Larry Mantle, celebrated author of laugh-out-loud historical fiction, was dead.
LAnd he knew it.
In fact, he’d realized he was a goner two full seconds before his demise. The sight of the oncoming articulated lorry leaving its lane and veering into the path of his Mini Cooper had been the first indicator. From that point on, the certainty of his imminent end had increased with every metre the truck had thundered towards him.
There could have been no surviving that.
The thick, white, chilly mist that now engulfed him, together with the total lack of feeling throughout his body, provided more evidence of his passing.
All in all, then, it was a fair bet that he had popped his clogs.
Yet, bizarrely, he remained conscious.
Was this the afterlife?
Awkward, thought Larry as the white mist
