by Hill, David
In front of him, Raoul sat perfectly still. Every bit of energy and anger seemed to have left him. Darryl realised someone was shouting his name. ‘Darryl! Darryl, love!’ His mother. ‘Darryl! Are you all right?’
He forced himself to speak. ‘Y-yeah. I’m OK. I’m OK.’
Even above the racing engines, he could hear the relief in his mother’s voice. ‘Hold on, son! Just hold on!’
Alicia’s hands were pressed to her cheeks. She still wept silently. She’s done something terrible, Darryl told himself. This is her fault. She believed in it, but she was wrong – wasn’t she?
11.55. The engines screamed. Then he was thrust back in his seat as they levelled out. In the cockpit, the younger pilot had the headphones on, talking fast into the microphone. He stopped, listened, tore off the headphones, and hurled them away.
That nightmare he’d had on the island, Darryl thought: the shrieking, flaming pigs. This was a nightmare, too. One where all of them might be burned to cinders.
11.56. The fuselage vibrated as they raced on. They must be doing a couple of kilometres every five seconds, just about. Please don’t let the plane fly apart.
11.57. He heard himself mouthing more words at Alicia. He didn’t know what he was saying. His body jerked and shuddered; he couldn’t breathe properly. Terror flooded him.
She turned her head towards him. For a moment, she hardly seemed to realise who he was. Then she murmured, ‘Je regrette, Dah-reel.’ Her voice was low, but he heard her even above the howl of the engines. She stretched out a hand, and slipped it into his.
11.58. A girl was holding his hand. Two minutes before they might be blown to bits, and a girl was holding his hand. In the cockpit, the pilots hunched. Behind him, passengers wailed and moaned. All around, the fuselage groaned and the engines bellowed. But Darryl sat, staring at the smooth brown fingers in his.
Something from Deadly Cloud flicked into his mind. A hand – what? Then he remembered. He stammered at Alicia. ‘Put— put their hands over their eyes! Tell them! Hands over their eyes – now!’
She stared at him for a second, then she shouted: ‘Les mains! Cachez les yeux! Vite!’
In front of him, Darryl glimpsed Françoise and Raoul jerking upright, pushing both palms against their eyes. In the cockpit, the pilots had snatched one hand from the controls, and were doing the same, Alicia’s own hand flew out of his. He whipped his own hands up, glimpsing his watch as he did so. 11.59.
The engines shrieked. The plane hurtled on. They must have covered sixty-five kilometres or so since they turned. Every second was another chance.
His eyes were squeezed shut, his palms clamped against them. He could feel the blood beating in his head. He was counting: Twenty … nineteen … eighteen … On they tore. Thirteen … twelve … eleven … Nothing. Five … four … three …
He jerked his eyes open, saw his watch, clamped his hands over his eyes again. 12.01. They’d passed the explosion time. Nothing had changed. The military radar must have seen them after all. The test had been stopped; they were going to live. Alicia and Raoul had won after all.
Behind him, someone began to speak. A second voice joined in, trembling, uncertain. Slowly, Darryl’s fingers relaxed. He began to lift his hands from his face.
The sky turned white.
TWENTY-FIVE
For a second, he glimpsed the bones of his fingers, lit up and clear against the shadowy flesh of his hands. He’d read about this: the British sailors on warships, eighty kilometres away from one of their nuclear explosions, seeing their fingers like this. It was terrifying. Beautiful.
Alicia shrieked and convulsed beside him. Cries and screams from other passengers. The glow faded.
Heat. He felt it through the plane’s fuselage. It bathed his whole body, as though he had stepped into the midsummer sun. Then it faded, also. They were alive. Alive and unhurt.
In the cockpit, both pilots were talking urgently. Darryl lowered his hands, opened his eyes, blinked at the blue sky outside his window. The light on the other side of the plane seemed to be growing darker. What was—
‘Ne bougez pas!’ The voice of the younger pilot rang from the overhead speakers. ‘Ne bougez pas!’
Alicia’s hand was clenched on his arm. ‘Don’t move!’ she gasped. ‘They say don’t move!’
The blast waves, Darryl realised. Spreading out from the explosion slower than the glare and heat, but still racing through the sky at the speed of sound. They could tear buildings apart, root up trees. Here, inside their small plane … He gripped the arms of his seat, braced his feet against the one in front, and clenched his teeth so he didn’t howl with fear. I don’t want to die. Please, I don’t want to die!
Something rammed into the aircraft. It hit them with a WHOOOMPF!; a solid, savage blow that hurled them sideways across the sky. We’ve collided with another plane, Darryl’s terrified mind gabbled – one sent to stop us. Or we’ve been hit by a missile.
No, even as he cried out, as Françoise and Alicia wailed also, he knew. It was the first blast wave. A great wall of air, hurled out and compressed by the explosion, an invisible tsunami. He remembered the warships bucking and toppling.
Another impact. The plane tipped on one side, dropped as if all the air had been sucked out from under them. Alicia clung to his arm, eyes squeezed shut. His own eyes bulged, his mouth gaped open. He felt the cabin’s air pressure thicken, like a tyre with a pump ramming it full. Miles from the Hiroshima and Nagasaki explosions, blast waves had burst open windows, ripped out everything inside. If it happened to their aircraft, they were doomed.
Another sideways jolt, even fiercer. The fuselage groaned and creaked. Overhead lockers burst open. Bags, books, jackets fell or sprayed around the cabin. In the middle of a nuclear test, he might get injured by a book on … on nuclear tests.
A fourth impact. It flung them forwards, and Darryl’s face almost smashed into the seatback in front. The plane slewed onto one side again. And out through the opposite windows, Darryl saw …
A titanic, rolling black pillar, shot through with glares of orange, pouring upwards and spreading out into the awful boiling mushroom at the top. Already it was higher than their plane, charging skywards, colossal storms of fire churning through its sides.
The explosion must have been low down, Darryl managed to think. On a barge or something like that. Low enough and distant enough to save their lives.
Except— except for the radiation. The first flash carried deadly gamma rays. More radiation was on its way in the huge cloud, streaming upwards and outwards. But they’d been far enough away, hadn’t they? Surely.
He kept staring as the plane buffeted onwards, jolting and groaning, but more stable now. The column of blackness still charged upwards. It filled half the sky on that side. If he lived through all this, he’d never, never forget.
Alicia still grasped his arm. Hell, she’d cut off the circulation if she wasn’t careful. Her eyes stayed closed; she panted for breath.
‘Darryl! Darryl!’ His mum again. ‘Are you all right?’
He nodded his head, then gave a mad giggle as he realised there was no way she could see it, and called back, ‘I’m OK! I’m OK!’ He gaped as, in the row in front, he glimpsed Raoul fighting with Françoise. Wrong: he was holding her in her seat, stopping her from being flung around. This was all his fault.
The two pilots wrestled with the controls, teeth bared, grunting orders to each other. Through the near window, the sea looked much closer. They must have dropped hundreds – thousands – of metres in their dive to escape the blast waves.
Darryl twisted his head to stare through the window opposite. The mushroom cloud still billowed upwards, a vast black tower of churning smoke and fire, the top swelling out, so high he could just see it. It was like a great black scar in the sky, slowly sliding behind them. Alicia and Raoul shouldn’t have done this; it was crazy and wrong. But what she thought about the bomb was right. Oh man, why did things have to be so complica
ted!
The aircraft still juddered and swayed occasionally, but the blast waves seemed to have ended. The air around them was settling down. The plane sped on. They were safe.
Safe except for that radiation, he told himself again. The fuselage would have stopped a few of the gamma rays, but most would have pierced straight through it into their bodies, attacking cells, damaging blood and tissue. They’d been too far away to receive much – hadn’t they? They must have been. Only people within about twenty-five kilometres of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki blasts suffered radiation sickness. But those bombs were so much smaller.
For now, though, he was alive and unhurt. Just this morning, he’d been wishing he could see something like this. Now he never wanted to face anything like it again.
Back towards their original route, mile after mile unreeling behind it, Flight 766 droned.
The cabin was a shambles. Just about every overhead locker hung open. Bags, jackets, magazines, books lay strewn across seats or in the aisles. Françoise was standing, starting to pick up some. Her hands shook as she reached for them. Tears still streaked her face; her mouth trembled, but she was trying to do her job. Raoul sat motionless, his mouth tight and bitter.
Darryl levered himself up, to join the air hostess. His back and legs throbbed from bracing them against the bucking aircraft. Alicia and Raoul sat silently in their seats. The girl’s dark head was lowered. Other passengers embraced, wept or laughed, or wept and laughed at the same time.
Someone seized him by the arm. His mother, holding him, talking and smiling, saying ‘Son! Oh Darryl, dear! Son!’, and making hiccupping noises that he realised were sobs. Darryl was glad his friends couldn’t see him, especially since he’d started crying as well.
TWENTY-SIX
12.27. Nearly half an hour since the explosion. It felt like five minutes. It felt like five hours.
The plane was flying normally. The engines had throttled back to their usual speed, and the deafening roar had faded. They didn’t seem to have suffered any damage.
We’re safe, Darryl told himself yet again. We’re safe. He sat gazing down at the calm, perfect reach of blue sea. He couldn’t wait to be on the ground, to step out into the soft fresh air again. He sat, drawing in one slow breath after another, feeling the aches all through his body.
Alicia had raised her head now and sat gazing ahead. Raoul did the same. They hadn’t said another word to each other.
12.39. The older pilot stood beside them, talking to Alicia. His face was tight; he stretched out one hand.
The girl looked blankly at him. Raoul spoke, telling her something, voice still flat and unfriendly. She reached down beside her, and passed over the squat grey gun. Hell, Darryl realised, I’d forgotten all about it! We’re lucky it didn’t go off when we were being chucked about. He thought of how her cousin had lied to her. Could they ever trust each other again?
In front of him, the pilot spoke to Raoul, held out his hand once more. The young man sat motionless. Darryl felt himself tense again; knew the pilot was poised to move, also. Raoul wasn’t going to try anything now, surely?
He jerked as the long-barrelled gun appeared. Raoul lifted it, pushed at the base of the handle, and an oblong metal container clicked out. The magazine, Darryl guessed, with all the bullets. Raoul passed it to the waiting pilot, who took it, then jabbed a finger at the gun.
Raoul shook his head, politely almost. ‘Non. C’est à mon père.’ The pilot began to point again, shrugged, turned away. Raoul quietly put the gun back down by his side.
They must be almost back on their proper course now. It was almost as though nothing had happened. Beside Darryl, Alicia was so quiet, she seemed asleep.
But Darryl knew she wasn’t. He began to speak, found his lips were dry, swallowed, and went ‘Alicia?’ The girl turned to gaze at him, face quiet, eyes dark and sad. Darryl spoke the same words that she’d said to him.
‘Je— Je regrette. I am sorry, too.’
They flew to Papeete while Darryl slept. Both of these seemed incredible, but in the cabin, where some people still sobbed and hugged one another now and then, he felt his head sink forward and the world go distant. Man, I hope I’m not going to start dribbling, he thought.
When he hauled his head back up to peer at his watch, it read 1.58. When he looked again, what seemed just three minutes later, it read 2.44.
The clink of glasses woke him. Françoise, eyes red, hands still shaking slightly, was in the aisle, serving drinks. Just like on an ordinary flight, except that people kept standing to embrace the air hostess, or kiss her on both cheeks.
Françoise reached the row where Darryl and Alicia sat, smiled at him, and passed him a tall glass. She ignored Alicia completely, and began to move on.
‘Excuse me?’ Darryl heard his voice, saw his hand stretch out towards the tray of drinks. Françoise smiled again. ‘You are thirs-tee?’ She passed him a second glass. He handed it straight to Alicia. The air hostess pressed her lips together, and turned away. Alicia murmured something, and drank.
A couple of minutes later, another figure stood beside him. His mother. She ruffled his hair (he wished she wouldn’t do that) and said: ‘Swap places, Da.’
Darryl felt puzzled, but rose and made his way back to his mum’s seat. For a few minutes, he sat gazing at the Pacific edging past below. When he peered forward, his mother’s arms were around Alicia, holding the girl against her. Alicia’s shoulders were shaking; Mrs Davis was stroking the young girl’s hair and murmuring.
At last a chime sounded above their heads. One of the pilots, speaking in French first as usual, then: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are soon at Papeete. When we are landed, please stay in your seats. We need to tell the authorities about … matters.’
Mrs Davis rose, and came back down the aisle. ‘You sit next to her again, son.’ As Darryl hesitated, his mother smiled. ‘Just be there, love.’ He moved forward; Raoul was motionless in the row ahead. Alicia looked up, and managed a half-smile as Darryl sat. ‘You are kind person,’ she went. ‘Your mother is, too. You speak truly. You are not like … like some.’ Her eyes glared towards where her cousin sat. Darryl didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.
What’s going to happen to her? he wondered. Her and Raoul. Will they go to prison? Yes, he realised, they have to. Will the world ever know what they tried to do, and why? Yes, he told himself, again; they have to, as well. How about Lily and Napoleon and the others back on Mangareva: how will they feel? Will anything happen to them because of Alicia? Too many questions to which he didn’t know any answers.
One thing he did know, however: the girl in the seat next to him had changed his life. He looked at her, then shifted his gaze to the glittering sea crawling past beneath. The same Pacific, but different. Everything was different.
Darryl felt himself yawning. He was shattered, exhausted. His body ached; he wanted to sleep for days. Was he even going to be able to crawl onto the flight back home? Oh well, he just had to sit. He had nothing else to do now.
Yes, he did. He took a breath, then said, ‘Alicia.’ Her name sounded strange in his mouth. The girl turned to him. ‘You are brave,’ he told her. He kept his voice low, so he didn’t feel embarrassed about other people hearing. ‘Very brave. Your father would feel proud. I will not forget you.’
When he looked at her a couple of minutes later, Alicia was crying quietly again. But he didn’t regret what he’d said.
They circled the airport, once, twice. Of course: they had no radio; they must be letting the control tower get a good look at them. A neat row of palm trees passed underneath them. Cars – it seemed ages since he’d seen cars – in a parking area. The sea: always the sea.
Finally, they straightened up and began their approach. Waves gave way to sand, rough grass, a perimeter fence, the runway. Darryl twitched as he saw blue and red flashing lights speeding along beside them. Fire trucks; an ambulance: the control tower must have realised something was wrong. After all, the
y’d been off the air for hours, and they’d taken a lot longer than usual to get here. He peered again at his watch: 4.10. Yeah, they were so late. Maybe he should complain?
The tarseal flashed by, rising towards them. A bump, a second bump, the lurch forward in their seats as engines went into reverse, clapping and cheering, and some more sobbing from behind, and they were slowing to a stop. They were safe; it was all over.
All over except for Raoul and Alicia. The plane hadn’t even halted when the younger pilot pulled himself out of the cockpit, jabbing his finger at the two cousins to stay in their seats. The hijackers hadn’t even looked at each other, except for Alicia’s earlier glare.
The growl of the twin engines died away. Flashing lights and wailing sirens sped up beside them. The pilot swung the heavy cabin door open and a clamour of voices instantly came from below.
Five seconds later, a khaki-uniformed policeman was inside the plane. An officer, judging from the badges on his shoulders. The young pilot talked to him, fast, intense, pointing to Alicia and Raoul, to the cockpit, back to where they’d flown. The police officer turned to the cousins, snapped something at them. They stayed silent. He began shouting instructions out to the runway, where two jeeps had screeched to a halt, more figures in khaki and blue uniforms jumping from them. Darryl gulped as he saw the rifles in their hands.
After ten minutes or so, the passengers were led from the aircraft. A few still sobbed. A few glared at Alicia and Raoul, or spat out words that Darryl suspected he probably wouldn’t find in any French textbook. The police who had crowded into the cabin moved them on.
Darryl and his mum were the last to go. As she reached where her son stood in the aisle waiting, Mrs Davis reached down and touched a hand to Alicia’s cheek. The girl didn’t look up. Darryl’s mother murmured to Raoul, who gazed at her, then nodded once. She took Darryl’s hand, and they started down the steps.
