Suspension: A Novel

By Andrea Faye Christians

 BOOK EXCELLENCE AWARDS FINALIST: PARANORMAL

An unexpected time travel tale. When Carla Thompson falls asleep and doesn't wake up, she is shocked to discover what destiny has in st

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lucid House Publishing LLC
• Release date: Jun 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781950495290

Andrea Faye Christians

Andrea Faye Christians was born and raised in Swansea, South Wales. Following a successful career in British radio including the BBC, she moved to the southern Mediterranean island of Malta to pursue her dream of becoming a freelance writer. A decade later she bought a farm in the Madonie Mountains of Sicily where a menagerie of rescue animals found their way to her. With a son in Malta and a daughter in Sicily, Andrea has a home and her heart in both places, and she now divides her time between the neighbouring islands. Suspension is her debut novel. She is working on the second book in the Time Binder Series as well as a novel entitled Chemo Club.

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Published in the United States of America by Lucid House Publishing, LLC

www.LucidHousePublishing.com

©Copyright 2022 by Andrea Faye Christians

This title is available in print and as an e-book via Lucid House Publishing, LLC.

Cover and interior design: Troy King

Author photo: Adrian Sharky

Print book and e-book interior: Jan Sharrow

All rights reserved. First edition of Book 1 in the Time Binder Series.

Note: This novel is written in UK English.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the publisher’s permission is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized print, electronic, or audio editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Brief quotations in reviews of the book are the exception. Your support of authors’ rights is appreciated.

Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

Name: Christians, Andrea Faye 1964-

Suspension, a novel /Andrea Faye Christians

Description: First Edition. Book 1 in the Time Binder Series/Marietta, Georgia:

Lucid House Publishing, 2022

Identifiers: Library of Congress Control Number: 2022936597

ISBN: 978-1-950495306 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-950495290 (e-book)

Subjects: 1) Fantasy 2) Time travel 3) Dream walker 4) Thriller 5) Isambard Kingdom Brunel 6) Ernest Hemingway 7) Unlikely romance 8) Murder mystery 9) Suicide 10) Clifton Suspension Bridge 11) Bristol, England

FIC009050 /Fantasy/Paranormal

FIC009100 /Fantasy/Action & Adventure

FIC009090 /Fantasy/Romance

Chapter

1

It was happening again.

The taste of wine lingered on her lips. Never mix weed and alcohol. She should’ve known better. Last time the experience had been amazing but not worth the headache that had followed.

Floating, looking down on her sleeping form, she observed, from a different perspective, the obscure detail of the peeling paint next to the window where damp was creeping in, the broken ceramic tile in the kitchen, and the solitary, unwashed glass, and plate in the sink as the electric fan heater droned in the background.

A lot of people sleep pretty, but she wasn’t one of them. Her jaw went slack, and her mouth sagged open. A single line of saliva had dribbled down the side of her chin onto the pillow where her head lolled slightly to one side. It was a classic the night after scene: her body sprawled on a tired looking sofa, little dog curled at her feet, a half empty bottle of wine on the coffee table.

Dreams are often strange. On the one hand they create a sense of time and distance between what is and what was, allowing for the processing of thoughts and emotions. On the other, they can place people in seemingly impossible scenarios, timescales, and nonsensical storylines. Then once in a while, they throw a real spanner into the works by conjuring events that seem so real that you wake up wondering if they were true or not—just as was happening now.

Like a hot air balloon roped down on a blustery day, the floating sensation was making her feel queasy. Below her, Buster stirred and stretched. Rising to his feet the little dog stopped to stare at her sleeping form before moving to sit next to the door. A fleeting thought crossed her mind.

Dogs did that didn’t they? No matter how much they loved their owner, if that person was about to die, they distanced themselves as if obeying some primeval instinct.

The thought chilled her. It was time to wake up and sleepily stagger down the corridor to the small bedroom at the rear of the flat. The dream was getting old. She willed herself to open her eyes.

But this was a storyline that had yet to play out, or so it seemed. A flash of annoyance swept through her, followed by a sense of unease. Something didn’t feel right.

Time to wake up now. Come on! she commanded herself, out loud.

An eternity of seconds passed, as the knot in her gut got so tight it hurt as her gaze remained riveted to the pallid face—her face—that lay below.

Hey Girl! Wake up! she uttered out loud again, feeling frustration flare within her.

It was just her mind playing ticks, she kept herself as an slow, insidious sensation of horror seeped, like ice, through her veins.

This couldn’t possibly be happening. What was taking so long?

Any minute now she’d wake, sit bolt upright covered in cold beads of sweat, and fall back on the pillow in relief—just like so many other times when night terrors had gripped her.

Seconds became minutes, with her feelings giving way to a sudden urge to giggle—unexpected and inappropriate, like laughing at a funeral.

She was dreaming her own death!

The absurdity of it all was ridiculous, but, in reality, she could do nothing more than stare down at a face and body to which she felt no longer connected.

What the hell had happened?

She’d felt fine earlier opening the wine—a little tired maybe, but it had been a busy day and she had been looking forward to her evening downtime since mid-afternoon when her energy and patience had started to wane. She’d maybe drunk a bit too much—which wasn’t unusual, but nothing like this had ever happened before.

A wave of disbelief swept her as she observed that her lips were now taking on a bluish tinge—she was unable to tear her gaze away and watched, an impotent bystander, as her cerebral cortex sent the last of its neurological synapses and her body twitched.

So, this was it?

Numb and deflated, the finale of this dream demise was something of an anti-climax. She had often dreamt of falling into a bottomless pit of oblivion, only to startle awake, but this was different. The scenario that was unfolding felt interminable and relentless. It held her firmly in its grip and there appeared to be no sweet release and a return to consciousness. Concentrating hard, she willed herself down to earth, feeling better the instant her feet made contact with the floor. She stepped forward, passing the mirror that hung on the wall before halting abruptly and back stepping. It had taken a moment to register that something was missing. Laying her fingers on the glass, she scoured the reflected room for any trace of herself but saw only her motionless form on the sofa.

There was no sign of the high cheekbones, full lips and mane of auburn hair or the expression of disbelief on the face she knew so well, staring back at her. A stifled gasp escaped her lips. She turned, reaching out tentatively to touch her body on the sofa only to snatch her hand away as its cold and clammy feel. Repulsed and shocked, it confirmed what she already knew!

This whole dream within a dream was becoming more of a nightmare with every moment that passed!

Grappling with her emotions, she paced the room manically, stopping continuously to scour the mirror, her hands feeling the warmth of her skin and soft texture of her hair but on her fingertips only for her to recoil at the persistent absence of a reflection of herself as she stood there.

This is absolutely insane! She yelled out loud, slapping and pinching herself in a vain attempt to wake up.

Losing all sense of time, hot tears that welled within in her. Angry and relentless, she cried herself to the point of exhaustion, eventually sinking to the floor, her breathing ragged and knees huddled under her chin like a child. Be it a soul, ghost, or some quirk of Einstein’s theory of relativity, whatever this was had her trapped. Although present, with all senses intact, there appeared to be no escape from the fact that she no longer existed in a physical form.

But Logic, that little voice inside her head, obstinately questioned how this could have just happened, with no prior warning.

She couldn’t have just died like this! It didn’t add up!

As time passed a shift occurred. Subtle at first, the feeling of calmness settled slowly upon her, gently quelling the tormented emotions of earlier. Still annoyed and frustrated at the injustice of it all, this was not a time to rage against something she could not change, she realised, as Logic reset her thoughts into survival mode.

Hold fast and stay calm. It told her reassuringly. This was all nothing more than a dream!

Any minute she would rub the sleep from her eyes and reflect on what had been a vivid and drawn-out nightmare - all she had to do was be patient and wait!

•••

In the next hour two things revealed themselves. One was that she wasn’t going to wake up any time soon and the other was that her dog was aware of her presence. Throughout the evening Buster had remained by the door, confused, but still unable to resist wagging his tail, albeit a little uncertainly, as she passed by.

But here and now, a more pressing problem was presenting itself. She needed to let someone know what had happened. Call it vanity or just plain practicality, but the room was warm and the thought of someone complaining of a foul smell and finding her maggot ridden corpse a few days from now did not appeal to her.

She had always prided herself on her ability to remember absolute random facts. One was that rigor mortis would take just a few hours to set in. Another was that within 24 hours a body would start to dry out and the skin would shrivel. By the next day, putrefaction would be well under way in the large intestine and green patches would start to appear on the skin. Decomposition would be well-established by the third day, with the body taking on a green marbled effect, and it would start to smell like rotting meat.

What lay beyond that didn’t bear thinking about, but she did not want to be found that way. The idea of Jesus rising from the grave on the third day had always perturbed her, as having almost absurdly bad timing. The truth of the matter was that on the third day Jesus would have been a blind, foul-smelling mess if he had truly risen from the dead. Especially in that heat!

Could that be why I’m still here? Maybe this is payback for never believing?

She found herself wondering, as she kneeled and called Buster to her.

Come here, boy! Good boy! she said in her Good Boy voice. Buster responded by wagging his tail furiously and looking directly at her. But no amount of coaxing would make him budge an inch in her direction. It was all too much for his canine logic to absorb.

Damn it! she uttered in exasperation, getting back to her feet.

The body on the sofa had now started to take on a greyish hue and looking at it—at her—made her feel distinctly uncomfortable. She’d only ever seen one corpse at close quarters. That was her grandmother whom she’d viewed surreptitiously in her coffin as a child, a still vivid memory. Nan had been embalmed and looked like a wax work. The eleven-year-old version of herself had found the whole thing horrific and the old lady’s death mask had been the subject of nightmares for years after, even though in life she wouldn’t have hurt a fly. But now was no time for sentiment. Something had to be done. Ghosts, if that was what she now was, could pass through walls. Everyone knew that. There was nothing for it; she would have to somehow find help.

The muted tones of a television in the apartment next door told her that her landlord, Frank, was at home. It was late and chances were at this hour he’d be asleep in front of the TV, but if she could just get his attention.

Here goes, she said out loud, striding purposefully toward the wall next to the refrigerator. She instinctively closed her eyes at the moment when she would pass through, but the magnolia painted surface didn’t yield an inch and sent her reeling backwards as if she had been punched in the face.

What the hell? she said, holding her nose.

What was this? Was she a ghost or not?

She tried again, bracing herself at the last moment before she hit the cold stone surface. A horrible thought crossed her mind. Maybe this really was her destiny, atonement for her sins, a living hell to be trapped in this small apartment forever. But it didn’t make sense. There had to be another way. She needed to calm down and think.

Perching on the edge of the sofa she absent-mindedly pushed her corpse feet to one side whilst taking deep breaths. Yoga breathing had served her well when flying in bad weather and she called upon it now to calm herself.

Breathe in…Breathe out…Breathe in…Hold the breath…Breathe out.

She repeated the words silently like a mantra; her breath and inner voice synchronised as the tension within her slowly began to ebb and release. Now focused in body and mind and rising gently to her feet, she exhaled deeply and walked methodically toward the wall, her eyes wide open. This time, the wall offered no resistance and, as if merely slicing through butter, she passed effortlessly through the bricks and mortar into the adjacent apartment.

Whoop! Whoop! Yes! she shouted, punching the air with joy before clasping her hand to her mouth as she caught sight of the figure ensconced in the armchair. Not that there was need for concern as Frank was unaware of her presence, entranced by a car chase scene in his late-night film.

At 74 years of age, Frank Branbury wore one of the worst wigs Carla had ever seen. There were times when she had actually wondered whether it was a life form in itself; but although Frank could joke about it, he couldn’t bring himself to part with this silly simulation of the one thing that money couldn’t buy him—a full head of hair.

In his time, he must have been an attractive man. He had certainly liked the ladies and had worked and played hard. Fast cars and even faster women that included three expensive ex-wives and a profusion of kids had taken their toll on his bank account and his health. Now two heart attacks and a pacemaker later he was leading a quieter life with a whole lot of memories and a sex drive laid to rest by Warfarin. But while the body couldn’t manage the mind could still imagine and Frank spent many an hour scouring dating websites, looking for love with a flattering photo and profile that replaced the 7 with a 5 giving him an online age of 54.

Of course, he never got a second date but there was no doubt that Frank was an all-round nice guy and a good landlord. Although younger than two of his daughters, he’d initially fancied his chances when his attractive tenant had moved in next-door but after his clichéd chat up lines had fallen on deaf ears, the two had struck up an unlikely friendship.

Practice makes perfect and several attempts later she had passing from one apartment to the other down perfect. The key, it seemed, was to think of nothing in the moment and just a split second later she would arrive on the other side.

The elation was short-lived, however, and was soon to be replaced by annoyance. Leaning towards Frank she shouted in his face and even danced before him in a bid to get his attention as he continued staring obliviously at the television. Seeing his mobile on the table she had thought to knock it to the floor but gave up as her hand passed straight through it on every attempt. Obviously, being in a non-physical form had its limitations but the fact remained that she still needed to find a way to let Frank know that she, or at least her body, was lying on the other side of the wall.

It was now almost 1:30 in the morning. In the film the good guys had beaten the bad guys, the hero had got the girl, and they were all about to live happily ever after.

Perplexed, she sat perched on the edge of Frank’s sofa, her head in her hands, as she recalled that she’d been able to move her corpse legs to one side on her own sofa but here she appeared to have no physical impact on anything. It was a conundrum but there were, obviously, rules about what could and couldn’t be done that would have to be learned. In the meantime, the immediate problem would be resolved by an unlikely candidate.

Never the friendliest of dogs, there was no doubt whatsoever that Frank’s belligerent Jack Russell, Dougal, was acutely aware of her presence and had seated himself at the opposite end of the room, as far away from her as possible. But now in need of his night-time toilet trip, he approached cautiously, passing by her in a wide arc to scratch at the door.

Buster, hearing him, responded with a soft whine and a bark from behind the adjacent door which was enough to catch Frank’s attention as the film ended. The night-time routine was normally one of Frank opening the front door to let Dougal scamper down the stairs to the small back garden that was accessed by a dog flap. Hearing the activity and the door open onto the landing Buster now began to bark persistently which Frank registered as strange. Despite the late hour, after several minutes of knocking with no response accompanied by Buster’s continued yelping and scratching, Frank returned with the master key. Stepping inside hesitantly he called out her name only to gasp at the sight before him.

Oh…Oh God! he said, his words were spoken almost as a sob, as he gently tapped her cold face in a vain attempt to awaken her before dashing out the door with Buster at his heels, to call the emergency services.

•••

Yep, she’s a goner, said a burly looking paramedic who arrived some twelve minutes later.

Tactful! she thought, standing next to him and deducing from his demeanour that Mr. Burly was probably ex-armed forces.

That’s interesting. Come look at this, he said, gesturing to his colleague, a thin, wiry man, who watched as he gently lifted first one of her eyelids then the other.

Don’t see that often. She has heterochromia.

Hetero what?

Somebody hasn’t been doing their bedtime reading, said Burly. She has one brown eye and one blue. Think David Bowie.

David Bowie had an eye injury; both his eyes were actually blue.

Well, aren’t we the expert on pop trivia. OK Clever Clogs—but it’s rare. Don’t seem to be any signs of foul play though, Burly continued, looking around and picking up the half empty bottle of wine. Nice. A Rioja and a half decent one too. He said, examining the label on the bottle.

You missed your vocation. You should have been a sommelier.

A ‘som’ what?

"A