Beforelife

by Randal Graham

  It was at this point that the scales fell from my eyes, as it were. Things were finally adding up. For the last stretch of the narrative, if you’ll recall, I had laboured under the misapprehension — if misapprehensions are the things you labour under — that I’d been relegated, or demoted, if you prefer, to the status of supporting cast. A second fiddle, if you like. A bit player, if you see what I mean. But now the larger truth was clear. The entire arrangement — the whole affair with Ian, Tonto, Penelope, and what have you — had been a prequel. A mere whatdoyoucallit, setting up my own adventure, the Author’s principal, gripping tale which featured Feynman front and centre. It was for me the work of a moment to make my decision and sign on.

  “What is this quest of which you speak?” I said, cutting straight to the nub.

  “I want you to help me stop the most dangerous man in the world,” said Abe.

  This baffled me no end. From what I’d seen in recent hours, the most dangerous chap in the world was the City Solicitor, and from what little I’d laid eyes on from my amber, crystal thingummy, the blighter in question had already been stopped about as thoroughly as a bicycle up to its handlebars in wet cement. I put these facts to the mayor.

  “Not him,” said Abe. “I need your help with Isaac.”

  “Isaac?” I said, more than moderately perplexed. This seemed to me to be nothing more than the nonsensical babbling of an Abe who’d been sitting out in the sun without his hat. Isaac, forsooth. This toadying little twerp had, by all accounts, given a certain amount of aid and comfort to the enemy, to be sure. But dangerous? Not by a hatful. And besides, I’d already laid this chump a-stymie during our dust-up in the grotto, having subjected him to a patented Feynman thrashing. Seeing that the mayor had missed this noteworthy slice of Rhinnick’s derring-do, I moved to bring him up to speed.

  “No need,” I said, “for here is the latest news, and this is Rhinnick Feynman reporting: Isaac has been thoroughly handled. Not only did I smite him hip and thigh in order to wrest Socrates’ weapon from his clutches, but Penny blasted him who knows where during her showdown with your lawyer. By any measure, this Isaac chump is a spent force. A third-rate power. The sort of blighter who —”

  “He’s gone,” said Abe, interrupting.

  I goggled at him in silence.

  “I made a mistake,” he added, gravely.

  I pressed the fellow for details.

  And so he explained. He explained that, when he’d come back from a sort of extra-dimensional conference with Penelope and Ian, he’d found that Isaac had disappeared from the grotto, leaving not a rack behind. And after a short investigation, Abe had made a second entry in the list of missing items: Llewellyn Llewellyn’s mobile IPT emitter. Isaac appeared to have collared the doodad for himself, quite possibly during the mêlée in which I’d lifted Socrates’ gun.

  “It gets worse,” said the mayor. “I should be able to sense Isaac. I should be able to close my eyes and find him instantly. But I can’t. Isaac has found a way to block me.”

  This was news to me, of course, but as I hadn’t a clue what the dickens it signified, I merely shrugged and said, “Oh, ah.”

  And over the next five minutes, Abe explained what was so dangerous about this man who, from all outside appearances, posed no more of a threat to the population than your meeker class of baby seal — possibly the sort who takes an oath of pacifism and extracts all of its teeth. I don’t mind telling you that the explanation Abe offered, while difficult to follow at certain respects, was dashed compelling. It involved a good deal about blue pills, about deducing how the universe ought to work, and about tinkering with these rules in ways that imperilled all and sundry.

  In the list of important quests that call for a hero’s intervention, this one ranked at the very top. And with a few well-chosen words, Abe explained why I was the only man for the job. And I don’t mind mentioning that it is only the legendary Feynman modesty and sense of occasion that prevent me from relaying Abe’s insightful assessment of yours truly in these pages.

  But in the end, I responded by saying, “I’ll do what I can.” Not at all surprising, of course, for those who’ve looked at my biography. Say what you will about we Rhinnicks, we do not shy from high adventure.

  “Great,” said Abe, and then he perked up suddenly, as though he’d been struck by a sudden thought. “Before I forget,” he said, grinning, “I think I’ve found someone to help you.” And having said this, the ancient civic leader dipped a hand into his pocket and, displaying all the showmanship of your better class of conjuror, he unveiled a tiny, furry chap of my acquaintance.

  “Fenny!” I cried. And if a manly tear or two traced a path to the Feynman chin, so be it.

  “Grnmph,” said Fenny, returning the sentiment.

  After a few more well-chosen words of advice, instruction, direction, and encouragement, the mayor turned on his heel and left for the open spaces. But as he toddled off, a question came to mind, so I called after him.

  “Halloo!” I shouted, eager to catch the chap’s attention.

  “What’s up?” said Abe, over-the-shouldering.

  “Just one last thing,” I said. “Before I embark on the next chapter of the Chronicles of Rhinnick, a thought occurs.”

  “What is it?” he said.

  “I’ve made a habit of dipping into your biographies,” I said, “and I’ve followed your career with genuine interest. A gripping tale, I don’t mind saying. And the picture it paints of you is more than admirable: a civic leader, a committed civil servant, a benevolent benefactor of the public, and an all-’round Good Guy.”

  “Thanks,” said Abe, and his demeanour suggested that, had he been a man of a slightly pinker complexion, he might have blushed.

  “The thing is,” I said, finally creeping up to the res, “not one of your biographies gives a hint of your last name. A glaring omission, I mean to say. The Founder of Detroit, our civic leader, the man who Tamed the Wild and holds the reins of City Council, and all we know him as is ‘Abe.’ An oddish state of affairs, you’ll have to agree,” I added, raising my eyebrows in a meaningful, questioning manner.

  And you can imagine my surprise at his response. I have met Smiths, I have met Browns, I’ve met Illumokas, Hjorts, and Symonds, but before I’d crossed paths with this Abe, the first bloke to have crossed the Styx, I hadn’t met anyone who’d answered the simple question “What’s your surname” in such a dashed peculiar way.

  “It’s a lowercase L,” he said.

  And turning to leave, he said goodbye.

  “Tinkerty tonk,” I said, saluting.

  As Abel left, I found myself growing pensive. And what I pensed about was this: I wondered, gentle reader, whether I’d notice when you finally closed this book, slamming the cover on this entry in my saga. Would it tingle? Would it hurt? Would I fall dormant until you started to read the sequel? Who could say? It seemed to me that there was nothing to do but wait and see.

  So I hold my breath, and wait.

  Acknowledgements

  Did you ever have one of those friends who does so much for you that you’ll never even the score, short of that friend becoming trapped in a burning building or needing to borrow a kidney or two? Well I do, and her name is Kelly Murray. She read every word of Beforelife several times, provided pages and pages of comments, and spent hours sharing her unvarnished, insightful views about every single aspect of the book — even those that rightly disappeared from early drafts, having been deemed unfit for human consumption. I cannot thank Kelly enough, so I’ll move on.

  Other kind and generous souls who earned my thanks by commenting on the manuscript include Jenny Neiman-Rodrigues, Tom Telfer, Deb Livingstone, Bob Ripley, Corey Redekop, Adam Till, Steve Waycott, Jeff Warnock, and Mary Whiteside-Lantz.

  I also extend copious thanks to David Caron and his colleagues at ECW, who thought it shrewd to back a c
omedic novel written by someone whose previous work included such titles as the whimsical Statutory Interpretation: Theory and Practice and the rollicking Legal Ethics: Theories, Cases and Professional Regulation.

  I owe a particularly enormous debt of gratitude to my dear friend and editor, the incomparable Jen Hale, without whom this book may have disappeared in a puff of irrelevance. Jen’s patience, professionalism, and enthusiasm for Beforelife and her unbridled silliness helped convince me that Robertson Davies may have been wrong when he suggested that editors ought to be rounded up in the streets and horse-whipped for sport.

  Lastly, I extend my deepest thanks to my wife, Stephanie Montgomery-Graham, who not only read and commented on the manuscript, but also serves as a living model for anyone aspiring to be a Tonto or a Penelope.

  About the Author

  Randal Graham is a law professor at Western University, in Ontario, where his teaching and research focus on ethics, legal language, and the structure of legal arguments. Beforelife is his first novel. His previous books on law and legal theory have been assigned as mandatory reading at universities across Canada and have been cited by judges at every level of court, including the Supreme Court of Canada and the United States Supreme Court. He lives in London, Ontario, with his wife and their Himalayan kitty.

  TRY ANOTHER GREAT READ

  FROM ECW PRESS...

  Mad Richard A riveting story of talent and the price it exacts, set in a richly imagined Victorian England

  Called the most promising artist of his generation, handsome, modest, and affectionate, Richard Dadd rubbed shoulders with the great luminaries of the Victorian Age. He grew up along the Medway with Charles Dickens and studied at the Royal Academy Schools under the brilliant and eccentric J.M.W. Turner.

  Based on Dadd’s tragic true story, Mad Richard follows the young artist as he develops his craft, contemplates the nature of art and fame — as he watches Dickens navigate those tricky waters — and ultimately finds himself imprisoned in Bedlam for murder, committed as criminally insane.

  In 1853, Charlotte Brontë — about to publish her third novel, suffering from unrequited love, and herself wrestling with questions about art and artists, class, obsession and romance — visits Richard at Bedlam and finds an unexpected kinship in his feverish mind and his haunting work.

  Masterfully slipping through time and memory, Mad Richard maps the artistic temperaments of Charlotte and Richard, weaving their divergent lives together with their shared fears and follies, dreams, and crushing illusions.

  ECW digital titles are available online wherever ebooks are sold. Visit ecwpress.com for more details. To receive special offers, bonus content and a look at what’s next at ECW, sign up for our newsletter!

  Copyright © Randal Graham, 2017

  Published by ECW Press

  665 Gerrard Street East, Toronto, ON M4M 1Y2

  416-694-3348 / info@ecwpress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any process — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — without the prior written permission of the copyright owners and ECW Press. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design: David A. Gee

  Cover images: hstiver/iStockPhoto

  Author photo: Anna Toth

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Graham, Randal, author

  Beforelife / Randal Graham.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77041-317-7 (softcover)

  ISBN 978-1-77305-055-3 (PDF)

  ISBN 978-1-77305-056-0 (EPUB)

  I. Title.

  PS8613.R346B44 2017 C813’.6 C2017-902408-6 C2017-902987-8

  The publication of Beforelife has been generously supported by the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $153 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country, and by the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund. Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 153 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays. Ce livre est financé en partie par le gouvernement du Canada. We also acknowledge the Ontario Arts Council (OAC), an agency of the Government of Ontario, which last year funded 1,709 individual artists and 1,078 organizations in 204 communities across Ontario, for a total of $52.1 million, and the contribution of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.