Flight

by Adam Thorpe

  There was a pause. He mustn’t comment.

  ‘You can have David’s room,’ she said in a posher voice than usual.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Are you still dripping?’

  ‘I’ve stopped,’ she said. ‘But there’s a mark.’

  ‘Sorry. All my fault.’

  Instead of saying something like, ‘Exactly, it always is,’ in a tone he used to love because it was funny and sardonic, she ignored his remark. She was just being efficient. Her shop voice. Holier Than Thou.

  The voice said, ‘I’m moving, by the way.’

  ‘Moving?’

  ‘I’ve had enough of the Worcestershire malaise.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘West. To Shropshire. I don’t want to be actually in Wales. We need to discuss what we’re deciding.’

  ‘Nice idea,’ Bob said. He knew the area from the odd holiday they’d spent in their early London days: Clun, the Long Mynd, hiking across the heathery Stiperstones. ‘But you told the solicitor you were deeply attached to the house.’

  ‘So? It’s in my name and I can do what I like with it. It’s got too many painful memories. It’s a weight.’

  ‘Nice painful, I hope.’

  Bob decided not to point out that, technically, the house was still his. She was doing no more than he was: planning the future on the rubble of the past. As for the shop, he would be sharing its debts, but they were minor. The agent was in negotiation with a kebab chain.

  ‘When you come,’ she went on, ‘remind me to give you some pots of wimberry jam. And you can mend the tap in the kitchen. It drips. I don’t trust plumbers.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t trust them an inch,’ he said. She was softer, almost back to normal. ‘When would suit—’

  ‘Oh, look,’ she interrupted. ‘Can you hold a minute? There’s someone at the door.’

  ‘I’m holding,’ he said to the clatter of the receiver. ‘Burning holes in the sky. Piece of cake.’

  This was not like divorce in the films: he’d even imagined them having another crack, later. It had happened to friends of his. But the idea of Celandine House soon being up for sale, having absorbed so much of his life, let alone his earnings, was somehow disturbing. He could get rid of the Crowthorne flat without a qualm, but the house was where they’d brought up the kids, made a go of everything.

  When she got back a few minutes later, she was brisk but jolly. They agreed he would come round this Saturday, when she would be in (the flag flying, as he almost joked). Their goodbyes were amicable.

  He felt fairly annoyed with Olivia. She knew that calling his stuff ‘junk’ would annoy him. Why did she want to annoy him? So that he would lose his cool and she could go to her solicitor and say, ‘He’s aggressing me.’

  It was a close-run thing. Although pilots keep their cool in emergencies, delays on the tarmac can get their blood pressure up to stroke level. And that’s when they make mistakes, smudge procedures, move with the bridge still attached. Not recommended. His own solicitor had warned him that provocation was habitual in divorce cases, although it generally made no difference to the court’s decision concerning the ancillary settlement. This was the kind of lingo being used about his marriage, his private life, his Olivia.

  And he thought he’d heard a male voice in the background; she wouldn’t have answered the door in her towel. He hadn’t wanted to probe: probing had just gone badly with Al, for a start. Mike the carpenter. Thatchers were a danger too. The bilingual masseur had long found other bodies to master.

  I’m not the probing type, he decided. But at least he could tell Sharansky in all sincerity that he had tried. That none of the crew were aware of the in-flight smack. Would that be enough to remove his name from the Podgorica piece?

  Somehow, he doubted it. It felt too easy. He should get in touch with Hans ‘ex-Swissair’ Schmitt, at least. A touch risky, in the circs, but why should anyone else know? They couldn’t know everything. And the man himself was no squealer. He scrolled up Schmitt and called him.

  Nothing, just a non-operational buzz.

  He wasn’t dead; he’d just changed his number. Al would have his fresh coordinates. But Al had said, in so many words, disengage. On the other hand, Al wasn’t his skipper. He didn’t have to obey. That was just Al stepping out of rank.

  The next day he got himself a Hotmail account under the name Mad Hound and found a couple of freight-dog Web forums that seemed well attended. Within twenty-four hours, his question had been answered. Pedro Diez (‘El Cid’) was flying cars for IQS out of Hanover and had spotted the authentic 007 Aston Martin palleted in a warehouse somewhere; Hans Schmitt was currently in and out of Saudi Arabia for a cargo outfit wet-leasing mainly to Syngenta, carrying pharmaceuticals, pesticides, what have you.

  The outfit, called Speedstrap Ltd, gave him ex-Swissair’s new mobile number. Hans Schmitt answered straightaway. Typically, he didn’t seem surprised to hear from Bob. There was something else, though: a coolness that bordered on the frosty. Of course, the skipper had walked out on his crew. Bob filled him in on the last two years. Hans replied monosyllabically. Soft music in the background, Arab voices.

  ‘Yeah,’ Bob continued regardless, ‘I’m sorry about walking out on you, but it didn’t smell right. I hope it paid handsomely. What did you think of the coffee at Turkmenbashi?’

  ‘Why are you calling?’

  Good question. He was calling because a two-bit left-wing journalist had blackmailed him. But he could hardly ask the guy whether he’d noticed some brown sugar in the empty hold.

  ‘Listen, Hans. Someone’s putting the heat on me about this trip. Because I was skipper on the first leg. Did you come back from Turkmenland empty?’

  ‘Who’s putting you the heat?’

  ‘The usual pain-in-the-arse campaigner.’

  ‘You want me to tell you all what I know about this two-days trip?’

  ‘If possible.’

  ‘Fuck nothing.’

  ‘As opposed to fuck all.’

  ‘Yeah, exactly.’

  ‘Hans, you flew the plane.’

  ‘I repeat, I know fuck nothing. I flew the plane, that’s all. These smiling guys in ties and suits came in the aircraft, gave out the brown envelopes, very friendly. We go back to Istanbul empty. That’s it. I was doing my job and I know how to do that.’

  ‘Are you sure she was completely empty?’

  There was a pause. The music was funky; there was laughter among the male voices. ‘Yeah,’ said Hans. ‘As far as I was observing. Why?’

  ‘This journo pain-in-the-arse thinks there was narcotics involved.’

  ‘In sport?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘He’s joking?’

  ‘No. Deadly serious.’

  ‘Drugs is not ever, ever our business. Eh?’

  Bob made an approving noise. Hans Schmitt worked cocaine and counterfeit tools, among other things, for mafia types. Or so the rumour went.

  Schmitt was piling on the blah. ‘He thinks we’re crazy? Drugs? That’s for idiots. I have to go. OK?’

  ‘I’ll tell him you know fuck nothing. And listen, Hans, take care. I was paid a visit in Dubai, knocked about a bit. Maybe Bensoussan’s heavies. Whoever.’

  ‘Really? Is that why you’re getting into touch with me now?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s why. Any more info? Mysterious packages? This guy Pedro Diez, your replacement skipper? It would really help.’

  ‘El Cid? So bad English I couldn’t understand a word of the procedures. Not even “tripfuel”.’

  Bob laughed. ‘OK, he’s Spanish.’

  ‘Mexican.’

  ‘Mexican? Wow. Pedro Diez is Mexicano, huh? Anything else?’

  ‘I’ll think about it. I’m with my friends here. We try to have fun during our boring job, yeah?’

  ‘We try to. Thanks, Hans. Call me some time this week. I’ve got until Friday.’

  ‘So long, skipper.’


  That was nice: skipper. Bob had been getting a bit worried there. He felt pleased with himself, scribbled down the points he’d garnered. Probing had its moments. He’d always loved detective movies. He remembered those long hauls to New Zealand in his early days, when pretty well all they talked about over the night-time oceans was Twin Peaks, the illuminated avionics turning the crew’s dim faces an eerie blue. ‘Oo-er, it’s evil Bob,’ someone would always say.

  He texted Sharansky to keep him quiet: ‘Probe ongoing. McAllister and Schmitt deny all knowledge of extra return cargo. Schmitt getting back with more info? Mystery man Diez a Mexican – interesting … No reply necessary or even desired. BW’

  On the side of the angels, as ever.

  8

  HE’D STARTED WORKING out in the local gym, with its overcrowded cardio equipment and its tattooed shaven-headed heavies. He was adding a plate on the free weights bar when he was struck by an unattractive thought.

  He skipped the sauna, went straight home on grumbling legs and googled ‘Celandine House’ and ‘For Sale’.

  There it was. He wiped his face with the towel and felt almost clever.

  ‘Breathtaking’, ‘distinguished’, ‘resplendent’, ‘rural’. He thought ‘resplendent’ was a touch exaggerated, while ‘breathtaking’ was simply untrue. ‘Rural’ was technically correct, but the photo failed to show the overlit access road to the estate, let alone the hum of the A4103. The orchard, exposed beams and mature garden were ‘features’. The price was disappointingly low.

  She had jumped the gun. Although the court was fully expected to approve their amicable settlement as a result of AIDS – aviation-induced divorce syndrome – this broke the rules. No wonder she’d wanted his ‘junk’ out of the place.

  However reasonably he broached the subject of the premature sale, she would scream at him. Then he remembered that he was seeing her anyway in two days’ time. He would turn up without a hired van and do some broaching. The house must be withdrawn until the settlement was approved, or they would find themselves in a legal quagmire. If she refused, he would call his solicitor.

  He rolled up in the Healey at the appointed time late on Saturday morning. There was no FOR SALE notice in sight. He was nervous, had chosen his clothes with care – smart jeans, new leather jacket – and brushed his teeth. He was going to be up close and personal and he realised this might be the last time ever. She’d stolen his heart and wouldn’t give it back.

  She had never treated him as captain, like everyone else. Not even when she was cabin crew (he wasn’t a skipper then, but it would have been the same). And Olivia liked to wear the stripes – all four of them. It was relaxing for Bob. He could come home and be ribbed, no longer in charge, no longer responsible; this was probably why, in the long list of her grievances, she cited his ‘absent-mindedness’. Or was he just exhausted, his night become day, and vice-versa? He liked her joshing him, knocking off his captain’s cap; it was touching, the way she sighed at his inability to hang out his washing correctly. It made him feel close to her, because she wasn’t bothering to pretend in front of him. In front of others, she was completely joined up: the perfect hostess from hors d’oeuvre to crumble; the svelte boutique owner; the elegant mother at the school play. Immaculate even in gardening gloves. Pan Am training, for God’s sake.

  The day was greyish, but not gloomy. Someone on the newish estate – more visible now the curtain of leaves had fallen, and the fruit trees were bare – was strimming his no doubt impeccable verges, hedge, leylandii, whatever. Either Olivia had got a new car or hers was in the garage and there was a visitor: a bright-red hatchback disturbed the overall effect of breathtaking, rural, and resplendent.

  He looked briefly at the orchard: the late apples were bright red or golden spots in a kind of chaparral of branches, while the purple-blue damsons had all been picked. There was the same fur of moss on the old stone bollard surviving at one end of the brick-laid antique terrace at the back of the house. The other bollard had been nicked just before bilingual Luke came along. Maybe it was now in Montreal.

  He stroked the moss, lost in his thoughts. All of a sudden Olivia appeared, looking slightly younger if anything: perhaps because she’d let her hair grow out, styled to curl on her umbilical neck. He felt like a trespasser.

  ‘Where’s the white van?’

  ‘Being treated for white van syndrome.’

  ‘Unfunny.’

  ‘I’ll explain inside. Over a cup of coffee?’

  ‘Uh-oh,’ she said, turning on her heel and leading him through the French windows at the back, her desirability enhanced by a long black clinging cotton sweater, her slim legs going on for ever in tight black trousers. Maybe she was planning his funeral.

  He was careful to remove his shoes, as she had a thing about that. The rear sitting room was bereft of the African art he’d brought back from his trips: bronze statues with exaggerated breasts or lifelike penises; masks with nasty teeth; naughty ivory. All gone – he assumed waiting for the white van. He found himself hovering instead of plonking down, as though he needed permission. He was a guest in his own house. It was still his own house. But the smell had changed: different wood in the fireplace? The low ceiling was whiter between the beams. Of course: the house was on show.

  He followed her into the kitchen, about to ask whether she’d changed her car.

  A man was at the sink, filling the electric kettle: the man said hello-o over his shoulder, in a way that was a mixture of friendly, terrified and contemptuous, then plugged the kettle in, wiggling the dicky connection Bob had never quite solved. For a moment he felt physically nauseous: the intruder wiggled it in the same way. At first Bob thought the man was in his early thirties, as the jet-black hair – clearly dyed – had a youthful, even boyish cut, and he wore jeans with zips in peculiar places and a T-shirt that said Sorry, not in service. But his face had the crumpled, used look of someone a lot older. Around Olivia’s age, Bob guessed: late forties.

  ‘This is Ben,’ she said. ‘He teaches in Tewkesbury.’

  ‘And I’m Bob, obviously. What do you teach?’

  ‘Art, mainly.’

  ‘Oh, right. A bit rough, Tewkesbury?’

  ‘Kids are manageable. It’s the parents’re the problem.’

  He sounded as though he’d spent years chipping away at a posh accent: the result was unconvincing. He opened the dishwasher and began loading it – wrongly, of course. Bowls where the plates should go, sharp knives pointing upwards, thirsting for wrists. They’d clearly had a late breakfast. The two of them. Bob inwardly winced as Ben slotted in a side plate crookedly.

  ‘You paint as well as teach?’

  ‘Nah, more video art.’

  Bob nodded, not being up with the times when it came to art, and changed the subject to apples.

  ‘Bumper crop,’ said Olivia.

  ‘Really fantastic,’ said Ben, dropping a teaspoon into the dishwasher’s belly and not retrieving it. He was clumsy.

  ‘Like last year,’ added Olivia.

  Bob felt the bumper crops were tied up with his two-year absence, so he didn’t comment. Instead, he thrust his hands into his leather jacket’s pockets and talked about the weather, as one does when inwardly bothered. His right hand found the Makarov, which he’d completely forgotten about, and he let it lie. He tended not to go out, now, without his old companion.

  Long ago, Bob had made the mistake of taking the kids, aged six, into Pratley’s, Worcester’s well-known china shop: the plates were stacked up in leaning towers down narrow passageways, cups and jugs had elbow-ready handles sticking out. The present conversation reminded him of those twenty minutes in the treasure trove of Pratley’s: nothing broken, in the end, but only by sheer luck.

  All the time he knew that it was utterly finished between Olivia and himself, for here was the new boyfriend. No last-minute pulling up, after all. The boyfriend taught art and would not have much money. He was connecting with Olivia’s creative side and no dou
bt her bank account, too – enjoying the cash that Bob had earned most of through day after night of often tricky flying. While he was facing down colonels of profoundly violent tendencies in some unfortunate part of the world, or struggling to find an unmarked strip in dense jungle with, say, a couple of armed Pilatus Porter bush planes out to shoot him down, this other man was running an art lesson in Tewkesbury, his biggest headache how to stop Darren flicking paint at Cindy.

  They would suit Shropshire, Bob kept thinking: a smallholding, long walks, hens.

  He thought he was being pretty agreeable. Olivia drew him into the back room on their own, to talk stuff over. She asked him why he was being so ‘hostile’. Bob wobbled his head, bewildered. ‘Going on about how you never did any art,’ she added.

  ‘I didn’t do any. You know why? I was distracted by the newspapers they covered the tables with, especially Titbits. It seemed more interesting than in the kiosk.’

  ‘He’s just a friend,’ she went on. ‘He’s not my lover.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a relief.’

  ‘Bob, I don’t think you’ve got the point. We’re separated. I’ve my own life and can do what I like with it. Stop judging me. Ben’s wife died of cancer two years ago and he’s struggling. His videos are really landscapes – they’re beautiful, light changing on fields and woods, that kind of thing. They’re not what you think.’

  ‘I didn’t think anything.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you did. Now, where’s the white van?’

  He squared his shoulders. ‘I’m not about to move my stuff anywhere until the court has approved the settlement. Meanwhile, I think it’d be a lot more sensible if you took our house off the market.’ Supposing Olivia died of cancer? He would be more than ‘struggling’.

  She looked startled for a moment. He explained that he had looked on Google and was a touch surprised. She scoffed, saying it took ages to sell anything, the market was crap, the settlement was all but signed and sealed. She was just getting a bit of headway. They’d had very few people round to look. Bob could hear Ben doing useful things in the kitchen. Maybe he was getting his paints out. No, tripod and camera. Bob stood and looked out on the garden and the orchard: pure autumnal gold. The lawn felt bereft without the kids running about squealing. But that was years ago. From about fourteen to when they’d left for uni, they’d sat indoors mostly, in front of screens.