Eventually anti-Chrissie released him. ‘Where are my manners?’ she said. ‘Come in out of the rain. Can I take your coat?’
Lewis unzipped the dripping garment and passed it over. ‘I’m sorry about your dad,’ he said.
‘Thanks, I know you two were close.’ She turned to hang his coat on the end of the banister. ‘You’re coming to the funeral, aren’t you?’
Lewis felt a tear sting his eye and wiped it away while Chrissie was still facing the staircase. ‘Wouldn’t miss it,’ he said. ‘So…how’s Sam holding up?’
‘He’s alive, and that’s the main thing.’ She turned back and gave a small shake of her head. ‘It’s just, well, he’s been acting so strangely.’
‘That’s to be expected, I reckon.’
‘Yeah, I suppose so. Anyway, you’ll see for yourself in a minute. Come on through.’
Lewis’s stomach had wound itself into a knot several hours ago and it twisted even tighter as he followed Chrissie to the sitting room. Sam was lying on the couch with his back propped up by several large cushions. The first thing Lewis noticed was how much weight his friend had lost. Sam had never been fat, but now he had shrivelled to skin and bones. His hair had been shaved in a crew cut, under which Lewis could make out a curving scar, still angry and red, behind his ear.
‘Easy mate,’ Lewis said. ‘How’s it going?’
Sam didn’t respond. Although the television was off, his gaze remained fixed on the screen.
Chrissie stepped forward and shook her brother gently by the shoulder. ‘Sam? Lewis is here.’
Sam started and looked past her, blinking as if he’d just emerged from a dark tunnel. ‘Lewis, you came!’
‘Course I did,’ Lewis said. Chrissie left and, once they were alone, he pulled one of the armchairs closer so he could sit facing Sam. ‘I wanted to visit you in hospital, but they said it was family only. Not sure about the new hair style, by the way.’
‘No?’ Sam ran his hand over his scalp, his fingertips briefly resting on the ridge of the scar. ‘Me neither. At least when it grows back it’ll cover this.’
‘It’s not that bad,’ Lewis lied. He handed Sam the plastic bag he’d brought. ‘Here, I got you some magazines in case you get bored. And Connor made you a card at nursery. It’s meant to be an elephant, I think.’
‘Thanks,’ Sam said and placed the bag by the side of the couch without looking inside.
A moment passed, the silence broken only by the tick-tocking of the clock on the wall. When they were younger and used to have sleepovers, they would stay up all night talking, but right now Lewis couldn’t think of a single word to say.
He tugged at a loose thread in the seam of his jeans, took a deep breath and slowly let it out. ‘You look okay. I mean, I was expecting much worse.’
‘The doctors say they’re really happy with my recovery, and I’ve been having physio every day, which helps. A week ago I couldn’t even stand up by myself, it’s just…’
‘What?’
‘The strangest stuff’s been happening to me,’ Sam said. ‘I don’t really know how to explain it, but I think there’s something wrong with my brain. Something happened while I was in hospital and it was like time froze and then started going backwards. But that sounds crazy, doesn’t it?’
Lewis rubbed the section of his chin where downy stubble sprouted. ‘A little,’ he said, ‘but I wouldn’t worry about it. I think after everything you’ve been through there’d be something wrong if you felt completely fine.’
‘Maybe you’re right,’ Sam said and relaxed back against his cushions. ‘The police came to see me, you know.’
‘Really? What did they want?’
‘To talk about the crash. They think someone sabotaged the plane.’
Lewis nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s been all over the news. You can’t even bring your phone on a flight anymore. People are saying it’s bad for the economy but—’
‘The thing is, I remember something about that day.’ Sam leaned forwards, the veins around his temples bulging under the skin. ‘There was this guy who sat next to me on the plane. He had some sort of fit and paramedics had to come and take him away before we took off. It was him who caused it, Lewis, I’m sure of it. He did this to me. He murdered my dad.’
Lewis squirmed in his seat. It was only natural for Sam to feel angry, he supposed, but that didn’t make hearing it any more comfortable. ‘What makes you so sure?’ he asked. ‘I mean, if this guy wasn’t even on the plane when you took off, how could he have sabotaged it?’
‘He left his phone in the seat pocket. It started ringing just before we went down.’
Ordinarily Lewis would have told Sam to get a grip, but under the current circumstances it didn’t feel like the right thing to do. Instead he joined his friend on the couch, went to put his arm around Sam’s shoulders, then stopped and withdrew it. ‘Leave this to the police,’ he said. ‘Stressing about it won’t help, and I’m sure they’ll catch this guy if there’s anything to it.’
‘Maybe.’
‘There’s no maybe about it. You’re home now, and the only thing you need to worry about is getting better. We’re all here for you, Sam, especially me. Just say if there’s anything I can do to help.’
‘You don’t have a time machine, do you?’
‘Afraid not,’ Lewis said.
‘Then there’s nothing anyone can do.’
3
Matthew Rayner’s birthday was the first day of December. He would have been forty-eight years old. Last year the family booked a table at the Indian restaurant on the high street, where Chrissie’s father had drunk too much beer and, before the end of the main course, started to sing loudly. Although he was a musician by trade, he had a lousy singing voice. As he’d worked his way through a selection of Elvis’s hits, his lip curled back and his eyebrows wiggling, heads had turned and an array of disapproving looks were cast in their direction. Chrissie remembered sinking low into her chair, wishing the ground would swallow her up.
This year she’d spent her dad’s birthday making the final preparations for his funeral, which was to be held that weekend. With Sam only a week out of hospital and her grandparents in no state to help, she’d needed to make most of the arrangements herself. Lance insisted she was taking on too much in her condition, but there was no one else to do it and Chrissie was fast becoming used to her role as the responsible adult of the house.
Although arranging a funeral was more complicated than she had imagined, she went about contacting undertakers, selecting a coffin, choosing flowers, booking a venue and sending out invites with a composed efficiency that she’d never even realised she possessed. She had booked the church in the village where her dad had grown up. It would make her grandmother happy and, although he hadn’t been religious, it felt right that this should be his final resting place, almost as though he were returning home.
Over the last couple of months, Chrissie had often found herself questioning her own views on the afterlife. After being expelled from secondary school she’d attended a convent for almost three years (her parents had misguidedly believed that the structure would do her good) where Catholic dogma and discipline had given her something new to rebel against. She’d never really bought into the conventional concepts of heaven and hell. The idea of a fluffy paradise in the clouds for the good and some eternally boiling pit of lava where the wicked were punished sounded like tales concocted to scare small children into brushing their teeth and eating their vegetables.
Since the crash, however, Chrissie couldn’t help but wonder if death really was the final curtain call she’d always supposed it to be, or if maybe, just maybe, there was some form of existence beyond the grave. Perhaps it was the comfort of imagining that somewhere out there, on some mystical plain beyond human reach, a part of her father lived on. Or perhaps it was awareness of her own mortality sharpened by the new life growing inside her, for out of the sadness an unexpected shoot of happiness had sprouted: Chrissi
e was going to be a mother.
* * * * *
On the afternoon of Chrissie’s dad’s birthday, the family visited the hospital. There was no change in her mum’s condition, so Chrissie changed the flowers by her bedside, combed her hair, painted her nails and left after an hour feeling her usual sense of despondency. Later, she helped her grandmother prepare a special dinner: roast chicken with roast potatoes, veg and gravy. It had been her dad’s favourite.
That evening they sat down to eat, Chrissie and Lance on one side of the table, her grandparents on the other and Sam at the head. A sober air hung over them as Lance carved the chicken. They passed around plates without talking, as if nobody had the stomach to verbalise what they were all thinking.
‘Sod this,’ Grandpa said eventually. He raised his glass of water (alcohol was strictly off the menu since his stroke) and looked around the table, his face breaking into a smile. ‘Here’s to Matthew. He wouldn’t want us all sitting around looking miserable on his birthday, now would he?’
‘No,’ Chrissie said, remembering her father’s drunken antics the year before. ‘Here’s to you, Dad, wherever you are.’
Lance laid down the carving knife. ‘I didn’t know him that well, but he always seemed like a cool guy.’
‘To Matthew.’ Chrissie’s grandmother raised her glass and emitted a sob. ‘The best son any mother could ask for.’
Sam squeezed her hand. ‘And to Mum,’ he said, ‘wishing you a quick recovery. We want you home soon.’
‘Hear, hear!’ Their grandfather rapped his walking stick on the tiles. ‘To a quick recovery. And to catching the bastards who did this to you both!’
There was a murmur of agreement and then they started to eat. Grandma was an excellent cook, and before long there were five empty plates on the table. Chrissie stood and began stacking them by the sink.
‘Babe, I’ll do that,’ Lance said, rising to intercept her.
‘I’m not an invalid.’
He sighed. ‘I know, it’s just you shouldn’t be lifting anything heavy.’
‘They’re only plates,’ she said and continued to clear the table. Lance’s comment appeared to have gone unnoticed, but there was no point putting it off any longer. Chrissie turned to face her family. ‘Actually, there’s another reason I wanted to get us all together this evening. Lance and I have some news. It’s still early days, but―’
The phone rang in the hall, cutting her off.
‘I’ll get it,’ Sam said. He lifted his crutches from the side of the table and hobbled to the door.
‘What were you saying, pet?’ Chrissie’s grandmother asked.
‘Never mind.’ She returned to the table and sat down. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
Lance stuck his bottom lip out and gave her a dopey, hurt look.
‘Not now,’ she said and patted his knee. ‘There’ll be a better time.’
‘Who’s for pudding?’ Grandma asked after a while. ‘I’ve made apple crumble and custard.’
Sam returned as she got up, his crutches creaking under his weight. His face was pale, his eyes glassy.
‘Who was it?’ Chrissie asked.
‘Inspector Hinds.’
‘Who?’
‘The police officer investigating the crash.’ Her brother teetered in the doorway for a moment, then held himself upright. ‘She says she wants to see me again. They may have a lead.’
4
Sam’s dad had owned a sizable life insurance policy, and even though the estate agent hadn’t removed the sign yet, Chrissie had taken the house off the market soon after the crash. Their grandparents had moved in and Lance had taken up semi-permanent residency in Chrissie’s bedroom, but although the house was now full of people, Sam kept seeing ghosts everywhere, long forgotten memories of his parents surfacing at the smallest of triggers.
Inspector Hinds came to visit a couple of days after calling on his dad’s birthday. She arrived half an hour early, just as Sam’s physiotherapist was leaving, and was followed into the sitting room by two men. The first wore a turtleneck jumper and faded brown leather jacket. He looked to be approaching late middle age, with thin, greying hair and a goatee beard shaped into a sharp point under his chin. The second man was much younger, probably under thirty. He was tall, with close-set blue eyes and neat blonde hair combed in a side parting. There was something strange about the way he walked, and he stopped to look about with mild disgust as he stepped into the room.
Sam reached for his crutches to stand.
‘Please, don’t get up,’ Hinds said. She tilted her head towards the older man. ‘This is Clive Kalinsky. He’s a forensic artist, one of the best we’ve got.’
‘You’re too kind, Frances,’ Kalinsky said and smiled.
‘And you’re too modest. The reconstructions Clive produces have been instrumental in cracking several high-profile cases.’ She nodded towards the younger man. ‘And Mr Steele here is with the Security Service. He’s been assisting us with our investigations.’
‘Nice to meet you both,’ Sam said. ‘Please, have a seat.’
Hinds joined him on the couch, while the men took an armchair each, Steele laying a handkerchief on the cushion of his chair, hiking up the legs of his trousers as he sat and then carefully straightening the creases. Hinds rummaged in her bag and pulled out a thick, heavy-looking lever arch file.
At that moment Sam’s grandmother bustled in. ‘Heavens, I feel awful about the mess,’ she said. ‘It’s been ages since we last had visitors. Would anyone like a cup of tea? Or some biscuits?’
‘No thank you, madam,’ Hinds said.
Steele and Kalinsky both shook their heads.
‘Or something savoury? I could rustle up some sandwiches, it really is no trouble.’
‘Grandma, they said they’re fine,’ Sam said.
She gave a disappointed huff. ‘Well then, if there’s nothing you need, I’m going to the shops. We’re having spaghetti bolognaise for tea, pet.’
‘Okay,’ he said and rolled his eyes as she left.
Hinds opened the file and passed it to Sam. It contained page after page of photographs, each cropped around the person’s head and shoulders. ‘We’re interested in identifying the man you say became ill before your flight took off,’ she explained. ‘I’d like you to have a look over some mug shots to see if there’s anyone you recognise.’
Sam began to flick through, carefully studying each picture at first but turning the pages faster as he went. At last he closed the file and shook his head.
‘Don’t be too disheartened,’ Hinds said. ‘It was always a long shot, but you never know. Most of the people in that file have known or suspected terrorist links, but they’re only the tip of the iceberg. There’re plenty of reasons why the man you saw might not be included. It could be that he’s never been arrested before, or is a new recruit―’
Steele cleared his throat. ‘That is, of course, if he even exists.’
‘Excuse me?’ Sam said.
‘It would be unwise to rule out any possibility at this stage of the investigation.’
‘You think I’m making the whole thing up?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Steele said, fixing Sam in his cold, blue gaze. ‘Why, are you?’
Sam glanced to Hinds for support, but she immediately lowered her eyes and began tugging at one of her earrings, looking like she couldn’t remember whether she’d switched the iron off before leaving for work that morning.
Sam felt sweat break out on his forehead. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘Why would I do something like that?’
Steele smiled and brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. ‘As I’m sure you already know, Mr Rayner, Flight 0368 was brought down by an act of deliberate sabotage. We’ve been aware that certain terrorist fractions have been developing electronic jamming devices for some time now, but until recently all of the samples that we’ve managed to intercept have been concealed as handheld electronic equipment; smart phones, tablets, laptop
s and the such. All had one flaw in common, namely the inability to perform the function of the gadgets they were disguised as, meaning they could be detected simply by asking passengers to switch their devices on.
‘Although this hasn’t been released to the press yet, fragments of the jamming device that brought down Flight 0368 were recovered at the scene. What we found was something different, something designed to bypass our security measures. The contraption in question was stowed in the baggage hold. It was checked in and remotely activated during the flight. Remotely activated by the smart phone found in your hand when emergency crews pulled you from the wreck.’
The conversation was tumbling out of control, and Sam didn’t like where it was headed. He heaved himself up off the couch and, without his crutches, stood to face Steele. ‘Look, I don’t know who you are, barging in here and accusing me of all sorts of stuff. I can see where you’re going with this, and I don’t appreciate it.’
Steele watched him without a trace of emotion. ‘I suggest you sit down before you do yourself harm.’
Sam glared back, but couldn’t stop his legs from shaking. After a few seconds he crumpled back to his seat, exhausted.
‘That’s better,’ Steele said. ‘I think we all need to calm down. I’m only expounding a theory, but not one that seems likely to me. For a start, I have to ask myself what motive a sixteen-year-old boy would have in perpetrating such an act.’
‘And?’
‘In all honesty, I can’t think of one. The report also states that your mother and father were involved in the crash―’
‘My dad was killed.’
Steele paused for a moment and adjusted his cuffs. ‘Yes, indeed. And whilst that is extremely unfortunate, it does, however, lend weight to the notion that you had nothing to do with the crash. Furthermore, a key piece of evidence supports your account of events. The closed circuit television recordings from inside the airport have been analysed and, just after take-off, they show what appears to be a team of paramedics escorting a man in a stretcher to an ambulance parked outside the terminal.’
The Pages of Time Page 9