Kingfisher

by Gerald Seymour

  Harvested by her fantasies, the rounded walls of the cabin burgeoned in on her, restricting and claustrophobic. Rebecca was not one to weep, not unless there was a sudden pain, but a deep depression swamped her as she lay on her side on the hardened seats. Always there had been a forest path or a side alley that was good for escape, and now nothing but the barricaded doors with their pressurized locks and the tiny windows with their reinforced glass.

  She called to David. 'Have you talked with them? Have you talked with the British?'

  'You were sleeping and we did not wish to wake you. We have talked to them.' Had only seen his back since she had woken, and now he turned his face to her. The night had not refreshed him.

  Haggard and unshaven, eyes dulled and deadened. Only the lines of sympathy at his mouth suggested he had news difficult to tell.

  'What did they say about the fuel?'

  'They said there would be none. That we should surrender. We would fly no further, they said.'

  'What do we do, David?' Simple, little more than a whisper, oblivious of the passenger behind who made his way to the lavatory.

  ' Isaac says we fight them.'

  'He said the same last night, before I slept, while you rested. What does that mean?'

  Isaac says we must make them listen to us, that we must show our strength.'

  'What strength do we have?'

  'Only the passengers. The guns are nothing - against us they have an army. There are only the passengers.'

  ' Isaac said last night that if we were hard with the passengers then the British would bend. He said they have done so in the past.

  'That is what Isaac believes.' David, remote and lost to her, listened to her questions, but his replies were mechanical.

  'What do you believe, David? Not what Isaac says, but what is your thought?' Those who are caught in the winter snows, hikers and climbers and those whose cars fail them, and lose the will to go on, and cannot maintain the fight, want only to sleep, the sure and certain way to death.

  David, uncaring, uninvolved. Had to raise him - lift him again before he was lost. 'You have to know what you want, David. You have your own mind.'

  ' I don't know. Believe me, I don't know. It was Isaac who thought of the plane as a way of escape. We all agreed and now we must stand with him.'

  'And they will kill us here, kill us in the plane?'

  ' Isaac thinks we can make them surrender to us. He has told them they have till ten o'clock. It is that on your watch now, but you have not allowed for the time difference. They have two more hours.'

  ' If they do not surrender by the time that you have given?'

  'Then we will shoot a passenger, where they can see it, where they will understand.' He motioned to another to come forward in the queue. They were discussing the passengers as would a collective manager and the responsible person from the abattoir. Rebecca sat up, reaching forward so that her fingers were on David's hand.

  'And if we shoot one and they still do not surrender?'

  'We shoot another. Isaac does not believe it will be easy. He has changed, our Isaac, has made himself of steel. He is the fighter. The last night we were in the hut I was angry, roused by him, because he thought that it was easy. He knows now what we face. A few days back, if you had asked me of

  Isaac, I would have said he was not capable of this strength

  'And you, David, where is your strength?'

  'Perhaps it was never present, perhaps it was just a figment, something we created. Remember when we were in the woods, when we talked, when we planned. It is different here, Rebecca.

  When we talked did you know it would end like this? Do you believe that I knew that it could end like this? Think, Rebecca, think and tell me if I knew the road that I was leading you on.'

  'You told us that we must fight them .. .'

  'Nothing but words, slogans, phrases. There was no reality there, nothing of the soldiers, the guns, or what has happened to Moses.'

  'Why are you saying this to me now?'

  'Because this is no time for deception. Past and gone, that moment. I talked us into coming here, Rebecca. I talked and you listened. You and Isaac and Moses, you all listened to me. That's why we are here.'

  'And now that we are here, you will fight?'

  He did not answer, as if the tiredness had come again, but just looked at her, as if she were new to him, and a stranger. Then the shrug and the smile, and pushing his fingers in his hair.

  'Take your gun, arm it, and go to the back. Check that the seat belts are fastened, that the passengers not in the queue are strapped in.'

  She walked forward, putting a swing in her hips that she told herself was the hallmark of command, face set, measured stride, pistol gripped. Find something to do, occupy yourself, make work and business, hasten the clock hands, that it might cut out the awfulness they had so casually discussed. Right to the back of the aircraft. Check the fastenings that Isaac had made last night and that held the trolley across the aisle, check them and re-check them, absorb time, use it and waste it, bury it and destroy it. What does a man or a woman . . .? Why think of a man, think of a woman, or a girl not yet an adult, not yet opened, penetrated, known . . . what does she do in the basement cells in the hours before they take her out and kneel her in the yard and place the policeman's pistol at the nape of her neck? Tortured, agonized, revolving mind, and how to occupy it, must find something that time shall be lost. Straps secure. Begin on the passengers.

  Some still with their hands raised because the order was never rescinded. Others ignoring the dictum now that it was not demanded and sitting with their arms folded and fists clenched on their knees. Some seeking comfort from the gesture, some defiance, some just to hide the stains at their trousers and skirts, those for whom the snail-like pace of the toilet queue had been intolerable.

  How few of them she knew, how few she would recognize if she walked past them on a pavement tomorrow. The American? Yes, she would remember him. The Italians? Perhaps, but not because of who they were, or what they stood for; only the ornaments, the cut of the clothes, the whispered conspiracy of their chatter. The schoolmasters and the headmaster? They would not fade because she had experience of such people. Would she know the pilot, sitting away to the front, never speaking since she had been ordered back from the flight deck, know her if they bumped into each other in the street at the bus halt, disputed the right to a purchase of stockings in the store, collided laden with bags at a street crossing? She did not know. Yet a choice must be made among them, that was what Isaac had told David, and he had not disagreed. Academic problem, should have taken it to the professor, perhaps he would have helped them, discussed it at a seminar. The tall one or the thin one, the fat one or the fidgeter, the foreigner or the . . . she pressed her lids tight shut, blocking the sight of the domed head rising above the seat rest. That was the one who had been chosen.

  It was the American whose voice she heard.

  'Not much going on out there, Miss, just tanks and soldiers. Not much action from the petrol tankers. Not like they're about to refuel you.'

  Never had been able to stare him through, she thought, not from the first time, and not now.

  Couldn't muster the scorn or the indifference, not from the time she'd first been aware of his presence, and the foreign brightness and ebullience of his garments. Handkerchief still at his head - not needed now, but worn proudly as a trophy, stain showing and somewhat awry, so that the wound it was supposed to hide

  was partly visible. Wife's hand at his arm, counselling caution, and ignored.

  'Nearly a dozen hours since we touched down. They'd have filled you by now if they were going to. Don't you think so, Miss?'

  A frosted, splintered-ice smile and even with the strangeness of the language and the difficulties she had in following his words She could touch the changing mood, the spirit of aggression and attack. 'They've screwed you, Miss, screwed you proper. I'll take a bet with you, and any money you have and g
ive you odds if you know what that means - they're saying the glory ride is over, right? Time to come out with your hands high. Do I have it right, Miss?'

  Couldn't draw away from him, couldn't detach from the hydra tentacles that kept her listening.

  'You're all fucked up, Miss, if you and Felicity Anne will excuse me. Out in the punt and without a paddle. Listen to me now: I couldn't give a damn what you've done back home, what you think your grievances are, if you have any. You've a nice face and you're a good- looking girl, and when you're my age you notice these things. I'd like to give you some advice, Miss.' The pistol in her hand, foolish little appendage, nowhere to put it, nowhere to hide it, felt like a man with his wife's handbag and loath to be seen carrying it, a silly awkward little machine, but which was her lifeline and her survival rope. 'My advice is this, Miss. Find out what the British are going to do with you. I'm an old man and Felicity Anne's no chicken, and no one gives a damn about us in the States - don't read a word I write, only hire me for the lecture circuit because I'm offseason and cheap - so we're not that interested in how we come out of all this. I'm telling you - and I mean it, it's in your interests - find out what they're going to do to you, and if it doesn't seem too bad, then chuck it, throw the towel in. Don't go playing the martyr because if you give them half a chance they'll chop you, and it won't be fun, it won't be glorious and you won't be around to see if anyone weeps over your box. That's what I want to say to you, Miss, and it's meant kindly, and while you're asking them see if you can talk the Brits into sending some food up. People are hungry in here.'

  Sent her off on his errand. Rebecca checked none of the other passengers to see if their straps were fastened, just buffeted the length of the plane, tumbling against the armrests of seats, unaware of the impediments, needing to get where David was standing, back to her in the forward corridor and looking out through the cockpit perspex.

  ' Is Isaac still sleeping?'

  Obvious when she saw him, slumped in front of her in the pilot seat, but she sought confirmation and reassurance. David nodded, was watching the stationary armoured cars and the soldiers who lolled beside the mountings for the heavy machine-guns. Two hundred yards of open ground separating her from the men the American had said would kill her.

  'We have to talk to them, David, you and I. We have to know whether it is necessary, what Isaac wants. Not when he is awake, but now that he sleeps.'

  Maddening, driving her to fury, David not reacting. 'We can speak to them again when Isaac is woken. We can wait till then.'

  Only served to drive her forward, egg her on deeper into the swamp she had set herself to cross. 'We have to know what will happen to us, what they would do to us.'

  'Time enough when Isaac is with us.'

  'Can't you see it, David, that you have abrogated to him? There are three of us. He alone does not have the monopoly of negotiation. If we are together then any of us can talk . . .'

  'But not behind his back, not when he is sleeping.' But doubt showed on his high line-woven forehead, furrowed with indecision as he hissed his replies, • calculated not to disturb the sleep of their colleague.

  'Ask them, David. Ask them what they would do with us.'

  He wavered, hesitated, then reached forward, weight on the balls of his feet, and lifted the headset from the back of the pilot's seat. He drew it back into the corridor till the cable attachment was bouncing and taut. Rebecca could only hear the questions that David asked.

  'Kingfisher. Kingfisher. Do you hear us? The one called Charlie, do you hear us?'

  Rebecca listening to David, a draining, sweat-soaked relief overwhelming her. Contact with the outside world, a lifting of the horizon, a breaching of the capsule wall.

  'It is David who is here . . . Isaac is sleeping . . . there are questions that we have for you.' Pause and silence, both watching Isaac, furtive and anxious lest he should open his eyes.

  'The question is this. If we were to surrender what would you do to us? What would happen to us?'

  The words had been said, the Judas sign was fashioned, their faces turned away from each other, the shame not shared.

  Charlie had stiffened, pencil alert from the first moment that the call sign had been given.

  Conversation in the control tower had been broken by the staccato identification over the loudspeaker.

  They say Isaac's sleeping . . . they want clarification on some points.' Intent, and peering down at his papers. Then the mirthless smile. 'They want to know what happens to them if they surrender.' Charlie pushed the microphone button to off position. 'What do you want me to say?'

  The Home Secretary was four paces behind the console, summoned late from the bed in which he had slept. Had had time to wash himself and run a cursory wet shave, but showed no benefit from it. Was experienced enough to know that this was the first crisis of morale, and was fretful lest his instructions to Charlie should affect it. 'First repeat the conditions of surrender.' He moved back, the pilot fish formation of aides at his shoulder.

  Charlie addressed the microphone. 'The British government are not prepared to enter into negotiations over surrender. That has been made clear to you earlier. The situation remains the same - you must first release all the passengers, and when that is completed you must leave the plane disarmed and with your hands on your heads. I repeat the guarantee that was given to you earlier. You will not be harmed by the British security forces.'

  Kids out after dark, he thought, babes in the bloody woods. Three frightened brats - two, anyway - out of their league and wanting to end it all, get back on dry land. He swung round in his chair and said to the policy huddle, They say they know the terms of surrender. They want to know what happens to them after that.'

  Clitheroe away from the main group, at the Home Secre-

  tary's shoulder, a moment of whispered talk, nodded acquiescence from the politician, and he was hurrying to Charlie's side. 'Tell them thait you want to speak to them direct . . . that it's difficult over the radio. More you can say if you come to the plane. Tell them it's a very sensitive matter, for many people in the tower, how much better it will be when you talk at the plane, face-to-face stuff.'

  Getting like the old days, Charlie. Calling for volunteers. He repeated the message in Russian.

  Not that they'll buy that one, never in a month of Sundays. First basic of the hijacker's bible.

  Book One, Chapter One, Verse One: never let the opposition near you; keep them at arm's length.

  'Keep the pressure on them,' snapped Clitheroe. 'Tell them you're going to come out of the control tower and that you'll be walking to the plane. They'll see you all the way. They'll know there's no trick. But I want to get you to them, face to face, so we can start the confidence phase.'

  Seemed excited at the prospect. And too bloody right he should be. Wasn't his arse that was going on show. 'See it this way, they've called us up because they're anxious, they want to do some talking. The whole thing is about this answer, this question, the crucial one to them. They want out, and they have to trust somebody, follow someone's guidance. It has to be you, because of the language, Charlie. They won't hurt you, not unless you take them bad news, and you're not going to do that.'

  Broke off, allowed Charlie to talk again to the aircraft. 'Don't discuss it with them, don't debate. Just say you're coming.' Charlie speaking, trying to sound calm, organized, casual, efficient, and half the room chuntering in his right ear. Finished, thwacked the transmission button away from him.

  'So, what do you want me to tell them when I get there? What's the answer?'

  'There is no answer,' Clitheroe said. 'Vague and general, that's how you play it. You're a little man, you don't have that sort of authority. You're not going out there to talk to them, you're going to show yourself, that's all. Most likely you'll be the first Englishman they've ever spoken to.

  You'll show them that you don't represent a threat, that they'll have nothing to fear from you.'

  'But if they want an
answer?' Fair enough for these bas-

  tards, sitting behind the glass with binoculars. ' If they want the answer, what do I say then?'

  'Cover it over, Mr Webster,' the Home Secretary, authoritative, on home territory, used to ploughing through the arguments of committee. 'You've heard the news bulletins, and you know what the Russians are saying. Gives you an idea what's being said in London. Not possible for you to be in any way specific but your own mind can be at rest. Soviets say there's no question of the death penalty for these people, and anyway I wouldn't put too much store by the diplomatic optimism" of Moscow at this stage. More likely these people will spend a period in British prisons if no more damage is done.'

  Charlie turned to face him, but was denied the politician's features-had walked away, towards the f a r windows, meandering apparently without purpose. The Home Secretary knew his limitations.

  'You'll need some equipment,' chimed the Assistant Chief Constable. Charlie, with a meekness that was not usually evident, followed him through the door.

  David hung the headset back on the top of the pilot seat. He felt the lead weight clutching at him, numbing, and Rebecca pestering, pulling at his sleeve and whispering her demand f o r their final answer, the people in the tower. Isaac still sleeping, innocent of what they had done.

  'He is coming to the plane, the one called Charlie. He says the matter is sensitive, that he wishes to talk to us face to face, on the question of what they will do with us if we . . .' Surrender.

  Capitulation. Couldn't say it, couldn't say the words.

  'When will he come?"

  ' In a few minutes, very soon, he will walk alone to the plane.'

  'Is there a danger from this?'

  ' If one man comes there can be no danger.' And what did it matter, how could it concern them?

  What further danger could there be at the moment of defeat? But he didn't know, hadn't thought through the possibilities, untuned to those technicalities of defence that had so obsessed Isaac.