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Midnight Crew

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No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronically, electrostatic magnetic tape or mechanically; including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the author. Although this is a fictional work, some of the locations, organisations and events are factual. The characters and times in the story line are fictional - therefore, all resemblances to actual people present or past are purely coincidental.


It was a world much like ours, parallel, but not in a hazy Sci-Fi kind of way...

I've come to know how the eeriness of sundown in the forgotten part of the east-end of town, smeared itself thick and sticky with indifference to our career. Did I say 'our'? Yes, me... now - and the missing me, tied up somewhere in that computer — linked to that body over there, thank heavens they keep her alive, or him... I can't see its face. My memories are floating aimlessly around in someone's brain. The deserted-ness of the drenched and poorly lit industrial streets are somehow always preferred to other nights. Dilapidated double-story factories reflects their rain-speckled broken windows, in the patternless overflowing potholes on the once beehive double carriage way, past what had become a solitary solution to out-of-hand crime in South Africa. In some limited ways, it is still a world, I suppose. What could pass maybe for a world, if we grip hard enough onto the hope of escaping what the Justice-System had come to, that is. I swapped tranquil reality, for rules by which to survive a little longer, till it was time. What had been a soft world of pastels, predicting aimless walks - hand-in-hand with Jill through art galleries, the sounds and feels of her spontaneous giggles and comforting any-minute-of-the-day hugging, the intoxicating drinking-in of the finest fragrance when her skin whisked that sweet floral perfume into something otherworldly - that couldn't be bought - then framed the world - and everything else was secondary.

And then one evening, that rude double knock echoed into the house - bounced as it ridiculed the impermanence of life, over the yellow wooden panels of flooring, and wacked me in the back of my head - where I had just lit two thin red candles to brighten our two year anniversary celebration, over waiting porcelain dinner plates that were barely visible through the steam that covered the chilly penthouse suite from the dimmer kitchen. That's as far as I recall.

Waking up in theatre, telling me not to move, I'm still not sure who was more shocked. Me, or the two bloodied and seemingly perplexed nurses, unsure whether to follow the surgeon's lead and carelessly shoot their powder blue gloves into the corner onto the overflowing medical-waist dustbin or wait a few moments longer. To my left were a man with a stab wound to the neck, and a woman whose head and face advertised unexpected travel through the unforgiving windscreen of a car - on respirators, and crows-nests of wires dangling down to bundles of sticky crimson swabs and bandages on the cement floor. To my right, Eddie. He was less fortunate. Seems the new tech wasn't perfected yet, and bringing someone back to life, twenty minutes after, wasn't for everyone. A sudden power outage ensured his sleepy consciousness had been lost for keeps. I miss Eddie on evenings like these, I really do.

"Brian, open your eyes, if it helps at all - I have no idea what the pain must be like, to be frank - wish your new reality away for a brief while - into one of the broken looking factories down the road, or up the road".

"He doesn't know where he is Doc..."

"Of course he does. I know this one, he's a fighter. Not my usual medical speak I know Brian... It's Brian, is it? He's too hard-arsed to die. Saved my life a few months ago. He's been here before".

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