Fast Flight

by George Ivanoff

  About the Book

  A high-octane adventure series for children written in partnership with the Royal Flying Doctor Service

  A chance for a new lease on life means the stakes are high on this flight!

  Dillon loves playing cricket and is forever getting in trouble for his messy room. He’s just a normal kid – except for the fact that he has a rare genetic disorder and desperately needs a liver transplant. Finally, the call that Dillon and his family have been waiting for comes. But it’s 12.30 am and Dillon needs to get from his home in Adelaide to the hospital in Melbourne. An urgent flight with the Royal Flying Doctor Service is the only option.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  A Brief History of the RFDS

  Real-Life Midnight Flight

  Patient Transfers

  Phonetic Alphabet

  Extract from Royal Flying Doctor Service: Remote Rescue

  Other Books in the RFDS Series

  Copyright Notice

  For Brendan Wells, whose real-life story inspired this fictional tale. – G. I.

  Four years ago …

  ‘Dillon squinted into the light. Otherworldly light! He could feel the power flooding over him. Through him. Dillon blazed through time, speeding into the far distant future. As he stepped out of the time-travelling light box, he gazed in awe at the fantastic world around him.’

  ‘What did I see?’ asked Dillon, quivering with excitement.

  ‘There were impossibly tall buildings, flying cars and hover shoes,’ continued Dad. ‘Everyone looked happy. Everyone looked healthy. Because in this future world, there was no illness or disease. The clever doctors had fixed it all.’

  Dillon smiled up at his dad. ‘I like this story best.’

  ‘I think I do, too,’ said Dad. ‘I like imagining you as a time traveller.’

  ‘I like imagining a future world with no sickness,’ added Dillon.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Dad quietly. ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘Is there more?’ asked Dillon, anticipation plain on his face. ‘What do I do in the future?’

  ‘Oh, you have lots of adventures, of course,’ said Dad, getting back into storytelling mode.

  ‘Tell me, tell me,’ pleaded Dillon.

  ‘Well, it seemed that Dillon wasn’t the only time traveller,’ continued Dad. ‘He was followed into the future by the super villain Bilirubin, who had sinister plans to take over the galaxy. It was up to Dillon and his almighty light box to save the day …’

  Four years later …

  Dillon squinted into the light. Otherworldly light!

  He remembered the tales Dad would tell him when he was younger. But he was eleven now. He could make up his own stories.

  Sometimes he imagined he was journeying to a distant planet. Or that the light was part of a time-travelling device, whisking him off into the future. Or that it would give him powers – make him different in a good way. In his mind, the light could do anything he wanted.

  But reality was very different. In real life, he needed the light to make him ordinary. To stop his skin from being too yellow. To help his body get rid of the toxic bilirubin.

  Bilirubin. It really did sound like a super villain from a sci-fi movie.

  Although Dillon would still make up stories about his unusual situation, they no longer had the calming effect they used to. But at least they were a distraction.

  He shook his head to clear his thoughts and looked at the book in his hands. Try as he might, he just couldn’t concentrate on it today. He closed his copy of The Time Machine and put it on the surrounding ledge.

  He sighed as he glanced around. The timer was counting down the hours, minutes and seconds. He still had forty-five minutes to go.

  Dillon was sitting in a light box, wearing nothing but underwear. His one metre square space was enclosed by four walls, reaching to the height of one and a quarter metres – just up to his head when seated on his little plastic stool. Each wall was made of four Perspex boxes, and each box contained two long ultraviolet lamps. The whole setup had been constructed especially for him by a medical technician from the Women’s and Children’s Hospital in Adelaide. It was a bit bright, but Dillon was used to it. After all, he’d been under the light for a portion of every day for eleven years, four months and thirteen days.

  ‘Under the light.’ That’s how Dad referred to it. Dillon preferred to think of it as being in the light.

  The walls were a bit like shelving units, with a flat surface that created a ledge. There was enough room to put stuff there. Stuff to keep him busy while he sat in the light box for four to six hours every day. Across the ledge today were a short stack of books, two sets of Lego, a model of a Royal Flying Doctor Service aeroplane, some DVDs, a laptop computer and, as always, the digital timer, its glowing green numerals counting down the minutes.

  Dillon had a love/hate relationship with the timer. He despised it for the endless moments spent in the light box. But he loved it when the numbers got below an hour. He would sneak glances at the timer from the corner of his eye. He would groan and growl at it when it seemed to be moving too slowly. He would smile at it, when it showed less than what he expected. He had even been known to punch the air with a triumphant ‘YES!’ when it got to zero.

  He glared at it now, willing it to go faster. Then he looked away, his eyes drawn to the model aeroplane. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. If he were younger he might have flown it through the air around his head, making engine noises. Instead, the flight took place in his mind. He gave the plastic propeller a spin then put the model down again.

  What am I going to do now? Dillon sighed. Maybe I could watch a DVD?

  His eyes scanned the movies Dad had placed there for him. Mostly cartoons. Dillon sighed again, bigger and louder and huffier.

  I’m not a little kid anymore, he thought. I’m almost twelve.

  His eyes came to rest on Star Wars Episode III. He groaned.

  Why just put one of the Star Wars films? And why number three? Dad knows I like to watch them in order.

  He slotted the DVD into the laptop anyway. He had seen the movies often enough that he could even quote the dialogue in many of the scenes.

  As the film played, his mind wandered again. This time … to the reality of his situation.

  The cold, hard facts filled his brain. He had spoken to so many doctors over the years. He had spent hours on the Internet researching his condition. And from a very young age, he had done a lot of eavesdropping.

  Adults have this thing about sugar-coating the truth for kids. They find ways of making bad things seem not as bad. But when they are alone, or they think that kids aren’t listening … well, that’s when the truth comes out. Complicated and devastating.

  Once at a specialist appointment – after he had been examined, after he had answered the cheery doctor’s questions, after he had been given a lollipop and told to go out into the waiting room to play – the door wasn’t completely closed. Everyone thought he couldn’t hear.

  That was the first time he heard the words Crigler-Najjar Syndrome.

  Even back then, when he didn’t know what it meant, it had sounded sc
ary.

  But that’s what he had – Crigler-Najjar Syndrome, or CNS for short.

  Dillon had been born with this rare genetic disorder. So rare, that less than one in a million people had it. The syndrome affected his liver. It was unable to process and get rid of a toxin called bilirubin. Bilirubin was in everyone’s bodies. It was a by-product created by the breakdown of old red blood cells. But unlike Dillon, normal people had livers that worked properly and removed the toxin from the body. The bilirubin would build up inside Dillon, making him sick – and if it wasn’t removed, it would kill him.

  That’s why he had to sit in a light box. It wasn’t ordinary light, it was ultraviolet. This type of light was able to get rid of the bilirubin by dissolving it. The problem was, more of it kept building up.

  The other thing about CNS was that it made you look weird.

  Dillon didn’t have any white in his eyes. His black pupils and blue irises floated in a wishy-washy egg-yellow sea. His skin was also yellow-tinged. People were always staring at him or asking him questions.

  Why are you so yellow?

  What’s wrong with your eyes?

  Are you sick?

  Are you some sort of freak?

  People didn’t realise how much their comments could hurt.

  Back in his light box, Dillon could feel himself getting anxious. His heart was beating a little faster than normal. His palms were slightly tacky. And his mouth was dry.

  He hated being different. He wished more than anything that he could be like everyone else.

  But wishing didn’t work. He knew that way too well.

  Dillon remembered wishing with all his might …

  Two years ago, when Dillon was nine, he had come very close to disaster.

  ‘You look like custard,’ one boy teased. ‘Custard Face!’

  ‘Or mustard,’ said the other boy with a snigger.

  ‘Mustard custard!’ said the first boy.

  The two looked at each other, then shouted in unison, ‘Mustard custard!’ They fell about laughing.

  School was over for the day. He shouldn’t have to put up with this anymore. Dillon tried to walk away, but they followed, pointing and taunting. He sped up.

  Dillon could feel eyes upon him as he raced through the schoolyard. He was often looked upon with ridicule or with pity. Both were equally bad. Some kids made fun of him. Others felt sorry for him. Some didn’t care. But everyone knew that he was different.

  Dillon felt the sting of tears in his own eyes. He sprinted out of the grounds and down the street.

  He ran and ran. He didn’t really think about where he was going. But it wasn’t home. He just wanted to escape – to exhaust his frustration and get it out of his system. His feet pounded on the footpath, his breath heaved in and out and his mind whirled with a confusion of emotions.

  He had become pretty good at ignoring what people said about him – to him. But it still hurt, even when he didn’t show it. It was hard to conceal what he felt; sometimes he couldn’t help reacting. Things had been building up for a few weeks, ever since those two new boys had shown up.

  And now he let it all out. Dillon shouted as he ran – a loud, mournful wail.

  An elderly man, pruning his roses, glared at Dillon. A lady pushing a pram on the other side of the street stared as he ran past.

  Dillon ran off the footpath and across the expanse of green before collapsing under a tree. He leaned against the trunk, gasping for air, and cried.

  He wasn’t sure how long he was there for, but his eyes were sore and his throat raspy by the time the tears dried up. He pulled a crusty old tissue out of his pocket and wiped his nose.

  Finally looking around, Dillon discovered that he was in a park. The leafy trees and the grass beneath made him feel calmer.

  I wish I was like everyone else, he thought.

  Dillon liked stories. He enjoyed books and films with fantastical plots and impossible things. But he was pretty good at keeping grounded. He knew the difference between fantasy and reality. He knew what his situation was and he knew his disorder wouldn’t just go away.

  But, right now, he closed his eyes and wished anyway. It was a desperate, heartfelt, aching wish, whispered on a breath.

  I wish to be normal.

  Of course, it did not come true.

  He opened his amber eyes and stared at his jaundiced skin, contrasted against the dark blue of his school uniform. He was very yellow.

  Dillon’s heart skipped a beat.

  He was too yellow.

  When he was younger, his parents had used a handheld device called a bilirubinometer to measure the amount of toxin in his system. Based on the readings, they knew how much time he had to spend under the lights. But, over the years, they had become pretty good at judging things by the colour of his skin. Looking at his skin now, Dillon knew that he needed more light.

  He stared up at the dark, brooding sky. It had been overcast since morning. Without any sun during the day, he would normally go under the lights as soon as he came home after school.

  Dillon realised he had no idea what time it was. How long had he been out here? How much time under the lights had he already missed? With storm clouds covering the sky, there was no sun to give him a hint as to how long he’d been in the park. He looked around and realised he didn’t even know where he was. He rarely went out on his own. The five-minute walk between home and school was usually it.

  I better find my way home, he thought.

  He jumped to his feet. His head felt light and he stumbled, sitting down again, hard. He felt tired and a little unwell. He had not had enough UV light today and the excess bilirubin was beginning to have an effect on him.

  He got up slowly and glanced around. He had to get home. Fast! But which way?

  A drop of rain hit him on the nose.

  Dillon looked up.

  Larger drops splattered onto his face and thunder rumbled in the distance. As Dillon headed for the houses beyond the trees, the rain fell in earnest. It was a downpour. It only took seconds for him to be soaked to the skin.

  Stumbling from the greenery onto the street, Dillon squinted. He didn’t recognise the name on the street sign. The houses were unfamiliar.

  Dillon’s heart raced as panic set in.

  What if I can’t find my way home? What if I don’t get to the light? I’ll get sick. I could die.

  Dillon sobbed, unable to decide which way to go. A wave of dizziness washed over him and he realised how tired he was. His legs felt weak and his arms hung limp at his sides.

  Is this how it starts? he wondered.

  He had never missed a session under the lights before. He wasn’t sure what would happen. But he knew it was bad.

  Dillon remained standing in the middle of the road, rooted to the spot, shivering.

  What am I going to do?

  Lights approached, cutting through the dank remains of the day. They were blurry and indistinct, but they moved towards him.

  Headlights!

  A car pulled up.

  There were voices.

  And then there were arms around him. Hugging him. Lifting him and bringing him into the car.

  It took Dillon a few moments to realise that his parents had located him. Somehow they had found him.

  And then he was clinging on to them, as if he might lose them if his grip were too weak.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he sobbed.

  The memory still gave Dillon chills.

  His parents had rushed him home, dried him off and put him in the light box.

  The next day there was a visit to the doctor and a hearing check. Excess bilirubin could collect around the brainstem. The first effect would be on hearing. So regular six-monthly hearing checks were a part of Dillon’s life. After finding him at the park, so much more yellow than usual, an extra hearing check seemed like a good idea. Thankfully, everything had been okay.

  Dillon swallowed. Hard. He shifted uncomfortably on the plastic stool in his light
box.

  What would have happened if his hearing had been affected? If the build-up of bilirubin had continued? Deafness would have been the next stage. And then his intellectual development would have been affected. And then …

  Dillon took a deep breath and shuddered. He didn’t want to think about it.

  Dillon knew he wasn’t like everyone else. He knew there was no point in wishing to be normal.

  He tried to focus instead on what made him feel good – his home.

  Dillon lived in a street called Faith, which was in a suburb called Hope Valley. The suburb belonged to the City of Adelaide, in the state of South Australia, in the country of Australia, which was in the Asia–Pacific region of the planet Earth. That planet was in a relatively small solar system within the Milky Way galaxy, which was but a small part of the greater Universe. Of course, beyond that was the theoretical multiverse with all its parallel realities.

  That’s how Dillon liked to think of where he lived. It made him feel part of something infinitely larger than him. It allowed him to imagine that maybe his situation, his problems, his genetic disorder, were actually not as big and all-consuming as they often felt.

  His location made him feel alive.

  Hope Valley was a leafy area with trees and parks, and although the grass often browned and dried in the hot summer months, it would always return. And Dillon was only a few streets away from a reservoir. If you looked it up on Google Earth, which he often did, you would see the splash of blue encased in greenery. Blue and green. Water and vegetation. The colours of life.

  Dillon had done a lot of exploring, both online and in real life, after his running away incident. He’d decided he needed to know the area in which he lived like the back of his hand so that he’d never get lost again. He liked that phrase, ‘like the back of his hand’. It often appeared in stories, and this was something from a story that he could apply to real life.