When We Have Wings

by Claire Corbett

  ‘You know I’m not arguing this for myself. You can see it’s selfish to insist he travel between us all the time during the week now he’s got the long days at preschool?’

  Yes, of course I could see that. She’d won her point. Usually did. She was paid large sums of money to do that.

  ‘Of course he’ll see you some weeknights. And weekends. Some weekends.’ Lily pressed her advantage. ‘Richard and I need relaxed time with him too!’ Lily laughed, low in her throat. ‘After all, we’ve got the stress of getting him off to preschool and you’ll get the fun times.’

  Ah, so now having virtually full custody is some kind of sacrifice. Lily’s so very good at winning through making her strength look like disadvantage. A powerful asset, that, as lawyer and mother. And she’s a very good mother, is Lily.

  Lately, she’s decided Thomas must be a flier and so she needs my consent to the treatments. Her first tactic, the usually effective one of simply assuming agreement, has not worked on me. So now she’s let me know that if I force her, she’ll take me to court. If I deprive Thomas of wings, I’m guilty of neglect. Hardly an empty threat, coming from her, and I can’t keep avoiding the issue. Not even the Origins extremists responsible for the Charon nightclub kidnapping made me feel as hunted as Lily does.

  Lily the social climber, who wants to elevate our son to the world of fliers, how astonished she’d be to know the identity of my new client. Meeting a celebrated architect and flier like Peter Chesshyre would be a dream come true for my Lily.

  We passed a leafy park where young women with their babies sheltered under rain trees. A fat dove, green as a watered lawn, flashed past my windscreen.

  The Chesshyre house was hidden, isolated on its own headland. As Taj eased himself into a carport near the base of a sea cliff, I said I couldn’t see any buildings and asked if he’d made a mistake.

  ‘No, dude,’ replied Taj as he unsnapped my safety harness and opened my door. ‘This is the address.’

  ‘Okay. Stay shiny, Taj.’

  After scouting around behind the carport, relieved the rain had stopped, I found a path that cut through tea-tree scrub and then snaked up the cliff face. Waves crashed below, sending up salt spray. I climbed, grateful for the wind from the sea, and realised I was looking forward to meeting Chesshyre, curious to see a real flier face-to-face. Of course, I’d seen them on the news and even here and there in the expensive parts of town but I’d never actually met one. I pulled up, struck by the thought of Sunil’s call earlier. He wanted me to investigate some bigwig in a fancy church just for fliers. That was the church I’d just looked up, the one Chesshyre had designed. Made sense. Chesshyre was a famous flier architect, naturally he’d be the one to design an exclusive flier church. And now that Chesshyre had summoned me, Sunil’s target would only be my second, not my first, real live flier. Funny. I was being dragged into this new world in three different ways. Just showed how fast things were changing. At least now I’d be more of an expert than Lily, for once.

  I stumbled over a stone and cursed, frightened I’d lose my footing and pitch head first from the narrow path into the sea. I hate heights and here I was halfway up a cliff, facing a horrifying ascent. The entrance to the house soared high above me and for the first time I could see the house itself, which, with its angled clear walls, sat like a faceted crystal in its cliff-face setting.

  Then I saw it. Oh god, no. The only way up there, besides scaling the rock, was a godawful bucket creaking on the rusting cable of the flying fox in front of me.

  I heard a rushing; a dark shape blotted out the sun.

  A man landed, teetered on the very cliff edge and rocked back and forth, arching his wings for balance: Peter Chesshyre. Over two metres tall in his white shorts and loose singlet, his feet shod in thin blue material, not like any shoes I’d ever seen.

  But what riveted my gaze were his wings: great curves of azure, of aquamarine, of navy, of shades of blue I had no name for, running and twisting together like streams of water. Jesus wept. The first time I meet a real live man with wings and he takes my breath away.

  I stood there, no power of speech, hypnotised by the might of this man’s wings, at the strangeness of seeing the shining feathers attached to a human being, of seeing a creature so much more physical and present than any normal human being because he took up so much space. There was simply so much more of him.

  Bizarre to see a man with wings but also strangely familiar; growing up Catholic I’d seen so many images of men, women and children with wings. We’d prepared for this moment for thousands of years just as we’d designed aircraft centuries before daring to build them. The ideal had always been there. Now, now, it moved in front of me in flesh and blood, bone and feather.

  As Chesshyre stepped closer I could smell a sharp forest scent coming from his wings—maybe an oil he used for grooming his feathers? I forced myself to tear my gaze away from those wings, to look into his face. He was handsome in that clear-skinned way of the rich; eyes dark blue, set deep above his long nose and wide mouth. His dark hair glinted with a blue sheen, reflecting his wings.

  ‘Zeke Fowler?’

  I nodded. His voice, light, bleached of feeling, was as toneless as I’d expected from an old St Ivo’s boy and I felt a rush of hatred for him, for the way he sounded, that had been entrenched in me from the six years I’d endured in that place. Then I recalled why I was there and was ashamed. I might be shorter than Chesshyre, and plainer, with my sandy hair and freckled skin, my thin face and astringent expression. (You always look sceptical, Lily used to say. Professional hazard, I replied.)

  But I still had my son.

  Chesshyre shook my hand. His skin was hot and dry, fever-hot. ‘You’ll have to use that, I’m afraid,’ he said, gesturing to the flying fox. Well, it couldn’t be clearer that all of their friends and important guests were fliers. ‘Meet you up top.’ He turned away to the cliff edge.

  I’ll never forget what happened next. It’s an image that still haunts my dreams.

  Chesshyre stepped off the cliff. My stomach plunged with him. I knew what he could do but it was flimsy knowledge that didn’t stand up to seeing a man drop out of sight like a brick.

  Seconds later I heard the whistle of wind through huge feathers and felt the surf of air past my face as Chesshyre was borne up, wings beating. And when they went, I heard the noise of their wings, like the noise of great waters. Don’t know how he knew but old Ezekiel nailed it. That’s exactly how it sounded.

  I climbed into the bucket of the flying fox, which was beaded with water from the earlier rain. They sure made no effort to make things easier for non-fliers. This rusting machine was probably used for groceries. The nanny would have had to use it too, I presumed. I pressed the button and clutched the bucket’s cold sides, staring ahead as the winch started its loud grinding, willing myself not to look at my shadow rising up the cliff. Gusts of air buffeted me, then fell away to the waves below.

  Watching Chesshyre take off as easily as I might step onto an escalator, I felt a jab of envy. Seeing him this close it was possible to imagine that thrill and power. Only for a second, though. Not all the surgery, DNA shots, treatments and drugs in the world could prepare me to step off a cliff.

  I stared out over blue sea, its slow motion wrinkling, as the bucket scraped upwards. I looked at my watch again. Twenty minutes to two. The odds of finding Hugo alive were shrinking fast. Christ on a bike, this thing was slow.

  Big clouds shifted overhead, sailing away on business of their own like ocean liners. Chesshyre stood high above, wings gleaming in the intermittent rays of sun.

  The bucket lurched to a halt and I climbed out, shaky with adrenaline. Serve Chesshyre right if I threw up all over him and his gorgeous wings.

  The Chesshyre house had a river running through it.

  It wasn’t immediately obvious. The first thing
that struck me was that the place was missing a roof. Walls faded away into sky or dissolved into rising mist. I glanced down but saw no raindrops on the floor. The roof was not missing; its absence was an illusion. That was real sky I could see though; I recognised that ragged cloud breaking up over the ocean.

  The other thing that wasn’t obvious was security. Still, they must have some; they wouldn’t just rely on the unscalable cliff face to protect them, would they?

  Walking through the foyer, rubbing my hands where my grip on the bucket had bitten into the flesh, I noticed a rushing, chuckling sound as I entered the largest living room I’d ever seen. The whole eastern wall was one transparent sheet of riverlaminate at least fifteen metres high overlooking the sea. I made a note to fix respectable per diems. These people could so clearly afford it.

  As I followed Chesshyre inside, I examined the way his wings folded along his back so that, while they were longer than he was tall, they did not, quite, touch the floor. That precise line where feathers met skin fascinated me, that line which marked where human became alien. How could those feathers be him, part of the human being that was Peter Chesshyre? I had to resist the urge to touch them.

  I crossed a line of grasses that ran the length of the room and screened a stream, the source of the noise I’d heard earlier. Outside the eastern wall a stone terrace that was part of the cliff face shelved outwards over the ocean. A table and chairs stood there but no railing, nothing to prevent one from falling into the void. Falling into the void was what these people liked to do. Chesshyre would be out there with his morning coffee and he’d get up, say, I’m just going to stretch my wings, and step into the air.

  No wonder I couldn’t see the house until I was directly below it: it was carved right into the rock. The back wall was cream- and red-streaked stone with the other walls and roof sealed to it. Against the stone grew a spotted silvery-white gum with pointed leaves, grass plants tumbling fronds over its roots.

  ‘I had a devil of a job convincing Peter not to put more than one tree in here.’ A woman walked through the doorway at the end of the room and came towards us. ‘And look how badly that’s turned out.’ She gave an angry laugh. ‘I was worried about him turning Wild. Always thought he might be one who had to watch out for himself. A stream here, a tree there, could be dangerous if he pushed it too far. But no. It was her. Her! And they say it’s a myth.’ The final words spilled from her fast and low and vicious.

  ‘You’re up,’ said Chesshyre, in a tone that suggested she should be in bed or in her room; anywhere but here.

  She arched her neck as Chesshyre came up to her, bending his head to kiss her cheek. I was horrified to feel tears pricking my eyes as I watched them in a pose so simple and graceful, as if they’d stepped from a painting of great angels; he bent over her, blue wings sweeping the floor, his head lowered to hers, she poised on tiptoe, reaching, the twist of cloth across her hips the drapery of a goddess. Not fair that mere humans could be that splendid. But that was the point: they weren’t mere humans anymore. Chesshyre opened his wings right around the woman, encircling her, then drew them away, folding them down his back.

  Chesshyre wasn’t just comforting her; it seemed more like he was trying to shut her up. Her face was drawn, her eyes very large with black circles round them. Thin to the point of impossibility, her meagre body looked even smaller compared to the massive white wings that trailed to the floor; they looked as if they must drag her to the ground.

  ‘Avis, this is Mr Zeke Fowler. Mr Fowler, this is my wife, Avis Katon. The designer.’ A beat. ‘Hugo’s mother.’

  Avis inclined her head, setting the red crest of feathers in her hair nodding, but her glance was wary. Hostility simmered off her like steam from a volcano. I hadn’t heard of her but from the way Chesshyre had introduced her it was clear I should have.

  I smiled uncomfortably, disconcerted by the nearly bare, yet elegant, woman in front of me. They can’t ever look truly naked with wings but I expected a fashion designer, and distraught mother, would wear more clothes. A bit of something shimmery almost covered her breasts; the same material, now pink, now green, shifting colour as she moved, wrapped about her hips, leaving her taut belly bare.

  Avis turned back to Chesshyre. She raised her hands, clenched together, but I could see they were trembling. Her voice was a strand of steel pulled tight. Any moment it would break. ‘You know, Lima told me she had a friend whose father went Wild. Of course the family searched and searched but when they go Wild there’s no finding them. Then everyone says the problem doesn’t exist. They’ve just fallen out of the sky and the body’s never found. But we know what happens. We know—like the nursery rhymes.’ What was she talking about? Was she claiming a Wild flier—whatever that was— had stolen Baby Hugo?

  Avis started singing, ‘Baby, baby, naughty baby, hush you squalling chick, I say. Peace this moment, peace, or maybe rough wild wings will pass this way. Baby, baby, he’s a giant—’

  ‘This way,’ broke in Chesshyre, leading me down a hallway of milky blue glass. Avis pushed past him, muttering something about needing a cup of tea.

  I shook my head. She was clearly a little odd and for a second I speculated: did she do it? Had she flipped, taken baby on a joyflight, dropped him into the sea? Was I being brought in just to establish a cover-up? I’d seen worse.

  Chesshyre and Avis swept ahead of me, their wings like royal cloaks. Chesshyre spoke quietly to Avis, as if she were ill. Some serious problem there. They were being too careful with each other. Did one blame the other?

  We entered a bright long box—the kitchen, lit by a sliver of window filled with blue. The back wall was intense green, alive, a rustling vertical garden of mosses and ferns. The sea crinkled minutely far below; the sky streamed light into every room. So far, no sign of forced entrance, none of the disorder attending a break-in. Inside job, then.

  Avis stood at the sink with a kettle, her hand still shaking, as if she could not remember why she was there.

  ‘Could you tell me exactly when you discovered Hugo missing?’ I asked as I followed Chesshyre to the nursery, glad to have the chance to question him separately.

  ‘About two hours before I rang you,’ said Chesshyre.

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘You didn’t know he was missing before then?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Chesshyre. ‘We only got up around nine-thirty. After a while we realised Hugo and Peri weren’t in the house but that didn’t worry us. Not the first conclusion you jump to, you know, that your baby’s been abducted. We assumed Peri took him to the park as usual. But as time passed we started to worry. Then, when I had a closer look in the nursery and in Peri’s room, I could see she’d taken a few things and I got really concerned. So I started ringing around. To find someone like you.’

  ‘Did you find a note, anything to explain what might’ve happened?’

  Chesshyre shook his head.

  ‘And you haven’t contacted the police?’

  Chesshyre shook his head again. ‘It would be much better if we just get Hugo back as quickly and with as little fuss as possible.’

  Chesshyre stood aside to let me enter the nursery first. It was cosy, enclosed like a nest. A stand of branches fretted with coloured sparks stood near the door. This was the one room so far with a definite ceiling, though even this one shifted with clouds and sparkled with artificial stars.

  In the middle of the room loomed the white cot shrouded in its net studded with cream roses.

  Empty.

  I turned away for a moment, looking up at the shelves that ran at shoulder height around the room. They bore the most beautiful objects I’d ever seen.

  There was a wooden puppet, lacquered gold and red and green, and jellyfish that rolled in water, round as moons. But what was that white thing hanging down like a patch of frost? I moved closer and it gave off a breath of c
ool like the air that flows off snow. I brushed it with my fingertip. It did appear to be a square of snow.

  What exquisite things these parents had bought for this baby. Hugo had probably been long awaited, long hoped for. It was common knowledge fliers had to try harder than most to have children. Why was he missing?

  This was not my typical freelance case: insurance surveillance, fraud or suspicion of adultery. This was like being back on the force, with real pain, real fear, real crimes. This was the fate of Chesshyre’s baby being entrusted to me. A sick feeling knotted my stomach. It was not new. This moment had always come, on every important police case. One of the reasons I’d left.

  I peered into the cot, where a jumble of colour caught my eye—soft toys, huddled together in white linen. And something remarkable: a stuffed lion curled up in the middle of the other toys, larger than the rest, as big as a medium-sized dog, and of far higher quality. Thick fur shone like silk where the light hit. There was the long golden mane, the broad noble nose, the tufts on elbows and tail, the powerful forequarters and leaner hindquarters.

  The toy raised its head and opened golden eyes. It yawned, banner of pink tongue curling back. The yawn finished on a low musical growl. Ears pricked, it got slowly to its feet, stretching back legs and then forelegs, head almost on paws, the way I’d seen real lions do a hundred times in historical nature programs.

  ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘Didn’t know they could make things like you.’

  Chesshyre was at my side in an instant. ‘How dare you,’ he hissed, his body shaking till his feathers rattled. ‘Get out of there!’ Reaching into the cot, he grabbed the lion, smacked it across the head, threw it onto the floor. The lion snarled, preparing to spring, but Chesshyre raised his foot to kick it and the lion backed away, turning and stalking, with dignity, through the door that we had entered.

  Finally, some emotion from the distraught father.

  ‘Looks so real,’ I said.

  ‘Frisk is real,’ said Chesshyre, striding ahead of me. ‘A real lion in all but size. Most genes are the same.’