Natural Flights of the Human Mind

by Clare Morrall

  ‘We’ve come for you,’ says Carmen.

  ‘I know,’ he says.

  ‘We want to know what really happened, not what you told the court.’

  ‘I don’t know what happened,’ he says.

  ‘Rubbish,’ says a voice from the back. ‘Stop being a coward and face up to it. Tell us the truth.’

  Doody, at his side, is tensing, but not speaking. She must realise by now who they are.

  ‘It’s the same as then,’ he says. ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Don’t give us that. It’s just a cop-out.’

  ‘I know it seems like that—’

  ‘Stop messing about and tell us the truth.’

  But there isn’t a truth. Or if there is he doesn’t know what it is. He only has the information that they all have, the result of the inquest, which is that nobody really knows what happened. The truth must be locked somewhere inside his brain, and he doesn’t have access to it. He doesn’t know a way to get to it.

  ‘Go away!’ shouts Doody, right by his ear. ‘This isn’t a court. You’ve no right to come here.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about rights!’ yells a voice from the back. ‘Did he think about my rights when he killed my daughter?’

  ‘How does it feel to kill all those people?’ says a soft voice by Straker’s other ear. He turns and sees a man in his thirties, who’s screwing up his eyes and twisting his mouth into an expression of revulsion. He appears to be about to hit him, but he doesn’t. ‘How does it feel to be a murderer?’

  ‘It wasn’t murder,’ says Doody. ‘Murder is premeditated. It was an accident.’

  ‘What do you know about it?’ shouts a woman.

  ‘As much as you,’ yells Doody.

  ‘Seventy-eight people,’ says the voice by Straker’s ear, and his stomach starts to roll. He has managed to not think of the seventy-eight for some time, but now they come back to him eagerly, burrowing their way into his head, tumbling around his mind: seventy-eight, seventy-eight.

  Jonathan looks at his watch. ‘What time are you taking off?’ he says again to Tony, although he’s already asked the question several times already.

  Ben and Kasra have just brought the aeroplane to the take-off position, one on each wing, guiding it into the right place, with Terry controlling the trolley at the back, supporting the tail skid.

  Now it sits comfortably on the grass, facing the runway, neat, polished, immaculate. Tony is wearing a leather jacket and has goggles hanging round his neck. ‘Got to look the part,’ he had said, with a grin, when he first greeted Jonathan.

  ‘It’s supposed to be two fifteen,’ he says. ‘She’s done it again. We’d better hang on a bit.’

  ‘Reliability isn’t Imogen’s strong point. I spend my life waiting for her.’

  ‘I can’t understand why she’s late again. Give her a few more minutes.’

  Jonathan walks round the Tiger Moth, running his hands over the wings. ‘They’ve done a good job,’ he says.

  ‘Careful,’ says Tony. ‘It’s only fabric. You could go through that, easy as anything.’

  Jonathan hastily withdraws his hand. ‘Are you sure you couldn’t take me up as a passenger? In the other cockpit?’

  Tony shakes his head. ‘Sorry, it’s not on. Regulations are very strict these days. If you want to keep the certificate of airworthiness, you can’t take passengers. I’ve got ballast in there to get the weight right.’

  ‘We’ll give her another five minutes,’ says Jonathan. ‘Then you’d better go.’

  ‘I can wait a bit longer than that. She’ll be very disappointed.’

  ‘I’ll be very disappointed if you don’t take off before I go. I’ve driven all this way to see it, and I’ve got to get back. I’ve got an appointment later on today.’

  Tony looks interested. ‘On a Saturday? Are you still on that deal with Harold Harrington?’

  Jonathan nods. ‘Promised I’d meet him for drinks tonight. I can’t miss it.’

  They stand by the aircraft with Ben and Kasra and Terry. Jonathan checks his watch, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. ‘Imogen’s seen it in the air,’ he says. ‘She told me.’

  ‘She missed the landing.’

  ‘Yes, but she saw it flying. I won’t see it at all if she takes much longer.’

  A gentle breeze ruffles the short grass at their feet. The windsock comes briefly to life.

  ‘Perfect weather conditions,’ says Kasra.

  2.20 p.m.

  A sharp object hits Straker, and he falls backwards against the wall, his hand to his head. There’s something wet dripping down his face. Blood. They’ve got guns! With silencers. He’s hit again and again, knocked back each time, convinced he must be dying. But it doesn’t hurt enough. He brings his hand down to look—it’s coated with something yellow and slimy. For a second he thinks his blood has turned yellow. Then he realises he’s being attacked with eggs.

  They’re coming rapidly, but from only one person. A tiny Indian woman in a bright red sari, with dangling jewellery and ridiculously high-heeled shoes. She’s getting the eggs out of a carrier-bag one at a time and throwing them, putting all her energy into the action. Everyone else has stopped to watch her, amazed by her ferocity.

  ‘You took away my Sangita,’ she’s shouting, tears running down her cheeks. ‘She was a beautiful girl, my only one, just a little trip to India, her father and me, come home, no lovely girl, you kill her!’

  She leaps at Straker, spitting, her long painted nails attacking his face, scratching him, grabbing at his clothes. He tries to fend her off, but he’s afraid of hurting her—she’s so small. Doody doesn’t seem to have any reservations, however, and she throws herself at the woman, trying to pull away her hands, which is almost impossible, since her nails are locked into his jumper.

  The situation descends into chaos. There are people everywhere, disembodied hands clawing at him, fighting each other for a position, voices screaming, feet pushing against each other, and in front of all these, the Indian woman refusing to let go with her nails, her voice hoarse and shrill. ‘Murderer! Killer! Assassin! Manslayer!’

  She screams the four words over and over again, and her high-pitched voice carries above all the other shouting. Straker keeps trying to untangle her nails, but as soon as he removes one, another hooks on. Doody is pulling at her viciously, while, at the same time, they’re being lunged at by people in the crowd. It’s a maelstrom of voices, arms, legs, heads, open screaming mouths, kicking legs, scrabbling hands—

  2.30 p.m.

  ‘We’re going to have to get going,’ says Jonathan. ‘I wasn’t expecting to wait.’

  ‘Well…’ says Tony. ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘I’ll just go and see if she’s coming.’ Jonathan jogs to the top of the field, looks down the pathway to the gate, and runs back. ‘Sorry,’ he says, panting. ‘There’s no sign of her. I think you’d better go ahead.’

  Tony zips up his jacket, climbs on to the left wing and into the cockpit, then lowers himself into the seat. He organises the harness and clicks the five points into place. He looks out over one side and then the other. ‘OK,’ he shouts, and pushes down the brass switch on the side to start the electrics.

  Ben and Kasra move to the front and stand by the propeller, which is set at a ten-to-four position. Then, together, they reach up and pull the propeller down very hard. Nothing happens. They try again, and this time it rotates twice, hesitates and stops. They do it once more, and it roars into a violent and powerful life, while they jump out of the way.

  Tony moves the joystick, looking round to check that the elevators are moving correctly, and tests the pressure on the rudder pedals. He can see the ground beneath his feet, the grass he spent so much time preparing. He moves the ailerons. Then he pushes up the throttle to full power for the engine test. The sound is deafening, and the cockpit vibrates uncomfortably around him.

  2.35 p.m.

  There’s a new sound, confused with ev
erything else at first, gradually becoming more dominant. A strident, ear-shattering blast, on and on—a belligerent car horn. Some people are drawing back—there’s a sense of space appearing around Straker.

  ‘Look out!’ shouts a hysterical voice.

  ‘A lorry!’ screams someone else. ‘Quick, get out of the way!’

  The lorry is big and orange—a Sainsbury’s lorry—and it’s not making any concessions as it heads towards the people in the road. They are scattering in all directions. Straker can’t see Doody anywhere. The Indian woman still seems to be attached to his jumper.

  ‘Run!’ says a voice in his ear. Doody. He tries to turn and speak to her, but there’s no room to move in that direction. He can just see her arms pulling the Indian woman off him with a final yank, and then he’s free.

  ‘Run!’ she yells.

  He runs. He pushes through the people who are hovering in bewilderment and pounds up the road, squeezing through the narrow gap at the side of the lorry. He puts his head down and counts his strides—twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven—his mind calming with the rhythm. He doesn’t know where he’s going—he just knows he’s running away. He can hear Doody’s voice behind. ‘Run! Run!’ She may not really be shouting at him, it may just be in his head, but he keeps going.

  He has no idea if anyone is following. The hysteria seems to fade slightly as he approaches the gate to Doody’s field. He swerves off the road and leaps over the gate without pausing. He can feel their feet behind him, their panting, their breath on his neck, their desperation, and he runs faster. Up the path, into the field where the Tiger Moth is waiting to take off.

  ‘Stop!’

  He can’t stop. They’re behind him, they’re nearly upon him, and he has to escape.

  2.40 p.m.

  Tony pulls back the throttle, reducing the power. He looks round the side of the cockpit at the field, unable to see directly ahead. The aircraft is still vibrating, the wires twanging, and he can see movement on the wing surface—a fluid rolling of the fabric, almost like water.

  He pulls his goggles over his eyes and waves his arms to indicate that he wants the chocks removed.

  Ben pulls the rope from one side, then Kasra pulls from the other side. The yellow chocks come away easily. Tony looks into his mirror to see Terry holding down the tail empennage. The Moth is straining to go. He can feel its readiness, and when he waves, Terry lets go.

  Figures appear in his mirror, someone out in front, racing towards the aeroplane, waving his arms, followed by a crowd of other people, surging after him.

  He turns round to see what’s happening.

  2.41 p.m.

  Straker runs past Jonathan and the other helpers to the aeroplane, and can’t believe what he’s seeing. The engine is already running, the propeller moving, ready to take off. Tony is climbing out, looking anxious.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he shouts. ‘I thought you were—’

  Ignoring him, Straker runs round him and starts to climb into the Tiger Moth.

  ‘Hey!’ shouts Tony. ‘You can’t do that.’

  He grabs Straker’s arms, then his legs, and pulls him down off the wing.

  ‘Get out of the way,’ screams Straker, and his voice seems to belong to someone else—a terrifying madman.

  He tries to climb up again, but Tony pulls at him violently. He’s stronger than he looks.

  Straker turns back and pushes him hard. At first Tony resists and struggles to keep his balance, then falls over, his mouth in a round O and his eyes wide behind his goggles.

  Straker climbs back in, settles down in the seat and takes hold of the joystick. Yes, he can do this. The controls are not so different from his old Warrior. He finds the lever for the throttle on the side.

  As the Tiger Moth begins to move, he turns in his seat and sees the whole vast crowd of people rushing towards him. Tony is still on the ground, staring up in shock.

  ‘I’m sorry!’ he yells. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Probably no one can hear him, but it’s true. He’s always been sorry.

  He opens the throttle and the Moth moves forward over the stubbly grass, down a gentle gradient and into the wind. It rocks precariously. The engine roars as he picks up speed and the tail lifts. Will it take off? The pilot who delivered it flew it successfully—there’s no reason why Straker shouldn’t manage it. By luck the wind is in the right direction—although, of course, it isn’t luck. Tony will have worked it out. Straker pulls the stick back gently, holds his breath, and slowly, slowly, he feels the wheels leave the ground.

  There is a great rumbling in his ears—it may be the sound of the engine, or it may be the crowd of people below him. He gasps with relief, then sees the end of the field, and the row of cypress trees, looming up in front of him. He pulls the stick back hard, as far as it will go, forcing the nose up, shuts his eyes and feels the plane press upwards, the engine straining with effort.

  Then he’s clear. He opens his eyes, and the trees are below him, while he soars up into the blue sky. A huge space opens up inside him, and a freedom that he’d almost forgotten greets him like an old friend. There is emptiness all around, almost weightlessness, a sense that nothing else matters. It’s exactly the same as it used to be, when he was younger, when he could forget all the squalid, boring details of his life and feel that he was worth something.

  He experiments with the ailerons, and banks sharply so that he goes back over the field. When he looks down, he can see them all in a group together, staring up at him, a crazy pavement of upturned faces, pale and featureless. They’re unknown to him as individuals, but their accusations are floating up to him through the clear air. Only one person is familiar, Doody, and he can’t distinguish her from the others.

  ‘Sorry!’ he shouts again. ‘Sorry!’

  At that point, he realises that he doesn’t know where to go. He has no plan.

  He circles, flying lazily over the village. Out to sea? He spots the lighthouse, which looks small and vulnerable, and perilously close to the edge of the cliff. He goes round several times, until Suleiman and Magnificent emerge through the cat-flap. They sit outside, tiny ornaments, surprisingly close to each other. Their faces are turned up at the sky, their tails sticking out long and thin behind them. Do they know it’s him?

  Why is the lighthouse still standing when everything else is coming to an end? He banks and heads out to sea, not knowing what he wants.

  Doody. She comes charging into his mind, angry, yelling. ‘Don’t give in to them,’ she’s shouting. ‘Make your own decisions. Do what you want to do.’

  She’s right. He didn’t decide to do this. He was driven here by them.

  He deserves it. He killed all those people.

  How do you know? Nobody knows what happened.

  But he knows it was his fault.

  So? Can he change anything?

  No.

  Can he make it up to them?

  He’s spent all this time writing to them, talking to them in his head, justifying himself, trying to make himself understood, but really there’s nothing he can say. It happened. He made it happen, and he doesn’t remember how. It was his fault, but he can’t replay it and make it better. It’s done.

  He thinks of Simon Taverner, of Carmen and the fury of the tiny little Indian woman who must have nurtured all that hate inside her for so long. Will she feel better now that she’s attacked him? Maybe that was what she needed. Maybe they’ll all go home thinking they have achieved something. Would anything he does make any difference?

  The space that opened up when he took off into the sky grows wider and fresher and more welcoming than before. He can breathe. The air is rushing into his lungs freely. He has to keep wiping his eyes, brushing away the spots of oil that blow on to him from the engine.

  Maggie has forgiven him.

  Doody is here now, taking over from Maggie, her voice concerned, no longer angry. ‘Well, you’d better come down, then, hadn’t you?’

  Yes, he
can face them now. He will speak to them.

  He attempts to bring the Moth round, ready to return to the airfield, but she doesn’t respond as he expects. Instead of turning to the right, the wings waver slightly, and they continue to head out to sea. A knot of anxiety tugs at his mind.

  The engine misses a beat, almost imperceptibly. He listens, straining his ears, and it happens a second time. Why didn’t he notice it before?

  He tries again. The Tiger Moth responds a little more willingly, and Straker leans over to help it turn. The sea is swaying below him, closer than before, the waves tipped with foam, alarmingly close.

  Sluggishly, the aircraft turns, and Straker relaxes a little, although he doesn’t stop listening. As he heads back for the land, there’s a strong breeze in his face, and he has to screw up his eyes uncomfortably, aware that the engine is fighting to maintain its power against the wind. It’s almost impossible to fly without goggles. Hot, leaking castor oil is pouring into his face in a steady flow, and he can taste it in his mouth—vile and bitter. He tries to wipe it away, but his hand becomes too greasy and it is increasingly difficult to see anything.

  He pushes the nose down, trying to build up speed, so that he can get back to land before anything else goes wrong, but the throttle is not responding normally, and the engine starts to whine with the strain. Then, suddenly, it cuts out altogether and he’s plunged into complete silence, the aeroplane gliding down towards the sea. He presses buttons, pulling the controls in an attempt to jolt the engine back to life, but it’s not a modern aircraft—there’s no electronic ignition. He’s dropping rapidly, the only sound the whistling of the wind through the struts, a wailing from the wings as the speed picks up, the groaning of the Tiger Moth as it unwillingly surrenders.