Death's Door: Second on the Left Down the Corridor

By Nick Galtress

You will spend a lot longer dead than you did alive, but what is death? What is the state of ‘deadness’ like and how do you find out? Would a seance be better than an ouija board? Does the British Library have a book on the subject or with its skill in killing people, does the War Office have a pamphlet? Would a priest have the answer and if so what denomination? If the Forth Bridge is a long way away in Scotland, cold, wet, windy and hard to climb, why is it so popular with jumpers? I have written a letter to God, what address should I put on it? How do you connect with your ‘Jewish side’ if you don’t have one and will drinking malt whiskey with an unorthodox rabbi help? And why is the frog at the bottom of Eric’s tankard called Clarence? These and a host of other questions beset Miles Short, an aging man still rankling at the heartless parents who gave him his unfortunate first name and followed it up by calling his brother Weebit. The pursuit of an answer takes him down devious paths and to a somewhat undetermined outcome.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Sep 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781398413702

Nick Galtress

The author, determinedly Yorkshire by birth and inclination is now at the back-end of his life. The front-end was largely spent in marrying, siring children, watching them eat away his slender resources, following a very devious career path, (more of a careering path really) and earning a good deal of his living with his pen. After years of writing what others wanted him to write for money, he now writes for himself and, probably, little or no money. If he has found ‘a voice’, it is a very satirical one. The list of people, things and philosophies that he dislikes is long and growing. He hopes to get around to ‘having a go’ at all of them. This is salvo number two. The opening salvo was the irreverent comedy, Death’s Door. Second on the Left Down the Corridor.

Book preview

Death’s Door: Second on

the Left Down

the Corridor

Nick Galtress

Austin Macauley Publishers

Death’s Door: Second on the Left Down the Corridor

About the Author

Dedication

Copyright Information ©

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Door Opens (But Not a Lot) Part Two

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

The Door Stays Open (But Only Just) Part Three

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven: Extract from the West London Echo, Wednesday

About the Author

Nick Galtress was born, raised and schooled in his native Yorkshire. He subsequently married and had children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. He has travelled extensively, lived in a number of countries and visited dozens more. He lived in France for many years and is a French citizen. After Sandhurst and a brief sojourn in the Regular Army, which brought little benefit to either party, he has earned his living primarily with his pen. Starting by writing copy in a number of London advertising agencies as a freelancer, he wrote sponsored documentaries and won awards for his work on behalf of various aspects of disability. In fact, he wrote anything and everything which brought him an income. He now writes what he wants, when he wants and enjoys it thoroughly. Death’s Door is his first published novel.

Dedication

For Jane. Better late than never.

Copyright Information ©

Nick Galtress (2021)

The right of Nick Galtress to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398413696 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398413702 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2021)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Part One

Chapter One

I have not yet been dead.

Nor have I had any meaningful conversation with anybody who has been dead. Thus, I have no exact idea of what the state of deadedness is like. That concerns me. It concerns me greatly because dead is a state in which I shall spend a vastly longer period of time than I shall spend in life. But precisely what sort of a state is it?

I need to know. As the beer-barrelling little Welshman suggested, ‘I shall not go gentle into that good night.’ It is my intention to make something of an event of it. But he, somewhat inconsiderately, left no details of how good or bad that good night would turn out to be.

The same porky poet also described writing as a sullen craft which is probably why he was forever abandoning it in favour of long sessions in the local pub. A pastime which is one of the few things that he and I have in common.

Much of which is an aside. I am quite polished in asides. Probably because of the time that I spent at RADA. But, being a trained thespian, must not let me be side-tracked from the pursuit of the information that I need. There are those who claim that they know all about it. The same cocksure sort who prattle on about A seat at the right hand of their God.

How many people have died since that myth came into being and just how many right hands does their God have? A number of Hindu gods have masses of arms presumably with hands attached but I don’t think that the Christian or any other version of the fairy-tale is similarly gifted. I can’t, of course, be sure because I’ve never met any of these gods. Has anyone? My own off-centre father lived and died in the firm belief that he would one day catch up with his Maker. That his God had a reserved chair for him at his table in the dining hall of paradise. I doubt if even the most benign deity would have cherished the idea of his bony bottom on a neighbouring seat or the sight of his death mask rictus to dampen his appetite.

He died, Papa that is, and joined the countless disappointed billions who have found themselves shunted down the line into oblivion.

Blind faith may be comforting but it is just what it says, unfocused addiction.

The same misguided principle which allowed a few hundred thousand souls to be led like lambs to the slaughter each day to a futile death in the mud of The Somme. Blind faith in the righteousness of a cause and the wisdom of those in charge. That and fear of being shot at dawn for cowardice. A little tiff between Georgie Boy Five and cousin Willy which could have been sorted out had either of them swallowed a bit of their Pomp and Circumstance. So scared was our George of anti-German sentiment that he changed the family name from Saxe Coburg Gotha to Windsor but he probably pronounced that as Vinsor. That’s another aside. But I don’t buy a poppy. ‘In heaven with the holy angels’.

Again I question the capacity of even a celestial cloud to accommodate the sheer numbers involved.

‘Together with my loved ones at last.’ What kind of a two-edged blessing might that turn out to be given the dubious experiences undergone with those same Loved Ones the first time around?

‘At peace for all Eternity.’

All Eternity? What sort of senseless measurement is that? It is in the same mindless category as infinity. Infinity which apparently has no end. If a thing has no end, how can it possibly have a beginning or a middle or any other part which is necessary to being something. So, how can it exist? Infinity, the point at which parallel lines are supposed to meet. By definition parallel means staying the same distance apart. In which case, unless they stop being parallel, they can’t meet anywhere, even at the famed infinity. There are other ludicrous concepts lurking about in geometry, mathematics, algebra and the like. Someone has to convince me that, if you multiply two negatives, you end up with a positive amount of something. Two times bugger nothing equals a great big heap. If that it is really the case, I wish that someone had applied the rule to my overdrafts.

No, before I venture into No Man’s Land, I need to know a great deal more about it.

You don’t sign up for a holiday without questioning the nature of the accommodation.

Why would anyone book a place in a permanent Rest Home without asking a few questions about the running of the place and how many of the staff may be sadists? Questions? life is a series of unanswered questions and, for all I know, death may be the same. The urgent one, at this point, being who to interrogate on the nature of being dead?

Prompted by the ravings of my late papa, I think that I may have tumbled over the answer.

Along with his other delusions, Dad had a deep faith in government. The same blind faith which I have dismissed earlier. He believed that the government was peopled by altruists. What it said was true. What it did was for the best and what it sanctioned was unquestionably sanctionable. I may not share his faith but I am prepared to risk being proved wrong. ‘Any harbour in a hurricane’ isn’t that what Martha Gellhorn may or may not have said? Or perhaps it was her erstwhile husband who appeared to develop a late-life penchant for matters maritime. I shall ask my government for information on the nature of death; a pamphlet or two to peruse at my leisure.

But which department will it be best to approach?

After wrestling with that complex equation for some time and dismissing Defra, Work and Pensions, Foreign affairs and Transport, it became crystal clear.

The War Office must be the only choice.

Between killing people and being killed, they must have acquired more than a nodding acquaintance with death and its characteristics. If they are not up to speed on the nature of deadedness, who is? It is surprising how little of what is still called Whitehall is now to be found in that street. I passed polished brass plates for any number of mind-bendingly unnecessary organisations but not a government department amongst them. Luckily, the Killing Brigade is an exception. There they were, tucked away in The Ministry of Defence with their own proud plaque on the wall. I stood outside for a while lost in thought. Is it just me who sees Defence and War as antonyms?

Maybe fighting people is a form of defence but surely, kissing them might have a much more disarming effect. I plucked up what little courage I have and went in.

The somewhat Junoesque young woman behind the reception desk looked as if she ought to have been wearing an SS uniform.

‘Your mission, sir?’ she demanded.

‘Er…’

‘What are you here for?’ she interpreted.

‘I need information about what it’s like to be dead. A pamphlet or some such, please.’

‘I am not in a position to reveal that information.’

‘But you do have it?’ I asked hopefully.

‘We may or may not be in possession of the same but, if we were, it would be classified.’

‘Classified as what?’

‘Top secret, sir. What we like to call Burn before Reading.’

‘And you do that?’

‘Do what exactly?’

‘Set fire to something before you’ve read it.’

‘That too is a military secret, sir. Perhaps even a military pleasantry?’

I began to lose patience with Madame Paycock and her military pleasantries.

‘Are you able to help me or not?’

‘Perhaps, but not right now, we are closing for lunch.’

‘But it’s only just after eleven o’clock!’

‘Eleven hundred hours, sir. Eleven seventeen and twenty-three seconds, to be precise. We like precision at The War Office you know. It is a cornerstone of military efficiency.’

‘Precision and efficiency,’ I echoed. ‘So why was Waterloo saved from defeat by the arrival of the Austrians, Balaclava a Balls-Up, Gallipoli a ghastly failure and D-Day a day late?’

I looked up to register her response. She was no longer there. Closed for Lunch said a big sign.

‘Out to lunch,’ I shouted to thin air and went back to my perusal of Whitehall.

I returned the following day in the hope of finding someone more forthcoming on reception. I was utterly mistaken. A sprightly young man stood bouncing on his toes and flexing his shoulder muscles as we went through precisely the same unhelpful ritual.

‘How the hell did you lot ever win the war?’ I asked angrily.

‘The Americans came and helped us,’ he said, still bouncing and pressed a bell under the desk.

Three brutish thugs in uniform came running in, picked me up and threw me back onto Whitehall.

The bruising remains quite active.

Chapter Two

I have had something of a brainwave. As an emeritus professor of physics from Cambridge University, like Einstein, I have brainwaves quite often. I shall talk it over with Eric. Eric is my long-time drinking companion at the Dog and Bucket. Our relationship is quintessentially British. We have spent countless hours elbow to elbow at the bar in a comforting intimacy without ever straying into the sort of intrusive cross-examination which is foreign to an English gentleman.

When we part at the pub door, he goes left and I go right. Where to I have never asked. To do what, I do not know. In the company of whom is his business not mine. Any further curiosity would be a rudeness. To ask him what his surname is would be a gross breech of etiquette. To pry into what he does for a living would be nosiness of the most objectionable, un-British kind. Yet, within the confines of the Dog and Bucket, we have a most cordial relationship marred only perhaps by Eric’s odd way of drinking.

He drinks cider and only from his personal silver mug. There is a frog at the bottom of the mug which, when he uncovers it with the final gulp, he greets with ‘Evening Clarence’. ‘Evening Clarence,’ he says and then drowns him again with a fresh pint. He has been known to repeat this ritual eight or nine times in an evening.

He also has another irksome habit. Between sips he always covers the mug with both hands, overlapping them for surer protection. On that issue I did eventually pluck up the courage to question him. It appears that there was a period in Pub life when people made little chalices from the silver paper inside a cigarette packet. They then chewed the tissue paper also found there, into a paste, applied it to the bottom of the cup and hurled it at the ceiling where it stuck. The average pub ceiling was a forest of the things. One day, it seems, one of these offerings came unstuck and landed in Eric’s pint. To protect himself (and Clarence) from any repetition of that woeful intrusion, Eric now keeps things covered. It is the sort of thoughtful behaviour which makes him a worthwhile companion and potential confidante.

‘Tell me, Eric, where would I find out what it’s like to be dead?’

He went into his contemplative mood and stared deeply into his cider. After a considerable time in that pose, he took a mighty swig at it. ‘Evening Clarence,’ he said and then handed me the mug to order him a refill. He is a canny man our Eric but, in fairness, it was my shout.

When the little commercial transaction was all settled and he had tested his new drink, Eric looked at me for some time without speaking. It was as if he were some sort of mechanic staring into an engine to check that the motor was still sparking on all cylinders.

‘Hard one, that,’ he said. ‘If I were you, I’d try the library.’

‘Which library?’

‘The British Library. They lay claim to know everything that is knowable, or, at least, have access to it.’

‘Good idea, Eric, thanks. I’ve even got a Reader’s Card somewhere that my mother gave me as a birthday present. I was furious at the time because I wanted a small Ferrari.’ There was another long pause whilst Eric drank. So thirstily that I thought that Clarence might make a reappearance.

‘Do they do them?’

‘What?’

‘Small Ferraris.’

Eric went on in that literalist way until we parted, left and right, at the pub door.

I value his company enormously.

Chapter Three

I found the Reader’s Card with a pile of old manuscripts that were left over from my days as Senior Editor with a major publishing house. They were mostly rejected novels, two of my own included.

It was monstrously out of date but I didn’t think that anyone would notice it. Librarians are somewhat unworldly types as I understand it. The British Library, august edifice that it is, is luckily, not too far from my flat and the walk was quite agreeable. A lot more agreeable, as it turned out, than the surly young woman who greeted me. ‘Yes?’ she said, barely raising her head from the book that she was reading.

‘Have you got anything on what it is like to be dead? Some sort of reportage maybe?’

‘Agnes,’ she shouted, looking across to a senior-looking kind of woman who happened to be passing. ‘Have you got a minute?’

The two of them went into a conference mode huddle, casting occasional glances in my direction.

Agnes detached herself and approached me. ‘Follow me young man,’ she said, ‘and we will look into it.’ She somewhat confusingly shoved me ahead of her. I am not often referred to as young man. Not anymore that is, being somewhat firmly planted in a later stage of life. As we navigated the endless labyrinth of musty volumes, I wondered if librarians had perhaps a different scale of age classification. My speculation was cut short as we reached an office door which Agnes flung open and almost threw me into the room.

‘Welcome to my inner sanctum,’ she said, pulling down my zip and reaching into mine.

With my knob in her mouth the conversation dried up: on her part anyway, as I tried to come to terms with the unexpected turn of events.

Ordinarily I prefer