by Steve Haynes
I lie there, heart still thumping. My bedside clock-radio says 00.35.
Willem is still not home, but he is not exactly late yet, either.
There is still plenty of time for everything to be okay.
I try his mobile, but it is switched off.
I know this means nothing at all, that it is better simply to lie here, to pretend that Willem will come walking through the front door at any moment. I switch on the radio, as I always do when I cannot sleep. I hear the muted, disgruntled rumbling of a parliamentary debate, about the pension thing, most likely, although I am not paying enough attention to know for sure. I wonder about getting up, about perhaps going back downstairs to check the site again, but I refuse to give in, not yet anyway. I let my mind drift, hoping I might fall asleep again, and then suddenly I hear Willem’s voice. He is arguing with someone, a man I don’t know.
Willem sounds angrily dismissive, completely unlike himself.
I understand at once that there is something wrong.
Jesus
I think that’s done it, I think it’s holding
The fuck it is. Merrick, get the nose up, for fuck’s sake – we’re going down like a –
Your light’s on, sir. The carriage release –
I see it. Jeez, give me some space here, won’t you?
There is a thumping sound, then a moment’s silence. The next thing I hear is a studio discussion. Two men are talking with increasing animation. That’s when I hear the words ‘dirty bomb’.
– So what in fact you are saying in front of the world that United Airlines 259 to Istanbul was actually utilized as a secret conveyance for criminal contraband?
– That’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m saying that traces of depleted uranium have been found in the wreckage but that’s all we know.
– But you’re not denying your previous assertion that the CIA itself was directly involved in this?
– I never said that. What I said was that it was impossible – and I mean impossible – for any unauthorized cargo to have gotten aboard that flight. So we have a duty – a duty in front of the world, as you put it – to ask ourselves who put it there.
I jerk awake. I am trembling, but that is normal when I’ve had a bad dream. I listen for the voices on the radio but they are gone. I realise that what I am hearing instead is the sound of a key turning in the lock downstairs. A moment later I hear the door opening.
The sound is quiet but it’s enough to wake me. Willem always does his best not to disturb me when he gets in late but I’m a light sleeper and I always hear him. There’s no way I wouldn’t.
I pull on my dressing gown and rush downstairs. Willem is hanging up his coat on one of the hooks by the front door. Often he will change out of his uniform while he’s still at the airport but tonight he hasn’t. I guess this is because he wanted to get home as quickly as possible.
He looks in my face, the beginnings of his crinkle-eyed smile quickly replaced by a look on concern.
‘I did call,’ he says. ‘I left a message, on the voicemail.’
The phone stands squarely on the hall table. When I look at it I see the red message light blinking rhythmically on and off.
‘I heard it ringing, but I thought it was a dream,’ I say. I am gritty with sleep and spent anxiety but I hold him close. I breathe in his smells: coffee and Nivea hand lotion, a trace of sweat. The outside air still clings to his clothes.
‘You’re late,’ I say. I rest my head against his chest so I can hear his heartbeat.
‘Nothing exciting,’ Willem says. ‘There was some kind of backlog, that’s all. We were stacked above the airport for almost an hour.’
I let it go.
I let the traces of the illusory broadcast drift upwards and out of my mind like threads of spider web. By morning they are gone.
It is a full week before I hear it again. This time it is in the middle of the afternoon. I am on my day off. Willem is on the Frankfurt run. His plane touches down at 18.30, right on schedule.
I have been talking recently about giving up my job with SwiftAir and returning to college.
My mother, Ruth, is all in favour.
‘I mean, it’s not as if you need the money,’ she says. ‘Willem’s salary is more than enough for you to live on.’
She doesn’t quite say so, but I know she thinks I have been wasting my life up till now. She thinks a degree will complete me. When she asks me what I’m thinking of studying I tell her I haven’t decided yet. The truth is a touch more calamitous, because in fact I have almost as little idea of what I want to concentrate my efforts on as I did when I left school.
All I know is that I want to make more sense of things. I have ideas I want to explore but I’m not sure where to start. I have been thinking more and more about Meera Chowdri. I wonder what has happened to her daughter, who is taking care of her, what they will tell her about her mother and the way she died. There’s a lot of opinion online about Meera Chowdri but not much new information. Most of what’s posted ends up being a kind of virtual shouting match between those people who insist that Chowdri was a monster and those who believe she was some kind of hero, some kind of freedom fighter.
It seems there is very little in between.
I wonder if there is something here that I could get interested in. In one of the online articles I discover that Meera Chowdri and I were born just one month apart, that we are more or less exactly the same age. When I tell Willem about this he seems unimpressed.
‘Big deal,’ he says. ‘Just you and several million other people. I don’t get why you’re so into her. She’s just one more loser who thought the world owed her a living. Really not that interesting.’
Willem feels uncomfortable talking about Chowdri because he believes that what terrorists want most of all is to be talked about. He doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction, even though she can’t be satisfied by anything any more, she’s dead, not vaporised but exploded, her remains spread over such a wide area, some forums claim, that they had to be collected in a bin bag. I think about this, because I cannot help it. I also cannot help thinking about how Meera Chowdri and I were both ten years old when 9/11 happened, she would have seen it on TV, just like I did. I wonder what she thought, how she felt. I wonder what happened in her life to make her do what she did. There are parts of our lives that feel almost the same, and yet in so many ways we are worlds apart. It’s taken me so long to know anything. If I had lived Meera Chowdri’s life, lived in her world, might I have ended up doing what she did?
I cannot bring myself to believe it, but it feels important at least to ask the question. I don’t know if an answer is possible, or even useful, but I need to find out.
I long to discuss these things with Willem, but it is becoming too difficult.
‘Have you ever thought of giving up flying?’ I say instead.
‘Don’t be crazy, Laine,’ Willem says. ‘Flying is – what I do. I’d be lost without it.’ He smiles at me, his crinkle-eyed smile that says he loves me even when I’m weird. It’s good to see that smile. I would hate to lose it.
When I try to tell him I think he’s in danger he shrugs it off.
‘Perhaps you should think about talking to someone,’ he says. ‘About this flying thing, I mean.’
‘You’re talking about a psychiatrist,’ I say. ‘A shrink. You think I’m mad.’
‘Not at all,’ he says. ‘A fear of flying is very common. But I don’t like to see it eating into our lives like this. I just thought it might help, you know, to talk about it.’
It is now three months since I first heard the broadcast.
I’ve heard it six, perhaps eight times since. It catches me off guard each time. I tried to record it once. I hunted out the old tape cassette player I used to have in my bedroom at home and then later, in the Northfields flat,
before I moved in with Willem. Amazingly I still have it, and it still works. I know it works, because I tested it out beforehand on the one o’clock news. The news programme recorded perfectly, but when I tried to play back my recording of the broadcast there was nothing, just this dry, scraping sound, like fingernails across a blackboard.
I stopped trying after that. It felt – dangerous.
– The Free-Islam party are saying that some parts of Istanbul may have to be evacuated and sealed off. As a member of the US delegation to the emergency session, can you confirm or deny that there are fears over the contamination of the groundwater supply?
– These allegations about the safety of the water are just rumours put about by Free-Islam to discredit the official investigations process. If they persist in refusing us access to the main site we may be forced to consider other measures. What’s important at this stage is to prevent any kind of security breach.
– Can you say precisely what you mean by ‘other measures’?
– As guardians of the free world, we must be prepared to consider any and all measures at our disposal. What’s imperative is to put a lid on this situation before it spirals out of control.
I have not been to church in years, not since school.
There is a church nearby, just a couple of streets from our flat. The church is called St Margaret’s. It is quite small inside, with plastic chairs instead of pews. There is a smell of damp stone and rotting hymn books. I stand beneath the high arches of St Margaret’s church and think about how one day soon all this will be gone, that in another hundred years we’ll have forgotten what any of it meant. The thought brings tears to my eyes, but in a way I am glad.
Everything except the chairs feels centuries old and falling apart.
As I pass back towards the entrance I notice a small table towards the rear of the building where there are leaflets describing its history and also a few postcards and a box for donations. I drop a pound coin into the donations box and take one of the postcards. It pictures St Margaret of Antioch, wearing a blue cloak and leading a dragon. The card smells damp, like everything else, but I am glad to have it. I like the image of St Margaret in her blue cloak. Her features are slightly flattened and she has a don’t-fuck-with-me look about her that makes me smile.
You know what you know, she seems to say to me. You are not crazy.
Whether she was ever really a saint I don’t know, but she’s definitely a woman I could admire.
There have been demonstrations in Istanbul.
The Free-Islam opposition have been demanding the closure and dismantling of American missile bases in Turkey. Many of the protestors were carrying placards bearing photographs of Meera Chowdri.
When I ask Chloe what she thinks of Free-Islam’s demands, she shrugs and then picks at her nails.
‘I don’t know about you,’ she says, ‘but I’m right with them. I wouldn’t want a bunch of trigger-happy cowboys keeping their missiles in my back garden, either.’
There’s a theory I read somewhere about how time can be folded in two, like a handkerchief.
The next time I hear the broadcast I imagine the handkerchief laid over my face. I can breathe through it, and I can see light through it, but not much else.
I imagine the layers of time laid back to back, chafing against one another softly, like the wings of two angels.
Willem’s back on nights at the moment.
When he’s on nights I sometimes don’t see him for days. I see him this lunchtime, though. He’s just come off a flight from Argentina. He looks tired but he’s in a good mood. I make us some lunch and we catch up on news. He’s not due back at the airport until five o’clock.
I sip my wine. I wonder if I should tell him what came in the post this morning, the prospectus from Birkbeck with the application form. I decide it can wait a while longer.
Willem smiles his crinkle-eyed smile and smoothes the tabletop with his fingers. He has that look on his face, that oddly wistful, boyish expression that comes over him when he remembers something funny.
‘What is it?’ I say to him. ‘Are you going to share that joke with me, or hoard it?’
‘It’s nothing,’ Will says. ‘It’s just this new co-pilot I’ve been flying with, Ned Merrick? He’s from Texas. Such a funny guy. Used to be a rancher, can you believe it? He’s got half the craft in the fleet named after those goddamned prizewinning steers of his.’
He chuckles to himself, smiling his smile. I know he’s happy. Happy with his job and with this new colleague, happy to be here with me, sharing his bit of a joke and the rest of his life.
Willem van Doer is lucky, because he has always known what he wanted to do.
For Will the world is a good place, in spite of everything.
Merrick’s first name is Ned, I think to myself. I don’t think that’s ever been mentioned in the broadcast.
I wonder if I am mad, after all. In some ways, I think, that would be easier. Then I wonder how much time I still have left before it happens. Three months? A year? Two days?
It wouldn’t make any difference, even if I could convince Willem to give up flying, There are plenty of pilots, after all, there are other sky captains. That plane could still take off.
That plane could still take off at any time.
CONTRIBUTORS’ BIOGRAPHIES
PRIYA SHARMA is a doctor in the UK who writes speculative fiction. Her work has appeared in Interzone, Black Static, Albedo One, Alt Hist and on Tor.com, amongst others. She has been reprinted in various Best of anthologies.
JESS HYSLOP currently lives in Cambridge, where she works, writes, and daydreams, but will soon be relocating to Chichester to train as a book conservator. She studied English at the University of Cambridge, and was there awarded the Quiller-Couch prize for creative writing upon her graduation in 2010. Since then, her short fiction has appeared in venues such as Interzone, Daily Science Fiction, and Mirror Dance.
GEORGINA BRUCE was born in Birmingham and now lives in Edinburgh, where she works as a lecturer in further education. Her fiction has appeared in various anthologies and magazines. ‘The Art of Flying’ was longlisted for the Bridport Prize 2011 and Mslexia Short Story prize 2012. In 2014, she was shortlisted for the Scottish Book Trust New Writer Award. She is currently working on a novel about mothers, daughters, music and suicide.
TIM MAUGHAN is a British writer currently based in Brooklyn, using both fiction and non-fiction to explore issues around cities, art, class, and technology. His debut short story collection Paintwork received critical acclaim when released in 2011, and his story ‘Limited Edition’ was shortlisted for the 2012 BSFA short fiction award. He sometimes makes films, too.
DAVID TURNBULL is the author of a children’s fantasy novel The Tale Of Euan Redcap. Born in Edinburgh, but having lived and worked in London for over thirty years, his short fiction has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies. Recent anthologies include Dandelions Of Mars, a Whortleberry Press tribute to Ray Bradbury, Astrologica The Alchemy Press and A Chimerical World Vol 11 – Tales Of The Unseelie Court Seventh Star Press. He is member of the Clockhouse London group of genre writers.
HELEN JACKSON likes making stuff up and eating cake. She is a short story writer and a Scottish BAFTA-nominated animation director. She’s lucky enough to live in Edinburgh, her favourite city. Her stories have been published in various magazines including Interzone, and in the anthologies Rocket Science and ImagiNation: Stories Of Scotland’s Future. She was a winner in the 2011 Scottish Wave of Change short story competition with ‘Power of Scotland’.
E. J. SWIFT is an English writer who lives and works in London. Her short fiction has previously been published in Interzone magazine. Her debut novel OSIRIS was published by Night Shade Books and Del Rey UK, and is the first in a trilogy, The Osiris Project. Book 2 – Cataveiro – was also published this year and Book 3 is
forthcoming in 2015. Saga’s Children was shortlisted for this year’s BSFA short fiction award.
CAROLE JOHNSTONE is a Scot living in Essex. Her short stories have appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies. Her work has been reprinted in Ellen Datlow’s Best Of Horror Of The Year series and Salt Publishing’s Best British Fantasy 2013. Her debut short story collection, The Bright Day Is Done, is forthcoming from Gray Friar Press, and she has two novellas in print: Frenzy, published by Damnation Books and Cold Turkey, which is part of TTA Press’ novella series. She is presently at work on her second novel while seeking fame and fortune with the first – but just can’t seem to kick the short story habit.
JIM HAWKINS’ first SF story, Play Back, was published in New Worlds in 1969. Since then he has been a teacher, a BBC Producer, a screenwriter with a long list of credits, and software developer. Two of his four novelettes for Interzone have been republished in ‘Year’s Best’ anthologies. His BBC screenplay Thank You Comrades was nominated for a BAFTA award.
After a career writing about science fiction and fantasy on the magazines SFX, Death Ray and White Dwarf, GUY HALEY now writes it. He believes this to be a preferable state of affairs. Guy is the author of Reality 36, Omega Point, Champion Of Mars, Crash and numerous titles for the Black Library.