The structure of the book reflected the journey.
I started each chapter with the journey in a chronological order ending with the crash.
I ended each chapter with the crash in a chronological sequence.
Sandwiched in Between were the thoughts, fantasies and hopes of a dying man. All life, death and reflections. I wrote it in fragments representing the bursts of consciousness, memories, thoughts, dreams and ideas that pass through the mind of a dying man.
Reflections from a ditch:
Blackie got a broken nose because he wouldn’t stay quiet while we were in ambush behind the wall. It was serious stuff. Clive lost his temper with him and smacked him straight on the nose. I was transfixed. I had never seen so much blood. It spurted out and poured over his shirt, squirting through his fingers as he howled. In seconds his shirt was a sodden crimson gore.
Adults appeared from nowhere and an ambulance swooped him away never to be seen again. Blackie went with barely a second thought from us. We never did find out if he got his blood transfusion or if they had to operate to reset his squashed nose. He just went.
Some people think I am strange. That is because they are more perceptive than others.
The times, like childhood, that seemed simple and uncomplicated are only so because you are not brushing up against the power of politics, religion, control or possession. You are in control and living in the moment. It was pure.
Jeff was standing in the middle of the street wide-eyed, petrified to stone, shrieking in such a way that turned your gizzards to jelly and sent waves of horror through you to fuel your nightmares for years. Then not shrieking. He was too horrified to shriek any longer. He so desperately wanted it to not be true. He wanted to climb back out of that nightmare and into the warm summer sun of reality. Yet he was standing, arms held out, like a scarecrow and it was real.
And again adults appeared and fussed around as we stood back in the shadows and watched. No one was volunteering the information.
Clive had put the huge hairy house spider he had found down Jeff’s shirt. A spider so big it filled your hand. Its legs stretched across the bottom of a bucket; and it was so quick and sinister. It stood stock-still evaluating and then would dart and scurry seeking cover. And Clive had gleefully grabbed it and stuffed it down Jeff’s shirt, his face alive with delight. And Jeff had taken a second to register that it had happened. His face blank as the spider must have scurried across his skin beneath his thin cotton shirt. It was too dreadful to accept.
Then he had realised it was true.
He ran to the centre of the road, shrieking and flapping at his body with his hands; eyes bulging. We were at once horrified at what we had done and intrigued. As Jeff had a hysterical fit, slavering foam and diving for the safety of catatonia. We watched.
I remember feeling horrified. I remember feeling grateful that it wasn’t me. I empathised. I could feel that spider crawling under my shirt. I can still feel it. The hairy legs gripping and tickling as it scurried – the horror of it. But another part of me felt intrigued. What would he do? What was going to happen? Would he just die with the terror of it?
We were excited. Our eyes gleamed. A part of us was enjoying this.
The adults milled around in confusion. What was going on?
Eventually someone whispered what had happened. They undressed him in the street; actually stripped him naked. Infront of everyone! We watched for the spider to emerge. It was hard to get his clothes off, as his body was completely rigid. They took everything off till he was naked but nobody saw the spider. It had vanished to feed my nightmares forever. They took Jeff off to be sedated and when we saw him a week later he was fine.
Nobody ever mentioned the event again.
When you are born they do not give you a map to find your way through life.
Reflections from a ditch eBook : Goodwin, Opher: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store