Adkins was barely into the first sentence of his novel when he received a stiff blow to the back of his head – he died instantly.
I know because I was that writer.
Howard Richmal Adkins, born 3rd May, 1957, died 3rd May, 2015 – not the best birthday that I’d ever had, but the most memorable from the viewpoint of my now being a ghost.
I think that after due consideration I was held back from the afterlife because there was a serious wrong outstanding that needed me to put it right. The main reason for my requirement being that I was the only one who knew that a serious wrong ‘was’ outstanding.
I had been considering writing my novel for some time now – as a first novel there was little time left to me before my expiry date (how little, even I was surprised at) and so I had set myself the task of sourcing an adventure that could then be written up as a book that took the best-seller lists by storm. As of current count, I have still to sell a copy – due to my unexpected and untimely death.
However, let me stop all this waffling and take you back to the start of my actual ‘real-life’ adventure.
It was on an unspecified day back in late November in the year 2012, about eleven-fifteen at night, and I was stranded in deepest, darkest Oxfordshire. The last bus had long gone and I was miles from civilisation.
I had been to one of these ‘raves’ where the music pumps like a jack-hammer into your brain and the lights and smoke dull any clarity in your unfocused mind. There was a lot of drink in evidence and little pills to lift you up – and also some to bring you back down again – both of these I avoided, just.
I had been looked upon as an ‘oldie’ by most of the ‘bright-young-things’ there,but I was accepted without question into the ranks. True, I was grandfather material to a lot of the youngsters, but I was not alone in the ‘wrinkly-brigade.’