Flight

by Adam Thorpe

  ‘Have they got him as well?’

  ‘Probably, in a kind of joint operation. We each made a mistake. Actually, he made two. His first was to cross into the drugs world, which is a place of unadulterated fear. Much scarier than the arms world.’

  ‘How is it scarier?’

  ‘Being murdered by an arms dealer is very rare. In the drugs world, killings are two-a-penny and you’re lucky if they just shoot you.’

  ‘His second mistake?’

  Bob sighed. ‘Protecting me, staying loyal. At least that’s what I reckon. And my mistake was helping the journalist. I’d already been menaced, beaten about a bit. I left a message on his mobile; the phone was taken by his killers.’

  ‘Who were the killers, exactly?’

  ‘It’s complicated. That’s all I can say. They have a habit of reading your thoughts.’

  It felt good, telling her. He’d been susceptible to loneliness up to now. She didn’t bat an eyelid: that surprised him. She just frowned and cocked her head, puzzled. He felt coshed – the room swayed and bumped – but he struggled on.

  ‘I know there’s no reason to believe me, I’ve told you too many tall tales. I am, however, just divorced. My ex-wife is not vindictive. Not that vindictive, anyway.’

  ‘Kit, I believe you.’

  She covered her face with her hands and began crying, so gently he almost didn’t realise. He put an arm on her back but she shook it off. Then she blew her nose and gathered her damp clothes from around the Raeburn, dressed, and within ten minutes had left, taking her torch but saying he mustn’t accompany her. She didn’t seem angry or scared. It was another mystery. All she said was that she’d check on him tomorrow afternoon, when she had to take her readings on the machair.

  He was the scared one: not scared of another visit, but of Ulrich next door. Had Carol Maclean seen his taish on the road? Worse, was she seeing him now?

  The throwaway vibrated at two o’clock in the morning, moving steadily over the stool that served as his bedside table. He watched it for a moment – he hadn’t yet managed to sleep, leaving the paraffin lamp glowing softly – then picked it up, readying his Ulrich voice. The caller was pure rasp, a kind of bottled psychotic.

  ‘Why have you no disposed of this fucking phone?’

  ‘No confirmation of the other job.’

  ‘It’s done, fuckface. Now you no dispose of this, you’ll never be hire by us again, right?’

  ‘I’m gonna go to university now.’

  ‘Eh? Whassat?’

  ‘The university of life. Better than death. A lot better.’

  He ended the call, breathing against a tight straitjacket of pure anxiety. The alpha-male type who runs the world. Who knows exactly why the stone breaks the nut. Who understands all the causal relationships.

  He dialled Al again: this time there was nothing. No answerphone, nothing. They must have pulled the phones out, he thought, before doing what they were there for. He saw Al drifting all day in a reddened pool, or his lifeless hands dangling either side of the hammock. Bob felt in his bones that he was the last green bottle, and wondered if they’d left Jane alone.

  * * *

  He’d set the alarm for some two hours before sunrise: it wasn’t completely dark. He had prepared the stretcher the night before. A couple of poles, sheets, a blanket to cover the body, good sailor’s knots, straps to haul it, as Native Americans used to freight their stuff. He’d rolled the body onto the stretcher and felt ill. He was sick into the tussocks, with the final glow of yesterday fading to the west.

  He’d made good progress by the time the next day’s glimmer showed the way more clearly than his head torch. The straps were over his shoulders and around his belly, but the ends of the stretcher would snag on heather roots and cotton grass and hidden stones, then slide easily for a while. The wind had dropped to a fitful gustiness, and the dark grey loch was dead calm. Everything was the colour of lead. The smells were stronger and fresher and sweeter from the grassland, which gave him some kind of extra strength. By the time he hit the beach, the sky was light grey, the sea moving like mercury.

  The sand was easy just where it was covered by a film of water, the two pole ends bumping over the corrugations like minor turbulence. He came to the rocks and lumbered on in grunts over their slippery black facets, their hollows full of sky-reflecting water. His shoulders were sore from the taut straps, the cargo heavier and heavier, but he made it to the skerry-like edge at the base of the cliff. Here he overlooked the deep cleft where, even on calm days, the surf would thrash about and send up flashes of spume fifteen feet high, then be sucked out to expose kelp before crashing back again. The sea roar and the screeching of the gulls meant that he couldn’t hear anyone coming. There were human voices wailing in the din, but that was projection.

  He unstrapped Ulrich, held the blanket, then rolled him over the edge. He caught a glimpse of his mutilated face, like a silent scream, before he bounced and disappeared into the general turmoil. He fell very fast, arms waving. He seemed to surface briefly – a flash of pink and a shinier green in the green surge – as the wave crammed itself boiling into the narrow gulch. Then there was nothing. It was as easy as that. It had taken an hour and a half from take-off to landing.

  The poles and sheets were soon flotsam, too.

  That day they’d swum together, Judith had told him about the prevailing currents: the body would be swept around the cliffs and away, not onto the beach. He’d never been here this early. Perhaps someone walked their dog every day at this time, along the grey sands by the mercury sea. Which goes on crashing all night, exactly the same.

  Daybreak suddenly blazed.

  Was Al really gone? He could google the Virgin Islands’ local news. Everything could be found out … except what was essential: why people did the things they did. Why, when you looked at a human skull, you sometimes felt frightened not of death but of the species that skull represented, as if you yourself were drawn from something else. Why the sea kept rolling and lashing itself in and out without a single break.

  He dropped the Glock down a deep, lightless slit in the rocks, where the sea could be heard rather than seen. Then he fished out the Makarov. He’d put all the rounds back. Pointing the gun’s muzzle upward, he squeezed. It sounded no louder than a cough over the sea’s surge, and seemed to bounce a few times off the rocks. The gulls wheeled, untouched. Then he threw his old friend down into the darkness, retrieved the spent cartridge and dropped that down as well.

  He considered building a small cairn. Unfortunately, it would be visible from the beach – through binos, at least. And his hands were trembling, as if they’d lain flat on ice for ages.

  He went to bed with what felt like a stomach ulcer. He heard Judith calling from outside. He let her in and staggered back to bed. She brought up tea for both of them. She placed the tray on the floor and then held up his passport, one hand jokily on her hip. The air felt chill.

  ‘I was just looking for a spoon, Captain Winrush. Wind Rush was a lot prettier.’

  He felt relief, not dismay. ‘Yeah, prettier and also safer. Don’t tell anyone else. I’ve got two kids – they’re students.’

  ‘You’re a dangerous man to know.’

  ‘Exactly. I’ll have to become a birder on Tristan da Cunha. Two weeks by boat, no proper harbour, treacherous currents, lots of potatoes, zero crime. I don’t think they’d bother to put themselves out that much.’

  ‘In and out of Dubai, I see.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Not quite bonny Scourlay. Not quite centre of the green-hued conscience.’

  He shrugged. ‘A job. Get it where you can. I flew a converted crate for a sheikh. Sauna and jacuzzi in the tail end.’

  She was quiet for a few moments, then said, ‘You were really a gunrunner, weren’t you?’

  ‘A flying warehouse,’ he said. ‘A mixture of things in the hold. Like life. Good thoughts, junk thoughts, bad thoughts. We keep the world moving. Without us, it’d s
eize up.’

  Her eyes travelled over his face until they settled on his hands, folded on his chest. ‘You’re very like a dead knight on his tombstone.’

  ‘No, that’s my father. Knight of the skies. He was a Spitfire pilot; lost his leg in the war when he was nineteen. Thank God I’m not him, and never was.’

  She pulled up the covers, went over to the skylight and looked out. ‘Where do you think he’ll be washed up?’

  ‘Hopefully a long way away. Murray down at the pub’ll report him missing; they’ll check out a few bogs and cliffs. He’ll just be another hiking casualty. Let’s not mention him again.’

  ‘What’s the worst thing you ever carried?’

  He struggled to think about it. ‘I carried some badly crated lizards that got out and under the pedals. But in terms of smell, the—’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘People. Some army chaps, rebels.’

  ‘I mean when you were a cargo pilot.’

  ‘That was when I was a cargo pilot.’

  ‘OK, you might well have carried a serial killer when you were flying passengers. I’m talking about goods, things. That you knew about.’

  He thought hard: no one had ever asked him this question before.

  Minsk, 2003. His plane grounded for three days with spongy controls. Another crew, all Russian, slipping and laughing on the ice, their pilot still not recovered from his birthday vodka bout. Asking Bob, OK, to step in? A few dozen bombs under canvas, a badly lit hold. The bombs were taller than a man and, as one of the crew laughed, twice as heavy. Bound for Khartoum. He was bored in Minsk. He swapped tales on the way there: for instance, about his recent trips in and out of El Geneina, West Darfur, carrying UN inspectors in a Beechcraft 1900, waiting five hours while the gravel strip dried out after a squall – a ‘haboob’, everyone called it. El Geneina: dust and donkeys and AK-47s. Yawning aid workers who hadn’t slept after a night of shooting, not really up for the participatory food-security-assessment workshop in the big tent. Halfway to Khartoum the crew told him what they were carrying: ZAB 250/200s, incendiary bombs full of petrol jellied by polystyrene and benzene so it sticks.

  Napalm, Judith.

  A big brown envelope and lots of jokes and an infected skeeter bite on his neck. He knew fuck nothing.

  That beat the landmines out of Podgorica, because he was fully aware that the stuff was dropped on ordinary people and burned for hours.

  ‘Tiger parts for China,’ he said aloud. ‘A crate of striped heads with robust fangs. Tiger livers in ice. Cures for impotence, toothache, myopia. It’ll eat the world empty, will China.’

  ‘That’s bad, Kit.’

  ‘I probably shouldn’t have done it. I’ve made a bit of a mess of things, all round. I’ve chucked both the guns, at least.’

  He lay back, all wear and tear, on the pillows. Judith turned and crossed her arms and said, ‘How’re you going to clear up the mess, then?’

  ‘Interference,’ he murmured.

  Marcie reckoned he looked like death warmed up. The British Virgin Islands’ news website had a brief report among a crowd of investment adverts:

  A fatal shooting incident has been reported in High Ridge Drive, Tortola.

  According to reports reaching BVI news, a blaze in the luxury villa belonging to residents Felix and Georgina Newton have revealed two bodies suffering from bullet wounds. These are believed to be the latter parties. A gun was found on one of the bodies.

  The fire took hold at about 5.30 p.m. on Friday, although no gunshots were heard.

  Reports indicate that the house was not badly damaged. It is thought Mr Newton had financial worries, and a verdict of suicide is likely. Police are investigating the matter.

  He felt like squealing, but not in a way that would attract predators.

  So he would have to proceed cautiously, alongside Tim Sightly. Maybe they could start with the prince: softly does it, we wouldn’t want to wake the cheetahs.

  Astra ran up yelling and was about to launch a ground-to-air missile attack with a plastic rocket when he stopped and stared.

  ‘Uncle Kit, why’re you crying?’

  ‘Am I? Oh yes. Birds don’t cry, do they, Vauxhall?’

  ‘Course they well do,’ he said, clutching Bob’s thigh and resting his plump cheek on it. ‘My name’s not Woksore, anyway.’

  Bob stroked his silky hair. Al and Jane had never had kids. He’d better go to the funeral in shades, he thought, if he went at all. You never know who might be watching.

  ‘I cry a lot,’ came a little, muffled voice. ‘Cos I like chips.’

  Marcie came up and asked Bob if he’d heard about the missing German hiker.

  ‘No. Blown off a cliff, was he?’

  ‘They don’t know. He was staying at Murray’s, in Ardcorry. Murray’s in trouble because he didn’t bother to take the guy’s details; just trusted him and scribbled his name or something. That’s against the law.’

  ‘Poor Murray.’

  ‘Anyway, Carol MacLean can’t clean the room until he’s found. She said he was a nice quiet chap. Called Ulrich. She saw him near your gate late yesterday afternoon, but the police don’t take her seriously any more. You know, what I told you about the taish?’

  ‘Vaguely,’ he said, blowing his nose.

  ‘I think he might have come in here, but the photo’s really bad. Makes him look like a psycho.’

  ‘They all do,’ he said, pretending not to listen properly.

  ‘What’s a slyco?’ asked Astra.

  ‘Whoops,’ said Marcie.

  Tim Sightly was burrowing into Swallowtail Trading Ltd; a link had been established between the outfit and Scottish Torches. The paper trail consisted of a lot of charred areas, after the fire, but it seemed that the mythical Alfredo Rivera Morales (aka Hugh McAllister) had a substantial holding in the energy company. Al had discovered a new career skill late in life: how to launder money. Or rather, his own soiled washing. Scottish Torches’ website had frozen. A brief piece tucked away in the FT announced its demise. One more bright green hope that ran too fast.

  The Centre’s Land Rover flashed him as it crossed the causeway into Scourlay. He stopped.

  ‘Ewan.’

  ‘Have you read about Scottish Torches?’

  ‘Of course. An unlucky speculation.’

  ‘The Centre committee’s thinking of buying the croft. Preventive measures. We’ll need to fund-raise massively at a bad time, so it won’t go through until the winter, earliest. But I thought I’d warn you.’

  ‘Ewan, you’re a gentleman.’

  * * *

  Bob’s offer was snapped up, since it was over the asking price. He started work on the house straightaway, given it was summer. He solved the transport problem by buying a mule: Antonov coped with sacks of lime, bales of straw, slates and other natural products with no more than the odd haw. Astra loved riding on his broad back – the only time the boy kept perfectly calm.

  Bob decided not to have electricity, however provided: a touch hypocritical, otherwise. This decision was made the day Ewan found a dead gull at the foot of the Gair Centre’s turbine, blood massed over its black hood.

  ‘Only a gull,’ he muttered when the subject came up.

  ‘Never mind,’ Bob said. ‘It’ll be a sea eagle next time, I’m sure.’

  The decree absolute arrived that afternoon, sent on by David. Bob stood by the loch and opened the envelope. A fish rose and made ripples. The sheep’s skeleton grinned. He’d never look at the papers again, so he read them carefully.

  ‘Only a gull!’ he shouted. Because the thick white cloud was at fifteen feet, there was no echo.

  He would have liked to have known who had sent Ulrich. No one except Al had been aware he was here. But he refused to believe it of Al. Maybe they had threatened Jane. Given Al the Chinese burn. Started the electric drill whirring.

  On a hunch, at Marcie’s, Bob googled ‘Kit Webb’ and ‘Winrush’. Nothing but a long list o
f Kit Webbs. Then he remembered Ulrich’s final text messages and Angus’s happy mistake. He changed ‘Winrush’ to ‘Windrush,’ a confusion he’d had to put up with all his life. He immediately fell on the Centre’s blog. The entry was dated a week before Ulrich’s visit; the day after Judith and he went swimming.

  You read it here first, folks. We have a new mystery neighbour on the island, by the name of Christopher Webb. This is likely to be about as genuine as a nine-bob note. He is English, tall, broad-shouldered, has a stubbly beard and sports a dockworker’s shapeless woolly cap. He may be a certain Mr Windrush, in disguise. Well, he says he’s a birder, but heavy doubts remain. There are several possibilities to my mind: either researcher or private-security spy for Scottish Torches, drugs broker or simple arsehole. Or all four. The Centre would be grateful for any help on this matter, and that’s official. Eh man I dunno, I can hear you say, but in these days of undercover agents scrounging free beers out the green movement at great expense to the state, we cannot be too careful. Better oot than in.

  He didn’t blame Judith: better oot than in. To her, initially, it had only been a nickname. Then he remembered that Ewan had spied on them that day on the beach. The man was sharp, beady-eyed, suspicious: you couldn’t get much past that sort of mind. Now all he’d have to do was mention it to Angus, or Angus might call up the blog on his computer, and another boat trip would be in the offing.

  Marcie came up as he quit, hands shaking.

  ‘Are you OK, hunk?’

  ‘I’m great. Just great.’

  ‘Here’s your coffee. You’re all pale.’

  ‘Marcie, you’re made to make others happy. A bit like Ewan.’

  ‘Ewan?’ She looked astonished. ‘Thanks very much!’

  ‘I’m sure he makes some people happy.’