Natural Flights of the Human Mind

by Clare Morrall

Should she ring the police? What would she say? ‘I think my sister is dead?’ But would they believe her? She wasn’t sure if she could explain it properly. What if they thought it was her fault?

  Imogen thought it was her fault. She decided to ring Janet, a girl who had been friendly with her at school for a time. Janet was a strangely slow person. She thought a long time about things before she did anything, and once told Imogen that she liked to keep her feet on the ground. This was literally true. She managed to avoid gym lessons when they were climbing ropes, refused to jump when she was aiming the netball at the net, and never ran if she could walk. But she was sensible.

  Imogen dialled her number and waited, with the receiver jumping up and down against her ear. Echoes of the distant ring thudded and boomed inside her head, jangling harshly against the confused tangle of her thoughts—

  ‘Hello?’ It was Janet’s mother.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Franklin. Can I speak to Janet?’

  ‘Imogen, is it?’ She always changed her voice when she talked to her, trying to sound posh. Imogen didn’t understand this.

  ‘Yes. Is she there?’

  ‘No, dear, sorry. She’s off to the library.’

  ‘Oh.’ This was unbelievable. She wasn’t there on the one day that she should be.

  ‘Shall I give her a message?’

  ‘No, it’s OK.’

  Imogen put the receiver down, picked it up again before she could change her mind and dialled 999.

  Imogen didn’t know if they believed her or not, but she started to cry and couldn’t stop, so she had difficulty giving them the address.

  ‘Is there anyone else with you?’

  ‘No,’ she said, wondering why it mattered.

  ‘We’ll get an ambulance there in a few minutes. And a police car.’

  They knew exactly what they were doing. That was what was so frightening. They seemed to be prepared, as if they were expecting it. As if they knew all about Celia and Imogen, and there was a police car just round the corner waiting to come round, an ambulance five minutes away with all the right equipment for cutting down people hanging from rafters.

  From the moment the police were at the door, nothing remained the same. There were people everywhere. They seemed to be rushing around, but in a kind of forced silence, as if nobody was allowed to speak above a murmur. They cut Celia down and were transferring her to an ambulance when her mother came home. Imogen was in the living room, staring at a cup of tea that someone had made her, pretending to sip it even though it had sugar in it and was disgusting. Her mother came through the front door, ran into the living room, grabbed Jonathan with a hysterical shriek and then saw Imogen. Jonathan was alive and Imogen was alive, so it had to be Celia on the stretcher.

  ‘No!’ she howled.

  Her scream wasn’t like an ordinary scream. Imogen kept searching for where it had come from. She couldn’t believe that her mother could make that kind of noise. She hadn’t made any noise when Daddy died. She had just been pale and brave.

  Even now, she can see her mother’s face when she realised that Imogen was alive and not Celia. The horror.

  Imogen wasn’t allowed back into their bedroom for ages. She had to sleep on the settee downstairs and couldn’t concentrate on her homework with the television on all the time. A policewoman came to talk to her for a time, about Celia. She wanted to know what she had been like in the last few weeks. Nasty, thought Imogen. ‘OK,’ she said.

  ‘Nothing unusual?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Except she didn’t go to bed.’

  The policewoman was interested in this. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because she was sitting at her desk.’

  ‘Didn’t you go to sleep either?’

  ‘Yes, I went to sleep.’

  ‘Then how do you know she didn’t?’

  Good point. ‘She told me,’ Imogen lied. Why did she feel as if the policewoman were trying to catch her out? Did she know about the berries?

  Janet rang. ‘Why weren’t you at school today?’

  ‘Something’s happened,’ said Imogen. ‘Tell you later.’

  ‘Tell me now.’

  ‘No, I can’t.’

  Janet was annoyed and put the phone down. Imogen didn’t care that much. They never had anything to talk about anyway. She suddenly longed for her old yew tree. She wanted to escape there, sit silently in the branches and construct Biggles stories in a world that didn’t really exist.

  About a week later, instead of going to school, she caught the train and went back to the old house. Other people lived there now—four pairs of faded jeans flapping on the line, a Wendy house beside the shed and a new cast-iron front gate. Someone had dug up all the cotton lavender near the house and replaced it with miniature conifers. The yew tree was still there, though. Once she could see that there was no one around, Imogen climbed the wall and jumped over. Then she sat in the tree and tried to forget everything. She closed her eyes and thought of Biggles.

  But it didn’t work. It didn’t work properly again for years and years, until Harry had gone.

  Nobody talked to her about Celia’s death except the policewoman, but she heard her mother discussing it with the police. Apparently, Celia had been doing brilliantly at Cambridge, but hadn’t made many friends. She was too young, really, they said, not mature enough to cope. She didn’t relate to people. Well, well, well, thought Imogen. Why did no one spot that before? Now everybody knew what she knew.

  ‘She may not have intended it to work,’ said a policeman. ‘She must have known her sister was due back. Pity she didn’t find her earlier. Fifteen minutes might have made all the difference.’

  Could poison unhinge the mind, drive someone to suicide? But Celia’s mind had already been swaying, her behaviour erratic and strange, and nobody else seemed to have observed this. A new guilt wrapped itself round Imogen’s thoughts. She should have told someone Celia was behaving oddly.

  When Imogen was finally allowed back into her room, she went straight to the box under the bed where she kept the yew berries. It wasn’t there. She lay on the floor for ages, stretching her arm in the dust, but couldn’t find it. She pressed herself flat and peered under, certain that she had just underestimated its position, but the space was empty. Had the police taken it?

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  She sat up with a jump and saw Jonathan standing there looking at her. ‘Nothing,’ she said.

  He stood there silently.

  ‘What do you want?’ said Imogen.

  But he said nothing, and she knew then that he knew. Either the police had her berries, or he did, and either way, he knew about it.

  Doody drives to B&Q with Straker. She’s can’t remember the last time she drove with a passenger and is nervous with him sitting beside her.

  Straker looks out of the window to the side, away from her, and she tries to make herself concentrate on the driving.

  ‘Is there a library near here?’ she asks.

  ‘It’s the other side of Sainsbury’s.’

  ‘I’m going to look up aeroplanes, find out what it is.’ She has been holding the image of the plane in the back of her mind all the time, but only visiting it occasionally for a treat, in case it wears out with use.

  She knows it’s not a Camel, but that’s no reason why she shouldn’t have one in her novel. That’s the good thing about the writing—you can have whatever you want.

  There’s a Camel in the barn, about eight feet tall, wing span twenty-eight feet, length eighteen feet.

  The details are clear in her mind—it will be easy to insert them.

  Straker seems to be fascinated by the row of terraced houses on the side of the hill and says nothing.

  They are climbing in too low a gear and only just miss a woman who steps out without looking. When they reach the B&Q car park, Doody reverses into a space too fast and hits the bin on the wall behind.

  ‘Stupid place to put a bin,’ she says, still waiting for S
traker to say something. ‘I don’t normally bump into things. I’m fairly safe as a general rule.’

  He doesn’t look interested.

  ‘Do you drive?’ she says.

  ‘No,’ he says. There’s a long silence. ‘I did once. A long time ago.’

  He seems to be telling her something significant, so she waits for the rest. Nothing happens.

  They go round B&Q with a trolley, putting in paint and paintbrushes. ‘I can bring the tools from school,’ says Doody. ‘I don’t need to buy any.’

  He nods. ‘You should get the electricity put on,’ he says.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Then we can use power tools.’

  ‘It’ll be too expensive.’

  ‘No, it won’t. You’re hardly ever there.’

  The trolley is alarmingly full. ‘Do we need anything else?’

  ‘Wood,’ he says. ‘I’ve got some odds and ends that we can use.’

  ‘OK. Shall we drive out there? I’m sure we could get the car over the grass.’ She wants to go inside his lighthouse. Find out if Maggie lives there.

  He doesn’t respond. ‘I’ll take that as yes, shall I?’ she says.

  They pass the village and leave the road, weaving across the uneven ground to the lighthouse. ‘It’s not that bad,’ says Doody, as she wrestles with the steering-wheel. ‘But I don’t think you’d get a taxi driver to do it.’

  She’s enjoying the novelty of the drive. ‘Geronimo!’ she shouts, as they go up a particularly steep slope and drop over the other side.

  ‘I hope the car isn’t damaged,’ he says, in a quiet moment.

  ‘No, it loves it. Gives it a challenge. Can’t you tell how much it’s enjoying the exercise?’ She glances at him for a second before quickly focusing on where they are going. He might be smiling.

  Doody stops outside the lighthouse and turns off the engine. They sit in the car for a moment, uncertain in the sudden change of atmosphere, studying the lighthouse.

  ‘Are those cracks on the side?’ she asks. She doesn’t remember seeing them before. The wind is buffeting the side of the car, rocking them from side to side. All around them, the grass is blown almost horizontal, away from the sea. ‘It’s windy here,’ she says. A cat is sitting just two feet in front of the car, watching them, its ears pricked and its eyes round and interested. They must have only just missed it.

  ‘I want to go and see the plane again after this,’ she says.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ says Straker, getting out and slamming the door shut behind him.

  For a moment, she’s disappointed, but then discovers that there’s nothing to stop her going too. She gets out, closes the door, and follows him into the lighthouse.

  There are even more steps than she expected, a long flight for each level, seemingly endless. She climbs quickly, wanting to get to the top before he knows she’s come up, but soon starts to get out of breath and has to slow down. She passes through two levels that seem unused, and then arrives at a room with some furniture. He’s not here, so she goes on up.

  She examines the next room. There isn’t much space. A mattress on the floor with a sleeping-bag, carefully folded and neat, and a basket at the end with another cat in it. Apart from that, there’s a table and chair, and a cupboard along the wall, built into the roundness of the lighthouse, curved and narrow. She wanders over to the table. Several files are laid out on it, with photographs pinned to them. She picks one up, a picture of a middle-aged couple standing in front of a caravan. The wind is blowing, so that the woman’s hair is blossoming out round her face and she’s struggling to hold her skirt down. They are both smiling, and there’s a feeling of health and happiness emanating from them, which makes them almost familiar. Then she notices the names under the photograph. Simon and Maggie.

  She picks up the file and opens it. Inside, there’s a list of dates, some newspaper cuttings, and a letter. She starts to read the letter.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  His voice is loud and very harsh. She freezes. ‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘Nothing.’ For the first time, she’s genuinely frightened of him. He grabs the file out of her hand, and she is aware that he’s a big man, and very strong. He’s staring at her, his eyes fierce. She realises that she doesn’t know him at all.

  They stand like this for several seconds, and nothing happens. Doody starts to breathe again, slowly, self-consciously, still watching him. As she relaxes, she begins to think that he’s waiting for her to say something. He doesn’t seem to know how to proceed.

  ‘Who are they?’ she says at last, relieved to hear that her voice doesn’t sound too scared. ‘All the people in these files. What are they to do with you?’

  He’s a spy, she thinks, and these are his targets. That’s why he’s so secretive. Or an assassin and these are the people he is being paid to kill. Her legs start to shake again, and she wants to back away down the stairs quickly and tell him she hasn’t seen anything.

  But then, at last, he moves. ‘Sit down,’ he says, and pulls out the chair from the table. She doesn’t want to, but decides to do as he says. She watches him, trying to decide how alarming he still is. Whatever she saw there for a moment has gone, and he’s just Straker, the idiot man who doesn’t talk much, who mended her roof, who needs a shave.

  Yes, she thinks, he mended my roof. He can’t be all bad.

  There isn’t another chair, so he sits on the side of the table. ‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ he says.

  ‘About Maggie?’ She doesn’t want him to know that she was afraid for a moment.

  ‘Yes. And some others.’

  ‘The people in the files?’

  He nods.

  ‘So who are they? What have they got to do with you?’

  He pauses. There is a long silence. Get on with it, she thinks, worrying that they’re going back to square one.

  ‘They are all people who died in a train crash.’

  This is not particularly helpful. ‘What have they got to do with you?’

  He sighs, and his shoulders seem to droop. He looks somehow defeated. ‘I killed them,’ he says.

  Doody thinks about this. ‘You killed them?’ she repeats. The villagers were right. He is an assassin.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How? I thought you said it was a train crash.’

  ‘I caused the crash.’

  His eyes are amazingly blue. ‘You were the train driver?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How, then?’

  ‘I was flying an aeroplane and it crashed on to the train, which then came off the rails and fell into a housing estate.’

  She cautiously starts to breathe again. He’s not a murderer on the run. ‘When?’ She can’t remember a train crash. He’s making it up.

  ‘A very long time ago.’

  ‘Oh.’ An enormous relief rushes into her. ‘So it wasn’t recently?’

  ‘The people are still dead, whenever it happened.’

  She nods. ‘But it was an accident.’

  He sighs again and sits silently for a long time. ‘No. It was my fault.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Why should he take all the blame?

  He hesitates. ‘Well, I can’t remember anything, but I know it was my fault.’

  ‘Did you go to prison?’

  ‘No. There wasn’t enough evidence to establish what exactly happened.’

  ‘There you are, then. It was an accident.’

  ‘No, it was my fault.’

  He is determined to make himself guilty. If he doesn’t remember, how can he be so sure?

  ‘I’d been drinking,’ he says.

  She glances down at the files on the desk. There are an awful lot of them. ‘Who’s Maggie, then? Did she die on the train?’

  ‘Yes. She was a victim.’

  ‘So why do you talk to her in your sleep?’

  ‘They all talk to me in my sleep. They are there every time I close my eyes.’

  ‘Perhaps you shou
ldn’t close your eyes.’ This probably explains why he keeps dropping off during the day. ‘How many?’

  ‘Seventy-eight.’

  She stares at him.

  He looks steadily back.

  ‘Seventy-eight?’ she says.

  He nods.

  ‘That’s a lot of people,’ she says.

  Chapter 17

  As they drive away from the lighthouse, Doody doesn’t speak. Straker watches her out of the corner of his eye. Her face is closed, slightly frowning, with a single straight line between her eyebrows. There’s a hardness on the side of her jaw, as if she’s clenching her teeth while she concentrates on the driving, and a network of creases runs up her cheek, intricate and well defined.

  He counts the seconds of silence, missing out 78. On and up to 178, 278—and nothing happens. What is she thinking? You can’t ignore 78. You can’t just pass it by as if it were irrelevant. The figure hangs above them from the roof of her ridiculous little car. Waiting. Watching. She must be counting too, running over the number in her mind. Has she realised the perfection of the figure? The addition of all the numbers up to twelve.

  When they drove out here, she was so excited. Every time they jolted down a hole or hit a bump, she laughed with an abandoned joy that Straker had not seen in her before. He was moved by it. He nearly laughed himself. It was like being in a dodgem car for the first time, separated from Andy. He can remember the extraordinary discovery that he didn’t have to sit and wait for people to hit him. He could hit them. He can still feel the thrill of chasing Andy, the judder that went through him when he made contact, the shriek of excitement that burst out of him. It was a time of innocence, a moment of true childhood. And when they drove out to the lighthouse today, it was almost the same. Uncomplicated.

  Now it has all changed.

  Everything is curling back inside him, back to where it came from, that twisted, foul interior, which will always swallow any passing innocence. The world inhabited by Sangita, Felicity, Sean and the others. They are there in his head, waiting—they want something from him, everything, more than he can give.

  What can you expect? says Maggie. Except she doesn’t. She remains silent, but he knows what she would say if she were to speak.