No Time

By Denis Leeman

Wise men say that time is an illusion, and in this latest book from the pen of international author Denis Leeman, a world-renowned group of scientists discover that although this is true, there’s much more to it than that. Delving into the mysterious world of quantum science, they encounter the possibility that there is no such thing as death and that reality is a continuous sequence of events with no beginning and no end. Could they have proved the existence of eternal life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Denis Leeman
• Release date: Dec 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781910100806

Book preview

Prologue

The title of this book may create a smile, as we all know that time does exist: we set our clocks with it; we work and earn our living by regulating our efforts to a time schedule. Buses, trains and aircraft are governed by it; in fact our whole lives and the world we live in exist within its domain. Well that’s how we see it; or is that only how we are designed to see it?

The universe is considered to be infinite by many eminent people of science, and these same people estimate its age at between thirteen and a half and fifteen billion years. The start, they say, was a big bang that created it from nothing; easy way out, eh? This started it on its way to --- well they don’t really know where, but some of them say it reaches a limit then, like a piece of elastic, it comes flying back out of the void to whence it originated. Well, all this may be so, or it may be that our universe is only one of billions, or even the only one existing on billions of planes in a quantum mode cosmos where time is but the constant recreation of set events. This book is based on the latter hypothesis: a world where the unbelievable is fact, where some people can evolve to such a mentally capable state as to be able to traverse the dimensional realms of creativity. In fact, even to a higher state than that, to a realm of existence where everything experienced by the observer is in fact created by them. Yes, a rather frightening premise to think that you are the only person alive and existing in a world completely on your own; everything and everybody around you is simply a figment of your own imagination. I admit this sounds bizarre, but look at it from another direction: what if this scenario is correct but we are only alone within our own cocoon of existence and there are millions of other living bodies around us, all coexisting in corresponding dimensions in a quantum mode state. This is just about impossible even to imagine, but that doesn’t mean that it’s an absolute impossibility. Just think of the all-consuming black hole, which is thought to be of infinite depth and volume but which still hovers within the vacuum of space surrounded by other bodies.

Then within this story comes the genius professor, Wilber Peanut, who mysteriously disappeared when alone on a fishing trip out in the wild countryside leaving his baffling theory behind for others to prove. Within this mind-blowing statement he proclaims that each one of us is the sole inhabitant of the universe, and everything else is a figment of our individual imagination. However, he also allows everybody else existence, because everyone is in the same position: a quantum superposition. This is a mutable state of existence where a singular, or person, can be in a complete single form but in two places, or conceivably thousands of places, at the same time.

However, don’t fret, we must be within an event of some sort or you wouldn’t be reading this now. Or perhaps this is part of your illusionary creation; these words and even I, their author, may only be figments of your imagination – or perhaps mine. Who knows?

Chapter 1

September 1939

He lay there in the mud, dazed, under a street lamp, face down in a pool of dirty rainwater, his new suit sodden, and his head throbbing and wondering what the hell had hit him. Slowly he took stock of his situation. Hunching onto his elbows, his vision still blurred, he struggled to get to his feet, hanging on to the lamp post. Glancing around, he heard the clicking heels of feminine footsteps approaching. He braced himself. ‘Where the fuck am I?’ he mumbled.

Catching sight of him, the woman quickened her step. ‘Ronny, where the devil have you been? Mum sent me to look for yo –’ She froze seeing him hanging there hardly able to stand. ‘Darling!’ she screeched, throwing her arms around him. ‘You’re bleeding.’

Staring down into her anxious face by the bright light cast from the gas lamp, the young chap gradually regained his composure. ‘My God,’ he gasped. My God, I must be dead. Is it really you, Gloria?’ he said almost in a whisper.

Ronny’s injury didn’t seem as bad as she’d first thought so she grabbed his arm, sniffing his breath for beer. ‘Come on, you silly bugger. Mum’s had the table laid for the last half hour for evening meal, and then we’ve got to go up to St Paul’s to see the priest, don’t forget.’

’Priest?’ he mumbled. ‘What priest and what for?’

‘Father O’Connell about our wedding plans; you know we’re getting wed at the weekend,’ she snapped. ‘What the hell’s wrong with you, Ronny?’ she asked as they hurried along. ‘You’re acting drunk but you don’t smell of it. You didn’t bang your head when you fell, did you?’

‘Some bugger hit me from behind, I think,’ he replied. ‘I didn’t know much about it really until I came round and found myself down on the floor.’

‘You could have been there for ages, nobody comes up this way much at night,’ she said. ‘Do you think you should go see Dr Fletcher? You might be concussed.’

‘Dr Fletcher?’ he repeated. ‘I thought he got killed in that smash-up on the A1?’

Gloria stopped and peered into his face, wondering if he’d sustained a head injury. ‘He’s not dead, Ron, and I don’t remember any smash-up. When was it?’ she probed.

He shook his head. ‘Well, I don’t know. The thought came out of nowhere.’ Smiling, he put his arm around her. ‘Bugger it, love, it must have been that clout I’ve just had. Let’s get off to your mum’s. I’ll be okay when I get some of her meat dumplings down me.’

Feeling relieved she laughed. ‘I don’t know, Ronny Mc Donald, I think you’ve been having me on, you bugger. They’ll sort you out when they get you in the RAF next week,’ she said as they went through the wicker gate into her mother’s front garden.

When they entered the little stone cottage they were met by a delightful smell of cooking, and a voice called out, ‘Have you found him, Gloria?’ The stout little woman who appeared from the kitchen said, ‘About time too, dinner’s been ready ages.’ Then her pink friendly face collapsed in on itself when she noticed the dried blood on Ron’s forehead. ‘Bloody hell, lad,’ she gasped. ‘What happened?’

Gloria quickly told her the story. ‘Hit from behind? That sounds like one of them bloody Nazi tricks,’ she said angrily. ‘Were you robbed, Ronny?’

He felt for his wallet in his inside jacket pocket and hastily looked inside. ‘No, there was only that ten bob note Dad gave me for when I go to the training camp and it’s still there,’ he said, holding it open to show them both. ‘Anyway, Hilda, there’s not much chance of an invasion yet. The war has only been on for just over a week,’ he joked.

‘I don’t trust that bloody Hitler, look how he lied to Mister Chamberlain.’ She shook her head. ‘He even signed a bit of paper promising there would be no war.’

‘Well, it was us that declared war, Hilda, not him.’

‘Yes, well, he deserved it,’ she snapped. ‘Mister Bottomley next door says we’ll finish the Nazi bastards off by Christmas, so who’s bothered?’ She went back to the kitchen to start serving the dinner.

‘Don’t worry, Hilda, I’ll sort the buggers out when I get in the RAF next Thursday,’ Ron said, chuckling.

***

‘Well, this is the final week’s training, Ginger. What job are you going to apply for when we pass out?’ Ron Mc Donald asked his mate as they sat in the NAAFI drinking tea.

‘Air mechanic,’ he replied without hesitation. ‘What about you?’

‘Aircrew, mate,’ Ron smirked. ‘I want to be there in the action where I can really get at the buggers.’

‘Huh, some hope you’ve got,’ Ginger chuckled. ‘You won’t stand a chance, Ron. You have to have rank to get in that mob.’

‘Do you want to bet on it?’ Ron replied seriously.

‘Aye, I’ll bet you a tanner, but how are you so sure about it?’

‘I just have a feeling.’ He shrugged. ‘I made an appointment to go into the careers office this afternoon, so watch out – I’ll be after you for my winnings at tea time.’

Sitting at one of the long dining tables in the airmen’s mess half way through his tea time meal of sausage and chips, Ginger caught sight of his mate Ron coming towards him, grinning from ear to ear and holding out his hand. ‘Come on, you bugger, pay up,’ he said.

‘Did you get Aircrew then?’ Ginger asked open-mouthed. ‘But how were you so sure about it? You must be bloody psychic,’ he said shaking his head as he felt in his pocket for Ron’s winnings.

‘Aye, and I got promotion to corporal in the bargain,’ he said snootily.

‘Well, I don’t know how you’ve done it, Ron,’ Ginger said as he passed over his winnings. ‘Straight from initial training to bomber pilot in a month. So when do you start your flying training?’

‘Straight away, in the morning, it’s only a two-day course because they’re so short of air crew, you know. I’ll be on active service within a week,’ he said proudly.

‘A two-day course to fly a fucking great Halifax bomber full of high explosive bombs,’ he spluttered. ‘They must be desperate for pilots.’

‘I’m not going as a pilot, you silly bugger, that course takes months. I’m the security man, rear gunner. The sergeant at the careers office said it’s the most responsible job on the kite watching the back end.’

Ginger said, ‘Aye, he would because no bugger wants that job, rear gunner. They call that poor bloke Tail-end Charley and it’s the most dangerous job on the plane. They say you’re lucky to survive more than a couple of trips, the enemy fighters make straight for the tail gunner as they come up behind.’

‘That doesn’t bother me, mate,’ Ron replied defiantly. ‘The sergeant said I can have a change after a month’s flying anyway.’

‘If you last that long.’

‘Don’t you fret, mate, I will. I can look after myself. But as I said it’s only for a month then I can have the job I wanted in the first place.’

‘What’s that: pilot?’

‘Navigator, the job I first applied for, but that sergeant said everybody starts off as tail gunner for a month to get used to flying.’

‘Aye, because they can’t get any and he knows not many of the poor buggers that do take it on last a fucking month. Anyway,’ he went on, looking at Ron’s six foot, wide-shouldered, hard man appearance, ‘do you realise that to take the Navigator course you’ve got to be an expert at maths? In fact you’ve got to be as good as a fucking accountant.’ He laughed.

‘I am an accountant,’ Ron replied indignantly. ‘Well, I was before being called up for the bloody war. I passed my university course over a year back.’

‘Did you?’ Ginger replied, looking down at his boots.

***

The war was warming up on the continent and the casualties mounting in Bomber Command. Within a week Ronald Mc Donald was in the air on his first mission. His big frame squeezed into the tiny compartment on the tail end of the Halifax bomber immediately gave him a feeling of claustrophobia but he wasn’t going to let his comrades know that as he settled himself down behind the powerful automatic cannon set ready for action. No, he was more than ready to defend his position against the enemy, he had no fear, he knew he would last out the month and get made navigator.

***

Isolated in his solitary little cocoon in the tail end of the big bomber, Ron felt the adrenaline begin to flow as he began adjusting his seat and strapping himself to it. Setting his powerful weapon in action mode he then sat staring out through the transparent walls of his tiny abode, awaiting take off. He could see out there on the huge airfield fore and aft, row upon row of similar aircraft, over a hundred, manoeuvring into groups, aligning in tandem, revving their engines as they slowly crept forward, ready to take to the skies.

‘All crew prepare for take-off,’ Pilot Officer Steve Tasker’s voice directed on the intercom as they reached the head of the line; then they were in the air on the tail of the craft in front.

‘I don’t know what all the bloody fuss is about with this job,’ Ron said to himself, listening in to all the activity going on within the craft as they sped along in the middle of the tight formation of bombers. It’s the easiest job on the bloody kite, he thought, aligning his weapon ready for action; all I have to do is sit here and shoot the bastards down.’ He chuckled to himself.

A couple of hours later the group were met with a barrage of anti-aircraft fire from below as they neared the target area.

When the captain requested a status report, each member of the crew came back with an A-OK. Within minutes the order came through: ‘Approaching target, prepare for bomb discharge,’ and almost immediately a cold draft swept through the plane as the bomb doors opened. The plane lurched as the immense weight of their explosive cargo was released.

It was then Ron saw unfriendly aircraft approaching fast from behind. Time for his work to begin, he thought, setting his sights, his finger on the firing button.

‘Two Messerschmitt 109 fighters coming up fast from the rear, sir,’ he called out as he released his first salvo, sending the first one plunging away in flames. ‘One destroyed, sir,’ he added as he continued firing at the second fighter, which overtook them and began climbing. It was then Ron noticed two shell holes in the side of their bomber. ‘We’ve been hit, sir,’ he called out. ‘Minor damage to port side.’

As he was reporting, the second Messerschmitt gained height and looped over backwards, tearing up behind again, cannons blazing. Sitting firm in his seat Ron returned the fire with clenched teeth until he saw the Messerschmitt burst into flame and disintegrate. Simultaneously, his little cubicle shattered and he felt the violent impact as the cannon shells from the fighter shattered the tail end of the big Halifax bomber. Disorientated, Ron lay flat on his back struggling to gather his senses, the wind screaming in through the holes in the fuselage. ‘We’ve been hit,’ he heard the captain say through his headphones. ‘Any casualties?’

‘Further damage to tail end, sir,’ Ron managed to say into his mouthpiece. ‘Rear end cannon out of action, sir; second fighter destroyed,’ he added.

Then he heard someone else call out: ‘Two portside engines out of action, sir.’

Seeing no point in staying at his post Ron began making his way back into the main part of the fuselage, taking stock of the damage as he went. The attack had been so fierce that it was a miracle the entire tail end hadn’t been blown clean off, him along with it.

Passing two of his crew-mates lying dead, he eventually reached the cockpit, where he saw the captain struggling to keep the damaged craft in the air, his co-pilot slumped down in his seat unconscious. It appeared that the volley of shells from the doomed fighter had penetrated the length of the plane. Suddenly the big bomber gave a lurch as it fought to remain aloft.

‘Losing height, chaps,’ the captain yelled. ‘All hands bail out.’

As the others tumbled out of the open door, Ron remained alongside the young captain who was still struggling to keep on course. Glancing out at the two smoking engines, he yelled, ‘Go on, McDonald, get your arse out of here. We could blow up at any second.’

‘But what are you going to do, sir?’ Ron asked.

‘I’m sticking with the plane, on the off chance I might be lucky and get her back, but there’s not much hope of that. Go on, get out, man,’ he ordered.

‘I’m staying with you if I may, sir. We’ll get her home, I’m quite sure of that,’ Ron replied confidently.

‘Please yourself but you’re a silly bugger, McDonald. Look,’ he nodded through the side widow, ‘there’s a squadron of 109 fighters out there; they’re knocking our chaps out of the air like ninepins.’

‘Yes, they’re enjoying the easy kill, sir,’ Ron said, ‘so I think if you dropped altitude as low as possible below our main squadron, they would be so busy with them they might just not notice our manoeuvre.’

‘Could work,’ the skipper replied, ‘but what about the ground fire?’

‘I’ve just glanced at the navigational sheet, sir, and according to that we’re just about to cross the coastline so there won’t be any.’

Dropping out of the main group like a stone at fifteen thousand feet they were soon engulfed in the thick low-lying cloud banks coming in from the sea.

‘You were right, McDonald,’ the skipper said. ‘But how the hell did you manage to understand those bloody navigator’s charts? They’re a complete mystery to me.’ He chuckled.

‘That’s the job I hope to get eventually, sir,’ Ron replied. ‘I have a first in mathematics and I was an accountant before I joined this lot.’

‘What a bloody waste putting you as Tail-end Charley,’ the skipper said glancing up at Ron. ‘I’ll have a word with the chief if we manage to get back alive. You can take Sergeant Black’s place.’ He nodded towards a body on the floor behind them. ‘God rest his soul.’

***

The atmosphere was tense as Ron followed Pilot Officer Tasker into the Wing Commander’s office the following morning for debriefing.

‘First I’d like to compliment you, Pilot Officer Tasker, for getting your badly damaged aircraft back to us,’ the Wingco said, ‘and also you, Corporal McDonald, for your contribution and dedication to duty.’ He smiled thinly. ‘However, according to the engineer’s official report that I have just received, there seems to be some sort of mystery regarding the enemy plane that you shot down, Corporal.’ He frowned, staring at Ron.

‘Mystery? I don’t understand, sir, the offensive was quite ordinary; the fighter came at us from behind and I gave him all the fire I had and he went down.’

‘Yes, we realise that,’ he said, ‘but can you explain how you were at the back of your cubicle on the floor when you shot him down?’

Ron concentrated, trying to remember the exact sequence of events. ‘Well yes, I did find myself on the floor, sir, but that was a mystery to me; I must have jumped out of my seat or got knocked out as I fired,’ he said shaking his head.

‘A very plausible assumption, Corporal, but impossible, I’m afraid. Your seat straps were still fully fastened, you see, as if you were still sitting there, so you couldn’t possibly have got out of your seat. What’s more, there were holes where four shells passed through the back of your seat, which had you been there would undoubtedly have killed you. So, as you say, it is indeed a mystery, but one with a good ending, as you escaped being killed.’ The Wing Commander smiled then, but it looked more than a little strained, Ron thought.

Chapter 2

A few months later

Did you have a good leave, Sergeant McDonald?’ Pilot Officer Tasker asked as the crew lumbered over to their waiting aircraft, which stood silently on the tarmac amongst fifty others, all primed and loaded for the nightly mission over Germany.

‘Leave, did you say, skipper?’ Ron laughed. ‘Forty-eight hours? No sooner get home and take my coat off than it’s time to come back.’

‘Well hasn’t anybody told you, there’s a war on?’ the skipper chuckled as he led the way climbing up into the plane. ‘And how’s the wife, Ron?’ he asked.

Plonking his arse down on the hard seat behind the tiny table bearing the navigator’s equipment, Ron said proudly, ‘She had a little boy last night – well, not so little, ten pound six ounces.’

The skipper and several of the lads in earshot called out their congratulations. ‘And what are you going to call him?’ one of them asked.

‘The wife wants Lesley,’ he huffed, ‘but I said Charley was more a man’s name,’ he said. Then suddenly he went silent, sitting up straight in his seat staring ahead at the wall, his face contorted.

The others looked at him for a moment. ‘Are you okay, Ron?’ one of them asked, but Ron made no reply and continued to stare at nothing.

Turning in his seat the skipper said, ‘What’s up, Ron, are you feeling okay?’

He made no reply for a further few seconds then relaxing he looked him in the eyes and said almost in a whisper, ‘I think this is it, skipper; I can’t see us coming back tonight.’

‘Come on, Ron,’ the skipper said lightly, ‘I realise you must have a lot on your mind with the missus, but this is no time to get depressed. We’ve got a job to do.’

***

The hit came almost immediately after the bomb load had been released. There was an almighty impact on the undercarriage of the plane and a swish as the cold air at ten thousand feet gushed into the stricken craft and Ron, stunned, felt himself falling. It must have lasted only a few seconds but seemed longer as he relaxed with the icy wind rushing past him; then his senses alerted. Expecting to hit the ground at any moment, he groped feverishly for the ripcord on his parachute, death approaching at over 120 mph. The impact on the plane had blown him out of the bomb doors with such force it had twisted the harness on the parachute to the side of his body, with the cord hanging behind it and almost out of reach. Still frantically struggling as he fell, his mind went to his newborn son who he might never see again. Then, as if by magic, the ring was in his hand. He yanked it hard and as the canopy bloomed out above him he lay back in the harness knowing he would live. However, what he didn’t realise was that in the incident several holes had been made in the material and he was descending at twice the safe speed, fast enough to break every bone in his body. When his body hit something, it bounced back, then dropped again onto the thick taut canvas top of a large military marquee and began rolling to the edge where it dropped ten feet to the ground, bundled up in the masses of material that was the canopy of his own parachute. Realising he’d just experienced a one-in-a-million miracle, he sat there on the grass unable to believe his luck. Or was it luck? He felt not; he didn’t know why but he felt his destiny was an inevitable sequence of set events. Then snapping out of his thoughts he realised it was raining, in fact it was scything down and he was wet through and there was the sound of loud, cheerful, inarticulate conversation coming from within the marquee. However, out here the field was deserted owing to the torrential rain; he realised by his surroundings that he must be on military premises and decided to make a getaway while the storm raged.

Jumping to his feet, he began gathering the piles of material that had been his parachute with the intention of hiding it somewhere out of sight and had just finished rolling it into a tight ball when a large black saloon car drew up on the track alongside him. Startled, he looked up and saw two men in grey uniforms climbing out. They came