It had been a long day. A tiring day. An enervating day. You know what it's like training salesmen? Apart from product knowledge, it involves making sure they don't let their briefcases fall open at the wrong moment, spilling their contents all over the customer's floor. You laugh, but you'd be surprised. And smiling. Holding eye contact. A firm handshake. Speaking clearly. And, of course, knowing how to close the sale. There's a lot of different methods. My favourite's the 'silent close'. That always weeds out the nervy ones. The ones who can't hack it. Won't make it. We video the sessions. Make them sit down and analyse them. Do it again, and again, and again. Until they get it right. Then we give them a nice certificate saying they're fit for purpose. Do it in my sleep these days. Then we pack 'em off with good wishes and exhortations to maintain a positive mental attitude. PMA all the way. “You've got the stuff, alright.” “Go kill, tiger.” Yadda, yadda. Bullshit. They keep in with us because they know they'll be back in due course for more training and assessment. But, the final session ended. The day ended. The week ended. Thank Christ. Going home. Friday evening. My flight was booked. In a few hours I'd be back in Edinburgh, meeting Ishbel and the rest of the gang. The end of week gathering. I like Fridays. I quite like Ishbel, too. Coming home, baby. Yeah. <> The domestic departure lounge was busy. Full of folk heading for London, Belfast, Glasgow, or elsewhere in the UK. Noisy here. Bar doing good business. Always does. Laughter. Earnestness. Sincerity. Mendacity. Bit of hope here and there. Probably a bit of desperation, too. Mainly business people. Self-important. Believers in their own propaganda. Aren't we all? Large gin. Not alone in that. Not by any means. “Ladies and gentlemen, Flight BA 576 to London is subject to a slight delay. This is due to the incoming flight from Paris which is undertaking an emergency landing. However, we anticipate no difficulties and hope to be boarding you very soon. If you could please bear with us. We apologise for the delay. There will be another announcement, shortly.” That concentrated our thinking. For a second or two. Window. “Is that it? That the Paris flight?” “Think so.” There it is. Down you come, cherie. That's it. Fire engines rolling along, blue lights strobing off the wet tarmac. But it's down. All's well, then. Window clears of gawpers. Another gin. Get those London people away, can't you? Then I can get home. Weekends are short enough as it is. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Flight BA 576 to London is now ready for boarding. Passengers for this flight should make their way to Departure Gate B. Please have your boarding cards ready.” Must have heard me. Empties the place a bit, though there's some early arrivals wandering in for the next batch of flying zoos in an hour and a half's time. “Ladies and gentlemen, Flight BA 582 to Edinburgh is now ready for...” Hell's teeth, that was quick. Down remainder of gin. Bloody Gordon's. Bunch of bastards for reducing the proof strength. Never forgiven them for that. Right then. Let's get this show on the road. Coming home, baby. Yeah. <> Window. Can't see much in the dark. Still raining. Plane hasn't moved yet. Guy next to me pulls his briefcase back out from under his seat. Tag on it. Director of a sizeable construction firm. Big bloke. Probably would have preferred the aisle seat. But there's a middle-aged woman in that with a 'don't disturb' look about her. They've already done the emergency drill thing. Ignored as usual. Sigh inwardly. What's the hold-up? Come on. I wanna get going. Book in my briefcase, but it's in the overhead. Stupid of me. Not much of a book anyway. Come on, will you? Heads up. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I'm your senior flight attendant on this British Airways flight to Edinburgh. My name is Monica …..” Sounds like Seles. But that can't be right. Unless she starts grunting. “I do apologise for the slight delay in departure, but we're being held here for the moment by Flight Control as the London plane which took off a short time ago is having to return to the airport. We should be cleared for take-off as soon as it touches down.” And that's it. Short and sweet, Monica. Another emergency landing? Bet the London lot are chuffed. Busy night for the airport fire brigade, too. But that's what they signed up for. Glance at the big bloke on my right. Raise my eyebrows. He gives a short, dismissive smile. Returns to his documents. Window. Still dark. Still raining. Come on. Ah. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have now been cleared for take-off. Please make sure your seatbelts are fastened, your seats are in the upright position and any hand luggage not secured in the overhead lockers is stored safely beneath your seat. I would remind you that smoking is strictly forbidden and...” Yeah, yeah. Gerronwithit. “The cabin lights will now be dimmed though you can continue to use the reading light which you will find above your head.” And we start to roll gently towards the main runway as the attendants walk up and down the aisle, checking to see we've obeyed their instructions like the good little sheep we are. No messing about this time. Looks like they've given the pilot a short window of opportunity and, almost as soon as we line up we're accelerating down the strip. Always like this bit. Bit of brute speed. And we're off. Climbing steeply into the sky. Climbing. Big cigar tube at three hundred miles an hour and rising. Seems daft, somehow. Climbing. Climbing. Still climbing. And that's when it happens. That's when the alarm goes off in my head. SOMETHING WRONG WITH THIS PLANE, yells the organism. GET OFF THIS PLANE! NOW. What? DON'T LIKE THIS. NOT GOOD. My instincts are bellowing at me. Sirens howling through the synaptic gaps. Whaddayamean, there's something wrong with the plane? SOMETHING WRONG! SOMETHING WRONG! SOMETHING WRONG! What? What are you telling me, for Christ's sake? Still climbing. Hair really does rise on the nape of my neck. First time for everything. SOMETHING WRONG! SOMETHING WRONG! I glance around me. Unnerved. But can't detect anything out of sorts. No one else seems bothered. Nothing. Plane starting to level off. I TELL YOU, THERE'S SOMETHING NOT RIGHT! I can't see anything! GET OFF THE PLANE. Don't be so fucking stupid. I'M TELLING YOU! Well, what? What! I can't see anything wrong. LISTEN... No. You listen. That's enough. Going rational. Ignoring you. So shaddap and give me peace. I'M TELLING Y.... Plane levels off. The voice in my head recedes as I override it. What was that all about? Take a deep breath. Sit back in my seat. The seatbelt light goes off. Construction man is back in his paperwork. Drinks trolley'll be down soon. Hear them preparing it. Another gin and everything'll be fine. Bit more tired than I thought is all. That and too rich an imagination. Voice in my head almost mute, now. Home soon. Coming home, baby. Yeah. Here comes the trolley. Great. Gin. Then it doesn't. They wheel it back. Sharpish. Seatbelt light comes back on. Then: “Attention. Attention. This is an emergency announcement. It is essential you pay attention. This is an emergency announcement.” What? TOLD YOU SO. TOLD YOU SO. TOLD YOU SO. Shaddap. Construction man is clutching his papers. Mrs 'don't disturb' is clutching her armrests. She's disturbed now. This is not good. Not good. Neurons fire up, adrenaline pours into system, pulse rate rises, breathing faster now, blood vessels dilate. Fight or flight. But there's no one to fight and I'm stuck on this bloody flight. Shit. TOLD YOU SO. Shut the fuck up! JUST TRYING TO HELP. IT'S MY JOB. Bugger off. Come back later. Need to focus. “The pilot has detected a malfunction and we are returning to Birmingham immediately. It is essential you pay attention to this announcement and follow our instructions precisely.” Christ. We're already descending fast. I mean, we're not falling out of the sky, but we're losing height hellish quickly. Can passenger planes do this? It's gone very quiet. I go somewhere else. Perhaps it's panic. It feels like panic. But I don't have much experience. Is this it? Am I going to die? I think maybe I am and it's a very bad feeling. Been in a few dodgy car shunts and the like. And once, in Spain, had to run like buggery from a gang of yobs with knives. None of that was fun but nothing like this. Having trouble breathing. No control over events. Not good at that. Remember a story about a Japanese plane that crashed into a mountain. All dead. Passengers wrote letters to their families as they went down. Gutsy lot. Should I do that? Write notes to my kids? Divorced with two children. Didn't tell you that before. Now you know. It doesn't occur to me to write to Ishbel. Seem to come back from wherever I was. Not so quiet in here now. Someone cries out. Not a scream, but like a low howl. Someone else is weeping. And I can hear retching further back. Monica's still going. Voice tight. How long was I away for? Not long, obviously. “...and make sure everything loose is stored securely in the back of the seats in front of you. Any hand luggage not in the overhead lockers must be secured as tightly as possible beneath your seats. If you have removed, or loosened shoes, then please replace them and make sure they are firmly on your feet. Bring your seats to the upright position. If the oxygen masks are released...” Her wound-up voice continues. But, we're still in the air. And, from somewhere, somewhere, I manage to find a degree of self-control. As if some stubborn little part of the organism has made itself known to me, and is NOT prepared to let me roll over in the face of something as minor as a potentially fatal plane crash. Touch and go there for a minute, though. What're the odds of three emergency landings in a row? But my God, we're still going down fast. Pilot's in one hell of a hurry. Aren't we supposed to circle round and jettison fuel or something? Got to do something. What can I do? Look around. Next to me, construction man is ashen-faced. Heard the term before, but never actually seen it. Good advert for putty. He's rigid. Gripping the armrest as if he's trying to choke it. Right hand holding a photograph of a girl in front of him. Staring at it. Hand shaking. Looks a bit young for a wife. Maybe a daughter. Maybe not. I put my right hand over his left arm. Give it a squeeze. “We're going to be OK,” I say. He looks round. Tries to move his face muscles. Can't. Manages a sort of grimace, finally. Nods. Can't speak. “We'll be fine,” I add. Remove my hand. Hope it helped him. Not much else I can do. Hate this helplessness. Feel rage. Control it. “,,,as the plane lands, you must lean forward with your head to your knees and clasp your hands firmly behind your head. When it is time to do this, we will announce, brace, brace, brace. I repeat, we will tell you, brace, brace, brace. Now, please ensure your seatbelts are firmly fastened.” Quite serious this, then. But for some reason, I think we might make it. I think. Maybe. Stewardesses come down the aisle, struggling to keep their balance as the plane angles down, checking everybody, trying to reassure, but they look so bloody scared themselves it's not much help. Not like the practice sessions you did, eh, girls? Window. There's the ruddy airport. Must be one of the fastest controlled descents in history. Jesus, can we land at this speed? Looks like we're going to try, anyway. “Brace. Brace. Brace.” Bugger that for a game of soldiers. If this thing's going to fall apart or burst into flames, I want to see what's going on. Be ready for whatever it is I'm going to try and do. Not going out with a whimper. Fucking not, I tell you. Check the location of the emergency exits. Weird, looking around. Everyone else's heads are below the tops of their seats. Window. And we're down. Bump into the air, twice, then down again. And we're on the ground. God, we're shifting. Apply the bloody brakes will you? Fire engines racing alongside us, falling behind, then catching up as we slow. Busy night for you then, lads. And we roll to a stop. Isolated. Away from the terminal. Surrounded by red fire trucks with flashing blue lights and large nozzles aimed directly at us. Seatbelt already unbuckled, I'm thinking emergency chutes. But, apparently not. “Ladies and gentlemen, please remain in your seats with your seatbelts fastened.” A lot of chatter, now. Someone's still weeping. Building man has put the photograph away but he's still on the pale side of chalk. TOLD YOU SO. So how was I supposed to get off the bloody plane, then? MY JOB'S TO WARN YOU. NOT TELL YOU WHAT ACTION TO TAKE. Yeah, right. Fine. You did it. Thanks. YOU'RE WELCOME. You can go, now. Window. Still raining. A set of steps are rolled up to the leading exit door. Men in heavy duty clothing come aboard. Enter the cockpit. Some come out. They go back in. They all come out. We sit. Three airport buses appear alongside. “Ladies and gentlemen, we will be disembarking you from the front exit of the plane. Buses will transport you to the terminal where representatives will meet you to organise onward travel arrangements.” I'm waiting for her to say thank you for flying British Airways. But she doesn't. Probably best. The seatbelt lights go out. <> Coming home, baby. Yeah. Bloody hope so, anyway. They've laid on a plane for us. Another incoming flight from Paris. Ironic. Should have stopped here. But they're sending it on up to Edinburgh. Half the passengers have taken the train vouchers and buggered off. Understandable I guess. The rest took the free meal and the offer of another flight. Construction man's still with us. Surprised. Like getting back on a horse I suppose. I reckoned lightning wouldn't strike twice when I accepted. Then I thought about three emergency landings in a row. Stuff it. Wanted to get home tonight. Apparently, our plane suffered an electrical fire in the cockpit. Had to try and get the thing down again rather quickly as they weren't quite sure what systems were working and what ones weren't. No time for a fuel dump. Great. Managed to get hold of Ishbel on the phone. Explained. Reckoned I'd be there before closing time. They'd all wait. Nice girl, Ishy. Been together three years now. Don't live with her. Bit leery of that. But it's always her place on a Friday night. Runs her own dress shop. Trained dress designer. Successful. Breaking in her senior assistant to take more time off. Getting broody. We don't talk about that. But it's there. Lurking in the background. Quite a lot lurking in the background, really. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen...” Here we go again then. <> Drinks trolley's busy. Hardly surprising. Everyone necking large ones. “Something else, sir?” They know we've had a bit of an evening of it. Construction man's further up the aisle. 'Don't disturb' must have taken the train. Place is half-empty. I've got three seats to myself. Window. Clear night here. Darker ahead. There goes Newcastle, glinting far below. And we're over the border. Coming home, baby. I chuck some peanuts down my throat and wash them down with more booze. And the seatbelt lights come on. Bit early for that isn't it? “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. You will notice that the seatbelt sign is on. Would you please restore your trays to the back of the seat in front of you and bring your seats to the upright position.” What? “We may be about to experience a little turbulence on our approach to Edinburgh due to weather conditions, but there is nothing to be alarmed about.” Oh for Christ's sake. And this plane too, goes quiet as the stewardesses collect our plastic tumblers, our empty miniature bottles, our peanut packets and our anxious looks. The Pentland Hills guard the southern approaches to Edinburgh and the thunder storm which rolls around their summits is confined to the locality. But it does not prevent the plane jerking haphazardly around the sky in ways, one assumes, pilots are taught specifically to avoid. Bad for business. Window. Forget the window. Just get us down. At least the organism's keeping quiet this time, so I guess we're probably going to make it. Only a bloody thunder storm. Lousy timing though. And we get out of it and descend over the Forth and glide across Cramond, annoying its snotty residents with our jetty noise, and we land. We land. And it feels good. No one's smiling as we exit. We just want off. Raining again. No room at docking as, I guess, it's an unscheduled flight. So we walk across a short stretch of glistening, reflective tarmac to the terminal building. Relief still washing through me like a scourge. And as we walk, I overhear one orange-jacketed airport worker say to another: “They look like that lot that got off that flight back in …..” But I don't hear the rest. Just want to get to my car and get out of here. <> I like my wheels. Comforting. Familiar. Grounded. Work for a blue chip, professional company. Prestigious name. Money's good. Do well and you're rewarded well. Job's tedious but so what? Do better and you're promoted. And they give you nicer wheels. Lines of least resistance. Easy. Don't think about it too much. Shouldn't be driving. Know that. Don't care. Not tonight. Need to get away. Get to the pub and tell my story. Centre of attention. Bask in concern. See Ishy. Feel her arms around me. Her sometimes predatory lips. The future's for another day. Isn't it? Coming home, baby. Yeah. Window. Pay the ticket. Nothing behind me. Pull out. And into the city. Watch it, now. Take it easy. Stick to the limit. Use the indicators. It'll be fine. Look what I've just come through. Through Corstorphine, past the Zoo, sharp left at Ellersly Road and then up and along Ravelston Dykes, down to Queensferry Road and then left again towards Stockbridge. Through St Bernard's Crescent – I got divorced from that house there, should have hung on to it – and right at the end of Leslie Place, over the Water of Leith and stop at the lights. Green. Car in front pulls away. And stalls. And I drive into the back of it. Shit. Shit. Shit Me to blame. No question in law. I work for a professional company. And a tough one. Lose your licence, lose your job. Shit. Think. BLUFF IT. Was going to do that, anyway. Don't always need your help. Silence. Maybe IT'S sulking. Get out. Superficial damage. Walk up to driver's window of other car. Still raining. She lowers her window, looks out. “Lishen, it'sh...” “What the hell do you think you were doing?” I say angrily, while my brain's interpreting, fast. “Lishen, it'sh all my fault. Shtalled it. Me.” She's a lot more pissed than I am. Another woman in the passenger seat. I look doubtful. “Really shorry,” she says. “Tell you what,” I say. Mr Beneficent. “There's not much damage. I'll let it go this time. Save bothering with our insurance companies. OK with that?” “Yeah. Absholutely. Thanksh, mishter. Thanksh.” And she manages to get it started and into first, and drives off. I do the same. Heart pumping a bit. Close one, that. How much more crap do I need tonight? Get out of here, now. Fast. And I do. Swing left. Through the centre's cobbled streets and, eventually, into Albany Street. Park. Lock it. That won't move again tonight. Pocket keys. Cross the street and through the welcoming doors to a cheer from the big corner table. “Yey.” “Here he is.” “You made it.” “Yeah.” And Ishy's lips are on mine and there's a pint in my hand and all's well. Except it's not. And I don't know why. It's just that there's this thing at the back of my mind, like a stone in a shoe, that wasn't there earlier but has somehow slipped in between the leather and the sock. When you're plummeting through the sky at four thousand feet a minute or whatever it was, a lot of stuff crosses your mind. Know what I mean? No. You probably don't. Fuck it. Consign. It can wait. I'm home, baby. Yeah. <> Adrenaline's a powerful drug. Coming down, now. She'd been quite voracious in a wet, slightly drunk kind of way, had Ishy. I hadn't really been up for it but there hadn't been a lot of choice in the matter. She seemed to have enjoyed it, anyway. Now she was dozing off. Snoring gently, purring really. Mouth hanging open. Not the best of looks. Her head was tucked into my left shoulder and her left arm stretched across my chest and up to my other shoulder. My left arm was down her back. Nowhere else for it to go. You'd think I would have been ready to sleep for a week. Anything but. Still reliving that bloody take-off and landing. Couldn't get the first emergency announcement out of my head. Interesting that, that I seemed to KNOW there was something wrong with that plane even though I didn't know what. Like extra-sensory perception. Wonder if that's not so much something evolutionary we've yet to acquire, but something we've lost? Makes more sense to me when I think about it. Thoughts jumping round my head like fleas on heat. 'Wound my heart with monotonous languor.' Where the hell did that come from? Some old black and white movie, I reckoned. Like I said, a nice girl, Ishbel. Girl? Woman, I mean. Thirty-three to my thirty-five. But I've got two kids and I don't want any more. Nor another wife. Must remember I'm seeing my BUs (biological units I call them, for a laugh) on Sunday. My time for them. Only ever at weekends. Try and think of something interesting for them to do for a change, otherwise they'll just sit around my place watching television and bickering and wanting things for tea that I haven't thought to get in. Better phone Lizzie tomorrow – that's the ex – and make sure I have the time right to pick them up. Pisses her off when I'm late. Which is fair enough. Boss man, Ken, says I'm in line for a promotional move to head office. But do I want it? Effing North London. Lovely. And that'll be me. Clawing up the greasy pole for the rest of my life. Not as if I enjoy what I do. It's just...what? Easier? Avoidance? Not going to go. I mean, I kind of know it now. Only really realised that today. Shit. What's that going to mean? Arm's a bit stiff. But Ishbel's turned into a log. A small log with long, jet black curling hair and a pale, almost alabaster skinned body. Getting slightly pudgy these days. Just a little. Sign of things to come. Going to have to sort this out with her. Not fair on her. She wants marriage and kids. Hasn't said it outright, but I can hear that train coming down the tracks. Heading for me. Christ. How many ruddy life-changing decisions am I about to have to make? No. Got to do the right thing for her. Before it's too late. Be decent. DON'T LIE. Christ, don't you sleep? NOT AS YOU UNDERSTAND IT. GOT TO STAY ALERT. Try and get some now, why don't you? WARNED YOU WHEN YOU WENT OUT WITH HER THAT IT WOULDN'T WORK. BUT YOU WOULDN'T LISTEN. Yeah, yeah. Fine. I'll be doing it for me, then. But she'll benefit too. SHE MIGHT NOT SEE IT THAT WAY. Thanks. JUST TELLING YOU. OK. I'm told. Now piss off. I don't understand it. Everything seemed fine. Now I feel like...like I was perfectly safe in my chrysalis, but the outer skin's cracked open and I can't seal it shut again. Don't like this. Ishy's parents took us out once. They'd been pushing to meet me. Took us to a dinner dance. Didn't know such things still existed. Some god-awful throwback of a place near Stirling. Even had ham and pineapple on the menu. And the guys in the band had these little short blue jackets with braid on them. Like going out to an archive. One and only time I met them. They thought I was a good thing. That's charm and salesmanship for you. Window. Her flat's on the top floor of a Victorian block. Bed's on a raised floor on one side of the bedroom. There's a big skylight window above it. Four panes of glass wide, by five deep. It's what appealed to her about the place. You can lie here and watch the sky. Bit of light pollution from the city at night, but it's still quite something. Kimonos hanging around the walls. She collects them. Low shelves with her books of lightweight philosophy and volumes of popular poetry. Lot of glass and Indian bronze. Nice room, though. Safe. Comforting. Or it was. I suppose I can just lie here and let my arm go numb, rather than disturb her. Least I can do. Window. Night's clear again. Watch stars. All that ancient light. Light a cigarette, one handed. Lie smoking in the orangey dark. Ishy slumbers on. Sirens in the background. Edinburgh city centre late on a Friday night. Like the Russians storming Berlin. You don't want to be out there. There are many kinds of certainty in this life. But I don't like the ones settling in my mind right now. There's an inexorability to them. As if I have no choice. Or, at least, no worthy choice. Fuck. How is this happening? I was fine this morning. But it is happening. THIS ISN'T JUST ABOUT YOUR GIRLFRIEND. I know, dammit. Get some kip, will you?. Shit. Try and shove my thoughts away. But they continue to settle, like absolutes. Thirty thousand feet above me, up there in the deep midnight blue, a plane traverses the sky like a satellite. I watch it as it's mapped by the window panes, one by one, until it disappears off the edge of the grid. Try to will it back. But it's gone. And I realise I am more afraid of certainty than doubt. Ishbel sleeps on. I light another cigarette and wait for dawn's false promise. <<<<<>>>>> © Joe Miller All Rights Reserved One Million Stories Creative Writing Project |
| We like this story because: We love the narrative voice, and the self awareness of the main character. Brilliant and engaging! |
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| ONE MILLION STORIES |
| One Million Stories One Million Stories... One Million Dreams... |
| on The Mechanics of Flight Joe Miller |