I am starting to strongly believe in existence after death.

We were a bunch of pals, who started our real living together – in our teenage years of discovery.

We went to films: tennis club hops, later dances, fell in love, fell out again and finally went our separate ways.

And then young and with a life ahead of her, in another land, Deirdre died.

We had danced together, talked together and went on walks but were not a couple. She and Joe were that.

But her death – even if it was twenty or so years later affected me in such a way that I sought memorial solace, by giving her another life in poems and stories and eventually as a central character in my first book.

I often thought about her and my other companions of our Bog Midland Prairie, Pine Wood Rambling Days, shuffling among the leaves, or climbing the banks to walk along the railway lines and canal tow-paths, or gathering pocket money working the turf banks.

A few nights ago, just drifting to wakefulness alert, a girl came to me into my arms and cuddled me. She was vivacious, full of life and I tingled in her embrace. I felt warm and secure. She apologised for going away, and said she was back now. But I knew she would go away again. She mentioned a name, a boy-man's name.

I awoke wondering – why did I meet and cuddle Shamie? He was at school with me, we were good pals, and then he went away to England. Why am I dreaming of him now?

The day passed and the images were re-run and solidified in my thinking. Eventually I realised the girl was Deirdre.

And then I remembered Shamie had died about a year ago. But why was he bringing this girl to me in my dreams. Then I realised that Shamie, had been married to Deirdre's older sister.

What impact did, this dream sequence, have on me?

Well – the sequel to In The Wicker Wood is now on the back burner, and I'm back completing the book version of Here Lies...

The “…” is important since it will be followed in the book by an inscription on a headstone.

As usual with my writing there is a BIG Clue to the start and end of the book in the “...”.

Like Frankenstein's Monster - Georgie is becoming aware!

He had toughed it out: persevered. Won back his sanity: if ever it had truly been lost, that is.

At first it had been confusing, sometimes he was faking it, and sometimes he believe the Duchess was truly there – in control. Mostly in control? He didn't want to kill again: his soul was clean after his confessions. He meant to keep it that way.

When he was in control of his personalities; that's what the shrink had said, when discussing him. Believing he was out of earshot, or that Georgie was drugged and not responsive. “He has a dual personality condition,” he had explained, “and the old woman is dominant. As a man I don't think we will see Bowen again.”

Dream on Crap-head. I am here all the time just waiting.

Befriending the old boys in the day-room was easy. What old codger does not want to have female company. Getting their trust and access to their wardrobe took a little time. Finally Georgie found it convenient to start appearing in the day-wards as a visitor. “The Major here to visit me Uncle Nigel, Ya know.” The staff were far to busy and lazy to bother checking anything out. He was not able to get off the premises though and had to go back to a convenient closet, empty toilet – wherever he had stashed the dress, and appear once again as the deranged stumbling, leaning on the walls Duchess.

As the months passed, and it appeared he was not recovering, his accommodations changed. He was moved to a small cell and his personal minders left. “I know who sent you to mind me, and why.” He often muttered. Now they had been withdrawn. So the Chief had given up. Stopped fearing that Georgie would spill the beans, reveal his secret. Tell where the treasure was stashed. Sometimes he felt like a pirate abandoned on an island, with a treasure map and a cross drawn to mark where the booty was hidden. It is hidden in my mind, and now I am starting to remember more, I have to be more deranged and then I will be safe. Until I get out of here.

As time passed the staff became comfortable with the visitor. “Here again Major. Visiting Nigel?”

“Why not dear boy. It cheers him up I think. Me too. Dashed rain will come again soon. Must get back to my charitable works. What!”

Then one day an old dear he had also cultivated was very poorly – near the end it seemed. Georgie had an idea, of how to get away, outside, free. And when he considered the plan it appeared so simple – a child, even a frail old Duchess could carry it off.