What he's looking at is his car, door held open by his chauffeur, inviting him into its welcoming interior. What he's seeing is the rest of his life stretching ahead of him.

His new life, his newly acquired life. Smiling, he takes a step forward and crouches to climb into the BMW.

He is aware of his heart beating rapidly and thinks of how in times past that same sensation would fill him with fear - how he would be scared to feel for his own pulse, or would change position as he lay in bed if ever he became aware of the rhythmical contractions in his chest. The fear was that to feel his pulse would be to stop it, to precipitate his own death. Not now though, now he revels in the sensation - relishing every heartbeat as it pushes lifeblood through his body.

The door is closed behind him and, moments later, his chauffeur climbs into the driver's seat. "Straight home Sir?" he enquires. The temptation is there to simply see where the road will take him but he resists - there will be more than enough time for that sort of thing in the years to come, the many years to come. "Yes, straight home" he says.

As the engine starts and the car pulls smoothly into traffic he glances down at his hand for what seems the hundredth time since leaving the doctor's office.

*

What he's looking at are the lights suspended from the operating theatre ceiling, hanging over him, illuminating the delicate work taking place behind a screen of green cloth. What he's seeing is the beginning of his new life.

"Okay, we're about to start" says the green-clad figure of Mr Denham-Harrington, his voice slightly muffled by the surgical mask he wears, "You'll feel a little pressure but hopefully no pain."

The Enigma Variations play softly in the background - Denham-Harrington's choice undoubtedly - but doesn't drown out the beeps and whirrs of the electronic equipment which surround him. As Nimrod draws to a close and Intermezzo begins, he does indeed feel a pressing at the base of his right thumb. Apprehension threatens to claim him so he diverts his thoughts, remembering his first conversation with the good doctor...

"A strange request yes, but not entirely without precedent." Mr Denham-Harrington steeples his fingers and sits back in his plush leather armchair. Outside, the pale autumnal sunlight of a north London afternoon. "Had this chap once, wanted a duelling scar on his face." The plastic surgeon smiles at the recollection. "Had my doubts at first obviously - the whole point is usually to try and avoid scars - but actually turned out very nice. Made him look very distinguished even if I say so myself!" Leaning forward again, "There'll be paperwork to sort out, disclaimers - that sort of thing - but I should be able to fit you in next week. No scientific basis for what you're doing of course but I honestly believe some good will come of this in psychological terms. If you believe this is going to change your life for the better - and I have to say I'm inclined to believe as much myself - then I'm happy that I can justify this procedure on medical grounds."

 Intermezzo is still playing as Denham-Harrington pops his head over the screen. "Took the liberty of extending it a wee bit further. Give you a couple of extra years!"

*

What he's looking at is the countryside flashing past the car windows. What he's seeing is a whole new world of opportunity opening up for him.

His hand tingles and he rubs it against his knee by way of relief. He resists the urge to look at it again, to look at the surgeon's work. Work that has been unveiled earlier today, the bandages removed to reveal the extended lifeline - the crease running from the base of index finger to base of thumb. The line that previously had ended abruptly, almost dead centre of his palm, now - thanks to Denham-Harrington's deft skills - runs all the way to the crease of his wrist.

Secure in the knowledge that he has thwarted premature death - the prospect of which has haunted the majority of both his waking and sleeping hours - he closes his eyes, perchance to dream of all that lies ahead.

Colour has drained from the world outside, the countryside is painted in pastel hues and cowers beneath a leaden sky. It is the sound of rain hammering against the roof of the car that wakes him. In the time he has been asleep the storm has broken with thunderous intensity. The car's wipers struggle to keep the windscreen clear of the deluge of water that is being thrown at it as it hurtles along the middle lane of the motorway at seventy five miles per hour - dangerously fast, far too fast for the conditions. He starts to lean forward to tell the driver to slow down but stops, realising there is no need. Perhaps today was to have been the day he died - if not for his pre-emptive strike against fate.

As this thought crosses his mind his attention is drawn towards the road ahead. Through the waterfall that appears to have replaced the windscreen he sees two blurs of red as the articulated lorry ahead of them slams on its brakes. The trailer bounces once, twice three times before slewing sideways as the lorry jack-knifes on the slick road. The car hurtles onwards. Stamping on the brakes does little to slow the vehicle's progress towards inevitable collision. He sees the trailer loom ever larger in the windscreen, watches its inexorable progress towards the car.

Time slows to allow him to take in every detail of what is happening. Metal slams into metal and the driver's airbag inflates. The car still ploughs forward, the impact slowing but not stopping its forward momentum. He watches as first the bonnet crumples as the car tries to squeeze under the trailer, the windscreen spider-webs and then shatters as the bottom edge of the oncoming trailer smashes into it, showering the interior of the car with smooth edged jewels. And still the trailer moves through the car, the foot-wells and dashboard implode as the engine is pushed backwards, crushing the driver's legs to bloody pulp. The body of the car - and that of the driver - are no match for the weight of metal crushing down on them and blood, oil and petrol mingle as the destruction continues. Then he too becomes entangled in the twisted mass of metal and flesh. He feels an incredible weight on his legs, feels the flesh stripped from them, feels - and hears, even above the hellish din of shrieking metal - the bones break. He screams in agony and fear. It is the last sound he makes. Slowly, the breath is pushed from his body, an immense weight presses on his chest and, as the destruction finally grinds to a halt, its coup de grace is to force his head back to such an angle that vertebrae crumble and snap.

*

What he's looking at is......

......nothing.

What he's seeing is......

......nothing.

His world is darkness. Is this what it is to be dead....?

There is no sensation, no feeling, no awareness of anything other than the blackness which surrounds him. Surrounds what? He has no body, he exists only as thought. He is Incorporeal.

Is he a ghost? The thought scares him, however ridiculous it seems.

And then - a sound. Faint, distant - but definitely a sound.

Again, and then again - repeating itself. It is a beeping, a regular beeping like an alarm going off except - no, the intervals are too long for an alarm. He concentrates on the rhythmic beeps and, as he does, becomes aware of another sound underlying them. This too is repetitive and regular but completely different to the beeping. This is a low whooshing - a groaning almost.

"Darling..." No more than a whisper but he hears it clearly nonetheless. He recognises the voice of course - how could he not - but how, how can she be speaking to him? How can she see him when all that surrounds him is darkness?

"I've come to say goodbye" she continues, and he hears the emotion causing her voice to waver. "I'm so sorry...." he can hear that she's now crying, "I've been dreading this moment for so long now but, as hard as this is, I know that it's the right thing to do." Oh dear God what is going on? "I've been lucky to have you all these months, being able to come and see you, talk to you, hold your hand. You should have died in that horrible accident but I know that it was your spirit that pulled you through." He hears sobs. "I love you Darling, I really do....."

He has no voice to scream.

She is gone now. Soon, all that remains is the monotonous beep, beep, beep....

In time even that is gone.