The Unknown

By Douglas A. Phillips

Dave Johnson's worldview is shattered; his conservative black and white outlook replaced by a major chunk of gray as he experiences a number of premonitions about future events that come to pass. His initial worry is that he is losing his mind, somehow damaging his brain using alcohol and drugs to ease 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crown Books NYC
• Release date: May 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9781958869819

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The Unknown

Douglas A. Phillips

Copyright © 2023 Douglas A. Phillips.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author and publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

ISBN: 978-1-958869-82-6 (Paperback Edition)

ISBN: 978-1-958869-83-3 (Hardcover Edition)

ISBN: 978-1-958869-81-9 (E-book Edition)

Some characters and events in this book are fictitious and products of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Book Ordering Information

Crown Books NYC

132 West 31 Street, 9 Fl.

New York, NY, 10001 USA

[e-mail]

www.crownbooksnyc.com

1 (347) 537-690

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Acknowledgment

Part One

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

Part Two

1976

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

Epilogue

Acknowledgment

While this is a work of fiction and contains no reference to any real person living or dead, the author has used Indigenous Australian characterisations, and therefore pays respect to the Original Inhabitants of this Land, Australia, their Elders and People both past and present.

The author also wishes to thank his family for their support and encouragement over the years, and long-suffering during the hours of self-imposed isolation. And also to those friends who provided insight and helped in nailing down the facts.

Thank you one and all!

D.A.Phillips

Living in the Land of the Bogal Peoples

Part One

Someone call the shrink!

1

Twenty-five year old Dave Johnson used to consider himself a straight-up-an-down kind of guy, a no nonsense straight shooter with conservative views on life, and death for that matter. Then things started to go awry, his usually black and white worldview developed a large chunk of gray. It all began with his neighbour, Merle Keating.

A decent old bloke who’d lived next door for twenty odd years, Merle is more a friend than neighbour. Then last night, as Dave is lying in bed about to fall asleep, he gets a mental picture of Merle, accompanied by a feeling of concern for the old guy’s well-being.

Given Merle’s advanced years, Dave wonders if he should go next door and check on his elderly friend, but then realises how stupid he would look, waking Merle up at this ungodly hour because he had some half-arsed hunch something is wrong.

He promptly rolled over and fell asleep.

The next morning, Dave had forgotten all about his premonition of Merle, that is, until he noticed the ambulance sitting in the old guy’s driveway. He then noticed Mrs Thomson, Merle’s other neighbour, standing in the yard in her pink dressing gown holding a cake tin and watching the ambulance slowly recede into the distance.

Dave headed over with a bad feeling spreading in the pit of his stomach.

On nearing Mrs T, as she is affectionately known, the old lady burst into tears and hugged him tight saying, ‘he didn’t answer the door and I knew his health wasn’t too good so I called an ambulance, ‘Oh David, she cried, ‘he was lying on the floor! The young officer said he must have had a heart attack or a stroke, but they wouldn’t know until the autopsy.’

Dave felt like crap, thinking he may have been able to save old Merle, or at least keep him alive until the ambos arrived. He didn’t tell Mrs T that, of course.

Instead, he rubbed her shoulders and asked if there is anything he could do for her; would she like to come over home for a while?

‘No, thank you anyway, young man, my granddaughter is coming over to stay with me for a while.’

He then left Mrs T, who headed back to her house, consoling himself with the thought that he didn’t know Merle was on his last legs, it was only some half-arsed feeling. But what the hell!

A week later, Dave sat at the dinner table with his mother, Eileen, and her new boyfriend, Fred, a white-haired old narcissist who got on his nerves. Fred was spruiking about himself as usual, and his many supposed hot investments, when it came to Dave that the old guy wasn’t telling the truth. The next day, his mother stormed into the kitchen cursing lover boy for all her worth. She’d run into Fred’s ex, who told her there were no investments only unpaid child support and failed businesses.

It is at this point, Dave started to give these two prior feelings or premonitions more than a passing thought.

Three days later, while playing ball with Rusty, his seven-year old blue heeler; he had a nagging feeling come over him that there is something wrong with his dog. He ran his hand through Rusty’s fur looking for ticks and was alarmed by the discovery of a lump the size of a large marble at the base of his dog’s skull. An X-ray that same day determined it was a tumour, and further tests revealed that the cancer had spread throughout Rusty’s body. The next day, poor Rusty had a seizure and on vet’s advice, his old mate was put to sleep.

Even in the face of his dog’s death, which upset him greatly, Dave refused to entertain the idea of possessing some sort of psychic ability. He flat-out didn’t believe in that stuff. Yet, he couldn’t deny the accuracy of these strange premonitions, or gut feelings, or whatever the hell they were. However, the sceptic inside him reasoned that it was just his mind piecing two and two together. Like the fact old Merle had been looking ill of late; he already thought Fred was a windbag, and he probably felt the lump in Rusty neck prior just didn’t realise what it was.

Eleven days passed since those fateful incidents.

Dave is woken from a deep sleep this particular morning to a beeping alarm at 6.30am. It is Friday, and Wednesday to Friday he drove his mother to work at the Ace Laundromat in Fairfield.

Eileen Johnson had stopped driving when she was diagnosed with the eye disease, glaucoma, some six months ago now.

Taking over the driving duties from that point on, Dave viewed it as part-payment for room and board that his mother refused to accept while he is out of work.

It is an arrangement that looked set to continue for some time, as Dave is a pastry chef having trouble finding other work, and hadn’t rolled dough since getting laid-off from Bronstein’s Bakery, some six-months ago now. The Aussie Bronstein franchise was sold to an Asian concern that staffed their businesses with family members where they could. For an Aussie lad used to earning top money via a generous salary and plenty of overtime, that was the end.

He threw off his faded blue doona and rolled out of bed, just as his mother’s call of ‘bathroom’s free!’ echoed down the hallway.

The family home was built in the 1950s and is typical of the inner-suburbs of Sydney, with its square three-bedroom, red-brick design. The faded white-tile bathroom sported antiquated plumbing fixtures and peeling yellow paint and is located at the back of the house behind Dave’s bedroom.

And that’s where he ambled first to relieve himself and stand before the bathroom mirror inspecting his average looking, lightly freckled face. Framed by shoulder length brown hair, his best feature most agreed is his light-blue eyes, which leant him an air that had the ladies looking twice.

This morning is no different. Dave turned on the tap and washed his hands, splashing water on his face, then dried off and stood back surveying his image. With a wink and an animated nod, he said: ‘It’s your charisma that gets ‘em, matey.’

If he ever gets a girl again, that is, living at home on the dole with his mother.

Tonight, however, Dave hoped his luck would change as mother dear was going to visit her sister, Robin, where the ladies indulged in a few wines over a game of Canasta and Eileen would stay the night.

It didn’t happen that often, so weird shit going down or not, Dave planned to make good use of the opportunity. Well, at least try to. He knew the chances of scoring a chic and bringing her home were pretty slim. But one had to try, of course.

Suddenly, his mother’s stocky bulk filled the bathroom door. She is ready for work in Ace’s drab uniform of blue-blouse and black shoes, her short auburn hair tied back from a handsome face that belied her sixty-two years. ‘Can we leave a bit early?’ she asked. ‘I need to get some Iced Vovo’s for morning tea.’

Dave smiled at his mother’s reflection in the bottom corner of the mirror. ‘Okay, I’ll have breakfast when I get back.’

He then asked: ‘Are you still going to Aunt Robin’s?’

‘Yes. Why?’ Eileen said, suddenly suspicious. ‘David, what have you got planned? No raging party, I hope?’

‘Yeah,’ Dave said, with animated flourish, ‘I’ve invited the local bikie gang.’ He then spun around and gave his mother a peck on the cheek. ‘Don’t worry mother; I’m only going to the pub for a few beers.’ Of course, what mother dear didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

2

Outside and the inner-suburb of Burwood roused itself to the sun’s rays breaking through a cluster of high-rise buildings to the east. It is early spring and the day’s had been temperate under a clear blue sky and a haze of gray smog.

Dave sat in the driver’s seat of his metallic-green 92’ Commodore sedan, warming the motor and thinking of the day ahead. And that’s when the fourth premonition hit him: an overwhelming feeling they were going to have a car accident. ‘What the hell!’ he proclaimed aloud.

Opening the passenger-door, his mother slid in beside him, giving her son a perplexed look. ‘Were you just talking to someone?’ She asked, looking for a mobile phone.

‘Nah,’ Dave said. ‘Just talking to myself,’ he said.

‘Talking to yourself,’ she said. ‘Keep that up and I’ll begin to think there is something wrong with you.’

Edging his car out of the driveway and into the stream of traffic lining Burwood Road, Dave thought ‘Damn straight, there’s something wrong with me alright.’

About 500 metres further along, he stopped the car out the front of the 7/11 store, while his mother went in to get a packet of Iced Vovo biscuits. Another 500 metres further on sat the intersection of Burwood and Wentworth roads.

Dave watched the lights changing, and it suddenly came to him: ‘that’s the danger zone.’

His mother got back into the car clutching a packet of Monte Carlo biscuits and shaking her head. ‘Jillian won’t be happy,’ she said.

Dave shrugged a ‘too bad’ gesture. He had more important things going down than Jillian’s damn Ice Vovo’s. He glanced over his shoulder and pulled out from the curb.

A minute later, the Commodore approached the intersection. And as if on cue, the lights turned amber, and then red.

Braking hard as a stream of cars poured across the road in front, Dave settled on a simple plan: on the green light, he would wait for a few seconds to see if anything happens. He looked in the rear view mirror to check if there are any other cars behind him...there is none, so it shouldn’t cause any problems.

The lights turned green.

Dave didn’t have to wait long, about three seconds. When the unmistakable growl of a truck exhaust is heard and suddenly, a white Mack semi-trailer roared into his field of vision to hurtle past only metres in front of the car. The Commodore shook from the force of the deadly missile.

‘My god,’ his mother cried, ‘what an idiot! Just as well you didn’t speed off like you usually do. He would have hit us for sure.’

Nodding in solemn agreement, Dave then gathered himself, and with a deep breath drove on. There is little doubt the light-running Mack truck would have slammed into the Commodore and probably killed them both.

He dropped his mother off at the Laundromat and headed straight home, the truck incident shaking him up more than he’d care to admit.

But the thing bugging him the most is that it is more evidence of him possessing some sort of psychic ability. Sure, he’d heard there were people who against all reason and the efforts of sceptics to discredit them who seemed to have the ability to contact the dead, others that purportedly had premonitions of future events and controlled objects with their mind— but not him, not ordinary Dave Johnson.

Until now, he honestly thought it was all a load of bull.

3

Arriving home Dave ploughed into his weekly chores of vacuuming, cleaning the kitchen and bathroom, and putting on the washing—nothing like a bit of hard work to settle the mind. Only it didn’t work; so after stuffing the last of his mother’s uniforms into the washer and turning it on, he made his way to his bedroom and fired up the computer. Maybe the Internet could tell him something about the weird-arse goings on.

It took a few minutes before his aging HP desktop had his MTV home-page adorning the flat-panel screen.

He typed premonitions into the Google search-engine and hit ‘Enter’. After a few seconds, up came a plethora of related websites.

Quickly scanning the pre-page blurbs about premonitions at Wikipedia.com, themystica.com and psychic-experiences.com, he settled on the Australian website spiritual.com.au and clicked on the link: ‘Precognitive dreams and premonitions’.

When the webpage opened, Dave is presented with anecdotal evidence of premonitions people had had that have supposedly come true. Aside from Pharaoh out of the Old Testament who dreamed about seven fat and thin cattle that was interpreted by Joseph as future years of abundance and famine, a person’s dead mother came to them in a dream and told them they would not see their brother and his wife again, then two days later learned the brother and wife had been killed in a plane accident. Another lady had a dream of a neighbourhood boy drowning who the following day actually did drown. Another dreamed of meeting a certain Dutchman in a library and the next day it came to pass.

It’s at that point Dave lost interest. His premonitions, to give them a name, were feelings. No dreams. Not only that, the web page’s author states that in the main, precognition foretold of unpleasant events, and that very few had happy outcomes. ‘Of course,’ he thought with a sardonic smile, ‘they wouldn’t be premonitions about good things would they?’

He checked his emails and found the usual pile of advertising from sites he’d subscribed to that he promptly deleted, then exited Internet Explorer and switched off the computer.

Staring at the blank screen for a moment, Dave decided he is an idiot; all this was a mixture of intuition and coincidence. Even the near-accident event was a case of his mind telling him that if he didn’t get some work done on the Commodore shortly, he would have a bloody accident. Let’s face it, trucks run red lights all the time.

Hanging out the washing, he then made himself some cereal and toast. After which, he filled in the rest of the day by giving the Commodore a much needed detail, then watched league replays and a movie on pay-tv.

It is 6.30pm when he decided to have a shower and get ready to head down to the Local.

The Royal Sheaf Tavern, a recently renovated old pub that had been trading for over a century, is only a short walk down the road. It is 7.15 by the time Dave ambled into the public bar and ordered a schooner of beer from a vivacious-looking young barmaid with short red hair. He parked his behind on a stool and gave the girl a good once over, while she attended to his order. That’s when he received a stinging slap on the back.

‘Hey mate, haven’t seen you for a while!’

Recognising the voice, Dave turned to face his old friend.

‘Robo,’ he said. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Yeah, good mate, excellent actually.’ Robo’s spritely manner signalling he’d been at the pub for some time. Robert Hughes is Dave’s long-time mate from high school. As usual, Robo’s boyish freckled face peered from behind a shock of lank, shoulder-length blond hair. He is wearing blue denim jeans and a yellow surf shirt over his thin, lanky body.

The barmaid arrived with the order, and Robo reached into his pocket and slapped a pile of change on the bar. ‘Take it out of this,’ he said.

‘Thanks mate,’ said Dave.

Both men watched the barmaid count out the cost of the beer, and then their eyes zeroed in on her behind as she turned and made her way back to the till.

‘Listen, speaking of nice arse,’ said Robo with a grin. ‘Sis and a couple of her girlfriends are coming up for a few drinks and a feed. The two girls are hotties mate, so why don’t you join me in puttin’ some work in. Ya never know ya luck.’ Sis was Robo’s sister, Joanne; the two other girls were her work colleagues.

‘Yeah, why not,’ Dave said with a shrug, it saved him having to scope out his own prospects.

Naturally Dave had known Joanne for as long as he’d known Robo. Although they’d played doctors and nurses as kids, that’s as far as it went. Joanne Hughes wasn’t his type; she was thin like her brother, with a feisty temperament and mouth to match. Over the years, Dave has witnessed her wipe the floor with many a lad’s tattered pride.

‘Great,’ said Robo, not exactly using his friend, but he did feel his chances of scoring with Hayley, the more easy going of his sister’s two friends, were somewhat improved with the addition of Davo to keep the other girl, Julia Jacobs occupied.

Although Julia is a raven-haired glammer, she is also a red-hot Witness for Christ, and nothing short of marriage would get her into the sack. He is not using Davo, but definitely withholding information. ‘Alright then,’ said Robo. ‘I’m going to have a few bets. I’ll come and get ya when the girls arrive.’

4

Resuming his appraisal of the barmaid, Dave flirted and chatted with her to fill in the time.

He is onto his third schooner, by the time Robo poked his head through the Lounge access-door and signalled with a wave that the girls had arrived.

Dave grabbed his beer, and followed after his friend.

The Lounge area had recently been painted in two tone beige and is tastefully furnished with a series of comfortable brown semi-circular settees and tables placed at intervals around the wall. The Bistro counter occupied the centre of the southern wall and to its left is access through to the Poker Machine room.

The girls had chosen a table to the right of the Bistro counter, and when Dave walked up, Robo is in the process of taking their drinks order.

Nodding a smile at Joanne, who returned a friendly wave, Dave waited for his friend to finish talking, and gave the other two girls the once-over.

Sitting next to Joanne, Hayley Brookes is similar in looks to her feisty friend, thin body, shoulder-length blond hair platted at the front and an attractive face. She wore black jeans, a white frilled-blouse, and black mid-length leather boots.

Dave’s gaze, however, is captivated by the other girl. ‘Bloody hell, she’s a spunk,’ he thought—as a pleasant feeling associated with lust suffused the lower regions of his body. She had bobbed jet-black hair that framed a face goddess-like in its perfection.

Feeling his attention, she glanced at Dave.

Caught staring, he quickly smiled and looked away, but not before noticing a pair of striking green eyes, with her slender figure tightly wrapped in a knee-length black dress and matching high-heeled shoes.

‘Okay,’ said Robo finalising the order, ‘bourbon and coke for Sis, vodka and orange for Hayley, and just an orange for Julia.’

He turned and nearly bumped into David. ‘Ah, here he is! Now,’ Robo faced the trio of women again to introduce his friend. ‘The lovely creature sitting next to my sister is Hayley.’

‘Hi,’ said Dave.

Hayley nodded a smile.

‘And then Julia, seated next to her.’

Their eyes met again, and this time Dave wanted to make a good impression. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said, mustering his most articulate voice.

‘Ladies,’