Extrasense

By George Somlai

Having been knocked down by a car, Craig Chapman remains in a coma, suffering the ‘locked-in’ syndrome. He is fully conscious without being able to speak, move, see, hear, feel or smell. No perception even of day and night, or time passing.
In desperation he sends out mental 'cries' of help which are only sensed by Toni Sadler, the woman who found him in the street - nobody else. He can only communicate with doctors and even his family through this one human ‘interpreter’.
This phenomenon has never been known to the world of Neuroscience. Such spontaneous mental communication is totally unique!

The story of this coma man’s locked-in world, his emotions and thoughts, his turmoil and dilemma whether to fight to survive, or give up and die, is interwoven with outside intrigue, infidelity and crime. The reader is transported far and wide from London to the Australian Outback; from Stockholm to Boston,Massachusetts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: George Somlai
• Release date: Jul 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9780992962913

Book preview

EXTRASENSE

George Somlai

This book is a work of fiction.

The names, characters, incidents, institutions, phenomena, theories, etc.

are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons,

living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental

Published in Great Britain by Wesselenyi Publishing, at Smashwords, 2014

Copyright: 2014 George Somlai

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

George Somlai asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

ISBN 978-0-9929629-1-3

All rights reserved. No reproduction of any part of this publication, storage

in a retrieval system, transmission in any form or by any means, electronic,

mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, is permitted without

the prior, written permission of the author.

To Marina, whose constant loving encouragement, constructive criticism and suggestions helped to transform this idea into a real story.

I wish to express my thanks to members of the Royal Bournemouth Hospital for their help:

Tony Spotswood, Chief Executive

Dr. Robert McCormick, FRCA, Intensivist at the Intensive Care Unit

Andrew Gyngell, Manager of the Intensive Care Unit

Iam also grateful for invaluable advice provided by Dr Ronald Greenbaum, FRCA.

Thanks are also due to Louis Edoo of Proactive (South) Ltd. for advice and help with all

aspects of design.

Nothing is more constant about the nervous system than its ability to change.

CHAPTER ONE

Come on, come on!…change to green!…bloody lights!... and who needs this rain? Trust the crappy London weather…what a pain!

Vic Morgan was yelling, more than frustrated by the less than perfect conditions for a rehearsal of a quick getaway. Like an untethered, frenzied Pamplona bull, at the fiesta of San Fermin, the car was charging amok in central London towards the traffic lights at the top of Chancery Lane, where it meets High Holborn. The walls of tall buildings in the narrow, empty street, became an echo chamber as they reverberated the harsh roar of the enlarged exhaust on the powered-up car, violating the early morning hush. The boom coupled with the sharp whine of the gearbox, engaged in a lower gear for even more power and better control on the wet road. Despite the seemingly paralyzed red light, he had no intention to stop and wait, though he did begin to slow the car. Although it was just after seven in the morning and he had not seen any traffic around, he dared not take the risk of passing the red into the main road at full speed. He tapped on the brake pedal repeatedly, to prevent a skid. After the right turn into High Holborn he aimed to snake into Gray’s Inn Road, first on the left, then straight on in the direction of King’s Cross railway station. In unison with his car the thoughts, some crude, were racing away in his head:

What’s the stopwatch saying?...one minute sixteen seconds since leaving Ludgate Hill… not good enough, bloody traffic lights…couldn’t risk it, slowed me down!…Now a quick left here…oh damn, I’m skidding!...don’t hit the centre island!…Oi!... out of the way, idiot!...I’ll steer into the skid ‘n rev up!...gotta avoid ‘im!...no!...can’t!...I’m gonna hit ‘im! Oh shit!..

A loud bang against the driver’s door signalled a hard impact. His thoughts went on:

"That’s done it!...Bloody cyclist, why didya have to be there just now?...No, can’t stop…no way!…lose me timing!...Gotta be exactly three minutes forty to meet Posh and Bouncer at the garage and switch motors…That poor sod…maybe I stop…after all, it’s only a dummy run.

OK…the boys will understand when I explain. Road was wet ‘n slimy. Not my fault it drizzles. Tyres ain’t the best neither. Lousy weather! Yeah, ‘course I can handle a rotten skid, but this geezer…why did he ‘ave to be there? Gray’s Inn road’s bloody wide enough for the both of us…he could ‘ave swerved…No, I was over on ’is side, he ‘ad no time…wonder if he’s badly hurt…took quite a smack...must ‘ave sent him flying! Sorry, mate!... Now we can’t use this motor…must be dented a bit…might ‘ave to nick another somewhere!… Just gone seven, no one around this time so hope nobody seen it…watch this crossing!... but then no one to help ‘im neither…well, I could go back to see…Whaat??...Christ, no! Ambulance, the Law… No!...Sorry chum! That’s it, can’t do it! I’ll explain it all to the boys…they’ll be hoppin’ mad!"

************

She had always started her shift at 7.30 in the morning, an hour earlier than all the other employees at the Global Assurance Partnership, a large international insurance company in Gray’s Inn Road. She was their Information Technology wizard. Her official job title was

I.T. Project Manager - the ‘IT-girl’ as they jokingly referred to her in the office. In truth, though, Toni Sadler was the antithesis of the flamboyant celebrity-type; rather one with a serene beauty. She wore her streaky blonde, silky hair parted slightly right of centre. Her deeply set blue eyes framed by well-defined, strong eyebrows. Part of her popularity and success, equally on the social and professional level, was the direct eye contact when talking or listening, with that slight ‘interested-in-you’ tilt of the head - a magnet to the male eye. To her genuinely engaging smile the positive response of others was always a foregone conclusion.

She also acted as internal computer network Administrator, having effective control over all the computer terminals in the Company. Hence her early shift to check and ensure the system’s smooth operation for the day ahead . For her 25 years of age, career-wise she had done well since leaving Leicester University, where she took a Masters Degree in Communications and Electronic Engineering. This post was her first job straight after graduation. Within a mere seven months of joining Global Assurance, she was summoned to the Managing Director’s office and it was put to her that in early recognition of her evident leadership qualities and technical know-how she could apply for the newly vacant position of Project Manager. Despite competing with two external applicants, her appointment was largely a formality. Even her longer serving peers in the company acknowledged her suitability and did not resent the leapfrogging move. Her equanimity, cool head and instinctive pertinent judgement had earned her their respect.

The working hours that went with this dream promotion suited her perfectly. She could leave by half past four in the afternoon, avoiding the rush hour at both ends of her working day. So today, Friday, she could begin her weekend in good time to prepare for a trip to the Cotswolds with boyfriend Brian, regardless of the capricious April weather.

In two weeks’ time the Easter week-end rush would begin and she was not prepared to fight it out with those ‘it’s-Bank Holiday-and-I’m-going-to-enjoy-myself-if-it-kills-me!’- type of compulsive holidayers, wasting precious time at airports, seaports, motorways, only to arrive and bump into everyone they had tried to get away from.

Reaching the top of the stairs from Chancery Lane underground station, Toni took a tentative glance upwards. It was the darkest grey colour the leaden sky could muster and it did not bode well for the rest of the day either. With a slight toss of her hair, she opened her umbrella. What a way to start a week-end she thought, but we can’t let anything spoil it. Gloucestershire, defiantly here we come! The main thing is to be away from it all.

It was a quarter past seven. From the top of the stairs she turned towards the corner of High Holborn and Gray’s Inn Road, her high heels resounding with energy in the morning silence.

Then round the corner to the right, directly into Gray’s Inn Road. About fifty meters down that road, lay a bicycle, half on the pavement, with a badly twisted front wheel and a buckled frame. She saw a man lying partly on the pavement, with his legs over the gutter, slumped against the double telephone kiosk, motionless. His safety helmet lay several meters away on the wide pavement, just in front of the Moss Bros. menswear shop entrance. She began running towards the man and reaching him she noticed some blood, soaked through the wet right trouser leg. He had a plastic poncho over his upper body. Underneath it he was dressed in a dark grey suit, light blue shirt, red-black striped tie and there was a briefcase on a belt, still wrapped around his waist. She glanced at his face. His head was leaning against the side of the telephone booth, eyes closed, and his lips slightly parted. He looked pale. A couple of strands of wet, dark blond hair were washed over his forehead but there was no sign of any facial injury. He appeared to be in his late twenties to early thirties.

I say, can you hear me?, she asked squatting down and holding the umbrella over him whilst, with her other hand, gently trying to lift his tilted head away from the metal pane - maybe there was an injury on the other side of the head. There was no response. She slowly leaned his head back and got hold of his wrist, feeling for the pulse. It was a relief to feel a definite throbbing and he seemed to be breathing normally. At that point she looked around for help, but the street was still deserted. From her handbag she produced a mobile phone and called the Emergency Services for an Ambulance, then the Police who took details, including hers, over the line and instructed her to stay around until a patrol car arrived. They wanted her as a witness. She had no choice. Keeping the umbrella over the cyclist, she squatted down again, moved herself closer to him as much as was possible under the only protection from the rain and settled down to wait.

Like it or not, she was now involved.

************

Where are you going on your honeymoon, Allie?, asked one of the girls at the cosmetics counter.

For the umpteenth time, why don’t you accept that I want to keep it a secret? Alisa retorted with a vexed expression. Though this was the first time that Chrissie herself posed the question, Alisa was fed up by now as just about everyone on the ground floor of Whitneys department store had tried to cajole her into spilling it out. In a way, though, a bit of her also wanted to tease everyone at work. Let them keep guessing! In truth, she was not quite certain of the honeymoon destination yet. She and Craig still had time to choose from three different ideas that were floated about with both his and her parents. First, the wedding arrangements had to be finalised, the big day still being just over three months away. To others she may have appeared calm about it all. Inwardly, though, she could sometimes hardly contain herself, repeating the name: Mrs Chapman…Mrs Alisa Chapman! For her, it definitely had a better ring than Alisa Beedham, her maiden name. Craig and Alisa Chapman.

She even contemplated a search, after the wedding, for a personalised number-plate for her ‘cutie’ BMW Mini, incorporating the initials of her full name, Alisa Barbara Chapman - ABC. What a scoop it would be! Was she a bit of a snob? Yes, sure! She did not see much wrong with that. Appearances are important, she often advocated. Always wear or do something that sets you apart from the ‘plebs down there’, it does matter how people see you. She learned that from her parents who had lived by the same principle. Although they had now moved up to Scotland, out of immediate reach, they still kept pointing that invisible remote control at her. Even back in her school days, other girls regarded her as the ‘princess’ of the class and despite the uniform they all had to wear, she had always altered her apparel somehow. To be just that bit different. Here, in the beauty business, of course, looks were paramount. She considered herself actually modelling as well as selling these cosmetics products. Her long, straight auburn hair cascaded down symmetrically on either side, framing her oval face, then continued well below her shoulders and was expertly and expensively cut. She would carefully and thoroughly brush it at least three times a day, having a not so secret love affair with the mirror. When turning her head to one side or the other, she would rather turn the whole upper body, lest the perfectly shouldered hair should be ruffled. She could not be regarded as expressly beautiful, though with the help of the generously ‘trowelled-on’ make-up and always a daring hemline she had hardly ever failed to turn heads. With religious regularity, she attended the fashionable and expensive Highgate Health Club, near the apartment that she shared with Craig. The result was a slim, though not very curvaceous figure.

In her relationship with Craig, too, everything seemed to be ‘correct’. Craig was thirty-two and she was twenty-six - just the ‘right’ age gap. Craig had a prestigious job at one of the best-known London banks: deputy manager of the International Commercial Credit Bank on Ludgate Hill. Although his position did not command a phenomenal salary, for Alisa the impressive job title was what mattered. My fiancé’s a bank manager in the City, she used to flick the remark casually into a conversation, expecting – and often getting - a small gasp of wonderment. More than that, Craig would stand to inherit a fair fortune upon his parents’ demise, being the only offspring. His father, Rex, had sold five restaurants and two hotels after deciding he had had enough of the hassle and responsibility of heading his medium-sized catering ‘empire’, with an easy retirement beckoning. As Craig had long before declared no interest whatsoever in the hospitality business, most of Chapman Senior’s financial investments were being managed by the bank Craig worked in, waiting to be claimed upon Rex’s passing. So for Alisa, would it be a rosy future with Craig? Absolutely! When they first met, she knew she was just one of Craig’s female acquaintances, but a bit of pushing here and shoving there, she soon secured pole position in the line of ‘would-be’s’.

It was just under half an hour before opening time in the department store and she was still arranging the displays, quite pleased with herself how she fended off Chrissie’s ‘intrusion’ into her thinly guarded private life, when the store’s public address system interrupted her thoughts with a preamble of an electronic jingle:

Attention, please. Could Alisa Beedham go to the manager’s office…I repeat: Alisa Beedham please go to the Manager’s office. Thank you!

Aah!...are you in for a raise, Allie? teased Lorraine, the senior sales consultant, wearing a wry smile. They were all titled ‘sales consultants’ these days, to enhance self-esteem.

I have no idea…but I don’t like it. Just a bad feeling, I guess muttered Alisa.

Why should it be anything to worry about? said Lorraine, I’m sure everything’s fine.

Nevertheless, a mixture of unease and curiosity came over Alisa. You don’t get called to see the manager every day. She hastened her steps to the lift. The manager’s office was on the fifth floor. The office door was slightly ajar. She walked in, forgetting to knock. Without offering her a seat the manager, with a sombre expression, came straight to the point.

Oh, Miss Beedham, hello. I’m afraid, there has been a call from the Police about your fiancé and they said that…

Oh no!...He’s not… cut in Alisa, her voice barely audible, while she felt her legs giving way and she slumped into the chair in front of the manager’s desk.

No, it’s not that serious. Apparently, he’s been involved in an accident and they took him to Euston General Hospital.

What happened? whimpered Alisa.

I don’t know. I’m sorry, that’s all they said, adding that you could find out more at the hospital. So, if you wish, please take the rest of the day off, I will arrange the formalities with Human Resources. Incidentally, rest assured, it’s company policy that in special circumstances we can give our employees up to two weeks discretionary compassionate leave. So, when you find out more, let us know and we will take it from there.

"Thank you very much. How did the police know where to find

They didn’t say…must have found some papers and addresses on him, so his family, too, must have been notified by now.

Thank you again, I think I’ll go straight to the hospital!, muttered Alisa, dejected and teary eyed, hurrying out of the office.

************

D’ya realise what you done, you arsehole? thundered the big man at the top of his raspy voice. Its echo bounced between the walls of the spacious garage under the York Way railway arches, behind King’s Cross station. The garage owner, Vic, cowered like a chided minor before his parent.

Now you really screwed it all up, didn’ya?...Bloody oaf! I’d ‘ave a good mind to rough yer up ‘ere and now!...call yerself a driver?...You shmock! Dave Oddie continued the tirade: Now we’ll ‘ave to shelve it all and lie low for a while!... Anyway, ‘ope at least you didn’t kill ‘im…how bad was he?...’course you didn’t stop, how would ya know? I already gave you eight hundred smackers, right? To get us away when we needed, right?...and promised more after the job, right? You gonna ‘ave to do be’er than that before ya get more! Get my drift?

Vic could only keep nodding without a word. Dave was right. How could he argue? With his driving skills he should have managed such a bad skid better, even on a wet road!

The ‘bank job’ was planned for the long Easter weekend in two weeks time. Dave was the ‘governor’. He hatched the basic idea of helping themselves to some of the liquid assets of the ICC Bank on Ludgate Hill. He carefully picked the other three to help him carry out the raid. They were already known in the ‘trade’ for their special skills, which earned them pertinent nicknames.

Oddie himself was known as Bouncer, a forty five-year-old behemoth, two metres tall ex-marine, turned criminal, with a fair knowledge of electronics. Between ‘jobs’ he was a ‘respectable’ part-time personal trainer at the BodyForce fitness club in Soho. Naturally, having had free access to the club’s equipment he also kept his own physique well pumped up. His biceps were the size of other people’s thighs. His bullneck supported a close shaven, moonshine head, with a protruding square ashtray of a chin, sporting a permanent ‘designer stubble’. In his book, that unshaven look could drive women insane with sexual desire, when seen in combination with his mountainous muscles. Because of habitual visits to his favourite tattoo artist, the true skin colour was simply invisible on his arms, chest and neck, as he had tattoos covered by other tattoos. The end result in everyone else’s reality was an atavistic, Britannic version of the Yeti.

At the fitness club the guys simply referred to him as Jurassic Dave. He purposely cultivated this tough, fearsome image, complete with various trophies of body piercing. For him this was the way to earn respect among other members of the tribe. According to the now compromised plans, he would have been ‘dealing with’ the bank’s security equipment and safe, plus of course do the rough stuff should there be any resistance.

Then there was Darren ‘the Posh’ Brock who could charm the patterns off a wallpaper or the pants off the gentler sex if he put his mind to it. A natural chameleonic ‘con artist’. Although by birth a cockney, he was an instinctive mimic with an Oscar-winning imitative gift. He could put on any accent: posh English, Scottish, Geordie, Scouse, Irish, Australian, South African or any other nationality, at will. He was good looking, of average height and build, appearing less than his thirty-six years. Vis-à-vis the opposite sex, he was highly predatory by definition, suffering from a severe case of narcissism. This time, his role would be to hover around as an innocent passer-by, or a respectable looking, potential customer of the bank during the couple of days preceding the raid. He would ‘suss out’ anything sussable and report back. In whatever role, he could also be creating a distraction wherever it was needed.

The third member of this illustrious quartet was Max Korensky of Polish extraction, but born in Britain some forty years ago. A tall, wiry man with a pale complexion, hollow cheeks, deep-set eyes, long dark hair licked straight back, flatly sticking to his scalp, then tied in a ponytail. He was revered in the underworld as a weapons expert, at the same time feared because of his unpredictable temper. Anyone watching him handle a firearm, would sense in him a kinship with a musician about to bring forth soothing melodies from his instrument. He would almost sexually fondle, rather than handle, a shotgun or handgun with long, slim fingers that might surely slither to the trigger at any moment. Known in the business as ‘the Psycho’, one would prefer to have him on the ‘home side’ rather than with the opposition. He was supposed to be on guard during the raid and would only switch into ‘firearm mode’ as a very last resort, if they had no other way out. A kind of ultimate insurance policy.

Finally, now at the butt end of Bouncer’s rage, was the unfortunate driver, twenty-five-year-old Vic whose task was to get the party safely away from the intended crime scene, as fast as possible. Although the Farringdon Street - Farringdon Road was a more direct way from Ludgate Hill to King’s Cross, he deliberately opted for an escape plan, taking instead the Fleet Street-Chancery Lane-Gray’s Inn Road route. Fewer traffic lights to jump and maybe fewer potential witnesses. Vic was a boisterous, rotund little action man , who began his working life as a car mechanic. Eighteen months earlier he had a lucky but relatively modest Lottery win of some £64,000, part of which he had spent on setting up this garage beneath the arches.

First of all, though, he purchased a much coveted and cherished, supercharged 1987 Chevrolet Corvette Stingray. Once a week he would take it to Lydden Motor Racing Circuit near Canterbury in Kent, where he could shake off the shackles of the Road Traffic Act and be himself, supreme hot-rodding: maximum throttle, maximum engine ‘revs.’, extreme tyre-burning, dangerous cornering and spinning. The rest of his winnings quickly evaporated through losing bets on greyhound racing at the Walthamstow Stadium, splashing out on girls of dubious repute, slipping large denomination banknotes into the scant stage bikinis of nightclub lap- and pole dancers - in the hope of after-club-hours ‘benefits’ - and lots of booze. Now, almost at the end of his winnings, with only £3 - 4,000 and this garage with its large overheads, he needed an injection of new funds, so he was an easy recruit for this ‘mission’. Bouncer, however, selected him not merely because of his eagerness to join, but he knew that Vic was rather handy at the wheel. In fact that is what had earned him the nickname ‘Kimi’ after the Finnish ace Formula One driver, Kimi Räikönnen. Small wonder, then, that Bouncer was so furious about Kimi’s mishandling of the getaway car.

For Bouncer, the priority now was to dispose of the evidence. The collision with the bicycle and cyclist made a large dent on the driver’s door. There was a trace of some silver paint rubbed on the car’s own red spray – obviously from the bicycle frame. The car needed a new door, a complete re-spray in a different colour, new tyres and new, false number plates.

You’re gonna do it all, Kim… said Bouncer, …and out of your own pocket, mate! The dosh I gave you up front should nearly cover it, son…innit?

He had lowered his voice now, yet Kimi still sensed the seething menace beneath the surface. Slick, smart Posh listened with resignation. His Caribbean cruise with his latest female conquest will damn well have to be put on ice – but will she wait?, he asked himself...well, there’s always another, he assured himself instantly with his unabated self-confidence. For a moment no one said a word.

Right then!...’ere’s what we do, said Bouncer, breaking the pregnant silence,

"as I said, we lie low for a while. Nobody shows his face anywhere near the bank, nobody breathes a word about any of this in company. Kimi, you vanish from London for a month

or so…"

Okay, then how do I conjure up a new motor out of this? interrupted Kimi, pointing at the damaged car.

Dunno, we’ll deal with that later…if we need another jam jar in a hurry, you can nick it, can’t yer? Then you soup it up, right?

Sure, that’s what I thought as I was driving back ‘ere.

Well, you’ll ‘ave plenty of time to think about it, won’t ya…you plonker?...But you disappear, ‘cos I know Psycho will be in a nasty mood when he finds out. I had trouble talking ‘im into this one as it is. Now he might even get fed up and leave it altogever. I’ll try to ‘andle him. Look, sunshine, one way or another, you’re gonna ‘ave to make up for this! You owe it to all of us, you arsehole!...what are ya?

Posh came to Kimi’s rescue: Okay, Dave, leave him alone, it’s done now…we’re all in the same boat now...

Yeah, the Titanic, more like!, retorted Dave the Bouncer.

With that, still fuming, he stormed out of the garage together with Darren the Posh, leaving Vic the Kimi alone with the damaged red,’souped-up’ Vauxhall Cavalier. After the door slammed, and he was sure Bouncer could not hear him, he said sod you, tosser!

For the moment, Vic decided to move the vehicle to the very back of the garage and wrapped a silver plastic cover around it, then parked two more cars in front of it to draw attention away from the ‘hot’ vehicle. Bouncer’s ‘friendly advice’ was still echoing in his ears: Kimi, you vanish from London for a month or so…. Persistent butterflies in his stomach kept ceaselessly and uncomfortably reminding him of the morning’s unfinished business with the Law. The