‘Don’t move him!’
He let out a whistling breath and tried to sit up, but the movement brought fresh icicles of pain.
‘He’s okay!’
‘Oh, Terry, he’s okay!’
Nicholas, wanting to contribute to the optimistic mood, tried to whisper, ‘I’m okay,’ but it came out as a weak sigh.
A man and a woman stood above him, their details vague through tears of wretched pain.
Words spilled out of the woman like marbles from a split sack. ‘We just backed out and didn’t look and we are so, so sorry-’
‘Don’t say you’re sorry!’ hiss-whispered her husband.
‘I didn’t say sorry.’
‘You did!’
‘Phone?’ wheezed Nicholas.
The couple clarified: a horse-faced pair in matching tweed, looking down at this wounded, talking marvel.
‘Of course.’ The man handed over his mobile. Nicholas’s thumb shook as he dialled. He loosened his helmet as the LCD screen blinked: Calling.
‘My bike?’ he whispered.
The man lifted his chin and peered between the top of his glasses and the brim of his tweed driver’s cap.
‘Pretty well buggered. You know you’re bleeding?’
‘Oh, God! He’s bleeding?!’
Nicholas held up a hand for silence. A click as the other end picked up.
‘Hello?’
Cate. Nicholas’s heart slowed. Relief as warm as sunlight washed through him.
‘Cate.’
‘Hello, bear. What’s up?’
‘Cate.’ He was so happy to hear her. Why? He’d only left her a moment ago. .
‘Nicky? Where are you? Are you on the road?’ Concern in her voice now. ‘I heard the motorbike and — oh, God, have you had an accident?’
Her voice was growing fainter.
‘I’m fine, nothing. A little bingle. You, though. Are you all right?’
He was so happy. Happy and amazed. She was fine. Why had he worried so?
Evening seemed to be falling fast. The equestrian couple was darkening in shadow, their faces growing as lean and hidden as the evening trees themselves. The rain was a steady hiss.
‘I’m worried about you! Where are you? Nicky? Nicholas?’ Her voice was thin and distant, words from the bottom of a well.
‘I’m here. . but you’re all right!’
‘Nicholas?’
Bump.
A grey pall fell over the world, rapidly making everything dimmer and darker. Grey became black. Evening became night.
‘You’re all right. .’ he whispered.
Bump.
Bump.
Just a little nudge, stirring a tinkle of ice. Bump. A flick of paper somewhere.
Nicholas opened one eye a fraction. It was night. Well, dark, certainly. And his face was cold and damp; chill hissed down on him. Was it still raining? His vision was swimmy.
Bump.
He opened the other eye, and blinked.
The aircraft cabin was as dark as a cinema. Hard plastic window shades were pulled down. The cool air was loosely laced with body odour and cologne. Passengers lay motionless with blankets drawn to necks, mouths agape, sleeping. Most lights were out, but a few private oases of yellow or blue peppered the gloom, a woman reading here, a man wearing headphones watching a small screen there. Up the aisle, a flight attendant checked on her wards, walking between passengers as silently as a benevolent spirit.
Someone behind Nicholas was drinking: ice ticked on glass. Across the aisle from him, a girl of six or seven sat awake, colouring a picture.
‘Oh, God. .’
Nicholas turned at the desperate whisper, before realising it was his own. His nose was blocked by mucus. He touched his face. His cheeks were wet and cold under the air hissing from the vent above.
He’d been crying in his sleep.
If I shut my eyes now and go to sleep, he thought, I can go back. Back to the beautiful lie that Cate was on the phone, worried, but alive.
But it was too late. The truth of things rushed through spill-gates, dousing him wide awake. He was alive and leaving Britain. Cate was dead: three utterly dreadful months in the ground. She’d fallen getting down the ladder to answer his telephone call after the motorbike crash, splintering her neck on the bath edge.
The cold weight of the realisation sank Nicholas deeper into his seat. He swallowed back bile and wiped his nose. The little girl across the aisle glanced at him disapprovingly. The flight was an eternity. He angled his watch to catch what little light there was.
‘Are you all right, sir?’
He blinked.
A flight attendant looked down at him, brows drawn in tight concern. Her face was pale but her cheeks were pink and her nose freckled. Young.
‘Excuse me?’
The flight attendant leaned closer, whispered again, ‘Are you all right, sir? You. . made some noise in your sleep.’ She held a tissue towards him.
‘Oh.’ Not knowing what else to do, he took the tissue. ‘I’m fine.’ A lie to send her on her way.
‘Bad dream?’
‘Yes.’ Another lie. So, now she could go.
But she lingered. The little girl across the aisle had stopped colouring and was sitting upright.
‘That’s no good. We like our passengers to sleep well.’ The flight attendant’s white smile was disconcertingly bright in the darkness.
‘How considerate.’ So, please go.
‘We hate to see our passengers upset.’
The little girl was shaking. Nicholas tried not to look at her. He dragged his eyes back to the woman and forced a smile that must have been horrific.
‘You really don’t have to charm me. I’m already on the plane.’
The woman’s smile faltered, but Nicholas really couldn’t give a toss. The little girl was convulsing now, her legs jack-hammering and her hands clawing at her tiny neck. Her face was sharp red and her mouth was opening and closing like a hooked fish’s.
The flight attendant recovered and cocked a smile at Nicholas — his frown could be turned upside-down. ‘But we’d like you to come back. Another blanket? Pillow?’
He nodded, then shook his head. The little girl was turning blue, her eyes so wide they showed a finger’s width of reddening white around the irises. Don’t look. Say nothing. She fell to the floor right at the attendant’s comfortable flats. Invisible fingers tore her top open, exposing her fluttering little chest and ribs.
Nicholas tried not to watch. His voice was a sandy whisper. ‘No, really. I’m awake now.’
The little girl’s back arched, and her head wrenched back at a hideous angle. She jerked mightily, a landed trout flopping with horrible, drowning violence. Then, like a sandcastle undermined by a wave, she collapsed on herself and grew still.
‘Tea? Or coffee?’
The little girl’s dead eyes stared at the cabin ceiling for a long moment. . then rolled to fix on Nicholas’s.
Nicholas shut his, then opened them on the attendant. ‘What did the little girl die of?’ he whispered.
The woman blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’
The girl was suddenly in her seat again. Her blouse was whole. She watched Nicholas, eyes unreadable. Her hands, as if with minds of their own, picked up the colouring book and crayon and recommenced their childish business.
Nicholas knew he should just shut up. But he wanted to wipe the smile off British Airways’ face.
‘A little girl died just here, didn’t she?’
The woman stared at Nicholas, her mouth working as she made some decisions. He knew the look: the how-did-he-know-that-is-he-a-reporter-is-he-mental-is-he- dangerous look.
‘How do you-’ Her words were clipped. No politeness now.
He’d managed to strip her smile away. It didn’t cheer him at all.
The little girl was colouring her book with tedious slowness. Her face was in shadow. The passenger beside her rolled in his sleep and put his arm right through her head.
The flight attendant straightened her skirt. ‘I have no idea, sir. Information like that is kept by the airline. I must ask you not to talk about. . such things on the flight, sir.’