He traipsed through, head down, braced for the onslaught. The clock on the wall said it was quarter to two in the morning. His mum was leaning against one of the worktops with her arms folded. His dad was at the kitchen table with his head in his hands.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Sam said.
His mum scowled. ‘Where have you been? And why is your phone off? I must have called twenty times. You were supposed to be back before midnight and…what’s happened to your face? Have you been fighting?’
‘It’s nothing,’ Sam said. ‘I’m fine.’
At that moment Sam’s dad lifted his head and stared at him with puffy, red-rimmed eyes. He looked like an old man.
‘What’s happened?’ Sam asked.
‘Chrissie rang a couple hours ago.’ His dad’s voice was barely more than a whisper. ‘It’s Grandpa, Sam. He’s had a stroke.’
14
In little more than two weeks after first stepping off a plane at Newark Airport, Sam found himself back there, albeit under entirely different circumstances. This time there had been no warning and no time to pack properly. Like his parents, he had simply thrown the contents of his drawers into a suitcase and flung it in the back of the cab. Chrissie’s phone call from hospital had been vague and confused, with no indication of how serious their grandfather’s stroke had been. Their only plan was to get back as soon as possible, so Sam’s mum had booked tickets on the next available flight.
The airport throbbed with passengers in spite of the early hour. There had been bad weather, a storm moving down from the Arctic Circle, and many later flights into Europe were cancelled or delayed. After checking their bags and passing through security, they queued to have their boarding passes and passports scanned, then filed down a long metal walkway connected to the side of the plane. Sam’s throat was parched and his head ached from lack of sleep. More than anything he wanted a shower, a change of clothes and the chance to brush his teeth.
He was greeted by a blast of stale, recycled air as he stepped aboard. The flight was almost fully booked, meaning they hadn’t been able to buy seats next to one another. Sam’s was at the very back of the plane, some distance from his parents’ near the middle. On the plus side, he had a window seat and would be able to watch as they took off. He sat down and peered out onto the runway to see that the sun had risen on a clear and bright morning, shrinking the puddles left by the night’s rain.
‘Excuse me.’
Sam looked up to see a man with a tanned complexion and black hair slicked away from his forehead.
‘I believe you are in my seat,’ the man said, staring at Sam with dark, bulging eyes that didn’t blink. Although his English was impeccable and without the hint of an accent, there was something foreign about the way he spoke.
Sam checked the stub of his boarding pass and held it out for the man to see. ‘I don’t think so. I’m in 34F.’
The man checked his own pass. ‘Ah, here is the confusion, I think.’ He patted the headrest of the aisle seat. ‘This is 34F. You are in 34G, which is booked under my name.’
‘Sorry,’ Sam said and started to get up.
The man raised a hand and smiled in what was obviously intended as a friendly gesture, but came across more like a wolf baring its teeth. ‘Please do not let me inconvenience you,’ he said. ‘Regrettably, I am a restless flyer and do prefer the aisle seat. Perhaps we could swap?’
‘Yeah, if you like,’ Sam said and sat back down.
The man unbuttoned his suit jacket, folded it meticulously and placed it in the overhead locker. Then he sat in the aisle seat and took out his phone.
Sam turned back to the window and watched the ground crew finish their preparations. After a while the seatbelt sign flashed on the overhead display and the pilot’s voice sounded over the intercom. ‘Good morning and welcome aboard this Boeing 757, British Airways flight to London Heathrow. My name is Captain Gavin McGormick. We’ll begin taxiing in a moment, so please remain in your seats and keep your seatbelts fastened while the sign is displayed. Today we’ll be cruising at an altitude of approximately thirty thousand feet, with an average airspeed of five hundred miles per hour. Our journey should take a little over eight hours. Unfortunately, we’ve had reports of adverse weather conditions in Europe, so you are advised to remain seated with your seatbelts fastened at all times, should we run in to any turbulence. I shall now pass you over to the capable hands of our cabin crew. Please pay close attention to the safety demonstration, even if you’re a frequent flyer.’
A tubby air steward with spiky hair and bad skin took to the floor several rows down. With theatrical twirls of his wrists he pointed out the emergency exits, then began demonstrating the correct procedure for fastening a life jacket.
There was a thud to Sam’s left. The man in the aisle seat was upright in his chair, straining against the seatbelt, his body as taut as a guitar string and his bulging eyes unfocused. Blood flowed from his nose, spotting his shirt.
All of a sudden he convulsed violently and then went limp. Sam unclipped his seatbelt, jumped up and hit the button above his head to call for assistance.
The tubby air steward glared in Sam’s direction, irritated that anyone had the audacity to interrupt his demonstration. ‘Sir, the seatbelt sign is on,’ he said. ‘Please return to your seat immediately!’
Sam pointed to the passenger in the next chair. ‘It’s an emergency, I think we need a doctor.’
The steward approached, took one look at the man and gulped. ‘Stay there, I’ll be right back.’
By now several other people nearby had left their seats and others further forward were craning their necks to get a better look. With shaking fingers, Sam loosened the man’s tie. Blood was still pouring from the man’s nose. Sam shook him gently, but he was completely out of it. Desperate for something to do but not knowing what, Sam picked up the in-flight magazine and tried fanning the man’s face.
The plane stopped taxiing and the pilot’s voice came back over the intercom. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, my apologies for the delay but a passenger has been taken ill. Please remain seated while we await medical assistance. If there is a doctor on board, please make yourself known to a member of the cabin crew.’
The steward returned, huffing noisily. The man’s nosebleed had slowed, however his eyes had rolled back in his head and he was still twitching in his seat.
‘What should we do?’ Sam asked.
‘I’ve alerted the airport and a team of medics are on their way. Maybe he has a condition or something. I suppose I should check his pockets for any medicine or ID.’ The steward patted the man’s trouser pockets and then shook his head. ‘No, nothing.’
‘The overhead locker,’ Sam said, remembering that the man had placed his suit jacket there.
The steward reached up, opened the locker, pulled the jacket out and checked the pockets. ‘Nothing,’ he said again. He looked at Sam and frowned. ‘Who travels on an international flight without a wallet? And where’s his passport?’
Before Sam had time to consider these questions, a pair of paramedics entered the plane and hurried down the aisle towards them. The first to arrive was a short man wearing a cap with the peak pulled down over his face. ‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Sam said. ‘He just came and sat down next to me and then started having a fit.’
‘Move aside, please,’ the second paramedic said. He was taller than the first and wore a similar long-peaked cap. As he unfolded a collapsible stretcher, his colleague attended to the man, checking his breathing, taking his pulse and shining a flashlight in his eyes.
‘Is he going to be all right?’ Sam asked.
‘Too early to tell,’ the first paramedic said. ‘He’s unresponsive. We’ll need to get him to hospital as quickly as possible.’
The paramedics lifted the man onto the stretcher, placed a blanket over his torso and then strapped an oxygen mask to his face. As they wheeled him off the plane, Sam glanced down at hi
s hands and saw that they were covered with dried blood. He gagged, then went to the toilet to wash them, scrubbing away until the water ran clear in the sink.
When he came out the seatbelt sign was on again, so he hurried to his seat. At long last the plane taxied to a runway, where it paused for a moment before accelerating with a force that threw Sam back against his chair. He gripped the armrests and watched the tarmac shoot past in a blur. The plane lurched, its front wheels lifting, and then they were off.
Within seconds the airport had fallen away far below. The plane banked and continued to climb. The sprawling mass of New York passed beneath them, and before long they were racing out over the sparkling ocean. They rose into a bank of cloud and Sam couldn’t see anything for a while until they emerged into bright sunshine. The pilot levelled out and the seatbelt sign blinked off.
After a few minutes Sam’s mum came and took the empty aisle seat next to him.
‘I’m very proud,’ she said when he told her what had happened. ‘You could’ve saved his life.’
‘Maybe, it’s just…’ Something didn’t feel right, but Sam couldn’t put his finger on what it was. ‘I’m just worried about Grandpa, I think.’
‘You and me both, kiddo.’ She kicked off her shoes. ‘Would you like me to sit back here with you?’
‘Yes please,’ he said and closed his eyes.
His last thought before he fell asleep was of the man’s face and the smile that was more like a wolf baring its teeth.
Chapter II
Rewind
1
February 1969
Michael stirred from his uneasy slumber, imagining his father leaning over, bourbon and cigarette smoke on the old man’s breath. ‘Okay Pa,’ he muttered, ‘five more minutes.’
‘Pa? Where in hell do you think you are, bubble butt? Wake up, it’s your turn on watch.’
Michael opened his eyes to see Clyde’s outline in the wavering candlelight. Sitting up, he rubbed the sweat from the back of his neck, his fingertips brushing the bump of a mosquito bite.
‘C’mon, up already,’ Clyde said. He spat a stream of chewing tobacco onto the dugout floor, wiped his lips with the back of his hand and kicked the leg of the cot.
‘Okay, okay, I’m coming.’ Michael swung his feet to the floor and began lacing his boots. ‘So, you see anything out there?’
Clyde grinned, displaying a mouth full of brown teeth. ‘Nope, so quiet you could hear a gnat fart. Now get your useless behind out of here and let me catch some shuteye.'
Michael pulled his helmet over his sticky hair and lifted his M14 by the barrel. As he climbed the steps, he heard the whine of a mosquito and guessed it was probably the same one that had bitten him. With any luck it would feast on Clyde too.
The air was heavy and still as Michael followed the path to the camp’s perimeter, offering no relief against the thick humidity of the night. The heat stifled him, even without the oppressive sun beating down. It squeezed on all sides like a straightjacket, making every breath an effort. Michael paused, leaned his rifle against a tree and undid his fly, peering out into the jungle and trying to banish the idea of eyes lurking behind every branch and vine. He whistled Do Your Ears Hang Low, droplets of pee splashing against the toes of his boots. It was the tune Eugene used to sing when Michael had been little and afraid of the dark, and it brought him comfort now, as if those notes had the power to ward off evil spirits, even thousands of miles from home and with the earth still freshly turned on his brother’s grave. Three months ago, Michael had been back on the farm, the snow so deep that the pick-up couldn’t make it up the road. It had taken four hours to wade into town to buy groceries for Pa. That memory now seemed an eternity away, and no more real than the flickering movies played in the mess hall each night. Michael doubted it ever snowed in this god-awful place.
At his post, he unsheathed his combat knife and held it to the moonlight to inspect the shimmering blade. He dug it into the sandbag before him, checked his magazine and adjusted the sights on his rifle. Michael had never been much of a shot. Eugene had tried to teach him a few years back using Pa’s old Springfield to knock tin cans off the wooden fence behind the shack. When it had been Michael’s turn he hadn’t hit a single one, and in the end had trudged back inside to read one of his books, the shame of Eugene’s disappointment dragging at his feet. At boot camp Michael had been bottom of his platoon during target practice and the first reservations about his decision to volunteer had entered his mind. It was one thing to aim at a paper target down a range and quite another to fire at a human being in the knowledge that if you missed it could well be the last thing you ever did.
‘Kill or be killed,’ the Drill Instructor had said, and those words had circled Michael’s mind like a mantra on every guard duty and patrol since he’d stepped off the plane. When the moment came, Michael’s life and those of his comrades could well depend on his ability to put a bullet in a stranger. The prospect scared him senseless.
He lit a cigarette, shook out the flame of his match and took a drag, immediately coughing as his chest rejected the lungful of tarry smoke. Michael had only taken up the habit a week before, since almost everyone here smoked and it seemed a good way to fit in.
For a while only the drone of insect wings disturbed the night. Then he heard the noise, a sound so small and out of place that, for a moment, Michael thought his mind was playing tricks on him. But then he heard it again: the unmistakable sob of a child.
He fumbled with the safety catch and swung his M14 futilely in the dark. Doing his best to keep his voice level, he called out.
The sobbing stopped.
Michael dropped his cigarette and stepped out over the bank of sandbags, his rifle rattling in his hands. ‘Who’s there?’ he called once more.
There was faint movement, barely perceptible, about ten yards ahead and then the sobbing started up again.
Michael tried to sound authoritative as he edged further forward. ‘This is your last chance. Come on out now, or I’ll shoot!’
A voice spoke, high and melodic, punctuated by small wails. Although Michael couldn’t understand the words, he recognised the fear underlying them. He took a step closer, then another. Sitting at the foot of a tree was a girl with a conical straw hat in her lap. She couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen years old, he guessed. As Michael approached the girl cowered and lifted an arm across her face.
He lowered his weapon. ‘What’re you doing out here, little one. You lost? It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you.’
The girl spoke again, her eyes wide, her voice fast and pleading.
‘Whoa, slow down! I don’t understand.’ Michael knelt beside her and held out his hands, palms up. The girl looked at him, narrowed her eyes and buried her head in her sleeve again.
Not knowing what else to do, he patted her gently on the shoulder. The girl cried out as if struck and jumped to her feet, sending the straw hat tumbling to the ground. It took a second for Michael’s brain to register the significance of the object she was holding, and by the time he scrambled for his gun it was too late.
She stepped toward him, offering the grenade in her outstretched hand like a gift. As Michael turned to run the jungle lit up behind him. Out of the corner of his eye he was vaguely aware of the girl’s slender body coming apart before a wall of fire lifted him off his feet.
2
Present Day
Images came and went, disjointed flashes of illumination, each dripping with ungraspable significance, each separated by numb emptiness, all happening at once and yet separated in a precise order. Days and nights passed in seconds, each heartbeat a lifetime.
The frustration and pain were unbearable. Sam wanted to give up, to leave it all behind and drift away to where there could be no more suffering. But the images kept coming, thicker and faster, until he found himself fighting his way back up, struggling towards light on the surface. He felt movement, the pulse of blood in his veins. A burning sen
sation in his head was accompanied by pain in his back and chest, in his arms and legs. He tried to take a breath, but something was blocking his mouth. Reaching out, he discovered that his hands were tangled, as if tied.
Slowly he opened his eyes. They felt sluggish and gluey, dazzled by the dim light.
‘He’s awake! He’s coming to!’ a voice said.
Sam wanted to answer, but whatever was in his mouth gagged his words. His throat felt raw and stripped, as though he’d swallowed a hot coal. He blinked, the world swimming until it finally regained stability.
A heavy-set, middle-aged woman in a nurse’s uniform was standing by his side. She was holding a roll of fresh bandage in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other. ‘Don’t try to move,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘I’ll fetch the doctor.’
3
Chrissie was sat on her usual bench, chewing at the ragged, bloody stumps of her fingernails. Her old life felt like a distant dream to which there could be no return. She hadn’t smoked since the day of the crash, and only ever left the hospital to return home and change her clothes before coming straight back. There was no room for fun and excitement in this new existence, only a never-ending loop of stress and exhaustion.
Lance slept by her side, his head lolling on her shoulder, his breathing deep and slow. His hair had fallen over his lips, so Chrissie tucked it behind his ear to prevent him sucking it into his mouth. She’d told him over and over that he didn’t need to wait with her and should go home, but he never did.
Chrissie yawned and checked her watch: it was almost five in the morning. After easing Lance’s head from her shoulder, she stood and stretched, the joints in her elbows cracking as she raised her arms above her head. Lance blinked, mumbled something incoherent and fell back to sleep, his head bumping against the wall behind them.
Feeling like she needed something to fend off the tiredness, Chrissie set off towards the vending machine at the far end of the corridor, where she bought a white coffee with sugar. It was cheap, watery stuff, but would hopefully keep her awake. She blew into the steaming liquid and took a sip, wincing as it scalded her lips. A backdraught of nausea suddenly hit her. She dropped the full paper cup in the bin and ran to the toilet. The last person to use it had trashed the place, leaving the taps running and the floor drenched with what she hoped was only water. Before Chrissie could make any attempt to clean up, her stomach cramped again. She flung the toilet seat up and vomited into the chipped porcelain bowl.
The Pages of Time Page 5