Crash Test Dummy

By Lesley Atherton

Don Filey has his issues, but nobody can say he doesn’t try. He doesn’t do brilliantly for his restaurant or his own body, but he’s not so bad at caring for the women in his life: three street girls. And, when your body’s being ripped apart by alcohol, there’s only so much anyone can do.

A novelette, published by Words Are Life. Support Independent Publishers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lesley Atherton
• Release date: Jul 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005864682

Lesley Atherton

I’ve always been a writer. I was the kind of kid who would create little books of my own, and I also did quite well at school when it came to writing projects and exams.I’ll always remember my lovely English teacher, Mrs Nash, giving us an assignment. We had to read Seamus Heaney’s poem ‘Blackberry Picking’ and then were told to write our own version.My resultant poem, though simple, used some strong words and brought positive and glowing reactions from Mrs Nash, both at the time and later in her literary flourish of an end of year report card in which she told me how much my writing had blossomed and would soon become wonderful. I loved that teacher so much. She was awesome, kind, creative and a little eccentric. Unfortunately, I don’t have her report anymore, and I don’t have the poem either. I just remember that it began something like this:Blackberry picking, sweet and sticky, Dum de dum de dum de dum, Like a gaping wound.Later in life, I married a writer who became a publisher and helped him out with office and business management. I loved the writing-related work that came with it too - reviews, articles, copywriting and editing, proofreading and the rest of the whole shenanigans. Yep, I loved all that.Later, when we split up and the children were a little older and more self-reliant, writing seemed to become my ‘thing’. It was what I wanted and needed to do.When I got a little braver I saw a poster on a bookshop wall. It was for a writing group, and it gave Michelle’s email as a contact. I emailed her a few breathily nervous messages, then we agreed to meet at a local café. It was a lovely and unforgettable meeting. She directed me to join a writing group and this was what I did. Joining the group expanded my new writing confidence massively.So I began publishing more. Writing a little less (temporarily). And Scott Martin Productions was born.The company became Words Are Life as I moved away from publishing fiction (I am truly appalling at selling things, and nonfiction sells itself to some extent). I carried on writing, ready to publish.So, that’s my history. Good at editing, not bad at imagination and writing skills, but bloody awful at selling stuff.​In recent years I’ve published ‘Melissa And The Mobility Scooter’, which is a gorgeous book of bedtime stories for children (not just girls!) between 5 and 8. Older children will enjoy reading ‘Melissa’ themselves.I’ve also published a collection of novelettes called ‘Conflict Management’. It’s an interesting collection of stories about good and evil twins, managing autism and long term illness, making serious life decisions, ghostwriting, revenge, and working with a male supermodel.My first novel originally came out under the name, ‘Past, Present, Tense’, then was slightly re-written under the name ‘Life’s a Mess... And Then You Die’. I love this book. It’s all about hoarding, family lost and found, dysfunctional relationships, vengeance and hope for the future.And, I've also written what might just be the largest, floppiest book of empowering short stories ever created. It is called 'Feet On The Table'; and is the result of many, many years of work.At the time of writing, I’ve just published my second novel, ‘The Waggon’. I normally don’t have much confidence in my work but I believe this to be the best thing I’ve ever written! It came about as the final assignment of a Masters Degree in Creative Writing. This was back before Covid times, and I was due to publish it, but lost a lot of creative confidence when I was given a Merit on the course. I genuinely believed the writing deserved a better grade, which is unlike me. Unsure about how to progress, I gave it to a number of beta readers for feedback. It is their feedback that’s enabled me to rewrite the book. I hope it is deserving of a Distinction grade, even if it is only in my own head! Better late than never.I have also just published short ebooks, 'Crash Test Dummy', 'Could This Be An Office Romance?', and 'Bigheart'. Also, my books, Can't Sleep, Won't Sleep - short story anthologies available here on Smashwords.So, that’s where I am at the moment. I’m publishing on a few different platforms and am concentrating on editing and writing. There aren’t enough hours in the day to write all I want to write, but it’s getting a little easier every day.

Book preview

Crash Test Dummy

Crash

Test

Dummy

by Lesley Atherton

A Publication From

Words Are Life

First published in Great Britain in 2022 by

Words Are Life

10 Chester Place,

Adlington, Chorley,

PR6 9RP

[e-mail]

Copyright (c) Lesley Atherton and Words Are Life.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, 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 of this book.

Dedication

Crash Test Dummy is dedicated to my parents who always encouraged my education and love of words.

Acknowledgements

I’d like to thank members of the two writing groups, The Writers Cauldron, and Write You Are. Your enthusiasm is infectious, and your support has always been appreciated.

And, to anyone else who knows me and enjoys my writing… thank you. Spread the word.

Chapter One

In front of my face, a hand hovers. It’s wrinkled and lined with caked-on filth. The fingernails are split and black.

I lie crumpled behind the China Kitchen bins, in a mess of boxes and overflowing black bin bags. I know I’ve been drinking and that I passed out. I know little else, though I’m sure I knew at one point.

The hand brings problems: the danger of others—those who might know me and who may have intentions to cause me harm.

Those others may intend to help. The hand’s owner, for instance, may be reaching out with love and empathy.

But my heart hammers. I know that when the hand nears my hair, with its pincer-like digits grasping for me, it doesn’t do so because of empathic reasons.

It is the expression on the man’s weasel-like, toothless visage that emerges out of the darkness, unattached from its accompanying limbs.

It is the noise of grunting, choking swine emerging from a stinking, pointy-nosed specimen of feeble masculinity. I sweat with fear and can barely see straight.

Give us your ring, the voice croaks between wheezes. And give us your necklace.

My hand immediately rises protectively to my neck. I can’t lose the gold sovereign, though I’m not sure why. I know there is no reason in the world for me to hand it over to that repulsive man.

No, I croak, my voice low and deep.

Yes, he insists, and his blackened finger reaches down to stroke my stubbled chin. I cringe and pull back as much as I am able. The man cackles breathily, and the resultant gasps bring a long, deep coughing spell. The force of his body’s spasms pushes the revolting man backwards towards the other side of the alleyway. I take my chance and stumble to my feet while he wipes his eyes of moisture and calms his overactive lungs.

I seem physically unharmed and am fully dressed, not in pain, and not feeling as if I’ve been attacked.

It’s just that I don’t know why I am here, what my name is, and how to get home. Judging by my smart and brightly coloured clothing… though somewhat stained and creased from my time behind the bins… I am not a person of the streets. Unlike that wizened old man who glares at my newly upright form, takes in my clothing, scans my height and build, and realises the pointlessness of his attack.

I am almost twice his height and more than twice his breadth.

He growls a mouthful of obscenities in my direction and shuffles towards the warm spot I’ve just vacated. As he mouths his final arrogant ponce at me slivers of memory begin to return. Yes, that is