Mindfall

By Robert William Saul Harvey

Colin has yet another argument with his wife. He storms out of the house with the intention of watching the remaining half of a football match in his local pub. However, he is killed when he gets knocked down by a car, whilst crossing a road.
And,
That's just the start of his troubles... How on Earth can he now be an eighteen-year-old schoolgirl, looking down at his own dead body?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert William Saul Harvey
• Release date: Apr 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310315343

Robert William Saul Harvey

Robert was born in 1949 in the small Scottish hamlet of Douglas West, Douglas in Lanarkshire, but moved to England when his father, a miner, had to move south for a job.Having left school at the age of fifteen, without any qualifications whatsoever, he started work in a small engineering firm. He soon got fed up coming home covered in dirty grease and having a spotty face so, after six months, decided that engineering was not for him. With nothing to lose, he ran away to sea, so to speak. He joined the Merchant Navy and happily spent three and a half years travelling the world and getting paid for it!Meeting his future wife at the age of nineteen convinced Robert to leave the sea and settle down. There were not many jobs around for a nineteen-year-old and he ended up doing bar/cellar work until deciding to get married at the age of twenty. That was when he joined the Royal Air Force, in which he spent nine years as a Clerk Secretarial, attaining the rank of Corporal before leaving in 1979.After applying for various jobs, Robert finally got one with the National Coal Board in a colliery Stores Department. Ok, this would do him for a while, whilst he looked around for something better. Thirty years later, as a Supply and Contracts Manager, he retired from the Coal Industry at the age of fifty-nine and now has an allotment where he plays at growing vegetables (very nice they are too), and spends his spare time dabbling on his laptop; bliss.Now, with seven books on Smashwords, an eighth under construction, and number nine in the pipeline, who knows where it will stop?Second in the series, Beryl's Pup is now also available.

Book preview

Prologue

The young girl sat hunched forward on a wooden bench, her fingers tightly grasping the edge of the seat.

Tears flowed freely down her cheeks.

Her shoulders shuddered and heaved as deep, racking sobs shook her body, eyes staring wildly ahead, unseeing, unblinking, terror reflected in their water-filled lens’.

Watery snot dribbled from the nostrils of her short, snub nose, and dripped from her top lip onto the ground as she leaned forward, with arms resting on knees, hands hanging limp, whilst sucking in short, hurried gasps of air. Her feet dangled a good six inches clear of the ground, clad in black, lace-up pumps, and white ankle-socks.

Wearing a short, pleated light-gray skirt, a white, short-sleeved blouse, and a gray knitted cardigan with only two of four buttons done up, she looked every bit the young schoolgirl with her dark-brown, almost black hair, cut in a bob, made easy to maintain.

Six ducks, four drakes and two hens, waddled across the stony ground, and stopped in front of her. Their loud quacks went unnoticed, as they demanded she feed them.

On the small lake behind these ducks, more ducks, homed in from all directions, the quacking increasing in volume the nearer they came.

A female jogger with long blonde hair done up in a ponytail, dressed as only joggers would dress in tight leotard over white T-shirt, knee length Lycra shorts, and white trainers, slowed her pace as she threaded her way among the hungry ducks, and cast an inquisitive glance towards the young girl. Deciding not to stop and help the distressed girl, the jogger increased her pace, and disappeared around a bend in the path winding its way behind a small copse of trees and bushes.

The young girl inhaled deeply and held the breath, in an attempt to stop the sobs wracking her young body, and closed her eyes.

Her hands tightened their grip on the wooden bench and her body remained rigid for fully ten seconds as she silently counted in her mind, ten seconds which stretched to eternity.

How could this, this thing, have happened—to her?

Why had it happened?

But,

More to the point, what could she do about it?

It’s okay, she told herself between sobs. It’s just a mistake. It’ll sort itself out. You’ll be fine.

Another voice, deep inside her mind, told her a different version, ‘This is it. This is you, the new you. The old you is no more, and it won’t be coming back.’

She tried not to listen to this inner voice, tried to shut it out, but failed.

The voice would not be silenced.

Still holding her breath, her aching lungs rebelled and forced her to release the trapped air.

She gasped, her chest heaving as she hungrily tried to refill her lungs with fresh air.

No! she cried whilst thinking, ‘It’s a dream. It’s got to be a dream. I’ll open my eyes and I’ll be myself again.’

She nodded her head and tried to convince herself, she was only dreaming.

‘Yes.’

She slowly opened her eyes and fearfully glanced around, hoping it was just a horrible dream, and she might be back at home, in her own bedroom.

Yah!

She lifted her hands, balled her fists, and pressed them to her temples as she cried out in fury, Bastard! Fuck-you-bastard! followed by another anguished growl, Grrr!

The ducks stopped shouting at her, surprised by her outburst, one, or two taking wary steps backwards, afraid she might be about to attack them.

No, she repeated and furiously shook her head as the full horror of her predicament began to sink in. Please God, no. No. No! This isn’t me!

Her fists thumped against her temples, as if she were trying to hammer some sense into the turmoil of her mind.

She ceased pounding her head and wiped the palms of her hands down her face, stopped only when her fingers reached her mouth.

Raising her head, the girl stared at the sky, as if she were searching for some kind of sign, an answer, which might somehow explain what had happened to her.

None.

Only nondescript white clouds drifting slowly across the otherwise pale blue sky.

No sign.

‘There is no God,’ she thought.

She closed her eyes and let her arms drop onto her lap.

Her head slowly drooped until her chin came to rest upon her chest.

Despair gripped her.

Snot continued to drip from her nose, as did tears from her eyes, and a pitiful moan of anguish escaped from her lips.

Another round of sobs shook her body and she made a low growling sound, thinking, ‘What have I done to deserve this? What have I done? Why me?’

Sniffing, she raised her head, opened her eyes, and stared at the shuffling ducks before her, seeing them for the first time.

Suddenly, the ducks were the enemy—she blamed them for everything happening to her and cried out with venom in her voice and fire in her eyes, Shoo, you bastards! Baring her teeth, she snapped, Sod off! Go away! Shoo! waving her hands, as if to brush them away.

The ducks quickly scattered, ran, and flew off in all directions, those on the water swam away, as if their lives depended upon it.

The girl threw a hostile glare at a solitary feather as it slowly floated down to land near her dangling feet, feet that were not her feet!

Only then did she notice the old man sitting at the far end of the bench…

Chapter 1

The heavens had opened, raining cats and dogs, by the time Colin angrily stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him, so hard, he heard the glass rattling in the window frames.

The rain, not quite a torrential downpour, but heavy enough, soon soaked his white Fred Perry polo shirt, and his blue Reebok tracksuit bottoms, long before he reached the front gate.

The shitty cow, he muttered under his breath. Thinks she can rule my life, does she? Won’t let me have a can of beer while I’m watching the footie, eh? I’ll show her. The bitch. What gives her the right to switch off the television in the middle of a match, just when the center forward is about to take a penalty kick? She’s lucky I’m a mild mannered guy and don’t hit girls, else I’d have smacked her one in the mouth.

He shivered and hunched his shoulders against the rain.

A fat lot of good it, did him.

He walked quickly down the unevenly slabbed pathway past the overgrown front garden and the few flowers in the sad border surrounding the unkempt lawn, greatly outnumbered by the weeds.

Colin hated weeding gardens at the best of times, had never gotten round to mending the rusty old push lawnmower that had broken down over two years ago, which is why the lawn looked like a jungle.

No need to spend good money on things like new mowers.

The grass will die down in the winter so why worry about it?

He wanted to vent his anger further by slamming the gate behind him, but supported by a single hinge, one corner of the gate had firmly anchored itself in the soil.

Stuck solid.

He turned left along the footpath and headed along the road, in the direction of the Stag and Pheasant, his local watering hole, no more than five hundred yards or so from his council house.

The June rain felt cold, unusual at this time of year, made him shiver again, but he ignored it. He was far too involved in his own thoughts.

A blazing row with his wife, Maureen, not the first argument they had about his drinking, and he knew it would not be the last. It had certainly been one of the loudest, though. Both had shouted at the top of their voices.

The kids, two-year old Sophie and five-year old Josh, together with their Jack Russell terrier, Trudy, had cowered together on the settee, all three terrified by the ferocity of the row. Not the first time the children had seen their parents arguing, but it still scared the shit out of them.

No doubt, some neighbors must have heard every word, smirking to themselves, thinking, ‘Here we go again,’

Colin inwardly cringed at what might be to come, when he returned home later, after the match had finished.

Women. Maureen in particular, never let up. Always remembered every little detail.

The arguments were always about the same thing, money, or rather, the lack of money.

Maureen made thoroughly fed up with Colin spending most of their spare money, what little there was of it, on drink and gambling. He was either down the pub getting pissed, or downing cans of lager as he sprawled in front of the television in his sodding reclining armchair, like Lord Muck.

The chair sported a length of gaffer tape, a patch on the left arm, covering a very large cigarette burn. The cigarette would have set fire to the chair if he had not woken up in time and poured some beer on it.

When not at work, down at the pub, or sleeping, Colin could usually be found lounging in front of the TV, watching whatever football match happened to be on at the time.

If he were not doing any of these, he would be in the bookies, giving all of their spare cash to sick animals, or watching either, the horses, the football, tennis, or rugby on TV.

Sometimes, he might win a small amount, and be happy, but more often than not, he lost.

Now, though, Colin was totally pissed off with his missus, always harping on about his drinking, and gambling.

She never mentioned anything about her twice-weekly trips to the bingo though, did she?

Oh no, that did not count, and she never, ever told him if she won, she always kept that to herself.

He knew he would never see any of her winnings, even if she were lucky enough to win the ‘Link’ jackpot. The miserable cow would keep every penny for herself.

Selfish bitch.

Maureen, overweight slob her, always nagging him about how the kids needed new clothes, or new shoes—much more important than him getting pissed every night, even though he never actually reached the ‘pissed’ stage, just the ‘happy’ stage.

Or,

Maybe, now and again, could he not put some decent food on the table instead of micro-waved TV meals and chips all the time?

Well, shit to her.

He gave her the housekeeping money every week.

She did the shopping and bought all that trashy food.

If she failed to make the money last, well, that made it her problem, not his.

So, once again, harsh words had passed between them, angry words, loud words, and downright nasty words. Words that made the children cower in fear and cry aloud.

She called him, A drunken sod.

He called her, A fat, lazy cow.

The place always looked like a tip and she ought to get her finger out and tidy it up a bit.

Then,

She called him, A bone idle bastard.

So,

He called her, A lardy slob.

She called him, An alcoholic piss-head.

He told her, Need a drink just to look at your ugly, fat face.

She told him to, Fuck off out of their lives. She and the kids did not want to keep living like this.

Ouch.

That hurt.

Then,

He said he was, Pissing off to the pub, away from her moaning gob.

She told him to, Go and get bloody pissed with your drunken mates then.

What did she care?

He said, Right, I will then.

She told him to, Go on then. And don’t bother coming back.

What the hell?

He said he would, Come back, whether you want me to or not. It’s my house. If you don’t like it you can sod off, and take the sodding kids with you.

She said he could, Piss off then.

He said he was, Out of here.

She called him an, Asshole.

He called her a, Gross twat.

And,

That was when he stormed out of the house, forgetting to take his waterproof jacket from its resting place, hanging on the banister at the bottom of the stairs.

What the shit was it about the woman?

Could he not just chill out for a few minutes when he got home from work?

Oh, no.

Not at all.

She expected him to come home and do stupid things like; wash the dishes, iron the kid’s clothes, or mow the stupid lawn.

And,

Had he never learned how to drive a vacuum cleaner?

Maybe he could hang out, or bring, in the washing?

And,

Would it hurt him to play with the kids for a minute or two, bath them, and help get them ready for bed?

He could actually give the kids a cuddle now and again, eh?

It would it hurt him to give the paintwork a touch up here and there, either?

The list was never-ending.

Well shit to that for a lark, all that stuff was woman’s work.

It would not hurt her to get off her lazy, fat ass, and clean the house up a bit, wave a paintbrush around, and mow the sodding lawn.

And,

Convention stated, it was the woman’s job to look after the kids anyway. She was the one who wanted kids in the first place, so she could take care of them. Served her right for refusing to take the pill.

Stuff her.

Maybe the furniture was showing its age, on the dilapidated side. Maybe every room in the house did need freshening up with a paintbrush and the odd roll of new wallpaper here and there. Maybe they could do with a new carpet in the living-room, and one in their bedroom.

But,

What did she expect on his paltry wages?

Nothing to stop her to get off her fat ass, go out and find a cleaning job, or something. Put some money in the kitty. Then she could buy some new sodding shoes for the sodding kids, or stuff her face with caviar, and wash it down with champagne.

If she wanted to live the la-di-da life, like a sodding princess, she could dream on.

Colin never asked for much.

Only wanted a little relaxation after working sixty hours a week as a security-guard at the local shopping mall.

Getting up at stupid-o’clock every morning, or even in the middle of the night, depending what shift he might be on and traipsing round and round the shitty shops day and night, running after cheeky little brats when knew, he was not allowed to touch the little shits, even if he did manage to catch them, entitled him to some time to himself when he came home.

Answering stupid bloody questions from dozy shoppers, who seemed to think he was a mine of useless information, like, silly old coffin dodgers wanting to know how they could find their way back to the car park or, the most asked for thing, where the toilets were.

See.

Not asking too much, was he?

Couldn’t a guy have some R&R in his own home after work?

Well,

Fuck her…

****

The wind blew the driving rain into his face.

He screwed his eyes tight.

Did not bother him if his clothes and hair got wet, they would soon dry out in the pub.

No problem.

‘Fuck this sodding weather,’ he thought as he increased his pace. ‘It’s supposed to be sodding summer. Where’s the bloody sun gone?’

Always seemed to be raining nowadays.

A shit forecast for the rest of the month.

Rain, rain and more rain.

Great.

Colin wished, like shit, he could win the lottery. If he did, he would be off like a shot, away from this shitty country as quick as the fastest plane could take him and he would not drag a moaning missus and couple of kids behind him either. He might, if they were lucky, chuck them a few quid to keep them going, but he would be off, to enjoy life on his own-some.

Yeah.

How good would that be?

A car roared past, hit a large puddle, and splashed his feet, soaking his old Nike trainers.

Bastard! he yelled and made a little skipping dance, shaking his fist at the departing vehicle.

A hand appeared out of the nearside front window and performed a one-fingered salute.

Loud laughter accompanied the finger.

Fuck off, wankers, he shouted, flipping the bird in reply.

‘Bastards.’

Now,

His feet were soaked, as well as the rest of his clothes. Even his Y-fronts stuck to his backside.

This is all he needs.

One good thing about the pub landlord, Willy, whenever the weather made chilly, even in summer months, he lit the fire, and turned the gas fired central-heating on—said it kept the punters coming in if he made his pub a place of comfort, made them feel welcome.

It seemed to work because his was one of the most popular pubs in the town, even though it was situated at a busy crossroads, with no silly pedestrian crossing nearby.

Took one’s life in one’s hands crossing the road.

Colin raised his head slightly, peering through the driving rain.

Only another twenty yards or so to the end of the sidewalk followed by a quick dash across the road and he would be in the welcoming confines of the pub.

Hopefully, there was still time to catch the replay of that penalty kick.

He visualized a beautiful image; the ball leaving the player’s boot, flying past the City goalkeeper, straight into the back of the net and imagined the roar of the crowd, almost feeling a cheer welling in his throat.

With his head bowed, shoulders hunched, and hands thrust deep in his pockets, Colin stepped out into the road…

Chapter 2

Colin stood, rooted to the spot, staring down at the pathetic, soaking wet figure of a man lying on the ground.

The body lay face down on the road with its head turned slightly to one side.

A pool of blood had already begun to form where the head rested on the wet tarmac.

Slowly, like a spreading pool of red goo, blood spread out, filling small indentations in the road surface.

The pool of blood continued to spread as the rain diluted it, washed it down the camber of the road, into the gutter, where it joined the normal debris, like cigarette ends, twigs, and general rubbish. The swirling water carried everything along with it, including the blood, as it gushed along the gutter towards the nearest drain.

Colin stood, mesmerized, unable to take his eyes off the gory sight before him.

‘This can’t be right,’ he thought.

His mind refused to believe what his eyes told him.

‘It really can’t be right. How the shit can this be happening? Am I pissed or something? There’s something totally out of order here.’

His mind struggled to take it all in.

‘This is totally unreal, absolutely, unbelievable.’

He blinked and an icy-cold shiver ran down his spine.

‘What the hell?’

Unreal in itself, how can a shiver run through his body when he…

The man’s legs looked nothing like, uh, real legs. Broken in multiple places and both arms broken, a bone in the right arm actually protruded through the flesh.

Blood slowly oozed from the wound to join the rest of the blood in the gutter.

Gross.

And his head.

Yuk!

The head lay at an unnatural angle, smashed on impact with the car, and the man’s neck was broken. His face, what Colin could see of it, made a right mess. Gruesome. A foregone conclusion, when a person’s face picked a fight with the windscreen of a car moving towards it at about thirty miles per hour, the car was the sure winner.

Car, one—face, nil.

Okay.

A no-contest, but the windscreen never got out of it totally unscathed, having smashed into, what appeared to be, thousands of pieces, now scattered over both the road and the dead body.

Short skid marks showed the driver’s reactions must have been almost instantaneous; he hit the brakes—hard.

Colin made puzzled.

‘This really isn’t right. Not right at all.’

Not like any of those accidents he had seen on TV. In those, the body always lay either, on its back, with its arms and legs splayed out to on each side, or, if it were lying face down, similar with the arms and legs. Always some blood on the ground, for effect.

However,

He never saw a program where the body ended up in such a state as this one.

The impact must have been violent.

Huh.

Stupid.

Of course it was violent; speeding car, soft body, wham!

Think: Violent!

But,

Colin could not remember having seen, or heard, the accident.

Why not?

After all, he was right here, on the spot, no more than a few feet away.

Why had he not seen it happening?

His simple brain made unable to understand, not so much the fact he was looking at an obviously dead body, the result of a car hitting said body, but the simple fact—the body he stood gawping at was—his…!

****

No, mumbled Colin, his voice low, little more than a whisper. No. This can’t be. This can’t happen. No, no, no. It ain’t real. It can’t be real. I’ve gotta be dreaming.

But,

There was no doubt―the body lying on the rain-soaked road, was indeed his body!

After all,

He knew what he looked like, did he not?

Had seen his reflection in enough mirrors and shop windows often enough and knew what he looked like in photographs. So, no way in this world he would not recognize himself.

And this, he was certain, was—him!

It was.

No doubt about it.

Him.

Him.

Dead him.

Lying on the road.

Like, um, a squashed hedgehog.

Not a good analogy.

There were not two of him in the world, or the universe, let alone, in this town.

His body trembled, lips quivered, as the real horror of the situation seeped into his befuddled brain.

Panting and wheezing, Colin gasped for air, finding it difficult to breathe.

Rain dripping from his hair, running down his forehead into his eyes, caused him to blink rapidly.

He gagged and made an involuntary step backwards, raising a hand to his mouth, palm outwards, as if he were trying to disassociate himself from the scene before him.

‘What is this? What the hell is going on here?’

Had he suddenly landed on a different planet? A different Universe?

Unreal.

If he pinched himself now, he would wake up

‘Course he would.

Good idea.

Before he carried out said ‘pinch,’ a woman’s voice, slightly behind, and