Panglossian [Paperback]

"A novel that beggars belief"

"As gripping as The Nearest FarAway Place"

Waking up in an East London hospital after being mugged, a man with no identity or recollection of his past, has no option but to resign himself to a homeless and directionless existence.

Adopting the name of Robin Forest, he seeks refuge in a hostel and meets other displaced people who begin to influence his life: Luther, a modern-day Fagin; Charlotte, a suspected drug addict; Adrian, an exiled gay headmaster; Keith, an overbearing bore hiding from the police; and Sniffy, a recruiter for an East End gang.

Robin seeks to make a living by negotiating a begging pitch from Luther. He also befriends Charlotte, whose sister Kathy lies in a coma from a heroin overdose.

Triggered by conversations with his new friends, Robin begins to have minor insights into his past life. Then, to his concern and disbelief, he discovers that he is a wanted by the police for drug dealing and murder.

On the run Robin attempts to find the truth about himself and Kathy's overdose, but he gets drawn into the criminal underworld of East London.

Waking up in an East London hospital, with no identity or recollection of his past, the narrator has no option but to resign himself to a homeless and directionless existence. 
Adopting the name of Robin Forest, he seeks refuge in a hostel and meets other displaced people who begin to influence his life: Luther, a modern-day Fagin; Charlotte, a suspected drug addict; Adrian, an exiled gay headmaster; Keith, an overbearing bore, hiding from the police; Sniffy, a recruiter for an east end gang.
Robin seeks to make a living by negotiating a begging pitch from Luther. He also befriends Charlotte, whose sister Kathy lies in a coma from a heroin overdose.
Triggered by conversations with his new found friends, Robin begins to have minor insights to his past life, and to his concern and disbelief, discovers that he is a wanted for drug dealing and murder.
On the run, Robin attempts to find the truth about himself and Kathy's overdose, but gets drawn into the criminal underworld of East London.

Ray Crowther was born in London and now lives in Tolleshunt Major, Essex. He is married and has two daughters.
He read Cybernetics and Mathematics at Reading University and then worked in systems development jobs in England and Germany before starting his own company specializing in human resources software.
During his systems career he had technical papers published and wrote more reference manuals than he can remember. He maintains that the exacting discipline of technical authoring prepared him well for a creative change into fiction writing. He cites Robert Goddard as his favourite author and biggest influence on his own writing style.
Ray’s first novel entitled The Nearest FarAway Place was completed in November 1999 and published in 2001. His second novel Panglossian was published in 2002 and awarded a Golgonooza Medal of Merit.
After a writing gap during which he sold his company, retired to the countryside and remarried, he completed a third novel, Schoolfrenz, in March 2005.
Ray also regularly writes articles for motor sport publications.
When he is not writing, Ray can be found competing in motor rallies, jogging his local lanes and footpaths (where most of his fiction ideas evolve), organizing table-top rallies or pegularities, designing websites, developing payroll software and farming chickens.
He connects the achievements in his life to running: running a successful company; running around after his two daughters Caroline and Rebecca; and running the London Marathon.

Chapter 1

FIRST FRIDAY – 3:30 p.m.

After my six-hour drive back from convalescence, it is a spur of the moment decision to visit the local library. I had borrowed a stack of books on French political history - a particular passion of mine - two weeks earlier. I haven’t read them all and there is still a week remaining on the loan period, but I am passing the library so I call in. I am eager to cram my head with more knowledge of 18th century Gallic constitutional thought in the remaining two days before I go back to work, so I browse the shelves for more reading material. I am attracted to two volumes by Voltaire so I settle at a table and go through my ritual of scanning random pages to ensure that my selections are relevant to my studies. Satisfied, I head for the checkout counter and noisily place two piles of books and my library card in front of the apparently comatose middle-aged female librarian.
‘Two to take out and these to return,’ I say loudly, pointing to the separate heaps.
She visibly starts, and without looking up, swipes the barcode on the card with an electronic wand. The connected terminal beeps with specious satisfaction. She is about to swipe the first book when her attention moves from the display screen to me. Her look is blank and as if to mind read my observation she says, ‘It’s blank.’
‘What’s blank?’ I ask innocently.
‘Your library record of course,’ she replies in a sleep-disturbed patronizing way. ‘There’s no name or address!’
‘This happens often, does it?’ I say, trying to echo her disdainful tone.
She chooses not to respond to my question but instead asks in the manner of a police officer accosting a suspect, ‘I need to know who you are. What ID do you have with you? Passport? Driving Licence?’
‘No, No,’ I say with certainty and thrust my hand in my trouser back pocket searching for something with my name on it. I offer my plastic Visa card. ‘How about a credit card?’ I say triumphantly.
‘Has it got your address on it?’ my inquisitress demands.
‘No, of course not; but then neither would my passport.’
That seems to stall her aggression. She looks bewildered for a moment then she bounces back. ‘You’ll have to come back with proof of address. You can’t take these books out.’
‘Then presumably as I don’t exist, I can’t return these books to you either?’ I say argumentatively, placing my hand on the larger pile.
She taps a few keys on her keyboard, harder than seems necessary. She regards the screen, me, the books and then the screen again.
‘You don’t...’ she begins and then realizing she is about to donate some books to me, she snatches them away. Reflexively I withdraw my hand as though snapped at by a dog, although bitch would have been a better analogy.
‘Aren’t you going to log them back in again?’
‘I can’t since they aren’t booked out to you.’
It is now my turn to be officious. ‘I’ll need a receipt for them.’
The receipt dilemma leads to the summoning of the chief librarian - a large, balding, ruddy faced, casually dressed gentleman who I assess could be the prototypal pub landlord. His nature is more forgiving and, courtesy of his customer relations training, he apologetically resolves the quandary in my favour - the scapegoat emerging temporarily as the defenceless, inanimate computer system without regard to its human programming or operation. I discern though, from the accusatory glance from male to female librarian, that the matter will receive further scrutiny once I have departed.
Unfazed by the time-wasting experience in the library I leave the building in high spirits. Suddenly the Voltairean adjective I had spied earlier, Panglossian - pertaining to a person who is optimistic regardless of the circumstances - appears unannounced in my head; like an omen. I consider its predictive nature and dismiss it. Despite my mysterious disappearance from the library records - I have no pessimism. Indeed, I believe I have much to look forward to: my scar is almost healed; I have two days of leisure ahead - one of which will be spent with Julie; and on Monday I return to a job that I enjoy and which has great prospects.