filmed cannot be identified, and he was silent as my mother screeched into his face, only occasionally uttering some kind of weak protest, and the more I stared at him the more the pixels disintegrated, square by square, while he was turning to me and saying \u2018Jimmy\u2019, until\u2014<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u2014until I was off again, flying over rooftops, winging through darkness, skimming through shadowed canyons, until, until\u2026<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u2026 until I found myself descending worn stone steps that led down from the street, then passing through a battered, paint-chipped door. I was inside a dingy, dank room, its only light source an angle-poise lamp on a table covered with newspaper clippings, the dusty naked lightbulb hanging from the ceiling switched off.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nA figure was seated there, back to me, long-bladed scissors in one hand, snipping away at a newspaper. The cuttings already taken from other newspapers were set out neatly, without one piece overlapping another, the lines in between precise in their parallels. (I could tell it was a man by the size of his hands and the heavy set of his hunched shoulders.) I was puzzled by the sounds he made, a kind of wet snuffling. Every so often he would reach for a soiled, wrinkled rag lying on the desk and bring it to his face as if to wipe away mucus. Perhaps he had a heavy cold.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI was suddenly very afraid.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWhy I had been drawn to this place I couldn\u2019t tell, yet somehow I knew there had to be a reason. Certainly, I didn\u2019t want to be here in this sombre room. Through an open doorway I could just make out a narrow cot bed against a wall, its sheets rumpled, unmade. In there the window\u2019s grubby curtains were closed tight, as if to discourage snoopers, even though the flat itself was below street level. Well-thumbed magazines lay untidily on an old sofa, barely leaving a place to sit. There was no cheer here, no welcome; the place seemed filled with threat.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nSnip-snip-snip.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe metallic cutting sound was eerily loud in the room\u2019s stillness and, if I\u2019d had a heartbeat, I\u2019m sure I would have heard that too.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI drew nearer, but not willingly. It was a compulsion, an undeniable curiosity, that drove me.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nEven though I was of no physical substance, I was afraid as I peered over the man\u2019s shoulder to read the large print of newspaper headlines.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nPOLICE ADMIT SERIAL KILLER AT LARGE.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nMURDER VICTIM MUTILATED.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWHY THESE VICTIMS? POLICE BAFFLED.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHUNT FOR MUTILATOR CONTINUES.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI straightened in shock. These murders had been happening for the past six weeks and the newspapers were full of lurid stories; even the broadsheets seemed to have lost their sense of decorum in their gory descriptions of the crimes. According to these stories all the victims were chosen at random, there was no connection between them. Also, the killings appeared to be motiveless, the unfortunate victims had no known enemies and apparently were not involved in any kind of criminal activity. In fact, the only similarity between the victims was that all three were professional people: the first had been a lawyer, the second an insurance broker, and the third, a woman this time, was a radiologist in the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI was no more than a few inches away from the man\u2019s head as he snipped away at a copy of the Daily Telegraph and I became even more disturbed by his odd breathing. It was somehow coarse, guttural, as if his throat were clogged, and I was repulsed by the sound.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI backed away a step and stared at the back of his bowed head. His scrappy hair was badly cut, bald patches visible even in the poor light from the low lamp that threw his back into dark shadow; what hair there was looked lank and dirty and I was sure that if I had a sense of smell in my altered state, the man himself would be rank, unwashed.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI realized what else made me feel so uneasy about this person: the perception had never before been this clear as far as others were concerned, but now I could just make out this man\u2019s aura, the glow that emanates from every living thing. Some claim it\u2019s a person\u2019s soul shining from within, while others, more pragmatic, say it\u2019s merely the normal radiation emitted from any material form. Nowadays, I tend to go for the former.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt was nasty, this aura around him, thick with muddy greys and blacks, their range short, shallow, extending only here and there beyond half-an-inch, and it seemed to me that the phenomenon exuded something foul, something rotten. I backed further away and that was when the man stiffened, the scissors stopping mid-snip. His head lifted and I became still, almost afraid to breathe (not that I needed to breathe at all).<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt was as if he had sensed my presence.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nYet I\u2019d made no noise\u2014I couldn\u2019t, not in this form.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe seemed to have felt my gaze on the back of his neck.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nBut, of course, I wasn\u2019t there in person, there could be no presence to feel.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe lifted the scissors and clicked the blade shut. He changed his grip and held them like a knife.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThen he slowly began to turn my way.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI retreated even further, hoping to become lost in the shadows. Ridiculous, I know, because I was invisible. In all my out-of-body excursions nobody had ever been able to observe me in this immaterial state.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nYet he was turning towards me with purpose and I felt terribly exposed.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAnd then his black bulbous eyes were looking into mine.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI screamed. I fled.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n13<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt was horrible, ugly, and suddenly the world was spinning around me.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI don\u2019t know if it was the shock, or my natural abhorrence that took over and whisked me away from harm, but I left the room fast. I didn\u2019t run away, of course, I merely zoomed off as if yanked by a hook, images and sounds whirling around me. I was out of the darkened room, heading skywards, and then I knew nothing more for a while. It was as if my spiritual form had passed out.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI \u201cawoke\u201d, if that could be the word, in the living room of my own house. There were no lights on, but I could see my location by the street light flooding through the window. I\u2019ve since reasoned that it was instinct that brought me there, that I\u2019d fled to where I felt safest\u2014doesn\u2019t everyone feel safest in the sanctity of their own home? What I didn\u2019t realize though, not until I inadvertently glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, was that a few hours had passed since I\u2019d entered the OBE.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI remembered the horribly dingy basement room and the man inside snipping away at the newspapers, and I remembered him slowly turning round as if he\u2019d become aware of me. I remembered\u2026 I remembered\u2026 no, I couldn\u2019t remember the face that had looked directly at me. Somehow the image had been frightened from my mind. I tried to recall what had scared me so, but I couldn\u2019t, I just could not bring it into focus. But I knew I\u2019d witnessed something awful, something that my brain had no wish to recollect. Perhaps later\u2026<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt was good to be home, oh, it was so good. Familiar furniture, framed pictures, comfortable sofa and armchair, thick wall-to-wall carpet\u2014home, sweet home. A natural response had brought me here, of that I had no doubt: I guess self-preservation has a homing instinct all its own. But where had I been dining the intervening hours? It took me some time to work this out, but eventually I realized that my mind\u2014and hence my \u201cspirit\u201d\u2014had just closed down. Panic had set it to flight, and when I was safely away from that\u2026 that\u2026 thing in the dark room, my mind had sought sanctuary in oblivion. Why I had not simply returned to my body, I had no idea, but now the impulse to do so was immense.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAs a rule, just the thought was enough to send me gliding back, a journey never more than a second or two no matter how far I had journeyed. But this time I resisted the impulse. Maybe it was the recent threat of danger that had me seeking the assurance of everything familiar and ordinary\u2014what could be more commonplace than your own house? Or maybe I just had to touch base with reality for a while\u2014again, what\u2019s more real than your own place? Before I went back to my body, I had to reassure myself that my loved ones were safe and secure for the night.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nJust that thought sent me gliding into the hall and up the stairs to the bedrooms. Now you have a choice when out of body, in that you can move exactly as you would in real life\u2014one step at a time, that sort of thing\u2014or you can kind of sail or glide everywhere. I usually chose to do both, sometimes taking steps, other times pushing myself along as in those dreams I spoke of earlier. On this fretful occasion I glided up the stairs, using my hands to propel myself upwards as though I were beneath the ocean, almost weightless, exploring some undersea wreck. Normally, it was a wonderful feeling, but this night I was too agitated to enjoy the experience.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nUp I went, for some reason terribly afraid for my family. It made no sense at all\u2014the man had only felt my presence, hadn\u2019t actually seen me. And so what? What could the man do? He didn\u2019t know me, could have no idea of where I lived. But still the anxiety sent me gliding purposely up the stairs. I had understood that the man I\u2019d witnessed collecting clippings from various newspapers was wicked, because it was evil that seemed to ooze from his very pores, manifesting itself in the ugly monochromed aura. Yes, he seemed to sweat badness and I\u2019d sensed that even if I could not physically smell it.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWhy should he have been cutting out those particular news stories of a serial killer? My absent heart turned cold, a peculiar experience, I must admit. Foolish too, because there was no way I could be traced back here to my home. Even if the man had actually seen me, even if he had some psychic sense that made it possible, he would not know me from Adam, and therefore could not know my home address. Yet his threat seemed very real.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI paused at the top of the stairs, unsettled, now definitely afraid for my wife and daughter. What if this person had the ability to follow me? What if he was capable of OBEs? No, not possible. Certainly I, myself, had caught glimpses of spirit people, a kind of faded print of moving images, but nothing I could connect with. If I approached, they merely melted away. They were sometimes picked up only in the periphery of my vision, to evaporate when looked at directly.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI got a grip of myself and went on.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nPrimrose\u2019s bedroom door, as always, was open wide so that we could hear her if she had a bad dream and called out during the night, and I sped through. I hovered over her and regarded her lovely little face, her lips slightly parted, the soft drone of baby-snores assuring me she was safe and well. Her arms were thrown back, small clenched fists resting on the pillow, and her brown curls framed her sweet face. Leaning down I planted a gentle kiss on her cheek and she wrinkled her nose and turned her head aside as though something had tickled her. Without thought I tried to tuck the bedcovers up around her neck, but of course, my hands merely went through the soft material. I lingered for a few moments and imagined I could actually hear the small thud-ups of her heartbeat; imagined or not, it was reassuring.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nBacking away cautiously as if I might make a sound and wake her, I tiptoed out (silly, I know) onto the landing. Again I paused, this time to listen for any extraneous sounds, anything foreign to the domestic peace, and only when satisfied there was nothing to be anxious about did I move along the landing to the bedroom I normally shared with Andrea.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe lamplight outside the window allowed me to see her lying on one side of our large double bed\u2014she once told me that, out of habit, she never invaded my side when I was away\u2014and she, too, looked peaceful. Her skin was pale in the cold glow from the street, and her features were beautiful and unlined. We\u2019d had our problems during the marriage, particularly over the past year\u2014I was the guilty party, work had eaten up so much of my time that Andrea was entitled to feel neglected\u2014but I\u2019d never stopped loving her and I hoped it was the same for her. I still found her exquisite and inwardly, and constantly, blessed her for giving me such a wonderful daughter. Her naked arm was above the bedclothes and I ran invisible fingers along the smooth white skin. I had watched her before like this, my own body lying empty beside her with my spirit form hovering over us both, wondering at the unique experience. You might think that it was spying, but truthfully, it doesn\u2019t feel like that. Maybe it\u2019s because you\u2019re existing in your purest form and bodily desires are not present. It doesn\u2019t mean you can\u2019t appreciate the beauty before you, but there is no lust involved, no sexual pruriency whatsoever (otherwise I guess most out-of-body practitioners would turn into voyeurs and sex surfers). I had once caressed Andrea\u2019s naked sleeping body on a hot summer\u2019s night when the bedsheets had been tossed aside, but because there was no physical contact involved, there was no arousal (and certainly not for my sleeping beauty). You can\u2019t have it all ways, I suppose.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI sat next to her on the bed (no, there\u2019s no strain in standing\u2014weariness only comes with the length of time you\u2019re in OBE\u2014but you tend to follow the normal life patterns), just watching her sleep, making up my mind to pay her and Prim more attention once this new client presentation was out of the way, resolving to take more time off in future, delegate more of the creative work to my up-and-coming art directors and copywriters, when suddenly I was jolted by some awful, sickening dread.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt seemed to hit me like a sledge-hammer, a sudden powerful shock that had me collapsed over the bed, where I stayed, stunned and gasping for unnecessary air. A memory\u2014a scene\u2014flashed through my mind: I seemed to be very small, for I was looking up, looking up at two figures. I recognized one. Mother, smiling down at me. She was different though and for a moment\u2014no, it must have been a nanosecond, because it was all happening so fast, so fast yet so ridiculously drawn out, as if I had conquered time itself\u2014I wondered why.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThen I realized it was because she was so much younger than the woman I now knew, than the image that I had held within my head, the present-day woman. As in the vision earlier that night, she was younger, her smile was sweeter, and she was pretty in a plumpish, round-faced way. Now she was making noises at me, but I heard no sound; somehow\u2014perhaps it was because of the O shape of her lips\u2014I knew she was making cooing sounds at me, baby sounds.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI turned to the figure standing next to her, a man who was also gazing down at me although I could not see his face, only his clothes, his long thin legs, a woollen jumper. I tried, I really tried, to see his face, because I knew he was important to me; all I saw was a blur this time, a soft pink-greyness as if the head had lost focus, but I knew it was the pixel-disguised person I\u2019d seen with Mother before.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe couple dissolved and I was still low to the ground, for once again I was looking upwards and figures were bending over me, a circle of curious heads, and I was choking, something was burning my throat something was stopping my breath. It was hot-potato time all over again. And there was Mother, older than a moment ago, her expression inexplicably overridden with embarrassment rather than concern.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nDissolve, very quick, fade-in scenes coming thick and fast. I was surrounded by other kids, in a schoolyard I could tell, for the buildings rose around us like brick canyon walls and a bell was ringing somewhere, calling us all to assembly, but I was otherwise engaged, me and another boy, a bit bigger than me but with a bloody nose and tears in his eyes as he rained punches at me. I knew I had given him the bloody nose and I was feeling good because of it, even though I also knew I was now going to take a hammering. I felt pain, nasty, powerful pain, but it didn\u2019t last long, for I was in another scene, the story of my life revealed in incidents rather than episodes, and I was watching a girl, a beautiful, dark-haired girl of about fifteen, and my whole body seemed wracked with emotion that I think was first-time love, and this did not last either, but the scenes\u2014the incidents\u2014were changing even more rapidly, becoming a kind of vortex of images, speedy but perfectly clear and, in their encapsulated way, perfectly presented with beginnings and ends. It was thrilling, but at the same time so bloody scary.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAnd I had to wonder why it was happening.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOn it went, more scenes\u2014sorry, incidents, episodes\u2014from the past came and went, and I saw them all as an observer, not a participant. Weird, unsettling, some events leaving me steeped in guilt, while others were totally joyous.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt occurred to me with some dismay that this must be like the death experience some people spoke of, the retelling of their life in all-embracing flashback. But there appeared to be no judgement, only a subliminal and non-specific weighing-up of good and bad deeds committed by me. And anyway, I wasn\u2019t dead, only out-of-body, so whatever was happening was merely some freakish phenomenon I\u2019d never experienced before.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThrough the years of practising the out-of-body state, I had read up on the subject and tried to learn as much as I could about the theory, the control, and other people\u2019s personal experiences, and had been surprised to learn that the spirit essence never quite leaves the body, that there is a kind of silver thread (some preach that it\u2019s golden) always connecting you to your physical form, that no matter how far you leave your body behind, this thread or cord stretches but never breaks the link. This, according to the theories, is why you can never lose your physical self, that nothing can destroy the connection. Well I\u2019d never observed this so-called silver or gold thread or cord, although I\u2019d always felt some kind of invisible bond. But now I felt it break.*<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n*There is no visible link, although without doubt there is a psychic link. While separated from the host body, the bond between soul and body is too strong and yet too delicate to be broken (think of some of those deep-sea creatures whose flesh is so fine it\u2019s transparent, yet they withstand constant unbelievably intense physical pressure without being crushed; or think of finely spun spiders\u2019 webs that can bear comparatively heavy loads without tearing. I\u2019d say the psychic link between body and itinerant spirit\u2014let\u2019s call this other self that for the moment\u2014is even stronger). This, of course, is not a fact, but something I\u2019ve rationalized as time has gone by and certainly\u2014and this is the important part\u2014I\u2019ve kind of sensed from the beginning; so much in that incorporeal state is sensing, which is considerably heightened in the out-of-body state. Maybe bodiless you\u2019re closer to life\u2019s mysteries. Or maybe it\u2019s some kind of compensation for the absence of one of your other senses: I mean touch, because there is no physical contact anymore, you just cannot feel anything at all material. And believe me, that\u2019s hard to get used to. Your fingers just merge into anything you touch, your body can move through anything solid like liquid through a fine sieve.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI could not see it, I could not feel the link, but somehow I sensed that it had snapped like a long, finely drawn rubber band and the result was that I had been propelled forward, my invisible head almost smacking my invisible knees. It was a terrible, fear-inducing jolt and I was suddenly cast free of myself, the metaphorical umbilical cord that held both parts of me together, body and soul, had been sundered.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI had an equally sudden vision of that man in the darkened room cutting the cord with his long-bladed scissors. Impossible, of course, but somehow I couldn\u2019t shake the image from my mind. I began to panic.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nCould you lose the connection with your own body? Could you be cast adrift? I had no idea\u2014I was a lone pioneer as far as OBEs were concerned; I certainly had no knowledge of others who practised it, although I\u2019d read the few books written by people who claimed they had mastered the technique of leaving their own bodies to become entirely spirit; but nothing they\u2019d said covered this eventuality. I was scared, terribly scared, and I wanted to get back to my body without delay.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nNormally, that very thought would have effortlessly sent me home to my body within moments; but this time I had to will myself deliberately to return. I flew from the house and along streets rapidly enough, but I had to negotiate the route, will myself along, whereas before there was no conscious effort, I just arrived back in my body without thought or direction. A couple of times now I even got lost, became confused, had to force myself to slow down and think of where I was and where I had to get to. Luckily, I knew the city well, so it was no great problem to return to the Knightsbridge hotel; the difficulty was having to think my way there.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAnd then I arrived, gliding upwards to the tenth floor, through the thick wall, into a lengthy corridor, sinking through the closed door to the suite I shared with Oliver, coming to a jerky halt in the lounge where all my layouts and Ollie\u2019s copy ideas littered the floor. I felt more fear as I glanced towards the open doorway to my bedroom, wary of going in, deeply anxious about what I might find.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI suppose some kind of homing instinct had brought me here, but now I felt nothing. No, I did feel something\u2014I felt adrift\u2026 dispossessed. I moved towards the open doorway.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI\u2019d left the two wall lights on above the bed when I\u2019d half-drunkenly collapsed onto the large double bed and I could see what remained of my body lying there on top of the covers. The blood was horrendous. I mean the amount of it. The human body holds, what? Eight and a half pints or thereabouts, and it looked like most of it had spilt out of me. You know how it is when you drop a bottle of milk? It seems to spread everywhere. In the bottle it doesn\u2019t look that much, but on the floor? It\u2019s like a dam just broke.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nMy blood soaked the quilt on which I lay and what wasn\u2019t absorbed ran over the edge of the bed to puddle the floor. There was even blood on the wall behind the headboard, great arcs of it, drooling streams, as well as dramatic splatters. It resembled art from a Jackson Pollock red period.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nMy eyes were slightly open in the scarlet mess that once had been my face and the pupils were like unpolished marble, frozen and lacklustre. I was dead, well and truly dead.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n14<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWhoever had murdered me had left me unrecognizable; if not for the hair and blood-soiled clothes I wouldn\u2019t have known myself. Wait, I got that wrong: it wasn\u2019t the hair or clothes\u2014I just knew the body was mine; although the link had been broken, I wanted to get back inside myself, pure instinct overriding logical thought. I wanted to put life back into my body no matter how mutilated it had become.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nUsually, intention did not come into it; I just arrived back, kind of slipping inside like a hand into a glove, a foot into a shoe. But now I had to force my spiritual self to step into the mess and gore that was my former self, into the clumps of sliced flesh.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nSquatting over my remains, I lowered my spiritual butt into my physical pelvis; then, after a moment\u2019s hesitation, lay back like a vampire into a coffin.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nUnfortunately, whereas at other times I\u2019d merely melded with myself, returning to flesh and bone an easy and smooth accommodation, I now seemed alien to my own substance. I fitted okay, but I did not adhere, did not become myself again.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI found myself lying loose inside an empty desecrated vessel. And every time I tried to move, I failed to stir my flesh; my spiritual self just parted company with its host. Frustrated and in deep despair, I began to moan.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI had no idea how long I stayed there, endlessly sitting, then lying down, trying to \u201cthink\u201d my way back into my body, because in the OBE time has no proper meaning, no value at all, unless you related to a living event played out before you, but I think my endeavours went on through the night and into the morning.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOne of the strange things among all these other strange things was that there was still a residue of thought left inside my battered brain; or maybe it came from my body as a whole, as if all that was experienced through life etched itself into the very meat and bone of our being, perhaps even ingraining memories into our tissue and sinews, the very texture of our bodies. Maybe the brain isn\u2019t the all of our thinking.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI caught glimpses of other moments in my life, never fast, yet not clear images as before, almost reflections of events and people, some from long ago, most more recent. The strongest were of Primrose and Andrea, but Oliver was also there amongst them, and so was Mother. But they were all too insubstantial and I was too distressed to pay them much attention.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI was panicking by now, desperate to fill myself and having no success at all. No matter how mutilated, I wanted my body back. I wanted to be me again. I began to pray and pray in earnest, even though I\u2019d never been religious during my lifetime\u2014my God, my lifetime: I\u2019d already given it time span\u2014but that didn\u2019t prevent the hypocrisy now; I prayed as if I\u2019d been a devout religionist all my days. Help me, Lord, I begged, beseeched\u2014whined\u2014and I made outrageous promises about my future actions should my existence so kindly be extended. Church would be my second home, good deeds my second nature. Just another chance, dear Lord, I\u2019m really not ready for this. And remember, dear God, I\u2019m a Catholic.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nYet I kept asking myself through the blathering, was I truly dead?<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI didn\u2019t feel dead. But what would I know? It was a first-time experience. Why couldn\u2019t I see the talked-about bright light at the end of the dark tunnel? Where were the deceased relatives and friends who were supposed to welcome me over to the other side? Where were the angels?<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAll I saw was the walls and furniture of a luxurious but impersonal bedroom in a hotel suite, a TV inside an open cupboard in one corner, a built-in wardrobe in another, long windows with fancy heavy drapes to the left. Neither heaven nor hell. Purgatory then? Could be, I supposed. I\u2019d learned about purgatory in my junior school, which had been run mainly by nuns (I\u2019d attended a Catholic school, even though my mother aspired to no particular religion, and learned that purgatory\u2014if the place existed, which I always very much doubted\u2014was an intermediate place where the soul sweated for purification of sin. But nobody had told me it might be a hotel room).<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nNo, that couldn\u2019t be it, because I wasn\u2019t really dead. If I were, I\u2019d know it, right? Anybody would know it. I mean, there\u2019d be no doubt, would there? Unless, of course, I was a ghost. A lost, confused ghost. Wasn\u2019t that what ghosts were meant to be, the lonely spirits of those who couldn\u2019t accept that their bodies had ceased to function and they were now adrift from it? Troubled souls who didn\u2019t realize they were outstaying their welcome in this world? Nah, not me. That was stupid. Death had never bothered me either as a concept or a reality: when your time came, that was it, no sense in complaining. Move on. Don\u2019t look back. Time was up. Yeah, easy to be pragmatic when it was just a notion for the future. We all know we\u2019re not immortal, so how come death rarely figures in our plans?<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThis was the kind of pointless argument I was having with myself as I tried desperately over and over again to win back the flesh and I guess it could have gone on endlessly had hot the telephone next to the bed rung.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI made a lunge for it, forgetting I had no substance, and my hand went straight through the plastic and interior workings so that I unbalanced (yep, you can still do that even without a body) and ended up on the blood-soaked carpet. I swore\u2014under my breath if I\u2019d had a breath\u2014and held up my arms in despair.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAlthough I had no sense of time, I knew it was still late night or early morning because it was dark outside save for the street lights. Besides, when I looked, the digital radio\/alarm clock on the bedside cabinet told me it was 1.55 a.m. So who could be ringing me at that hour? Oliver, phoning to apologize for his behaviour earlier? I doubted it. My copywriter\u2019s strops could last for days, sometimes weeks when he was really in a sulk. So who then?<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAndrea. Her and Prim\u2019s images leapt into my mind. Andrea would certainly ring if something was up at home. Or maybe she had expected me to ring her last night, as I always did when I was away. I invariably checked if things were okay with Prim and Andrea before dinner or around bedtime (my daughter\u2019s bedtime), but tonight\u2014last night, to be accurate\u2014I\u2019d been too engaged in hassles with Ollie to remember. There might not be a problem at home, I thought, calming myself to a degree, because my wife was aware that I\u2019d probably still be working late into the night, so she wouldn\u2019t be disturbing my sleep. I hoped that was the case as I studied the still-ringing phone.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt stopped abruptly, but I continued to stare. She\u2019d given up, but would be worried that I hadn\u2019t answered. What the hell could I do? I certainly couldn\u2019t phone her back. One more try at the body. You never know, it could just work this time.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI rose and knelt on the bed, gazing down at my mashed face and the sight made me feel sick to my non-existent stomach. I didn\u2019t avert my gaze though. Even if I could get back inside and take control, tap out my number on the phone despite blood-drenched and now misaligned real eyes, how could I speak to Andrea without a discernible mouth? I\u2019d only spit gore and loose teeth into the mouthpiece.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nShit in a bubble bath, what the fuck was I supposed to do? I roared my anguish, a sound no living person could ever hear, and I sobbed into my hands. What had happened to me? Why had it happened to me?<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nUnderstand that the thing which makes you a person is not the flesh and blood, but the mind\u2014not the brain\u2014that lives within the shell. It forms the personality, the philosophy, the instinct and perception, the very nature of the man or woman or child themselves and I\u2019ve learned over the years that this is what you take with you when you leave the body. It is you, and when you\u2019re in spirit or OBE you perform just as though you\u2019re in the physical. You close your eyes, you weep, you feel fear, you feel joy, you feel all emotions as usual; and you dress yourself as you would in life, your mind creates the phantom material; as mentioned before, you can experience desire, but because your mind is aware there can be no physical expression, it necessarily becomes unimportant. Your mind also reconciles other senses, so that you can hear, touch (but not actually feel\u2014it\u2019s all to do with perception), obviously see and you can speak, although no one else will hear you (in feet, all those senses are inexplicably heightened, because no longer are there physical defects or dulling limitations). I guess it\u2019s all to do with the mind convincing itself\u2014no, wait, it has to be stronger than that. Possibly it\u2019s because the mind is the reality, all other material things non-existent or irrelevant, unless accepted by the mind itself. I\u2019m no philosopher, never was, but it makes some kind of sense to me. Let\u2019s just say I existed in the sixth sense, which does not preclude all of the other five. Taste is missing and so is smell. Just like in dreams, in fact.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nBut the main point I\u2019m making is that even in my spirit form I acted exactly as if I were occupying my body as normal. I could sit, lie down, walk, run, jump. And on top of this, I knew I could fly, float, pass through walls, and think myself to other locations.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nSo now I kneeled on the bed and wailed. I was frightened and lost and had no idea where I was supposed to go from here. I was homeless; I had no body and no tangibility.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI cried for Primrose and Andrea, and I cried for myself. God, I even cried for Oliver and Sydney, my friends and business partners: what were they going to do without me, who would get the work done? I cried for my mother. We didn\u2019t get along anymore, but what was she to do with me gone? She\u2019d lost one man already, her husband, and now me, her son. Self-pity mingled with commiseration for my friends and family as I hugged my self there on the big, blood-ruined bed, rocking backwards and forwards on my knees, and all the while the demolished face of my old self watched me with crooked glazed eyes.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt took some time, but eventually I began to calm down. I wasn\u2019t all-cried-out just yet\u2014I knew more tears would be shed later\u2014but I gradually became aware that staying here with the wrecked meat and bone that once was my human form was pointless. Besides, I felt an urgent need to see my wife and daughter once more, because maybe there would be no other chance; if I was dead (and let\u2019s face it, all the signs indicated that I was) I might have only this last chance before I went on to the place where all souls go (I began truly hoping there was a heaven after all).<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nBefore my life expired, merely the imagined picture of a location was enough to get me there almost immediately; I was always aware of my flight, but it usually went by so swiftly it hardly felt like a journey. This time, however, I consciously had to make the effort of leaving the hotel room by passing through the thick outside wall into the night. Once outside I had to follow a route to my home that I knew, transportation now a considered thing rather than just a wish-fulfillment. I was strangely chilled as I travelled, as if a breeze was flowing through me, even though I had no physical outline to capture its draught, and my journey was by short body-hopping movements, casting off with either hands or feet to float some distance before sinking to the ground again. It was like the recurring dreams I used to have where I never could quite fly above the earth completely, my own pragmatism allied with gravity drawing me back to solid ground each time. Those astronauts who had walked the moon must have shared the same experience.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe London streets were quiet, the occasional lonely lorry or all-night bus passing me by; only a few cars were about, their headlights dipped. There were people here and there, sometimes in small groups as if they had left late-night parties or clubs together (this was the weekend, I reminded myself) and I avoided them without knowing why. But on turning a corner and briefly grounded at the time, I ran straight through a person who had been about to make the turn from me other direction.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt was the weirdest feeling, because for an instant I was almost part of the stranger. Alien thoughts poured through me, not quite visions and certainty not manifestations, but thoughts, representations of people the person must have known. There was a fraction of a situation too, an altercation between two women, neither of whom was particularly attractive, over the person\u2014a man, I assumed, the guy whose body I\u2019d trespassed on\u2014himself. There were other things too, as if this pedestrian was carrying the baggage of his whole life around with him, but these were confusing and easily relegated by the two-women scenario. Then it was gone and I was in open space again.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI felt suddenly drained, slightly nauseated, as if my invasion was punishable\u2014or perhaps too much to handle\u2014and I came to a halt. Turning my head to watch the man\u2019s retreating back, I saw that he also had stopped and was looking behind him towards me, a bewildered expression on his lamp-lit face. I thought he might even see me and I unconsciously raised a hand in salutation, but of course he stared right through me (literally).<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe shuddered, a jerky spasm, a feeling of someone walking over his grave, I guessed. And I felt the same way too, although I didn\u2019t give a shudder. The man turned and went on his way, disappearing round the next corner, leaving me perplexed and no less afraid for myself. It was an unpleasantness I intended to avoid in the future. If there was some kind of future for me.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nResuming my journey, I discovered I could no longer float quite so easily. I realized much later that I was becoming used to my situation, my state-of-being, and the familiarity appeared to set its own limitations. You see, this was not entirely the OBE of before, when I had a proper life. No, I was now in some kind of limbo, unattached but still linked with the former life. Somehow, this condition imposed certain restrictions and I was yet to learn what they were. I guessed that the more I accepted and adapted, the less freedoms I would have, reasoned thought perhaps setting its own boundaries, if only to a certain extent.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe journey home was one of the worst I\u2019d ever undertaken; I was in grief and I was frightened and confused. Only the image of my loved ones, Prim and Andrea, kept me from sinking into an invisible whimpering heap on the pavement. This can\u2019t be death, I repeatedly told myself, this can\u2019t be the consequence of dying, the next stage, the step through the door; this couldn\u2019t be the after-death existence most of us hoped for. If it was, where were all the other souls? If I was a ghost, where were all those who had preceded me? Anyway, I didn\u2019t feel like a ghost. Disembodied maybe, but I certainly had not left this place on earth. Where was the Big Judgement those nuns in junior school had promised me (or, more truthfully, threatened me with)? Where was the eternal peace and joy we were supposed to expect, and where was God\u2019s all-embracing love? Or was He having a laugh? (Yep, by now a little anger was creeping in and that was no bad thing\u2014somehow it gave me a bit more focus.)<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI went on, at one moment boiling with rage, the next tearful with despair. Never had I felt so alone. I longed to be with my wife and daughter again and I kept willing myself to be home, hoping that the willing would work as it always had before, so that just the thought of Prim and Andrea inside our house would take me there instantly as though the mere desire would act like some futuristic transporter vehicle, a Star Trek machine without the electronics and dazzling light particles. It wasn\u2019t to be though and I wandered the streets like (literally again) some lost soul.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nNevertheless, I arrived home more swiftly than if I\u2019d been plodding along with real legs and feet, and no tiredness accompanied the effort. I stood by the stone post at the bottom of our short driveway and looked at the house, waiting, not to catch my breath, which was totally unnecessary, but to relish the moment. I felt relieved and at the same time flushed with anticipation.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOddly, there was a light on in an upstairs window despite the hour. It came from Prim\u2019s bedroom.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n15<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt must have been the non-thinking, the sheer reaction, that got me into my daughter\u2019s bedroom so swiftly. One moment I was standing by the wall post, the next I was gliding up the driveway to the entrance (my feet skimming inches above the ground) and had passed through the sturdy wooden barrier that was the front door and in a flash was on my way upstairs.* I didn\u2019t so much climb the stairs as sail right up them, finding myself outside Prim\u2019s open bedroom door without further thought.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n*Let me just tell you about going through a closed door or wall:<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nYou don\u2019t just flow through in an easy, fluid movement like a ghost does it in a movie. What happens is that for an instant you are part of that substance, be it wood, stone or cloth. With the last you become part of the fabric itself, a piece of the weave; with wood you\u2019re the very grain; with stone you\u2019re part of the dust that makes it. You mix with the atoms, integrate with them, become unified until you move beyond. It\u2019s more or less the same when you pass through a living body, only then you also become part of its memories and metaphysical nature; but more of that later.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI have no idea why I paused there\u2014perhaps I was preparing myself for another shock\u2014but pause I did. No, now I think about it, it was more of an involuntary hesitation than a deliberate halt, for I could hear a familiar soothing voice. It could be that I expected both Prim and my wife to glimpse me in this new and surprising state, for I hadn\u2019t yet learned enough about my condition to know how it might affect others. In OBE I\u2019d always been invisible to people, but now the rules might have changed dramatically. Some people do see ghosts, don\u2019t they? Especially when they\u2019ve had some physical connection. I truly did not want to scare my wife and daughter. But then, was I a ghost? True enough, I appeared to be dead, my body wasn\u2019t breathing anymore (despite its incredibly ruined state I had checked for any signs of breathing or heartbeat back in the hotel room), but I really did\u2026 not\u2026 feel\u2026 dead! It was becoming a mantra for me.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAndrea\u2019s soft-spoken words encouraged me to enter. The room was lit by a colourful Winnie the Pooh lamp, a gentle glow that only tempered the shadows, rather than banishing them completely. Beneath the lamp on the pretty bedside cabinet stood Prim\u2019s little blue puffer, placed on the very edge so that it was within easy reach. Our daughter had suffered her first asthma attack more than a year ago and it almost broke my heart to know she was always so afraid of having another (she\u2019d had four more since the first one) that the Ventolin spray was always close at hand, especially during the night. Some kids had their own personal security blanket; my little girl had her inhaler. I stood in the doorway watching for a long difficult moment. Andrea was sitting on the bed, with Primrose cradled in one arm, pillows propped up behind them. Her other hand stroked our daughter comfortingly as Andrea continued to speak in that low, calming voice.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cIt was just a nasty old dream, darling,\u201d she was saying. \u201cNothing\u2019s happened to Daddy, I promise you.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIn her arms, Prim clutched Snowy, her favourite teddy bear whose fur used to be pure white but was now faded to a light yellowish grey. I\u2019d given her Snowy on her third birthday.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cBut he didn\u2019t answer the phone, Mummy.\u201d Light glistened off cheeks that were still not dry from earlier tears.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cI know, but it was very late and Daddy has been working very hard. He was probably sound asleep.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYou tried his mobile too.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYes, but it was switched off.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cHe always keeps it by the bed.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cThe hotel would already have a phone right next to the bed. He wouldn\u2019t need his mobile.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cThen why didn\u2019t he hear the hotel phone?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cBecause he must be exhausted. You know how hard Daddy is to wake up when he\u2019s been working too hard.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cBut I\u2019m afraid, Mummy.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cI know, Prim, but there\u2019s no need. I\u2019ll ring again first thing in the morning. You\u2019ll see, he\u2019ll answer it then and wonder what the fuss is about.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cIn the dream he was very lost.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYou always get anxious when Daddy\u2019s away. Remember when you cried because you thought he\u2019d fallen down some stairs? That was a long time ago, wasn\u2019t it? And when he got home, nothing at all had happened to him, had it?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI remembered the incident. While it was true that nothing had happened to me physically, it was an afternoon when I\u2019d spontaneously gone out-of-body while sitting at my desk and half-falling asleep. I\u2019d been surprised to find myself in this other realm without any warning and had had no control whatsoever. In the OBE I was at the top of a tall building, standing on the very edge of the roof (it was a familiar building some miles away from my office and I had no idea how I\u2019d got there) and about to take a step forward. Well, whereas if in control I would have glided to a safer place, this time I fell. Really it was no more than what sometimes occurs in a normal dream, where you seem to take a wrong step off a pavement and the sudden jolt wakes you, but in this instance the location was a little more serious. And, as if in a normal dream, I was instantly awake, my whole body no doubt jerking with surprise, and I almost did fall off my chair, but I managed to save myself in time. Fortunately, I was alone in the office I shared with Oliver, or I would have had to endure his laughter and teasing for the rest of the afternoon. My heart was beating a little faster than usual, but otherwise I was okay; it was only later I learned that around the same time\u2014about four in the afternoon\u2014Primrose, who was belted up in the back of Andrea\u2019s little Peugeot on their way home from school, had given a small scream and burst into tears, proclaiming that her daddy had fallen down some stairs and hurt himself.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI hadn\u2019t revealed what had actually happened to me when I got home that evening, because I really didn\u2019t grasp the connection when Prim ran down the hallway to tell me of her outburst and to make sure I wasn\u2019t hurt. I laughed and reassured her that I was fine, there had been no accident earlier, and it was only when I was in bed that night that I related the two incidents. Even so, I dismissed it as coincidence, but now, in the doorway, I began to wonder.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cCan\u2019t you phone again now, Mummy?\u201d Prim was persistent.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cNo, darling. Daddy would be cross if we woke him. It\u2019s not long till morning, so we\u2019ll call him together then. Perhaps if his work has gone well he\u2019ll be coming home.\u201d She leaned down to kiss Prim\u2019s freckled nose, then said, \u201cTime for you to go to sleep too. You\u2019ll be in a grumpy state all day if you don\u2019t.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cAndrea,\u201d I said, stepping further into the room. \u201cI\u2019m here. I\u2019m fine. There\u2019s nothing wrong.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI don\u2019t know why I made that last remark: maybe I wanted to believe it myself. In fact, I don\u2019t know why I even spoke: previous experience in out-of-body had taught me I couldn\u2019t be heard. Nevertheless, the practice of a lifetime was hard to break. Besides, if my daughter had the insight or intuition to sense something bad had happened to me, then perhaps she might see and hear me now.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cSomething\u2019s happened to my body,\u201d I told them both, \u201cbut I\u2019m all right. I\u2019m not dead, you must believe me.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cCome on now.\u201d Andrea eased her arm from Prim\u2019s back and laid the pillows flat. \u201cLie down and go to sleep.\u201d She bent to kiss the top of Prim\u2019s head then pulled the flower-patterned duvet up to our daughter\u2019s chin. Primrose wasn\u2019t pacified, but she was tired, her eyelids drooping even though she fought to keep them open.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cI won\u2019t sleep, Mummy,\u201d she said.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cSsssh. You will. Think nice things.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nPrim pulled a disgruntled face, but it was half-hearted, I knew she\u2019d be asleep within moments.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAndrea switched off the bedside lamp before standing, then walked soft-toed to the door. She stepped through to the landing, turned to look back at our child once more, and then half-closed the door behind her. I lingered a while by Prim\u2019s bed and sure enough, she had already fallen asleep. I tried to brush a stray curl from her closed eyes and my fingers made no contact. With a last, regretful stare at her innocent shadowy face, I turned away and followed my wife.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI found her sitting on the edge of our own bed, her eyes fixed on the phone on the small bedside cabinet, one hand resting beside it. Her bedside lamp was switched on. I could tell she wanted to ring the hotel again, her anxiety plain to see but, sensibly enough\u2014although I clenched my fists tightly in anticipation\u2014she let her hand fall away, obviously deciding it was too late to disturb me. She slipped beneath the covers and switched the lamp off.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cNo,\u201d I cried, almost in tears. \u201cNo, Andrea. Ring the hotel, get someone to check my room. It\u2019s not too late, it can\u2019t be too late!\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI wondered if somehow she could hear my distant voice, because for a moment she rested on one elbow as if still pondering, wondering what she should do. But then, she lay down, one arm above the covers, and closed her eyes. In the pale-orange light from outside I could see the frown that disturbed her features. Soon though, the worry-lines eased and her face was smooth again. Andrea, too, was asleep.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIn abject misery, I sank down beside her. I closed my own invisible eyes.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n16<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt was a strange gagging sound that roused me. I don\u2019t say \u201cwoke me up\u201d, because I didn\u2019t know if I\u2019d been sleeping; I didn\u2019t know if it was possible to sleep in my condition (what a joy it would have been if I\u2019d been woken from a nightmare).<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI just opened my eyes at the noise and there I was, back in the hotel suite, lying on the bed beside my own butchered carcass. I didn\u2019t have time to consider whether or not some kind of instinct had drawn me back to the site of my own annihilation, an unconscious determination to rejoin my soul\u2019s host while my mind was blanked, because the uniformed waitress with the breakfast trolley was now standing in the doorway staring, gawping at the bloody, chopped thing on the bed with horrified eyes. Her jaw flapped and closed as she tried to summon up a scream.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt finally erupted in a piercingly high-pitched, blood-curdling shriek, which was immediately followed by a series of wheezing staccatos of half-stifled, breath-catching screeches that scared the hell out of me. For a moment I thought she might suffer a seizure and I raised my hands, palms forward, as if to calm her.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nShe was the same sallow-skinned, dark-haired girl who had brought my breakfast the previous morning. Her instructions were to let herself directly into my bedroom if her knock failed to wake me (my bedroom had two doors, one of which led to the suite\u2019s sitting room, the other out into the hotel corridor. Oliver had a large bedroom on the opposite side of the sitting room). I\u2019d tipped her generously the day before and although she seemed to understand little English, I think she was eager to please me with her efficiency; unfortunately, this morning she got something more than just a tip.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe poor girl, smart in her white shirt, green waistcoat and tight black skirt, fell back against the doorframe and for a second I thought she might pass out. Her pupils rolled back inside her head for a fleeting moment and her whole body swooned, but the doorframe itself kept her upright and she recovered enough to stagger out of sight. I heard her lumbering down the hallway (she was a heavyish girl) on unsteady legs, the semi-screams still struggling to reach full-voice again, and then it was quiet.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI turned my head and looked at my blood-coated remains. Oh dear God\u2026<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nEarly daylight coming through the open curtains did nothing to improve the scene. In the cold light of day, as it were, the sight was even more appalling. Last night the immediate shock must have numbed me from the full horror, because not everything had sunk in. I was now noticing more details without hysteria blanking me.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe blood was already coagulating, its colour turning coppery, and my disorganized eyes were still gazing flatly outwards, matt crescents between their lids. My nose was nothing more than shattered pulp resting within the bloody valley of flesh and bone that was my indented face. Just inside the lopsided rictus grin of a mouth I could see broken stumps of teeth resembling vandalized gravestones against their inky backdrop and, if I had been capable of vomiting, then I think I would have; I certainly felt nauseous. My chin was a crooked peak, but otherwise okay, the worst of the facial damage just above it.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt occurred to me that somebody would have to identify my body and a fresh revulsion swept through me. My God, it might have to be Andrea. I groaned silently at the thought.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe rest of me had been battered too, both my arms broken, one at the wrist, the other at the elbow\u2014maybe I had tried to fight off the attacker (but how could I if I wasn\u2019t there?)\u2014and one of my legs was twisted awkwardly at the knee, the kneecap itself pulped, my ripped trouser leg messy with glutinous, hardening blood. There were deep cuts all over my body and my head was almost severed as if the neck had been sliced by some sort of small chopper or axe. Whoever had attacked me really wanted me dead.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe wounds were crude and a great flow of viscous-looking blood ruined the pale-green bedspread, overspilling its sides and running down onto the carpet below. Its edges had hardened, the colour very dark.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cOh God\u2026\u201d I whispered, still contemplating my lifeless form with tear-blurred eyes. I shuddered at the damage done to my chest and stomach, where blood had poured copiously, even now small bubbles forming every few seconds or so, as though pockets of air were escaping the wound. I noticed something protruding from below my left ribcage, blood almost covering it. It was small and round, but before I could inspect it, something else distracted me. The zip of my trousers was open. Because of the thickness of blood that had welled there, I could not tell\u2014nor did I honestly want to know\u2014exactly what damage had been done. In fact, I didn\u2019t even have to guess, because something lay between my outstretched legs, a mound of bloody meat that had been removed from my groin and slapped down on the soft bedcover, an abstract genital pile, the sight of which now had me retching again.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAs I bent over my knees I heard heavy footsteps hurrying along the hall outside my room. Still retching, pointlessly because I had nothing to bring up, I retreated into the corner of the room.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOh, it was a long day. A terribly long day. And I stuck around for most of it.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWhere else would I go? What else could I do?<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI hunkered down in the corner in abject misery and watched the comings and goings, the shock and utter dismay of the hotel\u2019s under-manager and concierge, who had rushed to the room after the room-service waitress\u2019s hysterical alert, then the horror of the manager himself and the small posse of staff he\u2019d brought with him, later the calm reaction of the first uniformed police officer to arrive. By the time two plain-clothed detectives bustled in I was just a traumatized wreck.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cHelp me,\u201d I croaked pitifully, not even bothering to rise to my feet because I knew there was no chance of being seen, let alone heard.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nEventually the room was cleared of everybody save the detectives, who reprimanded the first cop for not having cleared the crime scene immediately. The professionals soon arrived and took over. Some wore all-in-one white shell suits and I assumed they were the forensic scientists. The police surgeon, careful not to get blood on his civilian clothes and shoes, examined my body. With an ironic grin he pronounced me dead. One of the guys in white took photographs before another one took measurements of blood splatters and drifts. Yet another used a camcorder, and all the while the two detectives conferred in hushed tones, as if they didn\u2019t want the corpse to overhear.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAn extremely tall grey-haired man with a jet-black moustache and matching eyebrows entered and the two detectives acknowledged him with respectful nods. The uniformed policeman at the door saluted him.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHis stature was impressive, his back ramrod straight, his charcoal-grey suit immaculately pressed. He went immediately over to the police surgeon, who was making notes on a pad.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cDetective Superintendent Sadler,\u201d the newcomer announced without extending a hand to shake.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe medic just gave him a curt nod. \u201cDr Breen,\u201d he said, looking back at his notes. \u201cToo early to give you anything.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cHazard a guess at time of death?\u201d Sadler asked, his tone implying little hope.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYou\u2019ll need a proper autopsy for that.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cDo your best.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cWell, the body\u2014what\u2019s left of it\u2014is still warmish, but then the room temperature is quite high. I could take a quick rectal reading, but I imagine you don\u2019t want anything disturbed at this stage.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe policeman grunted something that must have been agreement and the police surgeon went on.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cLividity is underway as far as I can tell\u2014and the state of the body itself doesn\u2019t help\u2014but the pathologist will have a clearer time of death after the post-mortem.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cBut rigor mortis\u2026?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cOh yes, that\u2019s certainly begun, but you\u2019re aware of how unreliable that can be when determining these things.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe detective superintendent\u2019s impatience was made apparent. \u201cGood God, man, I only asked for a rough estimation,\u201d he said gruffly.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cEyelids frozen, muscles of what\u2019s left of the jaw stiff. Same with neck and upper chest, but the corpse\u2019s disarray and loss of blood make it difficult to assess.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nDr Breen caught the grimness and steely-eyed severity of the tall policeman\u2019s gaze and hurriedly proffered his informal judgement.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cDeath definitely occurred more than three hours ago and I\u2019d guess it was closer to six, maybe a bit more than that.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nDS Sadler wasn\u2019t quite finished with him yet.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cAnd\u2026?\u201d he demanded brusquely.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cAnd? And what?\u201d The police surgeon obviously wasn\u2019t used to blunt interrogation and it showed in his irritated frown.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cIs it another one?\u201d asked Sadler.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cWe think it is, Sir,\u201d Simmons, one of the detectives, put in, stepping forward and carefully avoiding a glob of thick blood on the carpet as he did so.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cThrough the heart?\u201d queried the detective superintendent.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYep. You can just see it under the ribs if you look closely.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe senior policeman took his detective\u2019s word for it.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cSo we have yet another victim.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cCould be a copycat,\u201d suggested the second detective.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cDon\u2019t be bloody daft, Coates,\u201d Sadler said crossly. \u201cActual cause of death is not public knowledge.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nCoates\u2019s face reddened. \u201cYes, Sir.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI looked up and stared at them all, almost but not quite shaken out of my torpor. What did he mean, \u201cActual cause of death is not public knowledge\u201d? I was confused for a moment, but then it began to come together. The tall man had asked if it\u2014it being me, my stone-dead corpse\u2014was another one, obviously meaning another victim. And one of the detectives, the one called Coates, had suggested it could be a copycat murder implying I was one of a series. I might be dead, but I was still alert.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWhat was it that the public didn\u2019t know, though? I began to pay even more attention.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cIt\u2019s there all right.\u201d It was the police surgeon, Breen, who spoke up.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAll eyes, including mine, turned towards him.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cHole through the heart?\u201d said Sadler.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nA grave nod of the doctor\u2019s head. \u201cYes. Underneath the left side of the ribcage and straight up. As in all the other cases. Hard to find at first, with all the blood. But the flat end of the needle is there all right.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI remembered the blood-covered bump I\u2019d noticed earlier.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cAnd that\u2019s what killed him?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cWell, I hope the mutilation came afterwards, for the victim\u2019s sake, but I don\u2019t think so. The pathologist will let you know for sure. If already dead, the blood flow would have been heavy, but not as fierce as it would have been if the victim were still alive.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cLook.\u201d He pointed with his pen. \u201cThe thigh\u2019s femoral artery has been cut through. If the victim had still been alive at the time, the blood would have escaped in a spurt that might even have reached the ceiling.\u201d The three men looked up: the high ceiling was pure white. \u201cBut, as you can see, it gushed in a great arc that reached well beyond the bed, almost as far as the wall, which suggests to me the victim\u2019s face was cleaved first, killing him instantly, the other weapon used afterwards. The main flows have soaked the carpet, and there are splatters everywhere, some quite a distance from the general spillage, although they were probably caused by the action of the first weapon itself, sinking into the body and jerked out again with considerable force. Looks to me as if the instrument used, by the way, was a butcher\u2019s chopper, or something similar. I\u2019ve seen their kind of deep wounds before. Forensics will let you know for sure.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cWhoever did this must also be covered in blood. Surely someone on the staff had to see the killer leave.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nSimmons shook his head resignedly. \u201cNight porter and the lobby reception guy, who were still on duty, spent most of the time in the office behind the counter, saw no one suspicious and certainly no one with blood on their clothes. In fact, not one guest arrived or left.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nCoates spoke up. \u201cThere is a back entrance to the place. For staff and workmen, small deliveries, that kind of thing.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cUnattended?\u201d snapped Sadler.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201c \u2018Fraid so,\u201d Coates told him. \u201cAt least, some of the time. There is night security, an open cubicle near the door, but the guard on duty frequently leaves it to do his rounds.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cWasn\u2019t the door locked?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cNo, Sir,\u201d Simmons replied. \u201cNight staff and early morning cleaners are using it all the time.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cThere has to be a bigger delivery area.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cIt\u2019s in the basement. Heavy vehicles get to it by a ramp leading from the road outside.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cLocked though, Sir,\u201d added Coates. \u201cIt\u2019s a big roll-up door and it was closed for the night. No deliveries were expected.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nSadler considered all he had been told for a few moments, then: \u201cRight, I want you to interview every person who was on duty during the night and early hours. No doubt the manager or the under-manager will supply a list of personnel. Question the night porter and the receptionist again. They may remember something they\u2019ve forgotten. Oh, and the security man also. Prompt him\u2014he might just come up with something useful.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThere were raised voices in the next-door room, the lounge area, and I thought I recognized one of them. Hurried footsteps, the rustle of my layouts from yesterday being trampled on, a sharp, \u201cYou can\u2019t go in there,\u201d followed by scuffling noises, and then Oliver was in the bedroom doorway.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cOh\u2026\u201d is all he said, but it was an agonized sound, a soul-wrenching sound. Horror, shock, disbelief whitened his face and highlighted the few faint scattered freckles on either side of his nose. He stared at my blood-drenched remains on the bed.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cJim\u2026?\u201d I heard him say in a breathless whisper.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI realized he could only assume it was me lying there.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cWho are you?\u201d Sadler barked at him.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAnother uniformed policeman was behind Oliver, holding his arm to drag him away. \u201cI couldn\u2019t stop him, Sir,\u201d the annoyed policeman grumbled. \u201cHe pushed past me.\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cLeave it for a moment,\u201d his superior ordered. The PC released his grip.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cWhat\u2026 what\u2019s happened?\u201d Oliver\u2019s voice was hoarse now, strained, as if he could barely force the question.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOne of the detectives moved towards him to block his view.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cIt\u2019s all right, Simmons,\u201d said the chief. \u201cLet\u2019s hear what he\u2019s got to say.\u201d He addressed Oliver directly. \u201cI\u2019m Detective Superintendent Sadler from New Scotland Yard, and this is Detective Sergeant Simmons and Detective Constable Coates. Now will you please tell me your name?\u201d<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOliver raised both hands to his face to block out the sight on the bed. Somehow he couldn\u2019t quite cover his eyes, though, and he continued to stare over Simmons\u2019s shoulder through slightly spread fingers at my blood-covered carcass.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cOkay, get him back into the other room,\u201d Sadler ordered, striding towards my distraught friend.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe uniformed policeman took him by the arm again and Simmons gently guided Oliver backwards. Sadler disappeared next door with them and I followed.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nMy campaign layouts, scuffed and in disarray, lay on the thick-carpeted floor and Oliver was led through them towards an armchair; he was carefully helped to sit.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cWill you tell me your name, Sir?\u201d repeated Sadler, his voice less harsh this time, but still authoritative.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cWhat?\u201d was all Oliver could utter. He was staring back at the doorway to the bedroom, but his eyes were unfocused.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYour name,\u201d Sadler said again.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nI settled in a corner by one of the long windows as if to be unobtrusive.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cOliver Guinane,\u201d my copywriter managed to say.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u201cAnd do you know who the dead person in the other room is?\u201d he was asked.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nNo doubt the detective superintendent knew my name already. They would have been told who occupied the suite by the management and, as Oliver was sitting in front of him, it was a fairly safe bet to assume the corpse was James True. Nevertheless he watched Oliver closely.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Read the full book by downloading it below.<\/p>\n

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Book Preview NOBODY TRUE James Herbert \u2026So that this I, that is to say the soul by which I am what I am, is entirely distinct from the body, is even easier to know than the body, and furthermore would not stop being what it is, even if the body did not exist. Ren\u00e9 Descartes … Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":4886,"comment_status":"","ping_status":"","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[328],"class_list":["post-4887","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized","tag-james-herbert"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4887","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=4887"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4887\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/4886"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4887"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4887"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4887"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}