Ryerson's Process

The opening pages of my new novel ...

Hard, wet sand. Sea smells. Sounds of wavelets susurrating. Onomatopoeic, alliterative words, poetic words. Pain. Not poetic. Hard fact; as hard as the sand. More words rising unbidden through the mists of slowly emerging consciousness. ‘And comes at night to die upon the sand.’ Wrong. Out of context. No sea smells beyond the Oxus. No sea smells in the desert. No Oxus river any more. What was it called now? Think dammit, think!
I gave up. Thinking was too difficult. Was this what death was like? Pain came again, in waves, not wavelets. Nothing poetic about pain, no gentle susurration; just hurt, and hard, wet sand under my back. The pain of death? Wrong kind of pain: punishment, penalty, price. This was pain as in ‘I wish the goddam thing would go away and stop trying to rip the top of my head off.’ Tennyson, Alfred Lord T. ‘death who puts an end to pain.’ No pain after death, therefore I wasn’t dead. And anyway, heaven surely didn’t smell of garlic.
No relief after that logical conclusion. And what did heaven smell of? Scented or unscented; could you take your pick? Left staircase unscented; right side: attar of roses, Je Reviens, My Sin. No. My Sin would be the other place: a touch of promise, dark eyes, raven hair, red lips and a hint of perfume to offset the choking pungency of brimstone.
Dammit, leave me alone. I’m thinking: great, momentous, ineffably philosophic thoughts. Should have put up a sign. ‘Do not disturb.’ Why can’t people read? Didn’t put up the damned sign, that’s why. Like my old school master said. ‘Could do better if he tried harder.’ Memory like a leaky can. Make a note. Put up sign next time; but right now, will you for God’s sake damned well leave me alone.
“Is he dead?”
Bloody silly question. Of course he - I - wasn’t dead. We’ve just been through all that; explained it logically. No pain after death. Ergo, he’s - I’m - not dead. I was, however, in danger of losing the top of my head. Any second and it would take off, a flap lifting like a pressure cooker blowing: Stromboli, Etna, Vesuvius, spewing a molten lava of brains. Then I’d be dead, and it would be Attar of Roses - or My Sin if the other fellow got me - but definitely not garlic.
Hard fingers pressed my neck and I shrank. No more pain. The head was bad enough. A pulse throbbed, blood restricted under the fingers.
“No, just unconscious.”
A different voice: stronger, more authoritative, not tentative and worried like the first, and with it attar of garlic. What the hell happened to the roses, and why was it speaking in Spanish?
“He’s been mugged?”
“Maybe. Someone ran. Did you see them?”
“No. It’s too dark, but I think there were three.”
The hard fingers relaxed. No strangulation tonight. Just the pain, and a gusty exhalation of garlic.
“It doesn’t matter. Go and call an ambulance.”