First published 2013 by Beaten Track Publishing
Copyright © 2013 Debbie McGowan
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978 1 909192 22 5
www.beatentrackpublishing.com
For Paul and Mark.
You re-ignited my desire to learn.
Thank you: for your tutelage, for your trust; for everything.
Know that a little of you both will forever reside in ‘Sean Tierney’.
Alas, he’s a psychologist: sorry about that. IOU 1xPhD.
***
This novel is a work of fiction and the characters and events in it exist only in its pages and in the author’s imagination.
However, there are a number of events and characters contained within that have been inspired by real people.
‘Phil’ is inspired by an exceptionally talented saxophonist, with whom I have had the pleasure to work for a number of years.
‘The Late Poets’ is based on an awesome band from the North-West UK; the song title mentioned is also the title of one of their songs.
‘Andy’ the bar owner is based on a bar owner of the same name.
(see also suave, debonair…)
‘Zuza’ and ‘Michal’ are based on two very real and very special people from Poland, who set up a bakery project in the Nepali village of Syabru Bensi. However, they did this independently, and the events I have narrated in relation to this are entirely fictional.
Thank you Michal, for your help and advice.
Bakery Project Website: www.piekarniawnepalu.pl
“The weight of the world is love. Under the burden of solitude, under the burden of dissatisfaction the weight, the weight we carry is love.”
‘Song’ - Allen Ginsberg
CHAPTER ONE:
LEAVING ON A JET PLANE
Descending through the heavy grey cloud towards Kathmandu, the liner jerked sharply to the left, the flicker of the cabin lights temporarily illuminating the sudden trajectory of in-flight magazines and near-empty plastic cups as they paused at the lip of a tray and then tumbled down into the aisle. Droplets of rain squashed flat and dispersed against the window, distorting the occasional too-close peak of mountain jutting high and proud, black and formidable. The passenger nearest reached out a hand without looking and pulled to a close the only blind that remained open. Even the crew were strapped to their seats, feigning a carefree conversation and convincing no-one, on account of the darting eye movements that accompanied it. The jet levelled out once more and the announcement came that landing would be underway imminently, with apologies for the turbulence of its undertaking, as if the pilots themselves were somehow to blame. Less experienced passengers sighed in relief; those with more flying hours under their belts closed their eyes in silent prayer to deities various and unknown. The danger was far from over, and with the sound of the rain amplifying the drone of the engines, it was a landing destined to remain secured in memory for the rest of their lives, however long these might be.
Dan touched his brother’s arm, both envious and amazed at Andy’s ability to sleep so soundly while travelling. He’d slumbered his way through the vast majority of the twelve hours they had spent in the air, not to mention most of the seven endured waiting for their onward flight from Istanbul, and now, with the noise of the engines once again rising to a scream, he barely stirred. Dan poked him in the side and he jumped.
“What you do that for?” he slurred with a stretch and a yawn.
“We’re about to land.” Dan lifted the blind with the intention of demonstrating how close to ground level they were, only to be met by an impenetrable haze of greyish-white. “Or not,” he said dubiously. The engines continued to screech as the plane banked left and upwards.
“Whoa. Has it been like this the whole way?” Andy was now fully awake and rather in need of a pee, but it would have to wait. There was no way he’d be allowed out of his seat.
“Only for the last half hour or so.” Dan closed his eyes. The turbulence was giving him nausea and he was desperate to get off the plane. He wasn’t about to tell his brother this though, for it would be an admission of weakness; something else Andy was better at than he was. It hadn’t gone unnoticed, but Andy did the decent thing and didn’t say a word.
“Good, err, afternoon,” the voice of the pilot again, not sounding quite so confident as it had a few minutes previously. “Unfortunately we have had to abort the landing, due to poor visibility. We have five minutes’ worth of fuel, so we will not be diverting, but we will be taking a different approach within the next couple of minutes. Please remain in your seats. Thank you.”
The flight was perhaps half-full, mostly hikers and others whose hobbies involved travelling, dotted with the odd businessman here and there, sporting not-so-casual casual attire, their gaze artificially focused on a laptop or tablet. Even so, the din produced by multiple voices repeatedly muttering “five minutes’ worth of fuel” was quite remarkable. Andy glanced down the aisle towards the air stewards, one of whom sensed his eyes on her and turned and smiled weakly, but kept her poker face. Dan still had his eyes closed, so Andy picked up his two day old newspaper and flicked to a random page. The headline loomed large and significant: ‘Families reeling after plane trip ends in tragedy’. He quickly closed the paper again and pushed it away, although he wasn’t especially worried; he’d been on many flights far scarier than this, for instance, where one of the engines failed—he’d done that one twice—or indeed where the only engine failed. Fortunately it was a motor glider and the descent was all the more beautiful for the lack of noise, if not a little longer in duration than anticipated.
“How long till we land, d’you reckon?” Andy asked, his mind idling on that thought.
“Oh, I’d say less than five minutes,” Dan retorted, without opening his eyes. It would probably have been less difficult if he did open them, for he was alert to every sound and motion. The entire craft shuddered from the vibration of the wings, dropping sharply before rising again just as quickly. All the while they were flying upwards and at a steep incline to the left, with bags sliding from under seats, their owners unable to reach out and rescue them. Then the noise stopped.
Cautiously Dan opened one eye and tilted his head so that he could see between the seats in front, and thereon diagonally across the plane. Everyone was still and mute, seemingly struck silent by terror. They were dropping rapidly, quietly out of the sky. They were all going to die. Dan screwed his eyes tightly shut again and swallowed hard in an attempt to alleviate the pressure in his ears, but it was useless. Gravity is an unbeatable enemy and there is no point fighting it. Instead, he, like everyone else aboard, allowed his mind to wander wherever it wanted to. He thought back to the last time he asked Adele to marry him, stopping long enough to regret not fighting harder, ignoring the pain in his chest as he fought to breathe. Why hadn’t the oxygen masks dropped down? Or maybe they had, but he would need to open his eyes to find out and try as he might, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bear to witness his own death coming up to meet him. Back further still, to the birth of his daughter, bypassing the time he had nearly died and straight through the years to his early twenties, newly home from university, wi
th his life ahead of him. Had he achieved everything he wanted? Of course not! Who has by the time they’re thirty-eight? Such a ridiculous, nondescript age to die.
It had to be only seconds now until they hit the ground. Soon the screaming would start, of this he was certain, for he could feel the panic starting to well in his gut, the pressure rising in his head, his shoulders squeezing in on his blood vessels. No air. No breath. How much longer now? Would he know about it when it happened? To be one of the lone survivors, trapped along with the dead, waiting for the flames to engulf them; that, surely, must be worse than outright death?
At least he was with his brother and he was so thankful for this that the tears fell of their own accord, unchecked by pride or other false emotion. So often they had fought about nothing of any great consequence, not compared to this thing. Whatever had passed between them, however great their differences, all that mattered now was that Andy would be here with him at the end. He tried to reach out to his brother, but there was too much force against him and he couldn’t move. The harder he struggled, the more difficult it became and then the screaming began. Not long now until it was all over, their lives to be consigned to some voyeuristic documentary. Dan found his god and relinquished his body.
CHAPTER TWO:
DRESSED TO KILL
A beautiful September evening: the setting sun cast a red glow over the garden; house martins chirruped and swooped above the rooftops; a faint smell of cut grass hung in the air, as gardeners undertook what they hoped would be the last mowing of the season. Adele fed the fish, checked on the baby, laid her hand against the wine bottle and decided it was chilled enough. She reached to the back of the cabinet and carefully extracted the two glass goblets, each more than capable of holding a whole bottle, and divided the wine equally between them. A minute or so later, the doorbell sounded, Shaunna’s halo of auburn hair instantly recognisable through the frosted window. Adele picked up the two glasses on her way, handing one to her friend and hugging her at the same time.
“Thanks,” Shaunna grinned. “How’s your day been?”
“Blissful,” Adele said, clanging their glasses together. “Quiet, unmessy, unmoody, unmenny.”
“Unmenny?” Shaunna repeated in puzzlement.
“Yeah. Without men. In other words, absolutely perfect.” Shaunna laughed. They adjourned to the garden and settled into a pair of large, wooden chairs.
“What have you been up to today?” Adele asked.
“Not much. Work, then went to see Dad.”
“Oh right. Nothing exciting then?”
“Not really.” Shaunna sipped at her wine. There wasn’t much to say now they had cycled through the usual daily routine of pleasantries, which isn’t to imply that they had nothing to talk about; just that after being friends for so long they didn’t need to talk to fill a silence, but nonetheless would undoubtedly find much to fill it with as the wine loosened their tongues. This was, after all, the calm before the storm, so to speak: Eleanor and James were getting married in less than two weeks. Of course, Eleanor and her mother were so obsessively well organised that there was nothing whatsoever left to do, which was why all of her oldest friends, normally roped in to help with any and every social function they had put on between them over the years, were able to appreciate a glorious early autumn evening and share a bottle of wine, or two, most likely: Adele had planned in advance and the second was in the freezer, just in case they finished the first too quickly.
“Is your dress sorted now?” she asked. The order had been given that no-one was to wear blue, but only after Shaunna had been out and bought her outfit, which was bound to be the wrong colour; if she’d bought a red outfit, then that would have been Eleanor’s choice too. These things always happened, maybe because they all knew each other so well.
“Yeah. I just swapped it for the green one,” Shaunna explained. Adele nodded. What this line of conversation was actually about was that she wanted to be questioned on her own outfit. Shaunna was aware of this and was struggling to pretend otherwise, but Adele looked ready to burst, so she relented.
“And how about yours? What colour did you go for in the end?”
“I’m glad you asked,” Adele breathed. She put her glass on the table and tottered back to the house, reappearing a few seconds later, clutching a burgundy faux-suede garment bag. Shaunna rolled her eyes and waited for ‘the reveal’.
“Ta-da!” Adele declared, freeing the short flowery dress and jacket. The dress was predominantly orange, with large pink roses, and the cropped, single-breasted jacket was of the same shade of pink.
“Oh, it’s very you,” Shaunna gushed. Adele held the dress, still on hanger, against her front and twirled.
“My shoes are the same as these,” she indicated to the black high-heeled wedges she was wearing, “only in pink, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Shaunna echoed. It was a lovely outfit, but it was one which only Adele could get away with, or maybe women under the age of nineteen who hadn’t had children. Adele carefully replaced the cover and took the dress back inside, satisfied with her friend’s response. On the way back, she switched on the garden lights and transferred the other bottle of wine to the fridge.
“So, are you all packed?”
“Nope,” Shaunna replied in a flippant tone.
“Me neither.” Adele was about to elaborate further when her mobile phone sounded. She squinted at the screen. “Message from Jess.”
“Really?”
“She’s coming round, it says.”
“I bet you anything it’s to do with her wedding outfit.”
“Yeah, it is.” She handed the phone to Shaunna to let her read the rest of the message herself.
“She bought a blue one too. How funny.” She handed the phone back. Adele sent a response and swapped her phone for her glass.
“I told her to bring some more wine,” she said. Shaunna nodded.
“Good idea.”
George was straddled across three foot of loft space, a leg on either side of the water tank, unable to move backwards or forwards for fear of putting his foot through the ceiling below. Between them they had six suitcases; they knew this because they’d spent the past two hours wracking their brains, trying to remember where any of them were. So far, they’d located one: on top of the wardrobe in what was now George’s room, but wasn’t when it was put there, hence long enough for it to essentially be rendered invisible. As for the others: they could be anywhere at all, but, George suggested, the loft seemed the most likely place.
Needless to say, Josh claimed to know exactly where they were, but there was no way he was climbing up there. The bravest he could manage on that score was to get far enough up the ladder to reach through the hatch and deposit old case notes; if he ventured any further he’d need the fire brigade to come and help him down again. So, his contribution to finding the suitcases consisted of standing on the fifth rung up and shining a torch into the furthest recesses of the roof space, in the vain hope that it might somehow pick out the distinctive silhouette of a suitcase lurking in amidst the scratchy insulation material. Under the circumstances, he found the suggestion of buying a replacement wholly unacceptable, even if George went to buy it on his own. It was wasteful and unnecessary; they just needed to try harder, that’s all. However, George had cramp in both calves and a bump forming from where he’d bashed his head on a rafter, and was beginning to feel very much not in the mood for trying harder. He took one final, long look around, declared mission unaccomplished and carefully tightrope-walked his way back along the beam to the hatch. Josh pointed the torch upwards, lighting up his companion’s thunderous expression to dramatic effect. He clambered back down the ladder and waited.
“I don’t care what you have to say about it. I’m going to buy another suitcase tomorrow,” George stated. Josh waited to see if there would be any further justification for this assertion, but there wasn’t. It didn’t really matter that much, yet somehow, like most things
of late, the mystery of the missing luggage had been blown out of all sensible proportion. The holiday, for want of a more appropriate name for it, was still two weeks away—plenty of time for further searching—but the decision had been made for him once again and if it had been anyone else (other than Ellie, perhaps, but even then) it would have annoyed him. George’s bossiness was a revelation, in spite of knowing each other for thirty years, and he rather liked it, if he was completely honest. After so long living alone, making all of the decisions for himself, it was good to have someone with whom to share the responsibility.
By the time Josh folded away the loft ladder and made it back downstairs, George was sitting on the sofa, flicking through TV channels. Not another word was said about the suitcases.
All of the other stemmed glasses Adele owned were of a normal size, so Jess settled on a pint glass: a sensible move, considering she’d arrived with two boxes of wine. She’d also brought with her three different, brand new dresses, leaving the original choice of blue at home. Now they were laid out on the patio table, while Adele gave each a thorough analysis. The first of the three was very much like her own, in pattern but not design, for it was a swirling floor-length affair, with cupped sleeves and buttons all down the front. This was Jess’s least favourite, although Shaunna liked it the most. The second was grey and lilac with a faint pin-stripe through it and was quickly dismissed as being too dull and a potential clash for whatever shade of blue Eleanor had in mind. The third was a very slinky number, in deep orange and red, with a slit right up the side. This was declared perfect for the reception, but not the ceremony, so it came down to a choice between number one or yet another shopping trip. Jess shoved the three dresses back in their bag and dumped them on the floor. She’d quite had enough of trying on clothes that she wouldn’t normally wear and it made her realise just how far she’d come. Not so long ago she’d have been delighted to take any excuse to go shopping; nowadays she was happy to go with a best fit, so it was looking like the swirly, ankle-length frock. Decision made, she settled back with her friends to drink too much wine and discuss the wedding.
The Harder They Fall Page 1
