The Man Who Couldn't Die

By Ron McCarthy

Alessandra Valentino seeks to rebuild her life after witnessing the horrific slaying of her mother in Pompei three years earlier. Set in a time when a deadly new strain of the Omega virus has been rampaging, Alessandra enlists the help of a Sydney psychologist to help her confront her nemesis.

Her quest takes her to Prague where she is lur

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ron McCarthy
• Release date: Aug 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9780645837018

Book preview

The Man Who Couldn’t Die

Copyright © 2023 by Ron McCarthy

ISBN paperback: 9780645837001

ISBN e-book: 9780645837018

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First Printing, 2023

Dedication

The author would like to particularly thank proof-reader, Jen Watkins, and the graphic artist, Sam Howland for the cover design.

He is also deeply indebted to his children and close friends for their wonderful encouragement.

The Man

Who

Couldn’t

Die

Ron McCarthy

Chapter 1

December 2020

The chimes of the Church of Our Lady before Tyn in Old Town Square, Prague, ring out. Midnight, the twin towers reflect bubble waves of refracted light through the gloom. A large snow carpeted Christmas tree dominates the square. Underneath the Cathedral in the portico of the Salvador Dali Museum, lies a derelict figure tightly wrapped in newspapers. He cannot fend off the freezing night, minus fourteen degrees celsius.

The dishevelled man hears footsteps, the crunch on ice coming closer. He prays for a bottle of whisky or another night in the police cells where he can stay warm.

A male in his fifties draped in a knee-length overcoat bends down and speaks quietly to the derelict.

Speak English?

"Ne."

The male signals to somebody. A woman approaches and begins to translate for the homeless Czech man.

You look cold and hungry.

What do you want? The derelict man demands aggressively.

To help you. I will give you free board and money.

Why would you do that? Nobody offers something for nothing.

You’re right. There are conditions. The woman continues translating for the man in the overcoat.

I wasn’t always like this, you know, the derelict replies. It wasn’t that long ago I had a mansion, a luxury yacht, a football team.

If you’re willing to take part in a clinical trial you will be accommodated very comfortably.

What kind of clinical trial?

We are working on a cure for the Omega virus. You will be required to undergo a series of injections. It’s a safe procedure… What have you got to lose?

That’s a point. In my predicament, fuck all.

Are you hungry?

What do you think?

Don’t be afraid, reassures the woman continuing to translate.

My apartment is close by. You will be doing a wonderful service for humanity.

Don’t talk shit. Just get me out of this fucken ice box. I don’t really care what you inject me with, lethal would be better.

The male gestures to the driver of a black Mercedes which is parked under the bronze statue of Jan Hus, located in the centre of Old Town Square. The face of Hus is turned away from the Catholic cathedral, a symbolic gesture of rejecting the Catholic abuses throughout medieval Europe.

Jan Hus, he was warm when they burned him you know, the derelict comments, shivering. More than warm, baby. They thought they were sending him to hell.

As the car moves towards the portico, the destitute male with vacant eyes is seized by the arm and stood upright. He doesn’t resist, and shudders at the prodigious strength of the male who, with the translator at his side, escorts him to the waiting car. A young, dark-haired female drives away into the gloomy, fog ridden night. Somewhere in the distance, the forlorn howl of a destitute dog carries into the silent snow-scaped night.

*

Later, in the grim hour just before dawn when all life is suspended in death, a male in a white surgical gown extracts a blood sample from a recently deceased old man. As he bends forward, a bright pendant hangs loose around his neck, revealing the engraving of a clown clasping a spike ball.

Medusa, have you frozen that sample yet? he asks a young woman tetchily. The interlocutor was a male in his fifties, powerfully set. He moves the light directly above the deceased man’s heart.

The sample is frozen, replies Medusa. It looks promising. The culture has produced the necessary shock to the heart. It will be very potent.

You tested the serum on a man who had already been dead for an hour. So how do you know that it’s effective? I must be certain, Medusa.

Look at this Pavel. Medusa switches on the monitor behind the table to show an image of a heart. "The victim’s heart at the moment of death an hour ago. No throb, devoid of life… seemingly. Clinically the man is dead.

But the heart can reboot after initial death up to four hours later, then the window of possible resuscitated life closes permanently. Now watch what happens when I inject a small dose of serum into his heart."

Medusa injects a substance into the deceased’s heart. Immediately the victim’s heart convulses strongly.

You see Pavel, if this kind of strong reaction occurs when a body is technically dead, imagine its potency on the living! Medusa cries triumphantly. So, we are well on the way to producing this...

Life giving medicine. Good work, Medusa! You are the clever scientist! However, we still need more volunteers to ensure the serum works in the majority of the target group.

Which means another twelve months of testing, Medusa states as she removes her surgical mask.

If you and Ivuska work your arses off, the time frame might be halved. Still, great progress. This calls for a celebration, right now.

Shall I wake her up? She wouldn’t want to miss out, protests Medusa.

But of course, my dear. I haven’t forgotten her for a moment. But, isn’t three a crowd? teases Pavel Bauer.

It depends if you’re up to it. Are you, Pavel?

You know I am. Take your coat off. Let me remind you of my power.

I know it, Pavel. But, here? In the surgical room? Have a heart!

Ha! Have a… Come here.

Bauer lies face up on the slate floor as Medusa disrobes, flinging her bra to the floor. She brushes back her jet-black hair and purses her prominent blood red lips in his direction. She rides him slowly at first, increasing in intensity until, minutes later she screams wildly, caught up in a tsunami of ecstasy.

What about you, Pavel. Don’t you want to finish? Aren’t I hot enough for you? You prefer her, don’t you?

Don’t be silly, darling Medusa. I’m saving myself for you both later. Even I have limits...

Chapter 2

People say we've got it made

Don't they know we're so afraid?

Isolation.

John Lennon. Isolation

Three years later

A group of Japanese tourists view Sydney Harbour from the apex of the Sydney Harbour Bridge walk. Cameras click and whirl to capture a sun-soaked sparkling harbour. The Sydney Opera House rises up out of the water like a resplendent sea god, rippling in myriad prisms of bright light.

Inside the Opera House, Alessandra Valentino sits passively as the Director of the Sydney Design School, Chris Ryan, addresses the graduands. Donned in academic gown and cap, she wonders how long he will speak.

She also inwardly congratulates herself on having reached this milestone in her young life given the circumstances of online learning amidst a particularly virulent period of the Omega virus.

When I see her later on, I’ll tell Patricia Walsh that the seclusion drove me to study hard, tell her that I actually enjoyed the isolation from other people. Hard to mix with others when you’ve been hurt, surely she’ll want to know about that…

The colleague seated to Alessandra’s right nudges her. She gestures with open hands three times, thirty minutes. Alessandra smiles. The colleague slips a piece of paper with the word wager?

She remembers the game she and Nick used to play on long trips, predict the time of arrival and earn a night off from household chores. The memory of Nick becomes painful.

She raises her hands and signals thirty-two minutes. Her colleague stays with thirty. Alessandra writes, prize?

A free beer.

You’re on.

Both colleagues mentally tick off the time of the speech in five-minute intervals.

Ten minutes.

Glances towards one another, a raised eyebrow, puckered lips.

Fifteen.

Twenty.

To the class of 2023 I say this, use your skills to promote a greener, safer world, be creative in your eco-orientated designs…

Twenty five.

Alessandra becomes restless. Minutes become eternities. I’m in a time warp, time ticking the minutes away in a cold, silent universe, stretching to infinity where bright stars flare up and die in the dark void of endless time.

Twenty nine.

Chris Ryan begins to conclude. Before I finish, it is customary to present a special award to the most outstanding student throughout the course. To that end, without further ado, I present the Sydney Design School Award for outstanding work to… Alessandra Valentino.

A burst of applause. The twenty-one-year-old tentatively approaches the stage. She brushes back her wavy black hair and stands impassively.

Shit! I wasn’t expecting this… you won’t get a speech out of me… Just try to enjoy the limelight… Last time I brushed shoulders with this stage was my performance of Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto when I was sixteen… I was definitely in a happier space then…

Chris Ryan dons a gold medallion over her head, shakes her soft hand, and addresses the audience.

"Distinguished guests, students, parents, ladies and gentlemen, I’m sure that Alessandra won’t be embarrassed if I make the following remarks… Not many of you know the tragic circumstances which Alessandra faced when she began this course three years ago. Without going into details, she is testament to the spirit of courage and endurance, which now see her fully qualified as a graphic design artist.

As well as receiving the award for the most deserved student of the class of ’23, unknown to her until now, she is the recipient of a prestigious study scholarship at the Pecka Graphic Design Studio in Prague. A very passionate patron of our school, who wishes to remain anonymous, has made this scholarship possible. Congratulations Alessandra."

Chris Ryan turns and kisses Alessandra on the left cheek. He briefly whispers to her his intention to ring her later regarding the scholarship details and travel arrangements to Prague. She walks off stage in a daze off swirling emotion. Am I dreaming? Prague! My God!

Chapter 3

A white ibis picks at a chip outside a coffee shop at Circular Quay. A young woman dressed in academic attire stops to buy a take-away coffee, then walks towards the Botanical Gardens. Mottled orange leaves swirl and fall in the stinging autumn wind. She wraps her overcoat collar tightly around her neck.

She finds a bench seat under an ancient Moreton Bay fig tree. She feels her spirit regenerating and rejuvenating. Closing her eyes, she drifts like a yacht in the harbour.

A couple with a baby walks past arguing loudly. Her reverie is disturbed. The male, oblivious to Alessandra’s presence, arches stiffly back with a raised and clenched fist.

My God! He’s going to strike her! No!

For the baby’s sake, Jack. Please… don’t!

He ignores his partner’s desperation. The blow splits her nose open. Blood spurts profusely, some splashing over the seated woman’s overcoat. The male walks away.

Serves you right, you fucking bitch!

Alessandra rushes to the woman’s aid. She takes a wad of tissues out of her bag. The baby cries uncontrollably.

Are you all right? Here, take these. Alessandra sits her gently and tilts her head back to stop the flow of blood. The woman applies pressure to the bridge of her nose. Soon, the bleeding stops. The baby is distressed and cries hysterically.

Pass me my baby, please.

Alessandra gently lifts the baby from the pram and places it in the mother’s arms.

Do you need an ambulance?

No. But he will if I ever set eyes on him again. The woman opens her shirt and feeds the child.

You should call the police, says Alessandra.

They don’t give a rat’s. They cautioned him once. Guess what happened when they left?  The woman moves her long hair to one side showing her left ear. 

Don’t look so shocked. Yes, the fucker bit half my ear off. They’re all the same. We’re all fucked you know. Some say it’s the virus. I say it’s…

Alessandra is about to say that she had a gorgeous boyfriend who didn’t deserve the cruel fate that he met when she notices the mother looking in fright at an approaching figure. She instinctively removes the baby from her breast and wraps it tightly. Her partner begins to approach. He stops ten metres away and looks coldly at Alessandra.

Who are you staring at, bitch? he glares.

Alessandra walks slowly, uncertainly towards him. The moment for reflection flies by like a startled bird. She is invested in the woman’s dilemma and states.

Someone who should be locked up and the key thrown away.

Shut up, Lexy! Shit scared… he’s gonna hit me… mamma… be the warrior…think of the baby…

The male gazes at Alessandra with a filthy, angry look.  She takes her mobile out of her pocket and is about to take a photo of him when he turns and walks away. The mother visibly relaxes.

God, you’re either brave or fucken stupid, she says to Alessandra. She allows her baby to continue feeding.

Definitely stupid… one day I’ll pay the price for my impulsive behaviour.

I appreciate you standing up to him. I was pregnant at the time he did this, she says, touching her ear.

Felt these strong kicks in my belly. Even an unborn child knows fear and violence. If the pregnancy wasn’t so advanced, I would’ve got rid of the poor little cunt. I promise you one thing, I won’t be bringing any more innocents into this hell hole! There’s evil in this world, lady. Something fucking evil set that virus onto us.

The woman finishes feeding. She places the baby in the pram.

I know of a women’s shelter in the city. I can take you there now if you want.

There’s no shelter for me, lady. Do yourself a favour. Keep away from them. She walks away towards the Opera House snivelling. The ancient trees in the Botanical Gardens sway and bend in protest as the cruel wind shakes and throttles them.

Wait! cries Alessandra jogging up to the woman. You can stay at my place until you organise something. You don’t have to pay me anything, I don’t want you going back to him.

I don’t accept charity, lady, she replies tersely.

Sometimes you have to… swallow your pride… for the sake of the baby… don’t go back to him, or are you one of those women who think you need to go back again and again because you deserve to be punished?

None of your business. And thanks, but no thanks. It’s nice to meet someone kind. But people like you are few and far between, you’re a mutation, a tiny light of love in a cruel universe. I’ve gotta sort this out myself.

You don’t seem capable of that right now! insists Alessandra. Besides, he’ll take it out on you again and it’ll be my fault. He chose not to strike me because he’s saving himself for you. So, I owe you one.

The woman continues walking, occasionally stooping to tuck the blankets around her baby for protection against the howling wind.

Here, keep this number and ring me if you change your mind, insists Alessandra, handing a slip of paper with her mobile number to the woman. The woman dismissively ignores Alessandra leaving her to ponder what might have been. She crumples the paper and slips it into her coat pocket. Alessandra sits back down. The fig tree’s magic vanishes like a raindrop lost in a desert dune.

Chapter 4

Footsteps approach.

Hi! Alessandra! It’s your betting colleague.

Hi. Yes. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.

I’ll give you a clue. Hm, hm, she says as she clears her throat dramatically. "Lovely Rita meter maid… give us a wink and make me think of you…" She sings.

So… you must be Rita?

You got it in one. I loathe abbreviations like Reet or Riot. My arsehole brother knows this. I tell him, if you call me that again I’ll dump a bucket of shit over your head. He never takes any notice. One day I will… maybe… probably not…

She’s feisty… like me once…

Alessandra forces a smile.

I prefer Lexy or Lex. Not so formal.

"Let’s keep in touch, Lex-slash-Lexy. And congratulations by the way! Great work! Prague, eh? I’m fucking jealous. Hey, you still owe me a fucking beer for the wager! Congratulations, Chris Ryan, by the way for your boring-as-bat shit speech… But a bone to pick with you says lovely Rita to lovely Lex-slash-Lexy. You scarpered quicker than a lizard drinking. Before I had a chance to mention the pub. Must find that chick I was saying to meself before she becomes a faint and quaint memory, and then, voila! There you were… meditazione among the figtrees!"

A bilinguist, Alessandra smiles.

Haha, a bilinguist and a cunnilinguist.

I see, Alessandra replies not knowing quite how to respond. She is enjoying Rita’s banter. She has missed human contact. Apart from her grandmother, her life over the past three years has been one constant silence, silence so great like the gong of a monastery bell.

Say, who was that woman? Blood all over her.

Her partner punched her right in front of me.

Jesus. How awful! Rita starts up again. So… anyway, the class are meeting in the pub in thirty minutes. You should get your ass off that seat and come along. You’re free, aren’t you? There won’t be another chance for eons, I’d wager. My second wager for the day. Did you hear we’re going into lockdown again as from tomorrow?

Chris Ryan told me before, but said he would organise a travel exemption to allow me to still get to Prague. Lexy replies.

"I read about it in the news today, oh boy, four thousand holes in Blackburn, Lancashire…"

More Beatles’ references, Lexy notes.

Yeah, they’re coming out of the woodwork. Them and the cockroaches in my Cleveland Street shit-hole. Student accommodation sucks. What’s wrong with these arsehole landlords! I tells the prick last month I have a leaky bedroom roof. Do you think he’s fixed it yet?

Can you complain to the agent? suggests Alessandra.

I already did! As soon as we hear from the owner, we’ll get back to you, they say. It’s the same old broken record. I’m leaving soon, anyway. As soon as I can find a place.

You can rent out my house in Stanmore while I’m away. I’m sure we can agree on a reasonable rent.

You have a house in Stanmore? What the fuck! Which oligarch did you marry?

My mother’s place. Or it used to be. Alessandra feels herself tearing up.

I’m sorry Lex, something happened to your…?

Nothing really. The house is available. Here, Rita, my card.

Don’t go. I’ve upset you.

It’s okay. I have an appointment in Newtown in an hour.

Come to the pub for a little while. It’s close by. The other guys would love to see you.

I didn’t get to know anybody from the course, Rita. I’d feel strange.

Well, it’s up to you. Fuck! that wind is howling! I’m interested in your offer of rental at your apartment, Lex. We can chat about it at the pub, suggests Rita.

Rita, I told you how I feel about the pub, besides I’d prefer if you met me at my apartment so you can see for yourself whether it would suit you, replies Alessandra.

Come on… I know you would have a good time at the Shangrila! Sure you won’t come for a little while? A hop, step, and jump, ten minutes from here to the Rocks. Besides, with lockdown imminent the chance for another piss up might be a long time coming!

That’s true, replies Alessandra relaxing. I’m not annoyed with you, Rita.

Haha, bull shit! You think I’m a pushy bitch. If I were you, which I’m not, but if I was, I’d think me a pushy little bitch too, or a pushy somewhat larger-than-life-thanks-to-MacDonalds… vamp.

Alessandra giggles. I’m not sure I want a vamp at my place.

Wish I could be so vivacious and carefree like you, Rita…

What a sick fuck this universe has become, eh? Thank you, oh rollicking, raving, roiling sick mother fucker universe! We embrace the pandemic wholly committed. Jesus!

Maybe not so carefree after all…

I’m sure Omega will pass, Rita.

Eventually. Or mutate… into what? Feels like we’re all little corks popping up and down on giant ocean waves. I was planning a little trip to New Zealand next week. That’ll be scrapped for sure. Unless I can convince de fat of the nobility of my travel.

De fat… what are you talking about, Rita?

The new prime minister of course! exclaims Rita egging on Alessandra.

Of course, she replies.

Pulling ya leg. De fat is the ministry for foreign affairs.

DFAT… the penny drops. So, you want to apply for a travel exemption, Rita.

In a nutshell, Lexy. ‘Dear de fat,’ I’ll write in my best typed handwriting… ’Dear de fat, I’d like to study the fossil remains overlooked by Charles Darwin at Milford Sound. Please may I have an exemption in the name of science?’

That should do it, Rita.

Honestly, I’m happy you can go, Lex. You’ll have an incredible time, I’m sure. Now, are you going to join me or not? Cause, baby, I’m hell bent on a pisser this arvo, and if some guy or girl or both want to fuck my brains out upstairs, I won’t say no! It’s been too long.

Tell me about it… might be just what the doctor ordered… or the psychologist…

Okay, I’ll come for a while, Rita.

Rita wraps her coat tightly around her. She gazes momentarily at Alessandra with piercing, blue eyes. A young woman of similar age to Lexy, with short black hair she is very overweight, with a noticeably white, freckly face. She exudes energy and whimsicalness.

Both women stroll along the foreshore of the harbour, past the Opera House, past the ferry services to Manly and other locations. A busker stands against the rail to the right of ferry terminal 3 singing What shall we do with the Drunken Sailor…

Alessandra’s mobile phone vibrates.

"I have to take