Dedication. Book 1 London
To Ray Else
'There are three thousand six hundred seconds in an hour. One of them was enough for my death.
Death! As if I cared! It's the notion of my finality that drives me mad.
Like an empty shell, my body is sucked into the quicksand. It's soft, it's infallible, it’s without return.
I don't know where I'm going.
I don't have anywhere to go.
I am FREE.
Light, detached, fluid. Sensations blown out.
That's ALL.
DEATH ... a tasteless, bland, insipid feeling. The sweetish scent of chrysanthemums above a misty graveyard.
Voices call.
Steps bustle about.
The vanity of sounds makes me sick.
Let me alone!
Let the dead rest in peace!'
"Don't lift him up! Wait for a doctor."
"He may consider himself lucky. Any other car than a Rolls would have been smashed to smithereens."
"Who is he?"
"Look at his driving licence. He should have it on him."
"Better not touch him. He looks so peaceful. As if he were asleep."
"I hear the howl of the sirens. It must be the ambulance and the police car."
"That poor fellow! How old is he?"
"Hard to guess. About fifty, I reckon. He's well-cared for and smart! Look at his clothes! That jacket must be worth a bundle!"
"It's genuine suede! And his jumper is pure cashmere."
"They are smeared with blood. What a waste!"
"He can afford it! A Rolls costs a pretty penny!"
"Have you seen his nails? They are manicured! And his hair looks sort of funny."
"That's highlights! He must be one of them, you know, them, the fags!"
"Here comes the doctor. Push over! Let him through!"
The surgeon kneels down by the injured man and feels his pulse. The ambulance attendants put the casualty on a stretcher, cover him with a blanket and carry him into the rescue car.
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