Natural Flights of the Human Mind

by Clare Morrall

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Straker. Or whatever he calls himself.’

  Carmen peers into his grey, flecked eyes, which are staring at her unblinkingly. She has to turn away. He’s too intense. ‘He will be,’ she says, and knows this to be true. She has waited a long time for this day. Nothing will go wrong.

  ‘How did you know his address?’

  ‘Easy. He wrote to me.’

  ‘But it was a box number.’

  She grins. ‘There was a postmark on the envelope. He posted it from Hillingham.’

  He thinks for a while. ‘But you still don’t know his exact address.’

  ‘Yes, I do. He lives in a lighthouse.’

  He’s clearly impressed. ‘How did you find that out?’

  ‘I rang the post office and pretended I was an old friend.’

  ‘What if it’s not him?’

  ‘It is him.’

  ‘But what if it isn’t?’

  She can feel herself getting annoyed, but she doesn’t want to. It’s not the right moment yet. ‘Of course it’s him. Nobody behaves like that. Writing to people, asking questions. It’s him.’

  ‘How can you be sure he’ll be there?’

  ‘It’s the anniversary. He’ll be thinking about it, the same as us.’

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t care.’

  ‘He cares. He wouldn’t have contacted us if he didn’t.’

  ‘Maybe he’s just a researcher, as he says.’

  Her hands are trembling with the desire to hit this man. ‘If you don’t think it’s him, why did you come along?’ she says, her voice rising in pitch.

  He stands back and spreads out his hands as if he’s being unjustly accused. ‘I didn’t say I didn’t think it was him. I just wondered what we’d do if it wasn’t.’

  ‘We’ll go home,’ she says over her shoulder, as she walks away.

  11 a.m.

  Straker is not sure why Doody won’t talk to him. Something about the window place, but he doesn’t know what he did. ‘We haven’t committed ourselves,’ he says. ‘We’re only getting a quote.’

  She doesn’t answer. It’s moodiness. He knows all about that. His father was frequently moody—unexplained and frightening. He would announce arbitary decisions with no prior warning. Like the day before the crash.

  Pete’s mother had telephoned in the morning and woken him up.

  He sat up in a dazed panic. In his dream, he had been sitting in an exam, unable to answer a single question. The bell rang—it was the end and he had failed to write anything. He fumbled with the receiver, dropped it and managed to put it to his ear, his head throbbing. ‘It’s only—’ he squinted at the clock on his bedside table ‘—ten past ten.’

  ‘It’s very late to be in bed, Pete.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call this late.’

  ‘Your father gets up at six o’clock. He says that’s why he’s successful.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pete. A wave of lethargy washed through him at the thought of six o’clock in the morning. He couldn’t remember ever being awake that early.

  ‘He wants to see you at twelve o’clock.’

  ‘What for?’

  But she had put the phone down.

  It must be the speeding, he thought.

  He sat on the edge of the mattress, fighting the urge to get back into bed. That was all he wanted to do these days—sleep. Everything else felt like an intolerable effort. Another few pounds added to the crippling weight on his back that was already crushing his ability to move.

  He forced himself to dress and shave, creeping about the house, trying not to make any sudden noises. He couldn’t get the dream out of his head. It was a familiar, recurring dream, but it never became any easier to bear. It was as convincing after fifty instalments as it had been the first time. Still terrifying. The desperate, sinking realisation that he couldn’t do the exam. That he was incapable and would be found out.

  The phone rang again and he picked it up.

  ‘Pete, it’s Justin. What time are we meeting up?’

  ‘I don’t know. Seven, I think.’

  ‘OK. See you then.’

  If I survive, thought Pete.

  He dressed in a suit, aware of the need for respectability. He tried to prepare a defence for his fast driving, but he knew what his father would say. ‘You shouldn’t have got caught.’

  He drove over to his parents’ house and arrived ten minutes late. His mother was hovering by the door as he went in. ‘Hi, Mum,’ he said.

  She smiled at him, but he could sense her nervousness, so he walked past her without another word. She blended in with the wood panelling of the hall, only there for the décor, fading into an insignificant background.

  His father was waiting for him in the office—an imposing room with bookcases lining every wall, and a large executive desk in shiny dark wood. Books were displayed in sets, according to colour, with leather binding and gold lettering. Pete had never seen his father take one out to read.

  ‘You’re late,’ said his father. ‘Sit down.’

  Pete sat opposite the desk, the soft warmth of the leather welcoming and enclosing him. He was now lower than his father. He waited for the onslaught.

  His father swivelled from side to side without saying a word. He looked smug and superior, exactly as he should look, the managing director of a firm he had singlehandedly set up, developed and expanded. A very rich man who could buy whatever he wanted. His eyes were fixed on Pete, but he didn’t speak.

  Pete moved uncomfortably and felt his mouth go dry. What was it all about? He cleared his throat. ‘Did you want something, Dad?’

  His father reacted to this. ‘Did I want something? Am I happy to see you sitting there doing nothing? Perhaps you’d care to tell me what you’re going to do today.’

  This wasn’t what Pete had expected. He didn’t plan his days in advance. ‘I’m not sure. I haven’t really—’

  ‘What do you mean, you’re not sure? I pay you a generous allowance. You have everything you could possibly want, a car, a house, a plane, and I pay for it. Don’t you think it’s time you started to think about earning your own money?’

  Pete’s insides shrivelled with misery as he recognised the old familiar conversation. They went over this every few months. It always resulted in his father’s anger building up to boiling point and spilling over. The room became white-hot with fury, the surrounding air throbbing with accusation. ‘OK,’ he said, his voice small and insignificant next to his father’s. He stood up, anxious to resolve it quickly. ‘I’ll go down to the labour exchange today.’

  ‘Sit down!’ his father roared, and Pete sat down. ‘I want to know what you’re going to do with your life.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Pete. ‘I’ll get a job. You’ll see—I’ll soon be offering to lend you money.’ He smiled, willing his father to see the joke, to abandon his headlong rush down the motorway and turn into a smaller, gentler country road. ‘What a relief. I thought you were going to tell me you’d been made bankrupt, or diagnosed with cancer, or something important like that.’

  ‘You don’t think this is important?’ His father got up, came round to the front of the desk and perched himself on the edge. He had put on weight in recent years, and was even bulkier than he used to be, yet he was still nimble on his feet, bursting with energy and strength. His physical presence was overpowering, and Pete found himself pressing into the back of the chair, intimidated by his closeness.

  ‘Your mother and I—’

  Mother? What did this have to do with his mother? He followed his father’s eyes and turned round. She had crept into the back of the room and was standing watching them. She gave him a smile again but it had no power. Why didn’t she say something? How could she stand there and let her husband bully him? But then he saw again the way she stood, closing in on herself, small, fragile and inward, and he knew he was asking too much.

  ‘Your mother and I are very angry that you’ve been caught speeding by
the police,’ said his father. ‘Again. Way over the limit. How irresponsible can you get? You’re a grown man and you behave like a teenager.’

  ‘Everyone speeds,’ said Pete. ‘You do.’

  ‘I don’t get caught.’

  His mother stepped round the side of Pete’s chair. She must have been edging forwards during the conversation. ‘You were going over a hundred miles per hour. You could have killed someone.’

  ‘You’ll probably be banned,’ said his father.

  His mother’s eyes slid away to the side, refusing to look at him. She was fiddling with a handkerchief in her pocket, as if she had never spoken.

  ‘Look, son,’ said his dad, and his voice softened, ‘this can’t go on. My deal is, you can come and work for me, properly—in at eight, a full day, or I cut off your allowance.’ He smiled, as if everything had been miraculously sorted out. Everybody manoeuvred into the correct position. End of discussion. Close the file.

  Pete was shocked. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘No more money.’

  ‘What? None? What am I supposed to live on?’

  ‘There won’t be a problem. You’re going to start earning your wages, grow up, act your age.’

  Pete could feel panic rushing through his body, scorching and abrasive. They were being perfectly reasonable, of course. Most men of his age earned a living. But he had long ago discovered a fundamental weakness in himself—an inability to achieve anything of value. He lacked Andy’s natural talent. ‘I do try,’ he said.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ said his father. ‘Look how well Andy’s doing. You don’t get that kind of success by sitting back and expecting someone else to supply all your needs.’

  Pete rose from his seat. ‘I see,’ he said, anger and resentment giving his voice more strength. ‘Andy’s the golden boy, as always, and I’m the rubbish.’

  His father nodded. ‘You’ve said it.’

  Pete pushed away the chair and walked to the door. ‘Fine. I’ll get a job—I’ve already said that. You think I can’t do anything, but just wait and see.’ He pulled open the door. ‘I’ll show you.’

  He heard his mother cry as he left the room, ‘Pete—’

  He pulled the front door shut, intending to slam it, but it was too heavy and surrounded by insulation. The sound was weak and ineffectual.

  He jumped into his car, turned on the ignition and put his foot down hard. The tyres shrieked as he pulled away violently over the gravel. He swung out of the gate.

  ‘You didn’t have to tell them you were paying for the windows,’ says Doody.

  ‘I didn’t tell them. You did.’

  ‘You didn’t have to agree.’

  Maybe she hadn’t meant to tell them and it had just slipped out. So she’s embarrassed—a matter of pride. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘it doesn’t matter. For all they know, we could both own the cottage. I could be your brother. I could be Jonathan.’

  ‘No, you couldn’t. You told him you lived in the lighthouse. He even knew your name.’

  She strides ahead and he follows her back to the cottage. They’re going to the barn this afternoon. Tony will be flying the Tiger Moth to an airfield where there’s a prospective buyer.

  Of course. That’s the problem. She doesn’t want it to go.

  ‘Biggles wouldn’t have sold it,’ she says.

  It would be better if she stopped thinking so much about a non-existent person.

  ‘I always thought Mandles—Biggles would come and save things. After he escaped.’

  ‘Biggles isn’t real.’

  ‘I know that,’ she says, glaring at him.

  They reach the cottage and go in through the gate.

  ‘Supposing he’s never rescued?’

  He doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Who’s Mandles?

  ‘There he is, kidnapped by smugglers, bound hand and foot and bundled into a converted Camel.’

  ‘Sounds like the Trojan horse.’

  ‘Does it matter if they chuck him out into the sea, or if he gets out of the ropes, struggles with the pilot, crashes into the sea?’

  ‘A bit cold. Not good, crashing into the sea.’

  ‘But at least you survive if you crash on to water. It’s a softer landing, surely?’

  ‘Depends if there are any rocks, how cold the sea is, whether he can swim, how long it takes for the rescue services to arrive.’

  ‘Oh, not long. They all know he’s been kidnapped.’

  ‘He should be OK, then. At this time of year, when the sea’s warm.’

  ‘Yes. On the other hand, should he just stay there for ever, waiting for the climax? What if there is no climax, no ending? Who cares? I thought I did, but now I’m not so sure. He’s not real, is he?’

  ‘No,’ says Straker. He doesn’t understand what’s going on here. But at least she’s talking, and she doesn’t sound quite so miserable as before. ‘He’s not real.’

  ‘It’s just a story.’

  She gives a sigh, and he examines her face for longer than normal. He knows her now. She’s not a stranger, but someone he wants to buy windows for. This is the extraordinary thing that has happened to him. He wants to buy windows for someone.

  ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

  She looks at him sharply, somehow knowing it’s serious. ‘You’re not going to confess to another seventy-eight, are you?’

  Pete took the corner too fast, but he didn’t care. He wanted to shut his eyes, put the accelerator down as far as it would go and roar into oblivion. His anger had subsided almost as soon as he pulled out of his parents’ drive. Sleep was beckoning him again. Deep, dreamless sleep where he wouldn’t have to keep tasting the bitter failure that had accompanied him all through his life.

  The tyres skidded, he swung the steering wheel, and lost control. The car careered off the road, and rolled down the bank, turning over three times. It came to a halt on its back, wedged against a tree.

  Pete lay dazed for a while, tangled in a heap on the upside-down roof of the car, then slowly and uncomfortably tried to extricate himself. He moved with great care, uncertain if he was still in one piece, but everything seemed to function so he eased himself out of the open window. He was in a small wood, some way from the road, and completely alone. The car groaned as he left it—creaked and settled. He sat down among the brambles and stared into silence. Everything around him seemed artificial. The blood from a scratch on his hand was too red, the sky unnaturally blue, all in primary colours, lacking subtlety, like a child’s painting.

  After a few minutes, he put his face into his shaking hands, and started to cry. It was not shock that was affecting him, or fear. It was an overwhelming sense of failure.

  He had been on the edge of a black, welcoming void, desperate to fall down it. Now that void had moved away, out of his reach, and he remained on the outside as always, abandoned, lost, with no possible pathway back home.

  Chapter 27

  12 p.m.

  All faces are turned to the windows on the right of the coach, watching the sea. It’s a calm day, with a faint breeze rustling the edges of a gentle swell, which rises and falls rhythmically. It’s an idyllic scene, seagulls circling and diving, the sun transforming the metallic surface of the water into a brilliant blue reflection of the sky.

  ‘There it is!’

  Everyone leans over and stares. The lighthouse is silhouetted against the sea, calm and in control, almost elegant, despite the fairground implications of its red and white circles. It’s pointing up at the sky, surrounded by space, superior in its isolation.

  ‘How close can you get us?’ Carmen asks the coach driver.

  He’s already slowed down, examining the cropped grass bordering the Tarmac. ‘I might be able to get us on to the edge,’ he says. ‘But I couldn’t risk anything more than that.’

  ‘OK. That’ll do.’

  He swings the wheel sharply and they lurch on to the grass, levelling out, until they’re parallel with the road. �
��Sorry,’ he says. ‘That’s as far as I go. As it is, I’ve broken a few rules.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ says Carmen. ‘Thank you.’

  They climb out of the coach and on to the grass, standing around at first, stiff from the long drive, squinting into the brightness of the sun. After a few minutes, they organise themselves into small groups and set off towards the lighthouse. Carmen finds herself taking the lead with a group of young men, while the older ones walk more slowly behind, stumbling over the unevenness of the ground.

  ‘What if he’s not here?’ says Kieran Fisher.

  Carmen takes a deep breath. ‘We’ve already had this conversation,’ she says.

  ‘Ignore him,’ says a calm voice on her other side. ‘He’s always like this. Can’t leave anything alone.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You’ve forgotten me already, haven’t you? Stuart Fisher. Kieran’s my brother.’

  ‘I don’t know why he came,’ she says. ‘He doesn’t believe we’ll find him.’

  ‘He never believes anything. Never did. He’s a compulsive doubter. You should try living with him. It’s no fun, I can assure you.’

  ‘Don’t believe him,’ says a voice in her other ear. ‘He can’t tell the truth. He’s the compulsive one. He lies to make himself look good.’

  ‘See?’ says Stuart.

  ‘He even fools our mum,’ says Kieran.

  Carmen finds herself unable to judge between them. She stops and looks round. ‘We should wait for the others,’ she says. She can see Mrs Mehta struggling in the rear, her high heels sinking into the turf. Geraldine Pendlestone, one of the few survivors of the crash, goes back to help. She used to be a teacher until she lost the entire class in her care. Carmen waits for them to reach her, and the brothers walk on without her, several yards apart, acting as if they don’t know each other.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she says to Mrs Mehta. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it would be such a long walk. My directions weren’t very precise.’

  ‘I am good,’ says Mrs Mehta. ‘What is a little discomfort? A little pain for my daughter, isn’t it?’

  ‘What do you expect to get out of this?’ asks Carmen.