Places To Visit On The Way Back

By Thomas Frail

Has life dragged you from the safe, the familiar? Are you adrift and lost in circumstances that are alien, frightening, unnerving? Are you fearing the next step?

Yes?

Then may I offer you my hand and I will lead you to safety, to the familiar, the comfortable, the reassuring; but I must warn you we will be stopping now and again at

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Frail
• Release date: Nov 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9781916820647

Book preview

Introduction

Ok, let’s get something absolutely clear right from the get go.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, (in this case me), or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. (If you, ‘think’, something is familiar to you then that is by happenstance and your interpretation).

I know what you are thinking, why is he stating the bleeding obvious, and then doing it again?, well the answer is simple, it isn’t, ‘bleeding obvious’ to some. So now that’s out of the way let’s begin.

This tome is my second foray into the world of literary fiction and book publishing and after the first one was completed I was told by all and sundry that the second one would be much easier; what a load of codswallop that homily ended up being. The second book, the one you now hold either as a paperback or on your electro gizmo, was bloody hard work! 

If you say third times the charm, I’ll scream.

Don’t misunderstand, I love words and love writing but the stories that came to me in the first book were nearly all natural births, so to speak, most of the ones in this one was either breach or caesarean. (Please don’t think I am trying to belittle those ladies who experience this in the real world, all mams are brilliant!).

I have included with this book feedback I received for my first book, not for the sake of self-aggrandisement, but to show that non biased opinions, although not very many, were on the whole fairly positive, and can be corroborated with a few keystrokes.

While I had indicated at the end of the first book that some characters would return in the new book I did so without any real idea as to who this would be or how I would do it. Looking back, I wish I had erased the lines, you see when I sat down to begin this new one I was immediately hamstrung by the spectre of these characters. Nearly all of them, at one point or another, vied for my attention and storylines and plots blossomed and then died, stopping me from moving to pastures new.  In the end I put down my pen, stopped thinking about the characters I had already written about and let a month go by during which I only made notes about stories and characters that did not appear in the first book.

So, after that first month I was able to crack on and got a couple of stories, well first drafts, on the board in less than a month. I was then incommoded for almost three months by circumstances that, in the end, amounted to nothing, but like the wind which you cannot see a lot of damage was done in the wake of this matter. Anyway, once I had made my way safely out the, ‘minefield’, I cracked on again, or at least wanted to, but my mind, which had been through the wringer, just didn’t have it in it. Prodding and poking it made no odds and so I had to just ride out the storm a little while longer, hence this book appearing later, much later, than I had anticipated.

Well that’s enough of the sackcloth and ashes you’ve selected this book to be entertained not to listen to a middle-aged old fart whinge. So, what can you expect? To be entertained, for that is all I wish from my endeavours, even if only one or two of these tales do so then I shall be a happy man and if you should feel inclined to pop some thoughts of your experience on Amazon then my happiness will know no bounds. (Wow, do I sound like a Prat or what?)  

Enjoy.

Reviews of ‘Places to Visit on the way There’

The author is already working on 'Places to Visit on the Way Back', which will see the reappearance of some of the characters from this book. I know which ones I should like to meet again but, whichever ones they are, I very much look forward to reading their new stories.

Drena Irish, A Love Reading Ambassador

This is a very eclectic mix of short stories, a good variety of tales, from ghost stories to science fiction, from the mundane to the ridiculous. Sometimes the ending takes the reader quite by surprise. This is a selection of well-crafted tales lasting from 5 to 25 minutes, perfect for dipping into.

Chris Woolfenden, A Love Reading Ambassador

Amazon:

Elbow 5 - 5 Stars

Compelling read from start to finish

EW - 4 stars

He gives words to your everyday nightmares

reader of GREAT fiction - 5 stars

perfect for those dark and stormy nights

Amazon Customer - 4 stars

Not for the staunchly religious. Overall, I enjoyed it.

m r Sugden - 5 stars

Entertaining. Brilliant read. Dark and entertaining

David W - 5 stars

Excellent read, a real page turner. Looking forward to the next book

Rgp - 5 stars

Excellent book I couldn't put it down once I started reading. I would highly recommend it.

Amazon Customer - 4 stars

Very thought provoking shocks and poignancy all wrapped up in one book

Prologue – Devotion

If you have persevered so far in the reading of this book, (God I hope so, this is only the first story!!!), or have read this book’s predecessor, you will realise that I give each of my stories a prologue within which I try to outline the origins of the story that subsequently follows. I also add into these prologues any other bits and pieces that I think contribute or could possibly enhance the reader’s, (i.e., you), enjoyment. If you are one of the few owners of a copy of this book’s predecessor, Places to visit on the way there, (and you are rarer than hens’ teeth), or even if not, you will, I hope, feel that my inclusion of these prologues is worthwhile and do not detract from your amusement. That being said I must now advise you that the following story is not going to be preceded by a prologue in the same vein as the others. I will not be outlining the source, inspiration or happenstance of the origin of the story; instead, I am going to ask for your indulgence and request that you read the following story without any preamble. I have added a postscript which I hope will clear things up.     

Devotion

The pain was now the greatest part of his waking hours. It was a constant companion that no matter how hard he tried it would not be outrun or shaken off. It had started off as a nuisance more than anything, a few twinges, a sudden stab of pain that went away as quickly as it came, a little breathlessness, nothing of any significance. Then as the days and weeks had passed it had slowly taken over and had now settled deep, deep; and seemed to have taken up residence in every bone, muscle and sinew, he even felt as if it circulated with his blood so as to ensure no part of him was pain free. The only relief he got was when they came to administer an injection, in the morning and in the later part of the day. He wished they came more often than they did but he supposed they were doing what they thought was best for him and he cherished them for their compassion and love, which he tried to return as best he could. They would sit by him as the contents of the injection worked its magic and the pain slowly ebbed away until it became a distant echo, and, under their concerned and benevolent eyes, he would be able to sleep for a little while.

Bringing him some small relief; and to them also he imagined.

His dreams were always the same. They took him back in time to when he was young and vibrant, filled with a healthy exuberance that never seemed to diminish, as if he held a reserve of life within him that was limitless. The days had seemed to last forever and he had been surrounded by love and had reciprocated that love, and now, as his days neared their end, that love, undimmed by the years, was his greatest comfort.

Sleep, and the wonderful dreams that came with it, never lasted as long as he would have wished and consciousness would eventually return. He would fight it a little, try to keep the comfort of sleep a little longer, to stay in his dreams, but the imperative to wake, goaded by the ever-present pain, would always win out and he would open his eyes to take in the same unchanging view. If he were lucky the effects of the injection would still be working and he would try to take a little fluid or food. He did not feel very thirsty or very hungry anymore, and hadn’t for many days, but it always pleased them when he made the effort and so he did his best for them.

He would then settle back and wait for the pain to return; the inevitable pain.

But this day as he returned to consciousness, regretfully leaving the marvellous dreams behind, the pain seemed to be in abeyance for a little while longer than normal and, rousing himself, and it taking more effort that he thought should be needed, he was able to rise from his bed and totter a few steps to the French windows that looked out on the back garden. He spent a few minutes just staring out upon a world he knew he would not be part of for much longer and as he looked out through the glass the sun shone from a cloudless blue sky, or at least he thought so; his vision was a bit dodgy these days and anything further away than a few feet was a blur, but he chose to believe that the sun was bright and warm and the sky free from any cloud.

A few errant leaves fluttered by the door within his view then as quickly slipped away on the breeze, he wondered idly where they would end up. He would have sat there forever staring myopically out at the world now beyond his reach but they came and returned him to his bed. They did it tenderly and gently with compassion and care not realising he had been content where he was but he raised no objection; how could he when their every thought was for his welfare and comfort.

He settled back into his bed and accepted their kind words of reassurance then, surprising himself, he fell asleep again, his meagre reserves of energy taxed by his small foray.

This time his dreaming seemed like a continuation of his waking time insofar as he was once more staring out on the world through the glass, but this time his vision was perfect, as it had been in his younger days, and he could see that he had been right. The sun was at its zenith and shone from a flawless blue sky, small birds fluttered in and out of the trees looking to capture small insects and he could feel the radiated warmth of the unfettered sun in every fibre of his body. It seemed to fill him up with a sense of wellbeing and health, the pain and discomfort forgotten; he felt all the vigour of his long-ago youth.

Regrettably reality would not be put off and his sleep, and temporary respite, was once more interrupted by a wakefulness he both welcomed and hated in equal measure. The pain had returned, not at its eventual and inevitable high level but sufficient to cause him discomfiture and for him to try and adjust his position in the bed. They saw his attempt to move and hands were suddenly there aiding him to move.

So it had come to this, unable to even move himself in his own bed without assistance. He felt old.

As he settled back down, with their faces near to him showing concern, he noticed that they looked sad, sadder than usual, and the children, who, he realised were no longer children but young adults, had left the room, gently guided out by their mother. He wondered why.

Then the door opened again and another person came into the room. This newcomer was just a fuzzy outline but even the vagueness seemed familiar and when the new person spoke in quiet tones, he recognised who it was by the inflection in the voice of the man. The other man came closer to him, close enough so that his poor eyes could see clearly; he had been correct. He listened as a brief conversation took place, picking out only the odd word or two; his hearing was also a bit dodgy these days.

He felt a hand caress his brow and he turned towards it, and then he felt the familiar tiny prick of the needle. He thought it was too soon for his injection, the sun was still high in the sky and his injections were normally in the morning and then again in the evening, at just about sundown.

Never mind; they knew best.

The hand felt good on his brow and he found his breath was coming a little easier and the pain, which had just begun to return, began to slip away again until it became no more than a whisper. His body began to feel light, as if the diminishing pain had been a weight that the injection was somehow lifting from him. He felt good, something he hadn’t felt for weeks, but he also felt tired and the hand on his brow now seemed somehow distant, he could still feel it but it was more like a memory, a pleasant memory.

He looked up trying to show his contentment, his happiness, his gratitude, then he felt his eyelids become heavy and he slipped quietly to sleep. He dreamed of summer days that never ended, of arms that never tired of throwing him a tennis ball to fetch, of little arms that entwined his neck, kissed his face and fed him treats and, most importantly, of love and devotion.     

Postscript - Devotion

Well here you are, the story is now read and, as promised, here is the postscript. I hope that you will, once you finish this postscript, see why I could not add a prologue, not because it could not be done but rather because it need not have been done. You see I knew that to write a prologue would be to not add to the story but undermine it, maybe even leave it in a kind of literary limbo wherein you, my dear reader, would have been able to determine what the story culmination would be. This would of course make the reading of the story purposeless and, if you did go ahead, it would be nothing more than reading, and I write my stories not just for you to read but also to feel a part of and to be invested in sufficiently to reach the end.

This story will touch a lot of people, well pet owners in the main I would suppose, (maybe I’m being too harsh on non-pet owners, if so let me know in any review to put on Amazon), who have in their life lost a beloved pet. While I appreciate that people have various kinds of pet, I wrote my story about a dog because, according to statistics, most other people can relate to a dog; ‘man’s best friend’. I could have written it from the perspective of a child, or an elderly person, or a woman, or a man; basically the choice was anyone; but I chose not to. (Just for the record I’m a cat person)

We, who have lost pets, particularly when they are put to sleep by a vet, wonder at the time it is occurring as to whether have we done the right thing, was the decision one that had to be made, could we have done more, did we look at all the options, and then we look on as the vet administers the fatal injection and we watch the eyes of our beloved pet slowly lose focus and close. We stroke it or hold it and feel it pass from life to death and suddenly all the years it has been part of our existence, part of our family, part of our heart, sweep in as one great wave like a terrible weight and we end up trying to keep the tears in check; or we don’t.

The vet, inured to such things after years of carrying out this end-of-life job, looks on showing ersatz concern; or maybe I do them an injustice, maybe they feel it too, but from our perspective they are no more than a stranger, an interloper who became part of our pet’s life at the very end, who has no love or thoughts about our pet except to act as they have, to fulfil their role, to limit suffering.

But what of ours?

My story is an attempt to try and show, or rather hope most fervently, that our pets, at the end, knew they were loved, that everything that we did for them we did out of love and that we did not abandon them. That the love they received, and which they gave over the years, made their last moments ones in which they could be at peace filled with memories of the life they had, the joy they gave and the place they had in our hearts. I so dearly hope.

Prologue - When Worlds Collide

At the end of my last book, ‘Places to visit on the way there’, (which in all honesty was also my first), I did intimate as to the possibility that some of the characters therein could find their way into the new book, i.e., the one you’re now holding. Well, I managed to do so but what I had never intended to do was to create some kind of crossover storyline. I always feel that crossover stories can be either really good or really, really bad, and I imagine you can think of a number without me providing any prompts. 

So now you are asking yourself if it’s such a minefield, from a literary perspective, why have I taken it on?  Good question, frankly the answer is not going to impress you, no really, it’s not, are you ready? Ok here it is: It happened by fluke.

Ok, Ok, let the brick bats be thrown, I can take it. I say fluke but another word I could have used was happenstance. You see when the story started it was going to be about one character from my last/first book, and I had the basic story premise outline fleshed out; then I started typing.

Well it seemed as if my fingers and brain were in collusion because after about a page or so they began to mutiny. I suddenly felt as if what I was writing was somehow nothing more than a, ‘filler’, a way to tie up loose ends, but then I realised I hadn’t left any loose ends, as such per se. Well, yes, I sort of did but I could argue that I also sort of didn’t, typical writer mental dichotomy.

Anyway, I found myself unable to move on unless, and until, I gave in and give them what they asked for, which I did for the sake of retaining my sanity.

My fingers and brain convinced me that I could, rather than write one story and bring back one character, actually bring back more than one but in a single tale; madness!

Obviously at that point my fleshed out original rough draft was consigned to the recycler, and I’ll admit a tear or two was shed as I had put a fair bit of work into it. However, saline leakage to one side I did begin to realise that there were possibilities.

I then spent some days cobbling together a new first rough draft and it slowly, very slowly, began to come together. I tried like mad not to make it clichéd or, worse, read like either another story or a film or show that had been on TV, I think I succeeded but just because I cannot think of them won’t mean you’ll be unable.

I hope you are unable.

Right so where were we, ah yes, so I worked on the new draft, ironing out the kinks and doing a little research along the way to add to the storyline, and actually had a good time. I was able to draw together three characters from two stories that had appeared in my first book and they seemed to work together. I tried to make sure nothing was too outrageous or ridiculous and endeavoured to make sure that any twists and turns in the plot were firmly grounded in reality, well my version of it anyway.

So, that’s where we are at now, the original tale I had planned is now gone and what follows is what came about afterwards. I like it, I really do, in fact I could see it being an episode from tales of the unexpected or a twilight zone, but it’s now up to you to decide. Here’s hoping it doesn’t end up a, ‘tale of the expected’, or a, ‘twilight doze’.

When Worlds Collide

A man who had called himself by many names over the centuries stood in the shadowy twilight between street lamps and watched as a black cab struck a man and sent him flying through the air to crash into a lamp post; breaking his neck and killing him instantly. The man who watched sighed heavily, a single tear slipping unnoticed from his eye.

He wiped it away with a silk handkerchief which he then carefully replaced in his inner jacket pocket. He then took out a small diary, opened it to a page he had filled in several weeks before and confirmed the date and location of William Callum’s funeral; the man who now lay dead half on and half off the road a little over one hundred yards away. He closed the diary, replaced it in his pocket and turned and walked away into the night; he had a train to catch.

As he walked his heart felt heavy, as it always did when this occurred. He had, over the centuries of his long existence, relayed part, or all, of his story to a number of individuals and in each instance, he had known that his secret would remain so as the person he regaled would not live long enough to pass the information on to another; as had happened this day. His own personal thoughts on the matter had over the years caused him inner conflict that at times had taken him to the edge of sanity, but the attempts he had made to circumvent fate always ended badly; sometimes cataclysmically.

As he arrived at Waterloo it was still relatively busy, even at the late hour. ‘People travelling hither and thither to various important, and some not so important, rendezvous and such like’, he mused, all of them looking but not seeing. He made his way to where he could see the departure board and glanced up. It showed his train was on time and indicated the platform from which it would depart, a few minutes’ walk at a slow pace. He still found it strange that his ability sometimes showed him everything and yet at other times left holes. Tonight, was a prime example, he had known from their first encounter that the man, Bill Callum, he had given part of his story to was going to be killed by a black cab driven by Rajiv Patel, (a father of six, two of which his wife knew nothing about). He had also known which church Callum’s funeral would be held at and that the weather on the day would be a glorious summers’ day. And yet he did not know if his train would arrive at Salisbury as scheduled. The journey should take one hour and twenty-six minutes, as it was scheduled to take, but he could not see it. He knew that he would receive several pieces of junk mail in the morning post, get a phone call from the travel agents about his holiday, (he was being upgraded for no extra cost), but there was a hole as to his arrival back at Salisbury. He both liked and felt unsure about these, ‘holes’, alternating between the pleasure of still having some surprises and the discomfiture of being surprised; a paradox.

He had learnt from bitter experience that warning the individual, or taking action to circumvent fate to avoid their demise was problematical at best and devastating at worst. He had found, through trial and error and training, that if he elected not to focus too much the gift, or curse, became vague about the future, like looking through an opaque glass window, and he found that he much preferred things that way and had learned to live this way, leaving the future vague until he needed to replenish his finances. But there had been times when his choice to place his ability into abeyance had had major repercussions.

He recalled in the early part of the fourteenth century, while he was residing in Asia in a small village in the Chu Valley, the name of which he could not remember and which no longer existed, he had found himself in the midst of an outbreak of a terrible plague. While the new plague could not do him any harm it ravaged the inhabitants of the village until eventually only he was left alive. To have remained, and to have stayed healthy while this plague continued to decimate the populace would have attracted undue attention and he had, as he had many times before, chosen to leave. He had packed up his belongings and had taken passage on a ship and then taken another until he ended up in southern Russia, the Crimea. The conditions in the Russian Crimea were too basic for him and he once more took to traveling, intending to go to Europe where a man could live in relative comfort. He took a berth on one of twelve ships that in October 1347 docked at the Sicilian port of Messina. He recalled that people who had gathered on the docks were met with a horrifying surprise: Most of the sailors were dead, and those few still alive were gravely ill and covered in black boils that oozed blood and pus. Sicilian authorities hastily ordered the fleet out of their harbour and took what actions they thought best to protect themselves but the man did not leave with the ships. He had jumped ship and swam ashore before the ships had docked.

He had used his ability to restore his wealth and had watched helplessly as the plague devastated Europe, taking millions of lives. While it was unlikely in the extreme that he could have prevented this cataclysm, he felt that had he been aware of what the twelve ships were to cause he could have at the very least found a way to stop them. For almost six hundred years he had focussed on his ability and had taken whatever action he could to prevent or mitigate disasters. He was not always successful but he knew he had to try. What he had not considered in his actions, or sought to look to the future to see, was what the knock-on effect his actions would have, his gift was a closed book to him on this aspect of things and he was almost grateful, to have had to deal with tens of thousands of individual timelines and lives would have been overwhelming. And his ability remained with this protective cloak until the early twentieth century.

The instance came to mind of the time when he had sat for several hours in a small café in Vienna with a young man who wished to be an artist. The man had been shown several watercolours that, in his opinion, were naïve and prosaic but, he had conceded, held some promise. The young man had had an intensity about him that was most beguiling and had been an avid and intelligent listener, asking pertinent and perceptive questions. The destiny of this young man had been to be accidently killed in a foolish argument over an outstanding debt, which the man, who had called himself by many names over the centuries, had paid off in full. It was only several months after he had taken this action, saving the young aspiring artist, that the new timeline had coalesced, his ability suddenly taking a great leap.

The horror of what he saw had caused him to seriously consider the prospect of taking the life of the young man and avoiding the potential fallout from occurring, but this was something he could not contemplate, not only because he did not think he could take a life but for fear of what such action would then have, for his ability had, when his thoughts had settled on killing the young man, shown him an end of life; all life. He had had to make a choice, tens of millions or the entire human race. He had made his choice and yet he still wept at times over it.

However, most of those he had told his story to had been decent, honest people and their respective deaths had been pre-ordained by fate, which he learnt was immutable. The pain he felt, even though the acquaintances were all brief, was quite powerful and at times overwhelming and had he had a soul he wondered whether he would have been able to bear it.

It was at these times that he clearly understood why he lived alone as he did, why any relationship would be an exercise in futility. He recalled the only time in his long existence when he had given his heart to another just to see them grow old, infirm and then die. The pain had been such that he had attempted to end his life; which of course had failed.

His train journey went without incident and as he lay in his bed that night he made a decision and once he had he turned over and was asleep in less than a minute.

*****

The following week he prepared himself to attend the funeral of William Callum. He travelled by taxi to the station then took the train into the city, arriving at Waterloo in plenty of time. The day was pleasant and so he chose to walk the mile or so to the church. As he crossed Waterloo Bridge the slight breeze coming up from the river brought a wonderful coolness and he stopped for moment to savour it, then he continued on to the Strand and followed a few smaller side streets to his destination. He arrived, as he had intended, half an hour before the service and with no service preceding it the church was empty. He took a seat in the last row as far from the central aisle as was possible and waited. He felt a sadness well up inside him, he had liked William Callum, but he knew that the threads of fate or time or whatever it was meant that William Callum had had to die as he had. The man knew that one of the men in the taxi, a man who had been drunk and who had travelled far along the road of alcoholism, would, due to the event, almost immediately become tee total. This was obviously a small thing compared to the life of a man but his sobriety would stop him making a mistake on the construction of a block of flats, a mistake that would cause the death of one hundred and twenty-seven people, men, women and children. The knowledge that William Callum was indirectly responsible for saving those lives, albeit several years down the road mitigated, slightly, the pain he felt. 

Slowly but surely mourners arrived and then the coffin carrying the mortal remains of William Callum was carried down to the altar and laid on top of a Catafalque. There were maybe thirty people attending the funeral and this paucity of bodies made the man feel a little melancholy. The service was concluded and the entourage followed the coffin from the church, its final resting place a crematorium; a sad end. The man sat for several minutes until the church was empty once more and he was sure all the cars had left then he rose and made his way back out of the church. The sun continued to shine and he allowed a moment for it to dispel the coolness that had settled on him in the church, then, with nothing more to do he headed back to Waterloo and the train.

*****

Although he had not been a practicing Jew for a long time, and had garnered sufficient evidence over his many years to not have too many qualms about it, he still from time to time found himself heading back home to Bethany, near Jerusalem. It was never an overwhelming feeling