I Am Dead , livre ebook

Troubador Publishing Ltd - Gareth Wiles

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

118 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

Peter Smith is dead. No getting away from that. Or is there?Being dead is the least of his worries when he finds himself prosecuted in an ethereal court on dubious charges and the prosecutor is his brother, Stuart. When Peter is sent to the waiting room, he re-lives his final day on Earth. We see his ambiguous relationship with his mother, who he lived alone with, and his brother Stuart and his wife Diane, who bring news of pregnancy. Peter is devastated at the news and leaves the house, only to be killed instantly. In the courtroom Stuart and the Judge preside over Peter's fate. When his mother's love interest The Major testifies, he reveals that Peter let a young woman, Lauren, die. Peter is sent back to die in her place and restore balance but he saves both Lauren and himself, causing a devastating change of events...Gareth is inspired by author Joseph Conrad and his struggle between existential awareness and moral obligation, particularly in his novel The Secret Agent. He also takes inspiration from Franz Kafka and D.H. Lawrence. I Am Dead will appeal to that man who wonders what society really has to offer him, or that woman who fears what society has planned for her...

Sujets

Thriller

Informations

Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	01 mai 2011
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781848769212
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0050€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

I AM DEAD
GARETH WILES
Copyright 2011 Gareth Wiles
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador 5 Weir Road Kibworth Beauchamp, Leicester LE8 0LQ Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299 Email: books@troubador.co.uk Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
ISBN 978 1848766 242
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Typeset in 11pt Book Antiqua by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EPILOGUE
For MOTHER
Because you only get one.
ONE
Hello. My name is Peter Smith. I am dead.
The Prosecutor had chosen the corporeal form of my brother Stuart. Hideously gallant, brawny. Growing bigger, taller, he towered above me. The Judge sat above us, higher still. I could almost make out a halo above his perfectly glistening head but no neck below it. Walls as pale as my dead skin surrounded us, encircling, holding any spillages from the impending onslaught. A moist taste to the air. Damp, choking. I did not breathe it. I could not. I was dead.
Mother sat in the crowd behind me with Aunt Sally, whooping with laughter, gossiping. Both munched on salty snacks. The Judge signalled commencement by clearing the whisky-induced catarrh from his throat. Stuart arose. Instinctively I followed suit, too inattentive to rebel. I straightened my back, stretching, further, further, trying to reach his height.
Okay, okay, uttered the Judge, brandishing a ballpoint pen. He leant back in his chair. You, Peter Smith, stand accused of he mused, tapping his lipless ingress of a mouth with the pen. There was a pause as he, the summation of humanity, became transfixed on an unseen, unheard entity before him. I looked and looked but could not see. Stuart s cobalt eyes widened, his thick blonde hair burning brightly. The Judge smiled, enlightened, the pen slipping away as he pulled at his violet gown. Pusillanimous.
Within outward of The Space, your Honour, Stuart offered, studying the Judge s bald, bloated head, lay the undiluted one.
He should have dried the blood, the Judge replied, focussing above us. You, Peter Smith, are dead. He seemed pleased at his observation, eyeing my corpse up and down. I folded my arms, confused, mustering a sigh. However, he struggled to his gout-ridden hoofed feet, raising his fin-arms to his breasts, snorting momentarily at the inconvenience, do you believe an act would appease The Space and ease you through? he gasped.
The herd of crones behind me simultaneously edged forward in their pews. Mother and Aunt Sally ceased their munching, their bottom lips drooping cautiously. Their identical bleached false teeth stayed rigid, the salty snacks having absorbed any oral lubricants which may have caused them to slide. The Judge fixed his gaze upon me. Ready for my answer. Ready for my defence. But I could not, it made no sense to me. An involuntary gesture was speedily read as flippant. I was back in the waiting room.
Ignorant of the sinewy silver hair, the bloodshot eyes, even the stained apron; it was that hunch that occupied my mind. I watched closely as it entered, hitching a ride on the hapless pensioner it had happened upon. The rotund figure plopped down next to me and gave a glacial grimace. I crossed my legs.
Such a shame, she muttered, studying my frown. I m Betty. Her clawed, vibrating hand outstretched itself. I remained motionless.
The waiting room was as before; white, with two doors opposite each other, white chairs either side of each door. In the centre was an inconspicuous table playing host to several magazines. I turned my eyes from Betty, instead focussing on the weeping young woman sat across from me. There was something about her, something I could not describe. I could not make out her face, her long golden locks hanging over, shielding. But she felt familiar. And I knew what I wanted from her, what she could give me. I remained seated. She mopped the salty sediments from her freckled cheeks, those long golden locks shielding the majority of her desolation. I could not comfort her, I was sat across the room.
Am I dead? asked Betty, an enthusiastic expression seizing her orbicular features.
We all are, I mused, purposely lacking effort in my speech.
No use getting frustrated dear boy. It s happened now. Can t turn the clock back. It seemed this Betty fancied herself as a bit of a stoic. Left a young wife with babe I suppose. She nodded to herself.
No, I replied, fixing my eyes at the ceiling. It seemed indefinite. To say the space above us was opaque would be misleading, though I could not see through it.
Homosexual?
Earnestly, I hesitated. No.
How old are you? she persisted harshly, squaring her eyes at mine.
Thirty-six.
She smiled, relaxing in the chair, her voice softening. Not married, at thirty-six? Slipping on a pair of reading glasses, she took in closer study of my carcass. Lived at home with mother I imagine. She leant in further still. I could smell her breath, taste it. Stew. I was hungry.
I never found the right woman.
Did you even look? She smirked. I smiled generously back. She became uneasy; shuffling around in her seat, studying the white door opposite. We spend half our lives waiting for something. Now we re dead we re still waiting. Our fledgling relationship was flagging. How were we to see out this nugatory? I twiddled my thumbs. So, how did you die? she coaxed.
In hindsight I was glad she asked as this affords me an opportune lead in to the recounting of said tale.
We begin this harrowing final chapter of my apathetic sentience of a hot Summer s day. Tweeting birds pleasured Nature s aural channels. She, in turn, sent out her cats to cull aforementioned feathered friends. I was indoors watching television with Mother.
The living room had the peculiar familial scent that only one s own home can muster. Fleeting guests may have reasoned it an unpleasant odour but I, housed in this building and frequenting it more than they, was not averse to the occasional whiff. Less could be said of my feelings towards the other occupant. Mother. A formidable foe. Her crimson hair blended seamlessly with the face which sat below it. There had been a time when her hair was grey, though mention of this was not advised. A green cardigan sat loosely about her stiff shoulders. Even the layman could pass moderate comparison between that and the vegetable-themed border running around the walls. As for the increasingly brown-tinged barriers themselves, these were something of an enigma. Neither of us smoked.
I gazed longingly at the television from my armchair. Some political debate with each arguing their case. Their opinion. I listened, but did not hear. The programme itself was of no interest to me. But, contaminated by years of exposure to the box, I had become faithful. Indebted to my captor. Mother, however, had become fidgety. Her armchair, separated from mine by a small table, had grown tired of being sat upon and had decided to irritate her arthritic ligaments.
Old age doesn t come by itself, she announced, sweeping her eyes about the room. Her neck was less than sweeping, bringing me to the conclusion that she did indeed have arthritis. I was desperate to feel sympathy. Pity. History reared its alluring bias and I felt only glee at her hardship. Silence returned. Silence. A beautiful resonance. I could endure silence the most. It was, perhaps, the one thing I could look forward to in death. Peace and quiet. I sneezed. Do you mind, Mother retorted.
Shut up.
The way you speak to me! Were your father alive he d have beaten you senseless.
No he wouldn t. He never lifted a finger to do anything, except to clutch onto his chest during those fatal final moments. She tried to well up tears of sadness but, failing, eyed me coyly. That s how I ll go. I ll die of stress.
Stress? Stress? You don t know the meaning of the word, she went on. Try getting married to your father and having his children.
As much as I d like to, Mother, I d prefer not to marry my own father and thus give birth to myself. The logistics were unfeasible. Realistically it was only Mother I could procreate with.
Stress! Don t know they re born these days. Her eyes spun in their sockets as she flopped back in her seat. I sighed. You know where the door is Peter. I won t have to boil so many vegetables for dinner.
I can t afford to move out.
That s cos you re idle. Can t get a job? Won t get a job! You live here cheap, that s why you won t get a job.
I did get a job, and you know what happened.
Ah yes. She looked briefly out of the window as a team of OAPs rode past on mobility scooters before focussing back on the television.
Life, and I m trapped in it.
You aught to be thankful you re alive, not like poor old Dorothy down the road. Oh the dignity! she remarked, bringing out a hanky from up her cardigan sleeve to blow her snout.
Dorothy isn t dead. She s in bed. Dennis said she s in bed ill, not dead.
As good as dead, that.
Her eyes remained fixed on the television, its insurmountable haze instructing them to oblige it further. An unexplained passion overcame my senses, directed at the television and its affection for her. I was at a loss to co