Snatched from the Fire- life with a purpose Chapter 1

Dracula

Hello peeps!
Below is an extract from Chapter 1 of Snatched from the Fire.
The book is available from all good bookshops from 18th Feb 2011 published by IVP








Dracula: The problem is me

The blood was catching the back of my throat as I slowly began to regain some sense of consciousness. I felt nauseous from the smell and taste of blood as I held a cotton rag to my mouth, catching the watery mess running off my lip. I looked a sorry state but I didn’t care. I just needed to get to a safe place and recover. Given a couple of hours, I would be strong and ready for action again.
The drugs were beginning to ease off, but not fast enough to allow my legs to function. Walking was a challenge, and any change of direction was almost impossible. Like a drunk on a bouncy castle I wobbled and struggled. Failing to negotiate a left-hand turn on the corridor, I almost went to ground. In fact, had I not received some assistance, I would have been flat on my face nursing another wound.
Finally we were outside, and I slumped against the wall while my accomplice waited anxiously for our car. Things were not going to plan. Our rendezvous point was overcrowded, the pick-up was running late again and I was going nowhere fast. It was windy, grey, cold and threatening to rain. Belfast was always threatening something, especially at that time in our history.
At last a red Cavalier pulled up in front. A quick glance at the registration plate confirmed it was our man. DXI 9164. We made our way over, faces screwed up in the rain. I was bundled into the back seat. In the front there was the usual silly argument: ‘You were late, Gerry.’ ‘No, you were in the wrong place!’ I was silent with the exception of the occasional whimper. I was a victim – at least that’s how I felt.
A visit to the dentist is a horrible thing. At least it was for me at the tender age of ten. If my introduction seems like something from an Andy McNab novel then there is good reason for it. My experience of the dentist was one of capture, interrogation and torture. Mum was always the supporting act, while Dad when possible supplied the getaway vehicle. The short walk to the dentist was fine for Mum and me, but while I was coming off the ether (or whatever else they filled my tiny lungs with), I would never manage to climb the hill home. The getaway vehicle was essential.
For all his smiles, my dentist intimidated me. He looked like Dracula – not that I have ever seen Dracula – but the Count from Sesame Street and snooker legend Ray Reardon gave me an idea of his appearance. His surgery was on the first floor, but if you needed a tooth extracted you stayed downstairs. After you passed the reception window you entered the waiting room which was not exactly an explosion on your senses. Once-white net curtains hid a grey outside wall, and hanging on the magnolia walls they had a faded picture of a child. She was dressed in Victorian rags, clutching the arm of a teddy bear and leaning pitifully against a stone wall – perhaps she had visited my dentist too. The furniture was a mixture of plastic chairs and chrome-framed seats with brown padding. In fact, the furniture at our hut in the local dump was better! The waiting was as bad as the extraction – the butterflies in my stomach would eventually leave to be replaced with a thousand flapping seagulls.
Finally, after what seemed like an hour of prayer and fasting, the dentist would escort me into the torture chamber. The room was clinical in appearance, with a large black leather-like chair holding centre stage. Once in the chair there was no return. My dentist would smile (I never trust a man in a white coat who smiles, except of course Mr Ruddock, my woodwork teacher) and place a black rubber mask over my mouth and nose while turning on the gas. I would try to resist, tears running down my cheeks. I would give my mum a look that yelled a million silent cries for help.
What were my parents thinking of? I was terrified. Even now I can smell the rubber mask and hear the sound of the gas. Let’s make no bones about it, the extraction of that tooth at the hands of my dentist was one of the most traumatic moments of my life. He asked me to count to ten slowly, and I felt the seat spinning off into the darkness and a whirring noise developing in my head before I passed out.
Someone asked me recently if I had been afraid of the dentist as a child. I said ‘no’. Fear was too inadequate a word! Petrified, panic-stricken and scared-to-death would be much more apt. No offence to my dentist or my parents, but what were they thinking? I will never put my kids through that … Do dentists still use gas? I don’t know. I don’t plan to find out either.
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Anyway, welcome to my book...

INTER-VARSITY PRESS
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© Keith Mitchell, 2011
Keith Mitchell has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher or the Copyright Licensing Agency.
Unless otherwise stated, Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Hodder & Stoughton, a division of Hodder Headline Ltd. All rights reserved. ‘NIV’ is a trademark of International Bible Society. UK trademark number 1448790.
First published 2011

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978–1–84474–502–9