Existence Denied: a search for truth and consequences

By Mike Galley

Existence Denied is a fascinating, measured, unpredictable and realistic story.

Mysterious denials of the very existence of Colin's Father, following his death in WW2, emerge fifty years later, Colin suspects top-level collusion and is determined to seek the truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Galley
• Release date: Sep 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781802277098

Book preview

Chapter 1

A piercing scream of Go! echoed across the room.

There was silence for ten seconds, followed by a gunshot. Colin’s pulse was racing, and his mind was comatose.

Alice, his wife of twenty years, murmured and fidgeted, then her slow breathing continued. It seemed she had heard nothing. He pursed his lips. I must have been dreaming, or more like having a nightmare, he thought. There had only been sounds, no images, just the sounds. Outside was silent; the silence, as townies would say, you can actually hear in the countryside.

Colin lowered himself back into bed, his heart thumping and his pyjamas wet with sweat. He tried to steady his breathing and still his fear because it was fear for sure. A mature grown man, one-time judo dan, scared stiff by his own internal imaginings. Colin trawled his mind for images, for any pictures to go with the sounds. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing. What should he do? Get up or try to revert to sleep?

He turned his head. The clock radio showed 3.10. He got out of bed as quietly as he could so as not to disturb his wife, Alice. She did not like to be disturbed. She usually made it known in no uncertain terms.

I am quite capable of waking myself up, she would say sarcastically, Thank you very much!

What on earth had gone off in my head? Colin wondered, walking quietly across the cream carpet to the ensuite shower room.

He was awake, so he might as well have a pee, especially as he had nearly wet himself when the sounds went off.

After he had finished, he afforded himself a smile as he recalled the Cumbrian speaker at the last over-50s club meeting saying, At our age, there are three nevers: Never pass a toilet; never trust a fart, and never waste an erection!

That wasn’t the usual fare served up by speakers. They were usually circumspect, with topics like gardens, holidays, and wines, but everybody had laughed uproariously at this.

Easing himself back into bed as quiet as a mouse, Colin sought to relax back into sleep. Strange; no picture. Only the ‘Go’ and the gunshot; bloodcurdling sounds, he thought.

He tried his usual method to block out unwanted thoughts or memories by focusing on something specific.

For some reason, Alan Raybould, an old cricketing pal, came into his mind.

Poor old Alan, he had died of cancer in his 40s. He was a great bloke and a classy batter to boot.

An ardent Leeds United fan, Alan had a fund of tales about the goings-on in the Scratching Shed at Elland Road on Saturday afternoons watching John Charles play. He had a great singing voice, and Colin recalled his performance in the Yeomen of the Guard held at Knaresborough Castle. Alan sang in the church choir, yet he was outrageous, totally the antithesis of Colin’s public persona. Colin knew that he himself had another persona. This became most evident in his sporting activities.

Alan had a Humanist funeral, which he himself had meticulously planned.

It was the most moving spiritual experience he had ever had. A real celebration of the man and his shortened life, Colin remembered. His mind had now moved on from his nightmare. Within minutes was snoring loudly. He was unceremoniously wakened as letters dropped through the brass letter box flap onto the welcome mat, followed by the clang of the religiously polished brass inner flap.

Bloody postman. He’s deliberately noisy. He’s up, so everybody else has to be, Colin muttered.

One sticky eyelid opened. The clock said 7.10, the same as every day.

Reassured his world was back in order, he heard occasional commuting cars swishing along the road outside. It was raining again.

At least once at work, he wouldn’t be looking out the window wishing he was watching cricket or off sailing.

Alice, asleep or feigning it, didn’t stir as he slid out of bed. Not only did she not like to get out of bed early, she didn’t like to get up in one go. Anyway, she knew better to keep away from Colin in the morning. He liked his breakfast alone; well, alone in the company of Radio 4, that is.

He pushed his feet into his comfortable and somewhat worn Marks and Spencer slippers, slipped one arm into his equally ancient maroon and grey dressing gown, and pulled it on as he descended the stairs. Just one letter lay on the mat amongst the usual unsolicited junk. It was a large brown envelope. He picked it up, looked at the postmark, and saw it was marked The Dales Building Society, his employer.

Why are they writing to me at home, wasting money? he mused.

As usual, he almost forgot to tap in the code to switch off the burglar alarm. Was it a sign of ageing that he almost forgot so often? Was this the start? Was this how things deteriorated?

He had noticed an increasing number of times he would go somewhere and not know what he had gone for. Had Alice noticed?

Potentially worse; had his colleagues noticed?

As usual, he was just a bit surprised to see a 56-year-old facing him in the full-length mirror at the end of the hallway. Putting the mirror there had seemed a good idea when they moved into what had been his parents’ home after his mother had died. She had been a widow since the war, his father having been killed without Colin ever seeing him. He grew up without the guidance of a father or a male role model. He had suffered at the hands of bullies and had taken a male teacher’s advice to join a judo club. He felt driven to excel at his chosen sport.

The girls at school befriended Colin and called the bullies names. After they had all left school Mrs Allpress, the local newsagent who ran the Friday girls club, invited some boys to join in learning to dance. The girls rejected the boys who had bullied Colin. So they got their just desserts, although Colin had to run the gauntlet at going-home time. His training included speed running, which stood him in good stead.

It had always surprised him that his mother insisted on living alone in such a big house until her end. She never remarried, which meant that Colin and Alice looked out for her and inherited the house when she died.

He still expected to see the 20-year-old he had always thought himself to be in the mirror. The telltale beginnings of lines on his face and the thinning hair gave the show away. In his mind, he was still youthful. Well, he was until he spotted the top of his head on the bank CCTV screen. Until then, he didn’t know he had the beginnings of a bald patch.

Ah well, there’s a day to be got on with, Colin said aloud.

He contemplated what might be in the letter. He looked at it as he put the kettle on, measured the porridge oats into the microwave, and loaded the toaster with two slices of wholemeal seeded bread.

The kettle now boiled, Colin warmed the teapot and made the tea. Alice always insisted on china cups for tea, so they duly came out along with the skimmed milk. He frowned; that was Alice, with her decided ways, and shrugged his shoulders. Colin went through his morning exercise routine mainly geared towards muscle stretching and joint mobility. He was conscious of a developing thickness above his waist that he needed to do something about.

His breakfast ritual included deliberately not opening any letters until all was ready. This was ‘clearing the decks’ before action.

This deferment of pleasure was one of Colin’s quirks, part of his psyche, self-denial, or cussedness. Had Alice been there, she would have sought to tease him into opening anything which might possibly be of interest to her.

Go on, open it! Don’t know how you can’t bear not to, she would have said.

He poured two cups of Yorkshire tea and took one upstairs to Alice. The tea was acknowledged with a faint grunt. His wife did not admit to an awakened state, hanging on to the possibility of sleep for as long as she could. Colin retraced his steps, relieved at not having had to talk and eager to return to his Radio 4. He sipped his tea and stirred golden syrup into his porridge. Only then did he slit open the brown envelope marked ‘personal and in confidence.’

What’s this all about? he wondered. It was unheard of to write to him at home when he was in the office every day. He put on his specs and pulled out the document.

Then it hit him. He was gobsmacked!

This was totally out of the blue.

It must be a joke – somebody having a laugh at his expense.

Chapter 2

What? What are they doing to me? The bastards, he hissed. They had taken him at his word without talking to him again. He hadn’t meant what he had said. Somebody was getting their own back, getting him out of the way.

Colin stood up, shaking with anger. His spoon hit the floor. He stamped around the recently refitted kitchen.

They can’t do that! They couldn’t manage without him. Twenty years at the heart of the Dales. He was the Dales. His mind raced. How could he get out of it without losing face? How had it happened? You can’t trust people. Someone was taking advantage of him. What could he do?

He couldn’t retire.

He was too young. What would he do in retirement?

He recalled a corridor conversation with the Personnel Director, Georgina Hart, known disparagingly as Horse Ank Hart behind her not insubstantial back.

He had said that given the opportunity, he’d go like a shot, not really meaning it, just saying it as a way of expressing some minor irritation at the way things were being done by some third parties.

Colin had said it a thousand times.

It was her; she had set him up.

She.

Them. Colin was shaking with anger.

The top floor lot wanted him out. He was the old order, and they saw him as resisting change. They wanted him out as part of the strategy to modernise, drop mutuality and become a bank.

Arms locked down, fists clenched, he shouted at the top of his voice.

The bitch, the bastards!

Alice was down in a shot, tying her dressing gown belt and patting and straightening her hair in the full-length mirror.

Colin, what on earth is going on? This is not like you.

He railed, waving the letter.

Redundant; me. They are making me redundant.

Well, that’s all right then. I thought it was a matter of life and death from the noise you are making, never mind the language.

What would I do? I can’t retire. I’ll fight it.

Alice scoffed.

Fight it? You’ve never fought for anything in your life except in judo. You rely on me to do the fighting. You will have all the time in the world to go sailing and watch cricket. You’ve always said you wanted to. You can be a houseboy, and I can go full-time to art school. My tutor wants me to go full-time. He wants me to develop and exploit my talent. Going full-time, I get my MA earlier, and then we will be free to go anywhere, to do anything we want. You have always said we could manage if ever we had to.

I’ve always done the right thing. I always go along with things the establishment wants. I even go along with what you or even your mother want, often against my better judgement. Colin muttered, It’s all right for you, dear. Then he shouted again.

Houseboy? No fucking way!

Colin, she said sharply, "Don’t use language like that in my house. I expect some art students to talk like that, but not The Dales Building Society’s Chief Clerk. You are supposed to be a pillar of society."

Not anymore, I’m not, he seethed. Just watch,

Let me see the letter. He thrust it at her, turned his head, looking out the window but not seeing, just seething.

I can’t trust myself to say more than I might regret. I’m sorry, love; this has really got to me.

He held out his hand and hugged her.

After a little while, Alice looked over the glasses perched on her retrousse nose and said, That’s not bad; £60,000 lump sum and £20,000 a year pension and our mortgage paid up if I’ve read it right. We’ve never been so well off. And you could always get a little job if you wanted.

I don’t want a little job. I like my big job. They can’t manage without me. They don’t have the experience they need. I know the history there backwards. They have often said that I am essential to the Society. He reached for the Rennies. Heartburn; he had a tendency to suffer it at times of stress.

Was, dear, said Alice quietly, back at the mirror, already thinking about being a full-time student working for her MA.

Get your breakfast, love; get ready and get off to work. Don’t leave any chinks that adversaries might take advantage of.

Chapter 3

Later that morning, Colin subconsciously walked slowly into his office garbed as usual in his grey Marks and Spencer suit, white shirt, and Dales Building Society grey tie with the maroon company motif together with the polished toecap black shoes, the same style as those he wore as a grammar school boy at Knaresborough all those years ago.

He wondered what the Dales’ staff knew. What had they been told? Had they been told anything? On his twenty-minute drive to work, Colin had been preoccupied with the options so much he could remember nothing of the journey. He had been on autopilot. He had pondered whether he could refuse the offer.

He could challenge the terms of the offer so that they would retract on the grounds of being too expensive. He surmised he could claim constructive dismissal.

He didn’t ponder the alternatives long; his pride wouldn’t let him.

He thought he had spent a lifetime establishing himself as a man of his word. All the top corridor would have heard from Horse Ank that he had said he would go like a shot. Colin had never really engaged with her. He felt she resented his relationships with other senior staff. So much so that he had confided in trusted colleagues that she was more like an anti-personnel officer.

If he had to go, he would go with dignity. He would not want to lose face. Nobody must even suspect that he didn’t want to go. His main problem was that those who really knew him knew that his work was his skeleton, the framework on which the flesh of his life hung.

Mavis, Colin’s PA, walked into the office a few minutes later, shaking the rain from her umbrella. Slightly out of breath. Slightly late as usual with the usual excuse.

I’m sorry, Mr Jameson, the traffic was awful again. Ripon gets worse. It’s raining, so all the mums get their cars out to take the kids to school, Mavis exclaimed.

Coffee? she asked, hoping the offer would appease her boss. It usually did. She absentmindedly inspected her long bright red fingernails, smoothed down her tights to get rid of the