Natural Flights of the Human Mind (32 page)

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 everything 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.

Oil is all over his face by now, and he can’t see anything. There’s nothing he can do. So this is how it feels to die. He’s glad it’s him and not Tony, who’s got all those children. It’s not so bad. Was it like this the last time he crashed, before he hit the train? If he survives, will he forget this too?

His mind fixes on an image of Doody, standing in front of him, ferociously angry as ever, and it’s as if he can feed off her anger. There’s something wonderfully alive and urgent about her that nourishes him and makes him see himself in a way he’s never experienced before. The numbness of twenty-five years has melted, he realises, and Doody has brought him back to life. Just in time to die.

‘Do something, Straker!’ he hears, as he hits the sea. And it’s Doody’s voice, not Maggie’s.

Doody wanted Straker to run, to escape from those vindictive people, and following him up the road in the direction of the field, she realises she must have known that he was going to end up flying her aeroplane. She whoops with pleasure as he picks up speed along the field, and the moment the wheels leave the ground feels like the moment she’s been waiting for all her life. She stands and watches him take off over the trees, the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. It wipes away all her years of frustration and nothingness.

She shades her eyes with her hand and watches Straker head out to sea. She’s surrounded by this crowd of people, the relatives who’ve come to get him, but she doesn’t mind, because she’s not really here. She’s with him in the Tiger Moth, soaring into the sky. Everyone has gone quiet, and they stand together, gazing up, watching him gain speed and height.

‘Imogen,’ says an urgent voice at her side. She turns round and Tony is beside her, confused and dishevelled. ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t stop him. He knocked me over.’

She blinks, trying to see him more clearly after the glare of the sun. ‘Are you all right?’ she says.

He nods. ‘Yes, it was nothing, really. He didn’t hit me very hard. But the Tiger Moth—’

‘It’s all right,’ she says. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘But all that work, all our time.’

‘I’ll pay you,’ she says. ‘I don’t mind.’

‘I don’t want money,’ he says. ‘It’s not about money.’

She watches the speck of the Tiger Moth in the distance. ‘Of course not,’ she says.

‘Imogen.’ Jonathan is also standing beside her. ‘What’s going on?’ He’s wearing a maroon sweater, brand new, and sparkling white trainers. Imogen has never seen him out without a suit.

‘Jonathan! What’s happened to your clothes?’

‘I knew you shouldn’t have trusted Straker. Now look what’s happened.’ He’s still calm and controlled, but there’s a wildness in his eyes.

‘It’s insured,’ says Doody. ‘You insisted, remember?’

‘What’s going on?’ he asks again, indicating all the people round them.

‘It’s complicated,’ she says.

‘That’s obvious.’

They can still hear the drone of the engine in the clear emptiness of the afternoon sky.

‘He’ll crash it,’ says Jonathan.

She’s surprised by this. ‘No, he won’t.’ But then she realises that she hasn’t thought beyond this moment. What will he do? Will he come back here? If not, where will he go? ‘No,’ she says again, not sure if she believes herself. ‘He’ll just bring it back.’

As the plane disappears from sight, the people round her lower their heads and start to talk to each other again.

‘That’s it, then,’ says a man in glasses. ‘I knew nothing would come of it.’

‘Rubbish,’ says someone else. ‘We confronted him. That’s what we came to do.’

‘Didn’t get us anywhere.’

‘Yes, it did,’ says Carmen, the woman in black. ‘He knows how we feel.’

‘Actually,’ says another, older woman, ‘I feel better.’

‘He said sorry.’

‘No, he didn’t.’

‘Yes, he did. He shouted it lots of time before he took off.’

‘You wouldn’t have been able to hear that.’

‘I heard it.’

‘And me.’

‘You must have been lip-reading.’

‘Anyway, what else did we want from him?’

They are all slightly bewildered, shaking their heads, as if they’ve woken up from a collective dream.

‘What do we do now?’ says someone.

‘Go home, I suppose.’

The little Indian woman who was so ferocious with the eggs is sorting out her bag, muttering to herself in another language. She gets out a pocket mirror, and applies lipstick meticulously, calm and contented. She straightens her sari, brushes her hands down the silk, rearranges her shoes and smiles to herself.

‘That’s it, isn’t it?’ she says, to no one in particular.

‘He’s coming back!’ shouts a voice from the back of the crowd. Everyone goes quiet again, and Doody can just hear the sound, the hesitant putter of the little engine in the distance.

‘There!’ shouts a voice, and they follow his pointing finger. A minute speck appears in the blue of the sky far out to sea.

‘See,’ she says to Jonathan, grinning uncontrollably. ‘I told you it would be all right.’

‘That’s hardly the point, is it?’ he says.

What is the point? It seems as if they lost the idea of there being any point hours ago.

‘Well,’ says someone, ‘we can check with him again, can’t we? See if he’s really sorry.’

‘Of course he is. Why else would he come back?’

‘Scared he’ll crash.’

‘Yes,’ several voices are muttering, but it’s not clear what they’re agreeing with.

The Tiger Moth gets closer. It looks painfully precarious, tiny and fragile, far too primitive to fly.

‘He’s in trouble,’ says Tony.

A sharp pain stabs Doody’s chest. ‘What do you mean?’ she says.

‘Listen.’

She concentrates very hard, and at first doesn’t notice anything unusual. Then there’s a faint cut in the sound of the engine, as if it’s stopping and starting again. Like a cough, a clearing of the throat. ‘What’s happening?’ Doody asks Tony, without taking her eyes off the aeroplane, fear making her voice sharp.

He hesitates. ‘Don’t know. Could be something, could be nothing.’

The Tiger Moth has nearly reached land, but just as Doody manages to breathe normally, it falters, pauses in the sky, coughs again, hesitates, and then there’s silence. It hangs there, motionless, like a seagull on a thermal, waiting for a breeze, hovering, uncertain. It starts to sink, gliding first, then faster and faster, dropping towards the sea.

Biggles! thinks Doody. ‘No!’ she screams.

Nobody else is saying anything. It feels as if she’s in a vacuum, just a shaft of light linking her to him, while everyone else round her fades into nothing.

She can just hear Jonathan’s voice in the distance. ‘He’s coming down.’

‘Come on!’ She starts to run. They need a boat. He doesn’t have to drown. ‘Phone the police!’ she yells to Tony as she runs. ‘The coastguard, the helicopter-rescue service!’

People are following, but she doesn’t care about them. Jonathan is beside her, struggling with his mobile phone. ‘Which way?’ she shouts. ‘Where’s he going to come down?’

‘Near the harbour, I think. He can’t be that far out.’

It’s better if he comes down in the sea. There’s a better chance of survival than if he lands on something solid.

Not good, crashing into the sea
.

But at least you survive
.

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…

The sea can’t be that cold. It’s a sunny day, the sky is blue, this is not the North Sea.

There must be rocks. That’s why there’s a lighthouse.

He’ll miss them. He has to.

Doody races down the road to the harbour, faster than she’s ever run before, her heartbeat deafening in her ears. She can’t see the Tiger Moth any more. It must have crashed already. As they reach the harbour, other people from the village join them, wanting to know what’s going on. Groups of them stand between the upturned, beached boats, all looking out to sea, shading their eyes against the glare. The tide is up, and water is lapping against the side of the pier.

They run along the pier, pushing through the crowds of spectators. ‘Get out of the way!’ Doody shrieks at them. They’re enjoying it. They want to witness a disaster.

‘There he is!’ says Tony, pointing.

The Tiger Moth is a tangled, crumpled mass of wire, wood and fabric, awkwardly collapsed in on itself, hovering on the surface of the water. Even as they watch, parts are sinking below the surface. Doody can just distinguish a figure hanging on to a random strut of wood, and an enormous relief rushes through her. ‘He’s alive!’

‘Can he swim?’ says Jonathan.

What a stupid question. ‘How would I know? I’ve never asked.’

A large rowing-boat is moored at the side of the pier, with a bewildered boy sitting in it. He’s staring at the crowds of people in consternation.

A young man has already climbed down the metal ladder and now he jumps into the boat. ‘What’s your name?’ he asks, with calm authority.

‘Connal.’

‘OK, Connal. I’m James Taverner. Can you row us out there?’

Connal looks frightened and uncertain.

Jonathan follows James into the boat.

‘Hey!’ says Connal, turning round in a panic.

‘Get moving,’ says Jonathan. ‘You can’t leave him there.’

‘Wait for me!’ Doody scrambles down to join them and the boat lurches alarmingly as she jumps in. Water laps over the side, soaking them all. Jonathan pulls her up beside him and she struggles into a sitting position. Gradually, the boat stabilises. Doody breathes in and out, afraid to move.

‘I can’t go,’ says Connal. ‘I’m waiting for my girlfriend.’

‘So you’d rather see someone drown?’ Doody shouts at him.

‘But she’ll think I’ve gone off without her.’

‘She’s got eyes. She can see what’s going on.’

He still just sits there, like a child, stubborn and unmoving.

‘Get on with it!’ screams Doody. ‘He may not be able to swim.’

‘Wait!’ There’s a voice behind them and another person drops into the boat. They rock wildly again, and everyone grabs the sides in alarm.

‘Stop it!’ says Connal. ‘This is my boat.’

‘Will we be able to get one more in?’ asks Jonathan.

‘No!’ shouts Doody. ‘There won’t be room for Straker.’

‘That’s who I’m talking about.’

At last Connal starts rowing.

‘Hurry,’ says Doody. ‘It’s sinking.’

They move slowly and the boat feels heavy and cumbersome. From a distance, the water looked blue and calm, but in reality it’s very choppy, throwing them uncomfortably from side to side as they head into the waves. Doody clings to the side, trying to see where they’re going.

The last person to jump in was Carmen. She sits rigidly on the back seat, white as a sheet, her eyes black and intense, refusing to look directly at anyone else, and there’s something
frightening about her, a desperation, the single-mindedness that must have brought her here in the first place. James Taverner is more composed, his blue eyes steady as he sits easily in the front of the boat, turning every now and again to see where they are. He obviously knows about boats. He’s like Harry when Doody first knew him. Calm, confident, in control. Well, appearances can be deceptive. He’ll probably try to kill Straker as soon as they get near him.

It’s difficult to tell if Straker is all right, although as they get nearer, they can distinguish the details of the wrecked aircraft. He’s still there, leaning over a wing, hanging on to a strut, while the rest of the Tiger Moth continues to sink. Can he swim? Wouldn’t he swim towards them if he could?

‘Can we go any faster?’ asks Jonathan.

‘It’s all right for you,’ says Connal. ‘I’m doing all the work.’ There is something slow and laborious about him—an inexplicable lack of urgency, an inability to react with speed.

‘Do you want me to take over?’ says James Taverner.

Connal scowls at him. ‘No.’

‘Let me know, then. I’m ready whenever you want me.’

They’re nearly there.

‘Better be quick,’ says Jonathan. ‘If it all goes down, he might be sucked down with it.’ As if he knows about these things.

Straker is staring around blindly, his face completely black.

‘He’s burnt,’ Doody cries, in a panic.

‘No,’ says James. ‘It’s oil.’

‘Oh.’ But she doesn’t feel relieved. Where has the oil come from?

‘Straker!’ shouts Jonathan. ‘Over here.’

Straker turns towards them, but doesn’t seem able to respond.

‘What’s the matter with him?’ asks Doody.

‘Don’t know. He might be concussed, confused, hurt.’

‘I’ll get him,’ says James Taverner, calmly. He bends down
and removes his trainers. Then he takes off his jacket, folds it neatly and puts it on top of his shoes. He stands up, balances himself against the rocking movement, and dives into the water. The boat almost submerges as he goes, then leaps up again.

He slices through the water with an easy, competent crawl. Once he has reached the aeroplane, he holds the wing and persuades Straker to drop down into the water with him. Then he lies back, holds Straker under the chin and pulls him to the boat. It’s all very professional.

As they approach, Jonathan leans over to help pull Straker in. He puts out a hand to grab the side, and suddenly Carmen comes to life.

‘No you don’t!’ she shrieks. She seizes an oar from Connal and waves it wildly through the air in an attempt to hit Straker on the head. It’s too big and she can’t manoeuvre it properly.

Doody throws herself at her. ‘Stop it!’ she shouts, and tries to pull the oar from her. Carmen pushes her away. Jonathan is struggling to get Straker on board. James is warding off the oar. Carmen swings it round again, screaming all the time. ‘That’s for Robbie, and that, and that!’

But she misses every time. Doody lunges at her and grabs her hair. The boat rolls to one side and she loses her grip as Carmen kicks her and scrabbles for the oar again. Doody grasps her legs and pulls her back, trying to contain her arms so she can’t reach the oar. The boat rolls even further on to its side and they’re tipped out into the sea.

They go down together in a flurry of fighting, frantic, swirling arms and legs. Then Doody loses all contact with Carmen as she goes on sinking, distracted by a great roaring in her head. She can’t swim. She flaps her hands in panic and rises to the surface. As she comes out of the water she takes a huge breath to scream, but she goes back down again and the roaring in her ears is overwhelming. Gradually the sound subsides. She can feel herself falling and doesn’t know how to
stop it. A curious calm starts to settle over her, and nothing matters very much any more…

There is a pressure round her, resistance to her downward passage, strong arms pulling her. Someone has come to help.

She breaks the surface again, gasping for air, retching, spitting out the water, and she is supported this time. She gradually becomes aware that it’s Jonathan. He pulls her to the boat, and more hands haul her in. She collapses on the bottom, coughing and choking.