‘What did she take?’ demanded the elder of the two, a grizzle-headed man with a deeply lined face.
Macmillan held out the bottle.
‘Scorbital,’ said the paramedic. ‘Was it full?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Macmillan. ‘I wasn’t here when she took it.’
‘Shit!’ swore the younger man, who had a mop of fair hair. ‘A pump job?’
‘Yeah,’ replied the other. ‘Let’s get her into the bedroom. You,’ with a glance at Macmillan, ‘stay here.’
The two medics took the girl and their equipment into the bedroom and shut the door.
The policeman, a heavy-jowled sergeant, had dropped into a chair and was shoving a piece of gum into his mouth while contemplating his notebook moodily.
‘Okay, mister,’ he said. ‘Let’s have it. Your name first.’
Macmillan told him.
‘Who is the OD?’
Macmillan gave details.
‘What’s your relationship to the OD?’
Macmillan hesitated.
‘A friend.’
‘Okay. How did it happen?’
Macmillan chewed his lip a moment as he tried to think the story out.
‘I wasn’t here. It was an … an accident. She rang me half an hour ago saying that she had been having trouble sleeping and was taking some pills which hadn’t worked. She told me that she had taken some more and that she wasn’t feeling too good. She realised that she must have taken an overdose. That’s why she rang me. I got over here as fast as I could and then rang the Medical Centre.’
The policeman looked at him suspiciously.
‘An accident, you say?’
He made some more notes.
The bedroom door opened and a medic came out. It was the fair one.
‘How is she?’ demanded Macmillan.
The medic sighed and pulled out a packet of Lucky Strike, lighting one up and inhaling deeply.
‘Cigarettes can ruin your health,’ he said conversationally. ‘I must give them up sometime but not on this job. How is she? She’ll survive. She’ll wake up with one hell of a stomach-ache tomorrow but she’ll survive.’
Macmillan gave a sigh of relief.
‘You got the details, sarge?’
The policeman handed his notebook to the paramedic who read it through and nodded. He pulled out his own notebook and made some notes, then he handed the policeman’s notebook back.
‘Seems straightforward this time,’ said the man. ‘You’d be surprised how some of these OD cases turn out — real complications.’
He glanced at the bedroom.
‘You through in there, Charlie?’
The elderly man came out with the equipment.
‘Yeah; all through.’
Macmillan looked at them in surprise.
‘Is that it?’ he asked.
The elderly man chuckled.
‘What else is there? We’ve cleaned her out. She’ll sleep, maybe twelve hours if she’s lucky. When she wakes up she’ll feel lousy. Just give her liquids for the next twenty-four hours and then she’ll be as right as anyone else on this goddam lousy planet.’
Macmillan nodded dumbly.
‘Oh, and mister, I presume you will be staying with her for the next twenty-four hours? Yeah? Well she should see her own doctor or go to a clinic as soon as she feels up to it.’
They all trooped out, slamming the door and leaving Macmillan with a tremendous sense of unreality.
He went across to the bedroom and peered in. The girl was lying hunched up in the blankets on the bed. She looked pale and pathetic. Macmillan suddenly remembered her frightened, hurt animal look and shook his head. What was Claire Ashton’s problem; what was twisting her up? He switched off the bedroom light and went to the kitchenette to make himself some coffee.
*
‘You are behaving very strange of late,’ remarked Samantha Hackerman as she placed a plate of pasta in front of Jules Keller. They had just returned to Keller’s apartment after seeing a late-night movie show and Samantha had produced a spaghetti supper. Keller glanced at her almost furtively, Samantha thought.
‘What do you mean, Sam?’ he countered defensively.
‘I don’t know what I mean,’ she admitted. ‘Ever since you came back from Montreal … well, you seem so preoccupied.’
Keller forced a grin.
‘I’m sorry, love. It’s just that Van Kleef has been on my back a bit lately. You know, a few design problems to be sorted out before the Albatross makes its first test flight next week.’
He picked up his fork and began to tuck into the plate of spaghetti as though the subject were closed. Samantha sighed. The last really serious conversation she and Jules had had was when he had mentioned his idea of going to Europe on an extended holiday. Since she had pointed out the practical difficulties, Jules had not discussed the plan again. Recently he appeared almost totally absorbed in his work — which seemed a little out of character with his usual easy-going manner. Well, she supposed he was getting uptight along with everyone else. The entire project staff were feeling apprehensive as the day approached when the Albatross was due to make her first flight.
‘You seem far away.’
She glanced up from her food and found Jules gazing at her thoughtfully.
‘Yes,’ she smiled. ‘I was just thinking — only a few days before the Albatross lifts off for the first time. That’s going to be a lot of extra work for me in dealing with the press and public.’
‘Have you thought any more about my suggestion — about coming with me to Europe?’
The question startled her by its unexpectedness.
‘Not really,’ she admitted. ‘I just don’t see how we can afford it.’
A ripple of anger crossed Jules Keller’s face.
‘I told you to leave that part of it to me. All you have to do is make the decision. You can’t imagine that I’m sticking with this project much longer. I want my freedom. I don’t want to spend my days as a minor anonymous cog in a big wheel. I want to be able to breathe.’
She gazed at him in surprise for a moment.
‘Isn’t that what everyone is working for — freedom in some form or another?’
‘Yeah? Well, with most people it’s just an illusion, a dream. With me … well, you’ll see what I mean.’
He fell silent and returned to his food. For some time Samantha, puzzled, continued to study him from the corner of her eye.
*
A groan from the bedroom caused Danny Macmillan to set down his coffee cup and stride across to the door. Claire Ashton lay on her back, one hand across her eyes, shielding them from the sunlight which now streamed into her uncurtained bedroom window. The paramedics had been right. She had slept almost twelve hours. She groaned again.
‘Hi,’ said Macmillan. ‘Do you want a glass of water?’
‘I feel awful,’ moaned the girl. She removed her hand and tried to focus on his face.
He moved to the bedside, poured a glass of water from a jug and handed it to her. She took a gulp and heaved.
‘Oh God! My stomach!’
Macmillan looked sympathetic.
‘It’s going to hurt for the next twenty-four hours,’ he said. ‘Take it easy, huh?’
Her face was a blotchy yellow colour, drawn and haggard; the eyes red-rimmed.
She frowned as she tried to focus on him again.
‘You’re not … you’re not … whatsisname.’
Macmillan smiled.
‘I’m Danny Macmillan. Remember me?’
She sank back against her pillows with a groan and closed her eyes.
‘I still have some of my faculties left. What happened to whatsisname?’
‘Mike Pullen?’
Macmillan gestured.
‘He took off like a bat out of hell when you overdosed yourself.’
Her eyes flickered open and for a moment her face blazed with anger.
‘Who says I overdosed myself?
’ she demanded harshly.
‘I do, for one,’ replied Macmillan calmly. ‘Pullen for another and the two paramedics who had to pump the muck out of your stomach.’
Her head jerked round. She stared at him with wide eyes and open mouth.
‘I can’t remember … I had my stomach … ?’
Macmillan nodded.
‘What happened?’
‘Pullen rang me last night. Said you had gone to the bathroom and thrown back a bottle of tablets. Scorbital, they were called. Mike was scared shitless because of his wife. I came over. He left. Then I called the Medical Centre and two paramedics and a policeman arrived. The medics pumped you clean while I told the policeman that it was all an accident.’
‘So your friend whatsisname was protected?’ she sneered.
It was the sort of attitude Macmillan expected.
‘No. So that you were protected until you have time to sort out your problem. Trying to make away with yourself is not looked kindly upon by the police in this country. And Pullen isn’t a friend of mine.’
‘So what?’ returned the girl. ‘What’s it to do with you or the police for that matter? I can do what I like. Leave me alone.’ Macmillan shrugged.
‘You’re right. If you want to kill yourself that’s your business.’
The telephone rang.
Macmillan went into the living-room and answered it. It was Mike Pullen.
‘Diane’s just gone out into the garden,’ he said breathlessly. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ the contempt in Macmillan’s voice was obvious. ‘She’s okay — just.’
There was relief in Pullen’s voice as he said: ‘That’s dandy. But Christ, Danny, we all knew the score about that dame. Anyway, you can tell that screwball to stay away from me in the future.’
‘You can count on it,’ replied Macmillan, putting down the receiver.
‘Who was it?’
Macmillan turned to see Clare framed in the doorway of the bedroom, holding unsteadily to one side of the door.
‘Pullen,’ he said.
She looked blank.
‘Whatsisname.’
‘Oh … good old whatsisname. Get me a drink.’
Macmillan shook his head.
‘Against medical advice.’
‘Damn medical advice!’ She lurched to the kitchen and poured herself a straight bourbon. Macmillan made no attempt to stop her as she swigged the neat alcohol.
‘I think you will be sorry in a minute,’ he said softly.
It was slightly less than a minute when she bent double and threw up.
Somehow Macmillan got her to the bathroom and, with a sigh of resignation, began to clean up the place. After a while he went into the bathroom. She was huddled over the sink sobbing with deep, retching sobs. The sound was so like an animal in pain that it made Macmillan shudder. He took her gently by the shoulders, then stooped and picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. It was like putting a child to bed. He tucked the clothes around her and sat silently in a chair by her, just holding her hand. It was some while before the sobbing died away and was replaced by stertorous breathing. She had cried herself to sleep.
Macmillan was making himself a sandwich in the kitchenette when she woke two hours later and moaned for some water. He cradled her head and held the glass to her lips, letting her have no more than a few sips. She gazed up at him with a troubled expression.
‘Why?’
He looked puzzled.
‘Why are you doing this?’
The question threw him. He had no answer. He had not even reasoned out his actions and concern to himself as yet. ‘Someone’s got to.’
‘That’s no answer,’ she replied. ‘Why you … after, well, after what happened between us?’
He grinned.
‘Nothing happened between us. Anyway, let’s say that I hate to see an attractive and intelligent woman flush herself down the tubes for no reason.’
She lay back on the pillows.
‘No reason?’ She smiled bitterly. ‘Ah well, to hell with reasons. To hell with everything. Nothing really matters. The whole damned world doesn’t matter.’
Instinctively, Macmillan reached forward and found her hand. ‘Listen to me, Claire. I want to help. Can’t you tell me what’s bugging you?’
She gazed at him, perplexed.
That brings me back to my first question. Why the hell would you want to help me?’
Macmillan reflected for a moment.
‘Because, Claire, you are a young, attractive and obviously intelligent woman and you have a problem which you don’t appear to be able to deal with. Whatever the problem is, you can’t resolve it by asking every goddam male in Portland to screw you and you can’t resolve it by opting out, by flushing yourself down the tubes with a bottle of whatever happens to be handy. I think I might be able to help you sort yourself out … if you let me be vour friend.’
‘Friend?’ she looked at him suspiciously. ‘Is that a long-winded way of saying that you want to get into bed with me?’
‘Dammit! No!’
You want to help me and yet you don’t want payment in kind?’
There was an incredulous note in her voice.
‘Your experience with men must be very limited, Claire,’ he said sadly. ‘But everyone who does something for you does not necessarily have to do it because they want to lay you.’
She sneered.
That’s been my experience. People use people. What’s your angle?’
‘As soon as I figure one out I’ll let you know.’
Claire stared at him for a moment and then smiled slightly.
‘Alright, friend,’ she said. ‘Will you do me a favour?’
‘Sure — what?’
‘Can you make me a cup of tea — English tea?’
Macmillan grinned.
‘I can try but I won’t guarantee the result.’
Claire Ashton’s mouth drooped wistfully.
‘No one can guarantee anything in this damned awful life, Mr. Danny Macmillan,’ she said softly.
Chapter Nine
It seemed that the entire world was there to watch the first flight of the Albatross. By six o’clock in the morning the streets around the Anglo-American project site were crowded with spectators, many from out of state, all eager to catch a glimpse of the gigantic airship. Police were already trying to cope with numerous traffic jams as enthusiastic people tried to park their cars as near to the site as possible. Television cameras were everywhere: NBC, ABC, PBS and CBS crews dominated the television platforms while foreign camera crews struggled for the remaining good angles of view. There were also special facilities for the fourteen local radio station commentators, many of whom found themselves being broadcast nation-wide, and crowds of other press representatives were vying for places. Samantha Hackerman and her press team had been working overtime to provide the special facilities and information. It had been decided that no press men would be allowed on the airship during its first flight. Only essential personnel and FA A and CAA officials were to be on board.
The first flight was to be a fairly short one. The airship would take off over Fore River and then turn northward up the coast to Newfoundland, leaving American airspace at Moncton, New Brunswick, one of the Canadians’ main air-traffic controller centres. Moncton would pass the airship on to Gander in Newfoundland and then the Albatross would turn back to Portland. If this short haul was successful after a few days the airship would make a second trip, this time to Washington carrying a full load of press, aviation officials and businessmen. The plan was to set her down at Andrews Air Force Base where the President would come on board and officially name the ship.
The weather experts had chosen the day of the first flight well. By nine o’clock there was not a cloud to be seen against the azure sky. The sun was quite hot. At a few minutes past nine, the great canvas shelter and network of construction girders were moved away from the airship by
tractors to provide more space for the lift-off. So far no one who stood outside the canvas shelter could see the colossus. Inside three specially constructed portable gangways were being towed away from the airship’s main entry ports, and the doors were closed as the last of the personnel went aboard. Then, at a given signal, the engines of the ship started to whine and the vectoring propellers lifted the massive aircraft, slowly, inch by inch, until it began to appear over the three-hundred-feet high canvas shelter.
There were screams and gasps and applause from the spectators as the sun glinted wickedly on the mammoth’s silver hide.
‘Imagine, imagine,’ a radio commentator was trying to capture the scene in words, ‘a giant beast, a monster, a dinotherian creature floating in the air which could swallow the QEII in its mighty maws … the world has seen nothing like this. Nothing. An immense, herculean, titanic … ’
He groped for endless synonyms.
Slowly upwards, almost blackening out the blue sky, the Albatross rose.
Charles Renard, sitting in Tanya Le Solliec’s apartment in Paris, watched the take-off on the television, a live broadcast over the satellite. He was far from happy as he saw the airship rise into the air over Portland.
‘Damn bastards!’ he muttered. ‘I thought Keller was supposed to be doing something about it. They’ve beaten us to the first test flight.’
Tanya glanced at him with a frown.
‘Who’s Keller, ma mie?’
‘It’s not important,’ Renard replied, concentrating his gaze on the television. He studied the vectoring propeller system as it allowed the ship to rise into the sky, accompanied by an enthusiastic commentary from a French reporter. There was excitement in his voice as he described the main features of the aircraft and its commercial potential. Renard bit his lips in annoyance as the man made no mention of the Charles de Gaulle or the French developments in the field.
On the television screen the airship rose spectacularly to a height of a thousand feet and then its propellers ceased abruptly. It stopped, floating motionless, hanging in the sky like some strange vessel from another planet. Then slowly, majestically, the mammoth silver cigar-shape began to move away.
Airship Page 21
