The Space Between

By C J Brown

His life has spun out of control to the point where he believes his only option is to end it.
As he sits on a on a bridge, reflecting on what has brought him to this point and observing passers-by for signs of hope, he is assaulted. A knife stab penetrates his lungs and a second blow is aimed at his heart, striking a book he is carrying in his pocket - The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri.
Near death in ICU, and with no other clues as to his identity, staff refer to their patient as Dante. Although comatose, Dante is aware of his surroundings but has no recollection of his life or what led him to being on the bridge. He flatlines and staff attempt to revive him. Now, in this space between life and death he meets a humourous character named Cap who explains, cryptically, that there is a group of souls waiting to take the final journey to whatever their destination may be. Dante and Cap come to an agreement – in return for listening to secrets that they wish not to take with them to their graves, Dante will gain an insight into the circumstances of his life.
The subsequent stories follow the themes of the original Alighieri's first poem, Inferno. Beginning with the Lust and ending with the Treachery, each storyteller reveals a secret they have carried with them through their lives. As each story sparks a memory, "Dante" discovers more and more about the life he has decided to leave behind. Ultimately, after several attempts at resuscitation, and with the last dregs of life escaping him, he needs to decide whether or not he wants a second chance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C J Brown
• Release date: Sep 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463957684

Book preview

THE SPACE BETWEEN

By Christopher Brown

Copyright 2018 Christopher Brown

Smashwords Edition

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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

Thank you to my family for their encouragement and to my friends Peter, Donna and Jess for their helpful suggestions and editing (although I accept full responsibility for any enduring errors or confusion).

Table of Contents

The 1st Circle

Chapter 1: The Bridge

Chapter 2: The Valley of the Virtuous

The 2nd Circle

Chapter 3: Francesca and the Sin of Lust

Chapter 4: The Beautiful E

The 3rd Circle

Chapter 5: Kim and the Sin of Gluttony

Chapter 6: Where Up Is Down

The 4th Circle

Chapter 7: Theodore and the Sin of Avarice

Chapter 8: Service with Discretion

The 5th Circle

Chapter 9: Jack and the Sin of Wrath

Chapter 10: Whisky and Self-Pity

The 6th Circle

Chapter 11: Harry and the Sin of Heresy

Chapter 12: Mother Nature’s Angry Breath

The 7th Circle

Chapter 13: Charlie and the Sin of Violence

Chapter 14: A Thousand Candles

The 8th Circle

Chapter 15: Ellen and the Sin of Corruption

Chapter 16: The Book of Mortal Sinners

The 9th Circle

Chapter 17: June and the Sin of Treachery

Chapter 18: The Mountain with No Summit

The Journey of Yor Life

Chapter 19: The Song is Sung

Epilogue

Beyond The Abyss

Chapter 1: The Bridge

I know it’s a cold night because people on the bridge are wrapped up like fleecy Christmas gifts. It’s not New York for god’s sake. But all it takes is a bit of rain and out comes the winter kit. I can’t feel it though. Not the wet, not the cold. I’m numb, but not from the weather.

Christmas Eve late-night shopping. As if people didn’t know it was coming. When’s Christmas this year? What! Holy crap, I’d better get…. At least it looks like more people are crossing from the city side rather than heading towards it. Must be close to closing time. God, I’m tired.

I take a seat in the small pavilion, top centre of the pedestrian bridge and watch chatty families pass by with their overstuffed shopping bags. Grandparents holding grandchildren’s hands. A man calls over his shoulder to a group of tired carollers. Keep moving folks. Our song is sung, our bell is rung. I pick up a newspaper someone has left on the seat and look at the front page. Maybe I’m trying to find something uplifting. Something that makes me want to say, okay, I should head home and give it another shot. Maybe Larry is wrong and this hill I’m climbing does have a summit after all, and maybe there’s something better on the other side. Or maybe I’m just not ready to do what I came here to do.

Nursing Home Food Poisoning – Elderly residents rushed to hospital. Poor bastards. When you live that long you expect, no, you deserve, to go peacefully and painlessly in your sleep. Not to be flushed into oblivion in a sea of your own crap.

But that’s how The Croupier deals it up.

Okay, it’s easy to say don’t play. What’s that song say? Know when to walk away. And that would be good advice if the game were … a game. But when the game is real life there are limited ways of throwing your hand in. It can be done, though. Case in point, my mate Steve. A steady diet of drugs, alcohol and apathetic women … no, let me rephrase that, I am a writer after all. At least that’s what it says on my résumé. I’m the first to concede that actual evidence of writing being my profession is thin on the ground. Or on the paper. If my membership of that esteemed and elusive profession can be validated by notes for a novel, a handful of travel articles and occasional copywriting, then yes, I’m a writer. So, let me rephrase my summation of Steve’s last year as a living, breathing, albeit barely sentient resident of Mother Earth. A voracious, frenzied and unrelenting engorgement of barbiturates, booze and balloon-boobed bimbos. He started the year with a respectably mortgaged, inner-suburban house, a family, the promise of a partnership in his practice. He finished it an alley behind a 7-Eleven. And a needle in his arm.

Hard to imagine? I guess for some. But tonight, not for me. The flow of cyclists and foot traffic on the bridge is thinning to a trickle. A young man patiently walks with his elderly mother. It’s okay, Mum, there are plenty of cabs this time of night. A security guard in a yellow rain poncho slows and shines his torch in my face. The light over the seat is busted and pieces of glass are scattered around.

You okay, mate?

I use my hand to shield my eyes from the strong torchlight. All good, I lie.

He looks up at the broken light then takes out his phone. Bloody kids, he swears as he takes a photo of the light then one of the scattered glass around my feet. Had a jumper here a few months ago. A girl. We’ll have another one if they don’t fix these bloody lights. He continues his patrol but stops about twenty metres away and turns back to me. You sure you’re alright.

With bile rising from my gut, all I can manage is a weak thumbs-up.

Merry Christmas, he says, and he’s gone.

A jumper. What about wife, lover, daughter, sister, best friend, colleague, counsellor, confidante, dancer, comedienne? Surely she was at least some of these before jumper. Before she got so lost in the darkness, in the sadness, depression, withdrawal – these don’t just appear out of nowhere. Although their appetites and tastes might differ, they need to be fed just as much as joy and happiness and engagement.

Who did she leave behind? There’s always someone left to cry and wonder why they didn’t see the signs, didn’t pick up on the mood swings. There’s always someone left to ask ultimately unanswerable and self-abusive questions like What should I have done differently? Questions that lead only to a guilt that isn’t theirs to bear. Questions that have no answers but only follow-up questions spurred on by an angry remorse that digs a hole shored up by shame and filled in with a loneliness that makes it impossible to ever again let themselves grow close to another human being.

And life becomes a disoriented walkabout, in a forest, staring at the undergrowth, thinking about what they miss instead of looking to the tree tops for clues about how to escape.

Just as mine has. And the missing has whittled away at my life like an infinitely patient but dangerously distracted woodcarver who hasn’t realised that he’s pared the basswood down to nearly nothing and has taken off most of his fingers.

If the world were a casino and you wandered around you’d probably see a guy at the bar, directing lacrimal lamentations into his fifth definitely-last-one-for-the-road. He’s trying to work out where it all went wrong. What was the specific moment that his luck changed and his life became little more than a swirling, distorted reflection in the bottom of a glass? Sure, he smacked his girlfriend a bit but that’s all part and parcel of the of the passion that attracted them to each other in the first place, isn’t it? Besides, this is his jungle. He’s made to roar. He’s made to fight. And if he went too far he’d always apologise, eventually, put his hand up her skirt and swear things would be different, but she’d always do something else to set him off. Stupid bitch. But he’s working on a plan. He’s going to win her back, and if she knows what’s good for her she’ll do better next time around.

That guy – it wouldn’t be me.

At the blackjack table there’s a tuxedoed, loud-mouthed playboy with a young-enough-to-be-his-daughter playmate called, let’s see, Vegas, hanging off his left shoulder and her drunk doppelgänger, Skylah, off his right. The girls have ridden the train in from the outskirts as they always do, twice a week, checked their flats in at reception and squeezed their pedicured feet into fake Jimmy Choo stilettos. They’re not naturals though. They have to practise the lip-pouting and chest-heaving in front of the mirror for hours, but at least it helps with their student loans. Feeling lucky, playboy splits his ace and ten. Five black chips on the table reflect his intoxicated confidence. Experience tells him that it’s not a big risk. Nobody comes out ahead but his losses will be within budget, a budget that includes drinks for his two Little Red Riding Hoods, and, well whatever they’re up for after that. The night is still an inquisitive adolescent.

But no, that’s not me either.

At the roulette, a loose-tied public servant’s body odour betrays the fact that he’s come straight from the office. His phone rings to Another Life by I Know Leopard. I have to work late. I’ll be home in an hour… Yes, I know, but the sooner you hang up the sooner I can get out of here. Gotta go, the boss is coming. He looks around at the other players and rolls his eyes. Some see him for the fraud that he is but others nod, acknowledging the prison-pain of living with someone so emotionally precious and oh-god-so-attached. He wins on black then bets the balance on red.

No, not me either.

The carnival noise and lights of the poker machine alcove commands your attention. Over in the far corner a scruffy-haired, pale-faced, red-eyed, round-shouldered, alcoholic-work-in-progress hunches over his twenty-cent machine feeding the flashing monster one sad coin after another knowing that, with these titbits, the hungry beast will never be sated. His thoughts stretch no farther into the future than the next coin.

You’ve found me! One hand foreplaying with the one-armed bandit, the other cradling Johnny Walker. It gives me a satisfying sense of comfort and balance. Not only that, but while I drip-feed the unquenchable, electronic bastard I can indulge some of my other interests. Compulsions really. Survival skills. Developing ridiculous storylines. Creating impossible characters. Composing abusive emails to former colleagues. Deleting hate mail on a sober day; responding to it on the others. Rehearsing creative gaps in my CV. But mostly doing what I’m doing right now – talking to myself. About my day, my year, my life. What I was lucky enough to once have.

And what I miss.

So I sit at the poker-machine, feeding it until long after my pockets are empty and then at some point realise that I’ve shoved half my arm down its throat, and I’m sitting on a bridge. Thinking of the goddess, my thousand-candle wife, extinguished by Mother Nature’ angry breath. Thinking of my little boy torn from my arms by a man who vows he loves him more than the world itself. And missing them so much that I can’t feel the rain, or the cold. Missing them so much that I know, without their light and warmth in my life, this is as far as I can go.

Got a smoke? I half turn to see a shape emerge from the dark side of a wide, graffitied concrete pillar.

No, mate. Sorry.

The shape is taking slow steps towards me.

Give us ya phone then.

I realise that this is not going to be a friendly Christmas Eve exchange between strangers passing in the night. I feel something pressed into my back but deliberately fix my stare straight ahead, across the pathway, through the steel railing and beyond to the lights of the city that holds the river to its shape. What can he do that I haven’t already decided to do myself?

I reach into my jacket pocket.

Just put it on seat and piss off, says the shape. I hear the trembling voice of a drinker, the croak of a smoker and the anxiety of an addict. The smell of his homelessness, the taste his hopelessness, hang thick in the air.

Mate, no smokes, no phone, no wallet, but you’re welcome to what’s left of my courage. I take out the small bottle of 9 Circles, the cheapest bottom-shelf scotch I could get my hands on. All I need is one last swig and you can have the rest. As for pissing off, no can do. This is the last stop, my friend. I unscrew the lid and lift it to my lips. Abandon all hope, you who enter here.

I can’t taste the liquor as it washes past my tongue and down my throat. But it stings as it hits my belly. But no, that’s not the whisky. Something sharp tears through my ribcage and the wind in my lungs whooshes out like air from an untied balloon. I stand to face the shape. The kid can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen. His eyes are wide and wild.

I force a wry smile and mouth out a frothy, blood-soaked "Thanks".

The bridge spins. The city and the south bank of the river swap positions before the world turns on its side. My head cracks against the hard edge of the concrete seat.

Life is finally out of my control. Cold oxygen fills my lungs and coloured lights flash. Vague faces stare at me and there’s a sense of urgency in their tone. If I’m in heaven, the welcoming committee has clearly been caught a little off guard. I’ve always figured there’d be some probation period to be served, or at least an examination of my life to check out my character.

A tsunami alert is sounding in my head. That noise, turn it off!. I’m alright, let me up! Shine that light in my eyes again and I’ll shove it down your throat! I said turn it off. Why isn’t anyone listening to me?

In-bound with unconscious male patient. Back and head wounds. ETA five minutes. White lights flash past. Then more lights shining straight into my eyes. The security guard must be back. Pupils unresponsive.

Finally, the wailing stops and I feel myself being lifted up. I’ve been here before. The paintings on the walls, the faces that stare down at me. Familiar smells and sounds. Urgent voices. Snapped commands.

I can’t find a pulse. He’s crashed!

Get him to theatre! Now!

Chapter 2: The Valley of the Virtuous

I stare up at the ceiling. There are no flashing lights. The tsunami alert has been switched off and all I can hear are hushed conversations and a faint beeping sound.

Hello! No response. I call louder. Hello, is anyone there?

Turning my head in all directions I can see that I’m cocooned by white; a white wall at my head, white curtains on three sides and a white ceiling. And a bed covered in white linen. On my left is the machine that is responsible for the beeping. It glowers at me like a robotic sentry. My body appears to have plastic tubes in every natural orifice and a couple of artificial ones cut to purpose. I don’t know which are going in and which are coming out. Not that it matters. I don’t need any of them. And electric cables. I don’t need them either. Like I already said, I’m fine. Moving green lines scroll across the beeping sentry’s screen. I’ve seen enough hospital shows to know that if it’s not a flat line then I’m still alive. So, that’s one thing I have going for me. And I’m in no pain. I’m leaving. I have to be … where do I have to be? I can’t remember, but I think it’s important.

Hello! I’m okay. I’m going now!

I tug at the tubes that anchor me to my mechanical guardians. I start with the plastic mask that covers my mouth and nose then rip off anything else that’s attached. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit up. I look down at the flimsy gown that I’m barely dressed in. I can’t go out like this.

Can someone bring me my clothes, please? Jesus, is there anyone there?

Hello. I turn my head to face the stranger standing beside me. He stands tall and looks a fit mid-sixtyish. Apart from a grey goatee there is not a hair on his head. He’s dressed in red trousers, and a green, open-necked shirt. He’s wearing a scarf of silver tinsel. Ah, thank god. Look, do you reckon you could get my clothes.

They’ll probably be along in good time. It’s a busy place. Just relax.

No, I have to … be somewhere. I try to get up off the bed. I need to go. I feel so heavy. I push against the bed again but can’t seem to raise myself off it. What’s going on here? They must have me on some damn drug.

Well, it’s Christmas. I guess you want to be home with your family.

No, I mean yes, that’s it. I want to be with my family. I try to think of my family. Who are they? No, I can’t picture any faces or hear any voices. My head seems empty. The place is here. The time is now. That’s all I know.

So do I, he nods. So do I. I suppose they’ll get here when they can. Mine went overseas for the holiday. They’d be trying to get back but you know what the airlines are like this time of year. Hard to change flights at short notice.

Someone! Anyone! I need my clothes!

Anyway, my name’s … my visitor stops as the curtain at the foot of my bed suddenly opens and finally there’s colour. A serious-looking young woman in a dark blue skirt and a pale blue and white gingham blouse picks up a chart from where it hangs on the end of my bed.

Thank god! I’m all good to go. I just need my clothes. Can I have my clothes, please. Miss? Nurse? I look at her nametag. S. Ferguson - Registered Nurse.

I’ll be off then, I hear my elderly visitor say.

What?

I’ll come back later, if that’s okay.

Don’t bother, I’m leaving, I say, but I look around and he’s gone.

My clothes. Can I have them please?

A young man comes and stands with the nurse. His nametag simply reads Samuel – Visitor.

I can feel the frustration growing inside and I know I’m about to lose it. Get me my damn clothes! I scream.

S. Ferguson hands the chart to Samuel the Visitor. Look over this and tell me what you know.

Why are you ignoring me?

S. Ferguson walks to the side of my bed so she is now behind me.

Hello, Dante. I hope you don’t mind if we call you that. I’m Sally. This is Sam.

From where I’m sitting on the side of the bed I twist to see who she is talking to. My head immediately fills with fog and the room starts spinning. My startled confusion tries to propel me up off the bed, but I’m still stuck fast.

She’s talking to me, still lying there on the bed, eyes closed, tubes going in, tubes coming out. Face partially covered with a clear plastic mask. My head and abdomen are bandaged and there’s a small amount of blood on the pillow. I try to get away but it’s like a body and its shadow – inseparable. But which one of us is the body and which the shadow?

Sally continues. I’ll be looking after you for a while. Sam will be helping but he’s still training for intensive care.

Intensive Care? I don’t know what they’re playing at, but I don’t want to be a part of it. I’m not in this game, I say angrily as I reach out to grab the nurse by the wrist. But I can’t. It as if she’s a hologram or, or a ghost. And this, yes, this is a dream! That’s the only logical explanation. What else could it be? I’m talking to ghosts and my name is now Dante. None of this is real. I can finally smile knowing that at any moment I’ll wake up and be … be. God dammit! Be where? Home, of course. Be home with … with …?

I’m going to fix up your dressing now, Dante, while Sam goes through your notes and tells me everything he knows.

I lie back down so I’m now one with my other self. Through closed eyes I watch as Sally Ferguson carefully removes my dressings. I can’t