Almost Dead In Suburbia Read online

  Almost Dead in Suburbia

  Douglas Pearce

  P’kaboo Publishers

  South Africa

  2013

  P’kaboo Publishers

  www.pkaboo.net

  First published online, 2008

  First Paperback Edition,

  P’kaboo Publishers 2013

  Copyright © Douglas Pearce, 2008

  Cover design: Irthling.co.za

  Printing and Binding: Business Print, Pretoria

  ISBN978-0-620-47928-8

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author. The right of Douglas Pearce to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Design and Patents Act 1988

  For Celeste, with love

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to:

  Lyz Russo and the staff at P’kaboo, especially Les Noble for his patience and professionalism during editing;

  My children, Emily and Adrian for their invaluable input, and my wife, Celeste for always being there.

  *

  Disclaimer

  The characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Reference to actual people or places is entirely for fictional background.

  CONTENTS

  1: Not Really Dead 1

  2: ‘Welcome Back’ 11

  3: Walkies 20

  4: My God… I’m Alive 29

  5: Ralph Gets a Temp 35

  6: Bonjour, Fred 43

  7: It’s all in the Eyes 51

  8: Wiglob 63

  9: Seeing Ghosts 74

  10: Trains, Lorries,and Free-Range Chickens 92

  11: Who’s a Pet? Who’s a Cat? 101

  12: Let the Game Begin 118

  13: Goodbye Gordon - Hello Ralph 138

  14: Talking Cats and Loony Landowners 147

  15: Scousers and Red Herrings 159

  16: All Righty, Then! 165

  17: Hello Fred, I’ve Been Expecting You 174

  18: Back to Wiggleswood 190

  19: Teddy Remback is? 207

  Epilogue 216

  1: Not Really Dead

  ‘Eighty-three,’ the squeaky voice called out.

  Thirty-three heads dropped to stare at the numbered ticket each person clutched for dear life.

  ‘Nope,’ said a voice from behind.

  A heavy sigh was the response from the woman sitting two seats away.

  ‘Dammit! - An erudite outburst from the back of the room.

  There was also a small cheer.

  Someone got up and disappeared beyond the temporary partition for a few minutes; then reappeared, all smiles, holding on to their prize and giving a fleeting look at the poor sods that remained before making a beeline for the exit.

  And so it went on.

  Funny that, Ralph thought, we’ve all been here the best part of an hour and yet every time the secretary or tea lady or whatever she was entered the room and called out a number, every single person looked at his or her raffle ticket. You would think after sitting in the same position for so long everyone would remember their ticket number.

  His reaction was no different from the rest of them. His head went down just like theirs every time the tea lady (he had decided to go with this option) walked across the grubby black and white linoleum floor, stood in front of this small gathering, and recited.

  The response was usually the same. Nope, Sigh, Dammit and a small cheer.

  There had been one other respondent previously sitting in the chair directly behind Sigh. He alternated between ‘crap’ and ‘shoot’, but had left in a fit of pique after having his number called out while he was not in the room. Leaning forward, he had tapped Sigh on the shoulder, and as she turned said in a hoarse whisper ‘I’m just popping into the corridor for a smoke. I’m dying here without a ciggy. Wave if my number’s called, okay? I’ll be able to see you through the glass.’

  She nodded dumbly. Trouble was Crap/Shoot was in such a rush to have his ‘ciggy’ that he forgot to tell her his number.

  When he re-entered, leaving behind a cloud of smoke, Sigh beckoned him over and whispered.

  ‘You forgot to tell me your ticket number, dear.’

  Crap/Shoot mumbled ‘Shoot’,’ and when Tea Lady reappeared he enquired about the last couple of numbers.

  Because there are certain rules of narrative fiction that while not written on paper, are so old they are almost certainly carved in stone, so naturally, one of the numbers had been his.

  A few words of pleading, followed by a brief, heated outburst containing several more colourful expletives, did not produce the desired result: that of being bumped up the queue.

  Losing his temper with Tea Lady wasn’t winning him any friends amongst the others in the room either.

  She would not budge. He had missed his turn, and that was that. She tore off another raffle ticket which she handed to him and indicated with steely grey eyes that he should take his seat once more.

  Crap/Shoot nearly had a fit, screwed up his ticket, then unscrewed it and tore it into little pieces right under Tea Lady’s nose.

  Her response appeared practised. ‘Security,’ was the call. Tea Lady didn’t even raise her voice.

  Crap/Shoot stormed off in a rage, banging into the metal waste bin as he turned, and hurting his right knee in the process.

  Seems it’s true: smoking is bad for your health, Ralph thought. Then, just as he felt the impulse to smile, he received a murderous glance from Mr. Crapshoot and quickly rearranged his expression into the one that said, ‘I’m a moron just like the rest of us here.’

  Forty-seven minutes and eighteen seconds later Tea Lady called out number ninety-two and Ralph leaped out of the plastic seat, went into the available cubicle, handed over his receipt and was issued with his new passport.

  When was that, he wondered? He couldn’t remember. It wasn’t important. Not any more, anyway. Dead people don’t need passports. So why had he been thinking of the passport office?

  Then he got it. The raffle tickets. He imagined wherever it might be he was heading to would have a similar character who would call out his number when it was time for him to ‘go’. But go where? That was the question he was waiting to be answered.

  Ah, here it comes, the tunnel, the bright light. He had heard or read something about people who claimed they had died and afterwards . . . what was the term? Came back to life? Resurrected? Anyway, all had said that this was how it was. For some reason he felt that the opportunity to confirm the story to anyone would not present itself. Unless, of course, he found a way to communicate from the ‘other side’.

  He began moving towards the bright light. Not too far now, he thought, although there was no real sense of distance. The light just seemed to swell around him until he became immersed in it. His final thought before crossing over: Hey, just think, I get to meet God! From a self-confessed atheist this was quite ironic.

  There was a flash and, he was back in the real world, whatever that was. The tunnel had gone, the bright light had vanished, and he was standing outside a suburban house at the scene of an accident.

  At first glance it looked as though an ambulance had rammed into a car as it was reversing out of a driveway.

  What the hell!

  Then he realised where he was, and what he was looking at. The car was his, the house was his and the unfortunate victim lying on a stretcher by the damaged blue BMW was him.

  Oh, no! I’m dead! Wait a moment I can’t
be, otherwise I would have taken that final walk, surely? That must mean I’m in a coma, then, yes? Maybe not? Perhaps I’m having some sort of out-of-body experience?

  This is very confusing. Mind you, it’s not a situation that one gets to have any practice at, is it? Normally it’s a once-in-a-lifetime-deal type of thing.

  Well, whatever’s going on, I’d better stick close to my body. It needs me!

  He began to take in the scene in more detail. The accident didn’t look too bad. No visible signs of blood, thank goodness.

  His Beemer was all bashed in on the passenger side and wasn't going anywhere in a hurry. A cursory glance at the crumpled front end of the ambulance suggested that it, too, was undrivable.

  Well, that explains why I am still lying on a stretcher on the pavement and not in the ambulance whizzing off to hospital. I hope there’s another on the way.

  So the ambulance couldn’t have been coming for me, he realised.

  Now that’s more ironic than the atheist/God thing I’d been thinking about: dying because of a collision with an ambulance. I suppose it’s rather funny when you think about it.

  So who was the ambulance coming for? Someone in the Close obviously. It’s a cul-de-sac. I hope it’s not serious.

  Most of the Close’s nine residents were reasonably young. By that, he meant not doddering, and as far as he was aware, all were of average health. One couple even ran marathons, so he assumed they should be ‘up there’ when it came to fitness.

  Three had children, and one couple, Tony and Angela, had babies. Twin girls. Born a couple of months ago if he remembered rightly. Pretty things too. Not that he was particularly fond of babies. He had done his ‘stint’. ‘Donated my quota of sperm and added to the gene pool.’ That was quite a while back during his student days. Things were tight then, financially, so every penny helped. Beer wasn’t cheap, and the choice between sperm and blood was a simple one to make. As a blood donor, all you got was a smile and a cup of tea. He hated needles too. As crude as it sounded, if it was a toss-up between having a prick in his arm or in his hand, the choice was easy.

  He and his wife had no kids. That didn’t mean there weren’t any little Ralphs or Ralphettes running around somewhere. Well why not? Someone could have used his sperm, but not him. It was a joint decision not to have kids and one they were both happy with. Though he had an inkling of a suspicion that Stephanie, his wife, was starting to get a bit broody. Him a dad? Could he imagine it? Though imagine it was probably all he would be able to do now. No, don’t think like that.

  He had been given the opportunity to hold one of the twins when he and his wife ‘popped over’ a few Sundays ago to offer congratulations and drop off a gift.

  He had been handed this little thing: ‘It’s a beautiful baby. Don’t be such an old fart,’ his wife had scolded.

  Anyway, the baby had wet itself. Angela removed the nappy then lifted it from its cot.

  ‘Just hold her for a ticky while I fetch a clean nappy from the bedroom.’

  The thirty seconds it had taken her to return were about seven seconds too long. Those seven seconds were the difference between a clean shirt and pants, and clothes covered in wee and runny baby poo. If he hadn’t been sitting in a chair, with the baby on his lap, he might have had time to hold the kid at arms’ length and let it ‘go’ on the carpet. Babies were just so damned inconsiderate when it came to pooing and weeing. Fortunately, it was only a minute’s walk back up the road to his house and if his wife hadn’t been howling with laughter, they might have got there in a minute. But the noise she was making attracted the attention of one or two of the neighbours. And naturally, they wanted to come and have really funny discussions about baby poo and baby wee in the middle of the street.

  ‘Oh, that happened to my husband: he was carrying our little one on his head and . . .’

  ‘My fella was amazed when our little girl peed on him while she was lying on her back without a nappy. Men are so dense sometimes.’

  He really hoped the ambulance was not for either Angela or her babies. Hold on. It was Tuesday. Angela always took the twins to the baby clinic on Tuesdays.

  Maybe it was for Fred, the widower at number seven? No, not Fred, he decided. He was away for the week visiting his children. So who did that leave? Who else would likely be home at this time of the day?

  Think. Ah, yes, that‘s right. His next-door neighbours, David and Mary Robbins.

  David was an architect and, until recently, had worked for a firm in London. But he’d left and set up on his own. Now he worked from home. Mary had resigned from her part-time job at the local pharmacist to help him.

  Mary Robbins appeared from behind the damaged ambulance. She was crying and her husband was trying to console her.

  Okay. Not the Robbinses.

  Was there anyone else? Yes. Of course!

  The mystery-person at number three who had moved in three weeks ago.

  Those residents who had been home that day, and he was one of them, had seen a small removal truck pull up outside the house. The driver and his two assistants quickly offloaded a few items of furniture, carried them into the house, then drove away.

  The tenant’s car had tinted windows and he (by consensus it was a he) drove directly into the garage without anyone catching a glimpse of his face. He had driven out on numerous occasions since, but those tinted windows had prevented any decent ‘eyeballing’. The knocks at the door using the ‘We are welcoming you to the street’ excuse, which may not have been entirely a false pretence, had met with no response from the occupant.

  Music had been heard on several occasions. One bright spark even telephoned the police, saying they thought that the person inside might be in trouble or dead or something. Curtains were drawn aside slightly when the police arrived. Someone answered the door. The two officers went inside, emerging twenty minutes later doffing their hats and all smiles. One of the officers was heard to say, ‘Thanks for the tea; sorry to have bothered you.’

  The same officers walked across the road, probably going to the house of the person who had called, to assure them that all was well and there was nothing to worry about. But the name of the tenant was not revealed.

  The owner of number three, Edward Barrett, was a bachelor and an engineer, both by choice, and usually working overseas on contract. Currently, he was in Saudi doing something with oil.

  Few people ever saw Edward even when he did come home, as he tended to spend most of his time indoors.

  ‘It’s not that I’m unsociable or anything; it’s just that I like the peace,’ he once explained to several of the Close’s residents during a rare visit to the pub.

  The Mystery Tenant it had to be.

  Oh, here comes the other ambulance, Ralph noticed.

  It had to thread its way carefully around the damaged ambulance, his BM, broken glass, and bits of plastic. It drove to the end of the Close, made a three-point turn, came back, and stopped behind his car.

  The paramedics from the first ambulance were ready and waiting. Quickly, but without fuss, they picked up his stretcher. He followed them to the back of the ambulance and stood to one side as they loaded it.

  Wait a minute, he thought. If the first ambulance was coming for the Mystery Tenant, then . . .?

  The paramedics turned, went back to the pavement, and retrieved a second stretcher.

  It was on the other side of his car. That was why he hadn’t seen it.

  Ah, right.

  He saw the face was covered with the red blanket.

  And this meant . . .

  Oh.

  But . . . No, hold on; something’s not right here . . .

  What the hell . . . !

  Before he could work out what was going on, the second stretcher disappeared inside the ambulance. One of the paramedics from the first ambulance clambered inside and the other, who looked like he was going to remain with his damaged vehicle, slammed the doors. He heard someone inside shout ‘Okay, Charlie!’ a
nd the ambulance started up and began to drive away.

  Then he was struck by a terrible thought.

  No! Don’t tell me. Oh, for God’s sake, I knocked the Mystery Tenant over as I was reversing out of the driveway!

  But if this was the case then . . .

  That can’t be right!

  Suddenly he panicked. He, or rather his body, was being driven away. Hey! Wait for me! He sprinted after the ambulance. It had yet to pick up speed. He leaped for the back door, believing he would simply pass through.

  While part of him was already thinking like a ghost, another part of him still recognised the door as solid, and that was exactly how it felt as he bounced off it and landed on his backside in the street.

  Damn, he thought, feeling somewhat dazed.

  The ambulance reached the end of his street and turned right.

  In the film Ghost Patrick Swayze did it, so what was the problem?

  Perhaps he wasn’t a ghost? Then again, he wasn’t sure if he was dead yet, either?

  The paramedics hadn’t covered his face with a blanket. That was a good sign, surely? Now that he thought about it, hadn’t one of them reached for an oxygen mask just before the doors closed?

  If you discounted the vet, there were no hospital facilities in the village, the closest being in the town two miles away. This was the ambulance’s logical destination.

  He’d just have to walk and find out what had happened once he got there.

  Ralph had no idea how long it took him to get to the hospital. Time seemed to have no meaning; one moment he was walking, the next he had arrived outside the emergency entrance.

  The ambulance had just pulled up. Hospital staff received both stretchers the moment the paramedics flung open the doors. His was first out, and two orderlies and a nurse rushed inside with it. The second one came out slowly.