No. We would speak later, when he was calmer and I’d had a chance to prepare a suitable alibi.
But what would I say? What could I possibly say to justify my absence? I decided to think it over in the shower.
My options were limited.
The first and simplest approach was to explain that, through no fault of my own, I had missed the plane. Straight away AIM would ask why it had taken me so long to contact him, and I knew there was no answer he would ever consider satisfactory. I would have to listen to a long, abusive lecture on my failure to carry out my basic responsibilities. Then, in all likelihood, he would suspend me pending a disciplinary meeting (at which I was sure to be fired).
The submissive manner I would have to assume, combined with the uncertainty and the waiting, meant this would be the most stressful option. I ruled it out immediately.
Alternatively, I could pre-empt the axe by quitting before I was actually fired. That way, not only would it look better for me when it came to finding another job (I could simply explain that Katharine was pressuring me to be at home more), it would have the added benefit of putting me in control of the situation. If AIM cut up rough then I might even get the chance to dish out a few ‘home truths’ of my own. Bring him down a peg or two. Problem was, no matter how much abuse I threw at him, AIM would always see my resignation as an admission of defeat. He would make sure that everyone else did as well.
Forget that. I might be losing my job, but I wasn’t about to sacrifice my dignity along with it. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
So that just left me with the truth.
Straight off, the great thing about coming clean was that it would silence him. After all, there was no way he could lecture someone on “the inefficiencies of epilepsy” (although I was sure it would cross his mind). However, if I played the disability card then there would be serious repercussions. To suffer a seizure again after such a long time would inevitably mean medical examinations, and I was sure that any doctor would diagnose me as unfit to drive. The subsequent exclusion might only last for a year or so, but with no driver’s licence, it would only be a matter of time before I lost my job. Six months at the most. Redundancy, they would call it.
Still, at least that would give me time to find another job. Something a little easier. Less responsibility. I might even find something closer to home. Who knows, I might get a job that enabled me to work from home! A job that gave me more time with Katharine and Amelie! That was just what I needed to show I was committed to being a better husband and father. Just what our marriage needed.
But who was I trying to kid? At my age, less responsibility almost always meant less money, and we couldn’t afford that. We were already stretching ourselves to the limit, what with the car loans, credit cards and new mortgage. Then there was Katherine’s image to think of. For richer or poorer? I don’t think so. Not in the twenty-first century. It was an unspoken part of our marriage vows that she expected to be with someone who was going places.
Maybe that was why she was leaving me?
Stepping from the shower, I pensively wrapped a towel around my waist and made my way back into the bedroom. There was a set of casual clothes in my overnight bag and I was looking forward to wearing them. Something less formal would help me to relax. Figure this mess out. On my way across the room, I picked up the remote control and switched the television on.
“…worked through the night to extinguish the fire…”
I placed the bag on the unmade bed and rummaged inside.
Where was my deodorant?
It had been the early hours of the morning when I’d packed the bag and in my haste I’d thrown the contents in blindly. Now I wondered if I’d actually packed any deodorant at all.
In frustration, I emptied the bag onto the duvet.
“…with no one, as yet, claiming responsibility…”
Hold on a minute.
Weren’t there disciplinary procedures that a company had to follow if they wanted to fire someone? An employee had to be guilty of some form of gross misconduct, like turning up for work under the influence, or punching a colleague in the face. Surely this didn’t qualify.
“…has issued a brief statement but there is still no word on when a press conference will take place …”
Get dressed and then call the Citizen’s Advice Bureau. That’s what I should do. Get the facts before I speak to anyone.
‘…thank you, Dan. And as the time approaches seven thirty we go now to this morning’s headlines…’
In the background, I heard the familiar theme of the news.
“Hundreds feared dead and many more wounded after a plane crashes in Central London.”
I was only half listening. There’s always a catastrophe somewhere in the world out to grab our attention. As I rummaged through the stuff on the bed, I glanced idly at the screen, which showed a typical inner London street.
At the top right-hand corner of the picture I saw the flash of a violent explosion. Its blast scattered the pedestrians, blowing them apart like mannequins. I watched in fascinated horror as a wall of fire raced along the road, engulfing everything in its path – buses, lampposts, trees – nothing was spared. Then the flames reached the camera and the picture disintegrated. So violent was the effect that for a moment I was rendered motionless by disbelief. The picture froze and then shrank behind an austere looking newsreader.
“Today the people of Britain are waking up to the frightening fact that they too are within reach of the forces of terror. Last night, at approximately 7.55pm, flight BH1612 bound for Paris exploded over London, killing all one hundred and twenty six people on board and injuring many others as it crashed into the city–”
The newsreader’s mouth continued to move, but I no longer heard the words. My senses were completely overwhelmed by the news. The tannoy crackled to life.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THIS IS YOUR CAPTAIN SPEAKING. IT APPEARS THAT WE HAVE A SLIGHT TECHNICAL PROBLEM HERE IN THE COCKPIT. NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT, BUT WE KINDLY ASK THAT YOU REMAIN IN YOUR SEATS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
I heard the remote control hit the floor. Felt myself follow it.
That couldn’t be my plane. It couldn’t. I must’ve misheard.
“…go now to James Hurst who has just been allowed near the crash site. What can you tell us about the situation there, James?”
Mouth hanging open, I watched the screen change to show a tired-looking reporter. Behind him stood a burnt-out high-rise block of flats. There was no visible trace of impact, but with its charred concrete facia the building stood stark against the bright morning sky.
“Well, it’s pretty bleak here, David. There’s been no official figure of the fatalities released, but the airport authorities have confirmed that the 737 was at full capacity when it crashed. Including the people that were caught up on the ground, it’s estimated that the total might be as high as six hundred. Behind me you can see that the emergency services are working desperately in their search for survivors, but given the devastation, they remain realistic about their chances of actually finding any amongst the rubble of flight BH1612.”
BH1612
Shit.
That confirmed it.
Shit.
Shit.
Everyone on that flight was now dead.
Oh man.
I should’ve been on that flight.
Oh shit.
I should be dead.
Fuck.
Crack
I felt a split through the centre of my skull. My sight broke down.
What was this, another seizure? What the fuck was going on?
Calm down, Felix. Stabilise yourself. Take long, slow breaths.
No use. Everything was rushing at me too quickly. Focus on something.
Clutching the mattress for support I looked down at my feet. Bad idea. The winding pattern on the carpet was like a swirling, sickly broth. I stifled a gag.
Need to get a hold of this situation.
>
I bit down hard on my tongue. Blood filled my mouth. When the sweet taste hit the back of my tongue, my stomach contracted violently. I spent the next few minutes crouched on my hands and knees retching painfully, bringing up nothing but bile.
When the convulsions eventually died down, I rolled over onto the floor and lay staring up at the ceiling. A slight draft was blowing underneath the door. I turned my head and let it wash over my face. The news continued in the background.
“…their biggest job has been to try and contain the effects of the 15,000 lbs of aviation fuel that exploded on impact. As you can see, they have extinguished the majority of the fires and now emergency services are fighting to contain the human element of this tragedy. It is at least one small mercy that St. Bart’s hospital is so close at hand.”
“Do we know yet how the terrorists pulled this off?’
“Well, David, reports are still coming in but experts are investigating a small flash that occurred at the front of the plane right before it began its descent. Infrared footage indicates that it may have been an explosion from within the cockpit and they are pinpointing that as the possible cause of the incident.”
“So we could be talking about a suicide bombing?”
“Possibly, but not necessarily, it’s all still very sketchy. Aviation experts are saying that to knock a plane out of the sky from within the cockpit, would require a tremendous amount of explosives placed in precisely the right area. A hand grenade alone wouldn’t be enough - at best it would simply puncture a small hole in the fuselage– ”
They continued to speculate but I was no longer listening. There were too many questions jabbing at me.
Why had they said the plane was full? It was at least one person short. Even if the gate attendant never saw me leave, surely the stewardesses on the plane had counted the passengers to see that they matched the ticket stubs?
Maybe the stewardess got the count wrong. Or perhaps the gate attendant never got the chance to register the tickets on the system before the plane took off. Or perhaps she was the one who miscounted and the head count was right all along.
Too many questions. I felt suddenly claustrophobic. The air in the room somehow polluted. It was making my head clot. I needed to get out. Find more information.
I started to gather my things together. Bundling them into the bag, I scanned the room for any other possessions. It was then that I noticed my mobile phone. A sudden realisation struck me. I clapped a hand over my mouth.
Everyone in my life thought I’d been on that plane.
Everyone in my life thought I was dead.
Katharine. Amelie. My god, what must they be going through?
I grabbed the phone and pressed hard on the power button. The screen burst into life. It would take about twenty seconds for it to start up and register on the network. I paced the length of the room.
Come on. Come on.
It’s strange, but the thought occurred to me immediately. I ignored it at first (I suppose because I was embarrassed at having considered it) but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make it go away. It sat there huddled in the corner of my consciousness, like a demon chuckling in a dirty abattoir. Taunting me.
She would be distraught. Mortified. They all would. But at your death? Or at your resurrection?
In my heart I could already hear the answer.
They might be relieved to discover I was still alive, but pleased? I wasn’t so sure. Once that initial ‘back from the dead’ novelty wore off, they would realise I was still the same annoying husband, father and friend as before. Pretty soon the cracks would reappear and I’d be back where I started. Back in the rut. Back to the wall. Back to last night.
So?
The harder I tried to push the thought away, the louder it became. Until finally it broke through.
Why bother going back at all?
I did my best to feel shocked at the idea. Ashamed. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t. It made perfect sense.
Why should I go back to a life where there was no appreciation for what I did? No love for the person that I was? No realistic chance of future happiness?
Why should I?
Why? Because walking away was selfish. It wasn’t fair to leave Katharine with the burden of raising a child alone.
But wasn’t that something she was prepared for? After all, she’d already left me. All I was doing was taking it one step further. And it’s not like I’d be leaving a burden. There was a life insurance policy for half a million pounds in my desk at home. Add the compensation from the airline to that and Katharine would be set up for life. It would more than cover the loans and credit card debts that we had accrued with the new house. Besides, there wasn’t much choice. I’d just done the logic around my work situation. If I went back, in all likelihood my income would be slashed beyond belief and we were already living beyond our means. In the unlikely event that we stayed together as a family we would be in real trouble. At least this way would fix the balance sheet. Ironic really, I would be a better provider dead than I ever was alive.
But what about Amelie? I may have been right to doubt the love of my wife, but there was no questioning the love of my daughter. Would I really allow her to grow up having hardly known her father?
More and more kids do nowadays, and it doesn’t seem to do them much harm. Hell, it didn’t do me any harm. If I’m honest with myself then it might actually be good for her. I always said she’s too used to getting her own way, and it would benefit her character if she were to suffer hardship in her life for once. Anyway, it wouldn’t be that much of a wrench. The two of them would want for nothing and Katharine was still a good-looking woman. It wouldn’t be long before Amelie was calling someone else Daddy.
It was scary, but even the thought of another man taking over my family didn’t bother me.
So why not cash it all in and start a new life? After all, I’d made a complete mess of the old one. And it wouldn’t be like I was running away; I just wouldn’t be running back.
So fast does the mind work that the entire process of conception, deliberation and finally decision took place in just a matter of seconds. My mind was set. Before the phone could connect to the network, I switched it off and placed it back on the bedside cabinet.
I was not going back.
All at once, and as if to show its approval, I felt the knot unravel in my stomach. This was the right thing to do.
Then, with a calm but firm deliberation, I got dressed. Easing the thick roll neck jumper over my head, carefully tying the laces of my boots, and shrugging my jacket over my shoulders, I felt like the personification of tranquillity.
On my way out, I picked up the remote control to turn the television off. The news was still running but had changed format. Now the presenter was joined by a couple of highbrows, both doing their best to look well informed. It was pure filler.
“So, do you think this means that the world regards Britain in much the same way as the US?” the presenter asked.
“Well, I think the rest of the world has always hated Britain,” one answered.
“Almost,” the other cut in, “but in my opinion, I think the world has hated the UK for a lot longer than it has the US.”
On hearing that I felt suddenly incensed. I lashed out, sending the little TV skidding across the desktop. It slammed into the wall and fell forward; only the power cord prevented it from dropping over the edge.
Where had that come from? That was the most violent thing I’d done in years. Although I was surprised by the outburst, it felt good. I felt more alive. Powerful.
*
Downstairs, the hotel was bustling with people. It seemed that the airport authorities had grounded all planes soon after the explosion, causing a stampede of travellers desperate to find something better than a plastic seat to sleep on.
The foyer looked like a refugee camp, with groups of miserable families huddled together around their luggage. Stuck in a four star li
mbo.
At the check-out desk I was relieved to find that the previous day’s receptionist was nowhere to be seen. Instead I was greeted by a twitchy, acne ridden teenager. His badly fitting jacket was evidently borrowed because it still bore the nametag of its real owner, a Louise Brown. When I handed my key and credit card over his top lip curled back to reveal his ample gums. It was as though he could smell the clothes I’d left in my bathroom upstairs.
‘Is there a problem?’ I asked.
‘Not really, sir,’ he said, ‘Just that I’m not really trained for this. I usually work in the kitchens but I’ve been drafted in as cover. The receptionists are being questioned by the police for some reason.’
I raised my eyebrows and nodded. ‘I see.’
The teenager gazed wide-eyed at the computer screen while I looked around for signs of the law. If they were questioning the receptionists then it wouldn’t be long before they started talking to the guests. Perhaps they already were. Another patrol car drove by outside.
So that was it! That was why the noise had struck such a chord with me earlier. With so much police activity throughout the night, it was no wonder the sirens had lodged in my subconscious.
After a couple of failed attempts with the keyboard the teenager eventually gave in. He looked around for help. A female colleague stood close by and he drafted her for support. As she approached it dawned on me that if my card were debited there would be a record of my existence logged somewhere on the system. It was the tiniest of threads, but I couldn’t afford to leave any kind of trace if I wanted to escape my old life.
‘Listen,’ I said to him. It was almost an order. ‘I’ve already given you a cash deposit. Would it help if I paid the rest in cash?’
‘Definitely,’ he answered, ‘I know how to process that.’
There was a look of relief on both our faces as I emptied my wallet.
It was at that moment I gained the first insight into the practicality of my plan. Cash was no real problem. Thanks to the gollywog I had plenty more of that, but four star hotel rooms were a luxury I would have to live without if I wanted it to last.
Felix Shill Deserves to Die Page 3