Natural Flights of the Human Mind

by Clare Morrall

  This is curious. It was just over two years ago that Straker saw Felicity in the poster outside Sainsbury’s, and started his investigation into the victims’ lives. Did the air between them start to vibrate, sending silent and invisible messages, eventually leading them to the same place? Has Straker been waiting for nearly twenty-five years to end up here, facing this old man who would have good enough reason to murder him if he could summon the strength?

  Simon gets up. ‘Come with me,’ he says, walking to a door at the side of the room.

  Straker watches him, unsure if he trusts him. ‘Why?’

  Simon opens the door. ‘There’s something you might find interesting.’

  Reluctantly, Straker follows. The room is a little study, as cluttered with books and photographs as the living room. He’s surprised to see a computer set up on a desk just under the window.

  Simon looks pleased with himself. ‘My hobby,’ he says. ‘There’s a whole world of information out there and I can sit in my own flat and access it. You can find out anything you want to, you know.’

  He sits at the computer and presses a few buttons. With a rush of sound, a picture appears on the screen. He starts typing, very fast, clearly familiar with the keyboard.

  ‘Sit down,’ he says, indicating a second chair. ‘I often have a grandchild with me when I use the computer. Although it’s usually one of them sitting in the driving seat, while I’m the spectator. They seem to know so much, these days. They work everything out for themselves.’

  Straker watches as Simon types on to the screen: www. disaster 25.9.79.co.uk. The date of the crash. He begins to feel very uncomfortable. There’s a pause, and then the screen changes to a cartoon picture of an aeroplane, a train, some houses, separate from each other but linked by a series of dramatic lines. Then he clicks something and the screen changes again. Now it’s a kind of written conversation, like a play, with the writers’ names at the beginning.

  Simon grunts. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Wrong page.’

  The screen changes several times and then stops. ‘Right,’ he says. ‘This is what I think you should read.’

  Straker leans forward.

  TWENTY-FIFTH ANNIVERSARY—25 SEPTEMBER 2004 Schedule: 8.30 coach leaves birmingham, should arrive in hillingham by 12.00

  Please make every effort to be there, this may be our one chance of finding out the truth, the chance to let some of it go

  Carmen Halliwell

  Straker reads it several times. Carmen Halliwell. He remembers her. She responded very badly to his letter. What does she intend to do? Come and find him? She won’t be able to. The letters go to a post-office box number, so she won’t know his address. Nobody can find him. How does she know he lives near Hillingham?

  ‘What do they want from me?’

  Simon shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I won’t be accompanying them, I assure you. I’m too old for that kind of thing.’

  ‘Will anyone go?’

  ‘Possibly. The website has been set up for some time now, and they’ve been corresponding regularly.’

  ‘They write to each other?’

  He smiles. ‘Yes. But it’s a kind of open letter. The site has been growing rapidly in the last couple of years. There must be hundreds of people registered now.’

  Straker stares at the screen. ‘Hundreds? Who are they all?’

  ‘Relatives.’

  ‘But there were only seventy-eight victims.’ He’s never said that before. Only seventy-eight. The number has always seemed too big.

  ‘I’ve told you. Every person is surrounded by people. When they die, the people all come together, people whose lives have changed for ever. I was introduced to the site by a great-grandson.’

  ‘He can’t possibly have known Maggie.’

  ‘No, but he’s been affected. Grief spreads down through generations, ripples outwards. If you lose a parent, it affects the way you bring up your children, which then affects the way they bring up their children. It would take generations to obliterate the damage. It never goes away, never gets any easier. You just get used to living with it. You have to.’

  Straker imagines a growing pyramid of people, Simon at the top, old and shrivelled, babies at the base, squirming, crawling, all of them looking for someone, aware of an emptiness in the centre. ‘Do you think they want revenge?’ Is that what he’s wanted all this time? Not forgiveness, but justice? Has he been waiting for the hand to come out of the darkness to kill him, so that he can join the seventy-eight?

  Simon shrugs. ‘Who knows? I don’t suppose they know themselves. It gives them a purpose, a common focus. They’ve hated you for a very long time. It’s not unreasonable that they would want to see you. You stirred them all up with your letters. I wasn’t the only one to realise who you were. It took them some time, but they arrived at the same conclusion as me.’

  ‘You didn’t tell them?’

  ‘No. I don’t write to them. I just read the messages.’

  Straker feels trapped. ‘So, what do I do?’

  ‘I can’t advise you. You must do whatever you feel is right. Go away, hide, call the police, stay there and confront them. I can’t make that decision for you.’

  Straker puts his head into his hands and runs his fingers through his hair, while studying the floor. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I don’t know.’

  Simon turns to face him. ‘I forgive you,’ he says.

  Straker experiences an unaccountable stab of resentment. ‘Why should your forgiveness make any difference to me?’

  ‘Nevertheless, I forgive you.’

  Before he catches a train back to his lighthouse, Straker investigates the shops in Birmingham. He’s unexpectedly invigorated: all his tiredness has evaporated, and he feels as if he will never need to sleep again. Everything round him is sharp-edged, highly coloured, more real than he’s used to. He goes into a café and orders a pizza and ice-cream. He buys a book, a novel about a man who lives in a lighthouse, which is illustrated on the front cover. It’s not the same as his. Wrong colour. He buys two shirts, one blue, one green and patterned, and two ties to match. Then some leather gloves, wool-lined, and a hat that makes him look like a gamekeeper. He looks at the computers in Dixons and wonders if he should consider buying one. If Simon Taverner can do it, why shouldn’t he? Maybe there are things in the world that would divert his mind from numbers if he could find out about them. He buys a clock for Doody’s kitchen, and a set of six glasses. If she doesn’t want to talk to him, he can leave them on her front doorstep. Then she can throw them away if she wants to.

  He goes down the escalators to the station and works out the time of the next train home.

  Back in his lighthouse, he tries to sleep, lying in his sleeping-bag with Suleiman and Magnificent curled up beside him. It’s a very still night, and through the window he can see the sliver of a new moon standing out piercingly against the black sky. It produces a surprising amount of light. He moves restlessly, and Suleiman starts to purr. He reaches down and strokes him. Suleiman responds with a little chirrup.

  Straker dozes.

  ‘OK, Straker, you did it.’

  Yes. I did it.

  ‘Thank you.’

  I can’t speak. I have dried up.

  Maggie has run out of words too. I can hear voices in the background, chattering away, but they seem less distinct than usual. They are fading, like the sound of a train once it has passed, just a mumble, just a whisper in the distance.

  Nevertheless, I forgive you. It’s Simon’s voice that comes calmly into his mind.

  Straker tests himself, thinks of seventy-eight. Nothing happens. The number is sitting there in his mind between seventy-seven and seventy-nine. He waits for the familiar panic and nothing happens. His thoughts are calm.

  But Maggie was more than his conscience. She was his mother.

  He sits up suddenly, and Suleiman and Magnificent spill on to the floor. He doesn’t even know if his mother is alive. Or his father. He knows nothi
ng about them. What are they doing? Is his mother still there, disowning him, hating him, quietly going about her cleaning and her pruning? Does she ever think about him? Does his father continue to work, heaving rusty old cars around in his old age, training another young man to be his heir instead of Pete, aware that Andy will never do it? And where is Andy? Does he have children?

  Twenty-four years is a very long time. If Straker had been put in prison for life he’d be out by now. Why should his family have assumed he was guilty when nobody really knew what happened? The fact that he believed in his guilt shouldn’t have meant that they automatically assumed it. If Simon can forgive him, why shouldn’t they? Perhaps he’s been forgotten—missing, presumed dead. Just taking the monthly allowance.

  He gets up and dresses rapidly, without his usual care, putting on yesterday’s shirt because it’s easier. His mind is swirling, patterns shaping and reshaping, thoughts tumbling over each other in urgent competition with each other. His family are probably just the same, alive and functioning, carrying on as before but without him. He’s starting to feel resentment. Why should they keep him shut away for so long?

  And he needs to speak to Doody. To explain. To apologise, take responsibility for the death of her husband, and allow her to make the decision about whether she wants to speak to him again.

  He leaves the lighthouse while it’s still dark, and feels his way across the headland to the road. He’s familiar with the ground and doesn’t need any extra light.

  He walks into the village where the street-lights draw attention to his isolation. Most of the village is sleeping, but some upstairs lights are glowing brightly. Fishermen preparing to go out on an early tide, perhaps. High tide is due just before dawn. A good way to start the new day.

  Nevertheless, I forgive you.

  Chapter 23

  In Doody’s mind, Stella has always been tall and authoritative, perpetually condemning her for ruining Harry’s life. Doody used to have imaginary arguments with her after he went. ‘I didn’t make him like he is.’ ‘You’re the one to blame if he doesn’t live up to your expectations.’ ‘Try examining yourself first before attacking me.’ None of it was ever said out loud. She hardly spoke to Stella before Harry left, not at all afterwards.

  Stella leads her into the kitchen. Slowly, rolling from side to side on unstable hips. She must be about seventy-five, but looks much older.

  The kitchen has deteriorated. On every available surface there are piles of dirty dishes. Tins and cartons of food have been left out, all at one end of the table, as if swept aside this morning. Several of them are on their sides, their contents leaking out gently into sordid puddles. Doody goes over and stands them all upright. The floor in her memory had pale blue and white ceramic tiles, but it seems to have been resurfaced in a dull, uncertain colour. Then she realises that the tiles are the same, but they haven’t been cleaned for so long that they’re dark with grime and neglect. Clothes are hanging out of the washing-machine. Half in, half out, abandoned on their journey to cleanliness.

  Stella’s personal appearance has changed too. It was inevitable that her hair would be grey, but it’s also unkempt. She doesn’t appear to have used a brush for some time, and strands hang down in ragged, uneven lengths, as if she’s been hacking away at it herself with scissors.

  ‘Do sit down, Imogen,’ she says, enunciating clearly. That feature of her voice hasn’t changed, although it is slower. She puts two paper plates on the cleared corner of the table with knives and forks and spoons in a confused heap, then brings over several little plastic containers from Marks & Spencer.

  ‘Help yourself,’ she says, waving her hand vaguely over the food.

  Doody takes a spoonful of salad out of each container and pushes them back to Stella, who doesn’t take anything. Doody is disappointed to discover that she’s still nervous in Stella’s presence. Her hands tremble as she lifts her fork and she’s the eighteen-year-old Imogen all over again, overawed by the size of the house and the air of privilege and taste that leaks from the furniture, the heavy curtains, the subdued colours. Strangely, the years of neglect haven’t cancelled out those earlier impressions.

  ‘How’s Arthur?’ she says.

  Stella looks surprised. ‘Didn’t you know? He died. Eleven years ago. He never recovered.’

  How could Doody possibly know, when she hadn’t seen them for twenty-five years? No need to ask what he didn’t recover from. ‘I’m sorry.’ She is genuinely sorry. The picture of Arthur that remains with her is of a kind man who had somehow been left behind by the energy of four boys and a highly organised wife.

  ‘And the boys? William, Nick and Gavin?’ Of course, they’re not boys any more.

  Stella takes a sip of water. ‘William’s a barrister. Nick is in property, and Gavin—’ She stops.

  Is Nick an estate agent? The idea appeals to Doody. Not quite what they would have had in mind for him. It’s obvious that Stella is unwilling to tell her about Gavin, but she wants to know, so she waits.

  ‘Well…Gavin has not had a happy life. He was influenced by others…’ Like Harry, she means. Led astray by some unsuitable girl. ‘He’s got himself into trouble.’

  What sort of trouble? Drugs, alcohol, crime? Doody’s shocked, but at the same time a thin, vicious needle of elation shoots through her. Harry wasn’t the only disaster. Gavin couldn’t have been influenced by her: he must have managed it all on his own. Then she feels ashamed. Gavin was a sweet boy, eight years younger than Harry, the youngest of the four, and the most friendly. Harry treated him with a gentle, casual affection, so he would come and join them if they sat in the lounge and watched television. Doody always thinks of Cagney and Lacey when she thinks of Gavin. And the Nine O’Clock News.

  ‘Do any of them still live at home?’ she asks.

  Stella looks surprised. ‘Oh, no, of course not. William’s married, two children. Nick lives with a nice girl. Gavin comes home occasionally, in between prison spells.’

  So it was crime. How could this have happened?

  ‘Do have some more salad,’ says Stella, pushing the containers back towards Doody. ‘There’s plenty here. They’ve opened a new Marks and Spencer’s food hall quite close. So convenient.’

  ‘Are you not eating with me?’

  She looks vague. ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ She pulls the top off a carton of raspberries in jelly and eats it rapidly, swallowing the mouthfuls without chewing.

  Stella used to know exactly what she was doing. She cleaned thoroughly and efficiently, she cooked and baked for an army of men, and there was an abundance of food available, far more than necessary. Doody always thought that this was how the family had felt cared-for. Stella was her role model. Doody cooked because Stella cooked, and her failure was that she couldn’t reach the same standards. Everything she did for Harry was in imitation of Stella, knowing that she would never be good enough. Looking at this now, Doody realises how foolish she was. She could never have won in a direct comparison. She would have been wiser to go and buy takeaways every day, and Harry might have liked that more.

  ‘So you live on your own now,’ says Doody. ‘Like me.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she says. ‘Bit of a problem when Gavin’s around, though. He wants me to look after him, but I don’t do cooking any more. Can’t be bothered. Far too busy. He sometimes pretends to prepare a meal for himself, but he’s not much good. Just makes a mess. Much better to go to Marks and Spencer’s.’

  A great sadness seeps through Doody. She used to come here for the house, the efficiency, the food. And now it reminds her of her own home with her mother and Jonathan, from which she was so desperate to escape. The lack of interest, the chaos, the neglect. She would never have believed that such a strong household could descend so far.

  ‘I’ve been to the police,’ says Stella.

  Doody swallows her mouthful of couscous. Why is she talking about the police?

  ‘About the crash.’

  ‘Oh—yes, of cour
se.’

  ‘They said they could do DNA tests and check dental records against the unidentified bodies from the crash.’

  ‘I thought the bodies would have been destroyed years ago.’

  She nods. ‘But they keep records of things like teeth. Any personal details. So they can check.’

  ‘How long will it take?’

  ‘No idea. They just said they would let me know.’

  So that’s it. All they can do now is sit and wait.

  ‘You look surprisingly well, Imogen.’

  Doody can hear resentment in her voice. ‘Thank you.’

  Stella seems to shrink even more. ‘It was the waiting that destroyed us, you know. The not knowing.’

  She must be offended that Doody looks well, wanting her to say that she, too, has suffered. But why should Doody explain about her life? It’s none of Stella’s business. She had made no attempt to keep in contact.

  ‘He was my firstborn. You always feel closer to your first child, you know.’

  Doody freezes in horror. She doesn’t expect sentimentality from Stella.

  ‘We did try to find you, but your mother didn’t seem to have any idea where you’d gone.’

  ‘Jonathan knew,’ says Doody.

  ‘Jonathan? Oh, yes, your brother. We didn’t think of him. He was only a child, wasn’t he?’

  ‘A teenager.’

  Stella has become like Doody’s mother. Only able to see the world through her own eyes, indifferent to everybody else. With Doody’s mother it was Celia, and with Stella it was Harry.

  ‘Arthur changed. He went out and found a ladyfriend.’

  Arthur? Harry’s father, Arthur? Solid, dependable, reliable Arthur, who tried so hard to keep things amiable between them all?