by Peter James
He sat back expectantly, blinking his large blue eyes. ‘Go on, Mummy. Pretend it isn’t finished. Pretend the dragon comes back to life and chases the man that killed him.’
‘OK. Once upon a time in a land called Nicky-Not-Here-Land, there lived a horrible man.’
‘Why was he horrible?’
‘Because he was.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Horrible.’
He lay back, and was asleep before she had finished. She stood up and he opened his eyes. She bent down and kissed him.
‘Night, Tiger.’
‘You didn’t finish the story!’
Caught, she realised. Sharp. Kids were razor sharp. ‘I’ll finish tomorrow. All right?’
‘All right,’ he said sleepily.
‘Night night.’
‘Night night, Mummy.’
‘Do you want the light on or off?’
He hesitated. ‘On please.’
She blew him a kiss and closed the door quietly behind her.
Sam watched Harrison Ford dancing with Kelly Mc-Gillis in the headlights of his beat-up station waggon on the television screen. Her eyes smarted and she felt a surge of sadness for all that she – or they – had lost. For all that could never be the same again.
Richard slouched on the sofa in front of the television, whisky tumbler filled to its invariable four-finger measure beside him, and the bottle of Teacher’s a few inches further away, almost empty. The gas log fire flickered in the grate the far side of him, and Sam shivered in the draught that blew in from the Thames through the plate-glass windows that stretched the entire width of the flat’s living area.
The lighting in the room was low: just two table lamps were on, and there was a soft orange glow from the streetlighting across the river in Bermondsey. Sam turned her gaze away from the television and continued on around the oak refectory table, setting a red wine goblet at each place. ‘How many glasses do you want out, Richard?’
‘Uh?’
‘Glasses. How many do you want out? I’m laying the table for tomorrow.’
‘There’s going to be eleven of us.’
‘How many glasses each?’ she said, slightly irritated.
‘Three. We’re having Chablis and claret. Folatières ’83, Philippe Leclerc, then Calon Ségur ’62. That’s the last of my ’62s. And a Sauternes – really good one – Coutet de Barsac, ’71.’ He picked up the tumbler and drained half of it, then lit a cigarette. ‘Harrison Ford,’ he said, blinking at the screen. ‘Bloody good movie this.’ He drained the glass, placed his four fingers carefully around the base, and poured the remainder of the whisky from the bottle. ‘You’ll like the Chablis.’
‘Good,’ she said.
‘Archie’s a real wine man, know what I mean? First growth, no shit. Three hundred quid a bottle touch for lunch – Lafites and all that stuff. Style! You’ll like Archie. He’s a good boy.’
‘I think we should put one for Perrier as well. Everyone always wants it.’ She looked at him, but he was engrossed again in the television. ‘Are you serving port?’
‘Yah.’
‘I’ll put port glasses out as well.’
‘He’s a big player, Archie.’
‘Then you should have a nice game with him.’
‘City, Sam. He’s a big player in the City.’
‘Perhaps he can teach Nicky something, too,’ She went over to the cabinet in the corner, and pulled out more glasses. The wind was howling outside, slapping the black water of the Thames against the piers below and shaking the rigging of the yachts. She could see the glints of light on the waves, the dark hulls of the lighters moored midstream. Bleak, she thought, turning away and carrying the tray to the table. ‘Is this famous Andreas definitely coming?’
‘Oh – er – yah.’ Richard shifted about on the sofa and took a gulp of his whisky.
‘So I’m finally going to meet him. What’s his surname again?’
‘Berensen.’
‘Does he have a place in London?’
‘No, he’s just over on business.’
‘From Switzerland? What exactly does he do? He’s some sort of a banker, isn’t he?’
Richard scratched the back of his head. ‘Ah – yah – a banker.’
‘A real gnome?’
‘Yah.’ Richard laughed, slightly uncomfortably. ‘Actually he’s quite tall.’
‘Is he your biggest client now?’
‘Yah. Sort of, I suppose.’ He was sounding evasive, Sam thought, frowning. ‘How’s work?’ he asked.
‘Hectic. I should still be there now.’
‘That guy Ken’s making you work too hard. All this travelling you’re doing is crazy. You’re travelling too much, you know, Bugs.’ He turned round.
His face, which had always looked fit and lean, had been sallow and lined lately, much older than his thirty-three years, and in the flickering light from the screen and the fire she suddenly caught a glimpse of what he would look like when he was old, when he no longer had the strength and energy that animated him and he started to shrivel and cave in, like a ghoul from a horror movie. It frightened her. Ageing frightened her.
‘I have to travel.’
He drained two fingers of whisky and dragged hard on his cigarette again. The smell tantalised her, tempted her, and her refusal to weaken was making her irritated.
‘I don’t think you’re spending enough time with Nicky,’ he said.
‘I spent three years with him, Richard. I quit my career for him.’
He leaned over and crushed his cigarette out. ‘Dealer’s choice, darling.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It was your choice.’
‘Our choice,’ she said. ‘I gave up three years. What did you give up? Why don’t you give up three years?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’m not being ridiculous.’
‘Bugs, I don’t mind you working, but what you’re doing is crazy. You’re working all hours of the day and night, you bring your work home, half the time you spend roaring around Europe, jumping on and off aeroplanes. You’re always off somewhere. France. Holland. Germany. Spain. Bulgaria. You went to Bulgaria about six times last year. I think you’re ignoring Nicky. You’re not being a good mother to him.’
The anger that was rising inside her went flat, as if it had been lanced, and she felt a sharp pang of guilt. She sat down on the dining chair, feeling limp, as something uncomfortable echoed from her own childhood.
She thought about her own childhood and how life had dumped on her then. She thought about her marriage and her happiness and the forgetting that had happened. Perhaps she had forgotten too much? Maybe it wasn’t only children that could feel neglected and unwanted. Maybe adults could too. Maybe that’s why it had happened.
3
‘Something’s wrong.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Something.’
Sam heard the voices, low, murmuring, muted, like a snatch of conversation from across the room at a cocktail party, and stiffened. She turned around, craning her neck over the back of her seat, trying to see where they had come from, but the man and the woman behind her were asleep. She listened, but could hear only the sound of the aircraft’s engines: a distant churning, like a dishwasher. Then the cycle changed, and she felt the plane begin to sink down into the cloud below.
Flying never normally bothered her, but suddenly she felt nervous. She stared uneasily at the trails of rain that streaked the window, and the swirling grey beyond. Landing. Her hands felt clammy with perspiration, and she realised she was shivering.
She wanted to put the clock back, not be on the plane at all. Stupid, unnecessary trip, she thought. Richard was right, she was jumping on and off too many planes. She wished she had not jumped on this one. Bucket seats; trying to save Ken money. Charter airlines took risks, someone told her. Calm down, Sam, she said to herself. Calm down.
There was a ping, and the �
�No Smoking’ sign lit up on the panel in front of her. Then another bell, higher pitched, faintly musical, like the gong of an elevator announcing its arrival. Beng-bong. The sound irritated her.
‘This is Captain Walker.’ His matey voice irritated her as well. There was a hum and a screech and a loud click. ‘We’ve started our descent and expect to be on the apron in about twenty-five minutes. The weather in Sofia is cold – one degree Celsius and it’s snowing. We hope you have enjoyed your flight with us and that you have a pleasant stay in Bulgaria. On behalf of us all, I’d like to thank you for flying Chartair, and hope you choose to fly with us again.’ His voice was tired, clipped ex-RAF English. He was having to make the effort to sound friendly, and not as if it was just another charter flight, which it was; not as if he was tired and bored with dumping another load of cheap tourists in another cheap resort.
A little girl’s head popped over the seat back in front of her. ‘Hallo,’ she said.
‘Hallo,’ Sam replied.
The girl’s head disappeared and she heard giggling. ‘I said hallo to the lady behind!’
Perspiration was trickling down Sam’s face and she felt sick. She unbuckled her belt, slid across the empty seats beside her and walked unsteadily along the aisle which was sloping away from her, down towards the toilets, pushing against the seat backs to prevent herself from running forwards, waiting to be challenged by a stewardess, but they were busy stowing the duty frees and had not noticed her.
She reached the front of the aeroplane, still shaking, and was surprised to see the door to the flight deck was open. She stared through at the orange dials of the instruments and the captain and the first officer, in their white shirts, in their seats.
The first officer turned his head towards the captain, and she could hear him speak, clearly.
‘Derek,’ he said, ‘there is definitely something wrong.’
The captain flicked a switch beside him, and spoke loudly and dearly. ‘This is Chartair Six-Two-Four. Confirm we are on initial approach.’
A voice crackled back, sharp, tinny, with a precise, broken English accent. ‘Chartair Six-Two-Four. This is Sofia tower. We confirm initial approach. Runway Two-One. We have visibility of only two hundred metres – check your landing minima.’
‘Sofia tower. Chartair Six-Two-Four. Confirming runway Two-One.’
The captain leaned forward in his seat and adjusted a dial on the instrument panel. The first officer stared around. She could see the worry on his face, could feel his fear, as if it were a blanket of ice.
The microphone crackled again, and she heard the voice, more urgent. ‘Chartair Six-Two-Four. We have you identified on radar. You are too low. I say again too low. Climb to seven thousand feet immediately.’
‘We are at seven thousand feet,’ said the captain calmly, a trace of weariness in his voice as if the man in the tower had become infected with the same irrational fear as the first officer.
‘We have you identified on radar,’ said the controller. ‘You are at four thousand five hundred. Check your altimeter setting.’ His voice rose in excitement and panic. ‘Climb. Climb immediately! Discontinue your approach. I say again, discontinue your approach!’
‘I have seven thousand reading on both altimeters. Please check your radar.’ There was irritability creeping through the calm.
‘Climb, Derek,’ the first officer shouted. ‘The mountains, for Chrissake. Fucking climb!’
‘We’re clear. The mountains are five thousand ceiling.’
There was a sharp click and the toilet door in front of her opened. A man stood there, in a black hood with slits for his eyes and mouth.
She reeled back, and he clamped a black leather-gloved hand over her mouth, cracking her head back hard against the bulkhead. She smelled the leather of the glove, new fresh leather, flung her head violently away, tried to scream, tried to back away, felt a lever behind her jamming into her back; then the black leather glove came over her face again and she ducked, heard a tremendous bang and the hissing of air, then suddenly she was out of the aircraft, spinning wildly in the turbulence, and the deafening howling of the freezing wind and the engines, spinning through a crazed icy vortex, falling, falling, falling through a blackness that seemed to go on for ever.
Then she was free of it, floating in the cold grey cloud as if it was water. She could push her arms and move through it. She went further away, swimming effortlessly, until she could see the silver Boeing in the distance, cloud swirling around it like tendrils of weed as it flew into the dark grey shape that loomed upwards in front of it, a shape that was barely discernible from the cloud.
At first there was silence. The aircraft seemed to go on for a long time into the solid wall of the mountain, and she wondered for a moment whether it was her imagination, or just a strangely shaped cloud. Then the tail section flew away and began to cartwheel downwards. It bounced up for an instant off a ridge, and something began to spray out of it, like champagne, and float down behind it. Luggage, she realised with a sickening feeling.
It bounced again, rose up, and did a half-turn in slow motion. The stream of suitcases that followed bounced in the same place, deflecting in the same way, except some of them burst open leaving a wake of fluttering clothes.
A solitary passenger, strapped in his seat, flew up through the clothes, followed by another, then a third, their limbs shaking about like toys emptying from a child’s cupboard as they plummeted back down.
There was a boom, and a ball of flame rose high up above. A fiercely blazing object joined the dance down the mountainside, showering sparks into the greyness all around it. An engine. It ploughed into the snow below her, hissing. Near it she could see the tail section, a stubby dark silhouette resting on the white snow, the top of the tail fin bent over at a right angle, the word ‘Chartair’ clearly visible, and part of the emblem of a prancing tiger and letters next to it G.Z.T.A.E.
And then there was a silence that frightened her. The cloud swirled around her, until she could no longer see the ground, until she could no longer tell whether she was lying face down or up. Panic began to grip her. She wanted to see Nicky, to hold him, squeeze him. She wanted to hug Richard, tell him she was sorry, tell him she forgave him, tell him she was sorry she had worked so damned hard. ‘Where are you?’ She turned her body over, then over again, trying to break away from the cold grey tendrils that were entwined around her. ‘Let me go. Please let me go and see them. Just five minutes. Please. That’s all. Five minutes.’
They tightened around her.
‘Let me go!’
The air was getting warmer now, stifling; it was getting harder to breathe. ‘Let me go!’ she screamed, punching out with her fists, swirling, twisting.
She felt a cool breeze on her face.
‘Bugs?’
Richard’s voice, she thought, puzzled.
‘Bugs?’
She saw a flat pool of light, and Richard standing near her in a striped shirt and paisley boxer shorts.
Different. The light was different. A dial blinked at her, orange like the dial of the aircraft, 0500. 0500. 0501.
‘OK, Bugs?’
Richard was standing over her.
‘OK Bugs?’ he said again.
She nodded. ‘Yes – I—’
He frowned, then struggled with the floppy arm of his shirt, and she heard the pop as the cufflink pierced the starch. Gold links with his initials on one side and his family crest on the other. Her wedding present to him. They’d come in a small wine-coloured box, and cost £216. Odd, the details you could remember. She stared at the reclining nude on the wall, at her face in the mirror above the bed, at the light streaming in from the bathroom door.
‘A dream,’ she said. ‘I was having a dream.’
‘You were making a horrible sound, really horrible.’ He turned away toward the wall mirror, and knotted his tie. As he pulled it tight, she felt something pull tight around her own throat. Dread seeped through her, hung around he
r, filled the room. The black hood with the slits came out of the door at her and the black leather glove clamped over her mouth. She shivered.
Richard struggled into his trousers, disentangled his red braces and pulled on his silver armbands. She had loved to watch him dress when they had first started sleeping together. He was fastidious about his clothes. Shirts with double cuffs; trousers with buttons for braces. Proper trousers, he called them. She wanted to hold him suddenly, to hug him, feel him, to make sure he was real, still there; that her world was intact.
And then the revulsion as she remembered and she shrank back in the bed away from him, and shook with a sudden spasm of – fear?
‘What were you dreaming about?’
‘It – I – nothing. Just a nightmare.’
You’re afraid to tell it, she thought.
Afraid that if you tell it—
‘Must dash.’ He leaned down to kiss her, and she smelled the coconut shampoo in his damp hair, his sweet Paco Rabanne aftershave and the strong trace of last night’s garlic through the minty toothpaste on his breath. She felt a soft wet kiss on her cheek.
‘Busy day?’ she said, wanting him to stay just a moment longer.
‘Japan. I reckon Tokyo’s about to start going bonkers.’
‘Don’t be late. It would be nice if you could help me get things ready tonight.’
‘Oh Christ, yah. Our dinner party.’
‘It’s for your clients, Richard.’
‘I’ll be back in good time.’
The front door opened, then slammed shut. She dosed her eyes but opened them again, afraid of going back to sleep. She looked at the clock again. 0509. In a quarter of an hour he would be at his desk, chatting to Tokyo. Dealing. The Nikkei Dow. Gambling on equities, warrants, options, futures, currencies. So many variables. So many imponderables. He’d got angry with her once when she told him his job was like being a croupier in a high-tech casino.
The door opened and Nicky came padding sleepily in.
‘Hallo, Tiger. You’re up early.’
‘I can’t sleep.’
She put her hand out and tousled his hair. Soft, real. He shied away just a fraction, then put his head under her hand again for more.