not for the benefit of the children, nothing was ever about them. They were eating there so that people could see him squander two-hundred-quid meals on an awkward teenager and a soppy kid. His father wasn’t special, he was just rich. Now he was dead. Thomas kept thinking he had killed him, that he’d heard about her and hanged himself. It was as if he was hoping that. He had to remind himself over and over that his father had been swinging from a beam before Squeak even started the engine.
Thomas looked out of the window. He should hang himself too. He’d like to see them then, the creditors protesting outside the security wall of the house, throwing eggs and burning newspaper over it, when it could land on anyone, Ella or a dog or someone. He’d like to see the headlines when his fifteen-year-old son was found hanged. They’d make it all about the money and the public pressure. They’d feel terrible. The newspapers that had gone for his father would reverse their position, denounce others for attacking, call for calm. He smiled at the back of Captain Jack’s head.
They were coming down, circling, lining up to the landing strip. Thomas looked out to the horizon. He could see Bromley on the far right, Blackheath maybe, sinking down, down, disappearing, being swallowed by the earth. They were coming down fast.
His breathing was so loud it made the voice activation start up and the pilot asked him to repeat what he had said.
“Nothing,” said Thomas, sounding urgent. “Just breathing.”
They were lined up with the landing lights, a perfect straight-on landing. Coming straight at it, dipping down, nose low. Thomas abandoned the deep breathing and began to pick at the edge of the seat covering.
The plane bumped onto the runway and slowed, tipping a little so that they could feel the weight shifting alarmingly to the nose. It righted itself, slowed to a crawl and Captain Jack spoke into the headphones, using the stupid voice, telling the tower that they had landed.
Slowly, the plane taxied to the brightly lit mouth of the hangar, a slit of fraudulent yellow warmth. The doors were pulled back waiting for them. It was empty as they rolled in slowly. Usually there were a few aircraft in there and they had to wait and get a tow but the pilot had been told to drive straight in. Thomas looked for the ATR-42 but couldn’t see it. Captain Jack performed a perfect stop, no heavy jolts forward, no bumps. The engine died.
He shut down the engine and lights, switch by laborious switch. Somewhat inappropriately, he thanked Thomas over the headset for his company this evening. Definitely a failed airline pilot, Thomas thought, drunk at the departure desk or something like that.
Testing his knees for steadiness, Thomas undid his seat belt and stood up a little, pulling the headset off and dropping it onto the seat. Outside a man in a boiler suit wheeled some steps up to the plane. Thomas waited for Captain Jack to open his door, scrabble out and help him down.
Then he saw her.
She was standing in the freezing cold of the hangar, on a concrete platform in front of the office door. She knew the plane because she’d often met him coming off it, coming back from school. Dark hair, and holding her long green sheepskin shut. Nanny Mary. Thomas felt a burst of love for her, a need for her and, as always, the follow-through: a feeling of disgust and self-loathing, slimy, like her juice under his fingernails as he lay in bed at night, the smell of her on his bedsheets, her hard runner’s body lying next to him, unyielding muscles in soft skin. She caught his eye, sensed his mood and smiled uncertainly. Thomas looked away.
The pilot opened the door to a shock of cold and stepped out. Thomas pushed the chair forward and stepped down to the freezing ground, ignoring the pilot’s outstretched helping hand, not making eye contact. Mary came towards him, reached out a hand too and Thomas ignored that as well.
“Where’s the
Thomas looked out of the window. He should hang himself too. He’d like to see them then, the creditors protesting outside the security wall of the house, throwing eggs and burning newspaper over it, when it could land on anyone, Ella or a dog or someone. He’d like to see the headlines when his fifteen-year-old son was found hanged. They’d make it all about the money and the public pressure. They’d feel terrible. The newspapers that had gone for his father would reverse their position, denounce others for attacking, call for calm. He smiled at the back of Captain Jack’s head.
They were coming down, circling, lining up to the landing strip. Thomas looked out to the horizon. He could see Bromley on the far right, Blackheath maybe, sinking down, down, disappearing, being swallowed by the earth. They were coming down fast.
His breathing was so loud it made the voice activation start up and the pilot asked him to repeat what he had said.
“Nothing,” said Thomas, sounding urgent. “Just breathing.”
They were lined up with the landing lights, a perfect straight-on landing. Coming straight at it, dipping down, nose low. Thomas abandoned the deep breathing and began to pick at the edge of the seat covering.
The plane bumped onto the runway and slowed, tipping a little so that they could feel the weight shifting alarmingly to the nose. It righted itself, slowed to a crawl and Captain Jack spoke into the headphones, using the stupid voice, telling the tower that they had landed.
Slowly, the plane taxied to the brightly lit mouth of the hangar, a slit of fraudulent yellow warmth. The doors were pulled back waiting for them. It was empty as they rolled in slowly. Usually there were a few aircraft in there and they had to wait and get a tow but the pilot had been told to drive straight in. Thomas looked for the ATR-42 but couldn’t see it. Captain Jack performed a perfect stop, no heavy jolts forward, no bumps. The engine died.
He shut down the engine and lights, switch by laborious switch. Somewhat inappropriately, he thanked Thomas over the headset for his company this evening. Definitely a failed airline pilot, Thomas thought, drunk at the departure desk or something like that.
Testing his knees for steadiness, Thomas undid his seat belt and stood up a little, pulling the headset off and dropping it onto the seat. Outside a man in a boiler suit wheeled some steps up to the plane. Thomas waited for Captain Jack to open his door, scrabble out and help him down.
Then he saw her.
She was standing in the freezing cold of the hangar, on a concrete platform in front of the office door. She knew the plane because she’d often met him coming off it, coming back from school. Dark hair, and holding her long green sheepskin shut. Nanny Mary. Thomas felt a burst of love for her, a need for her and, as always, the follow-through: a feeling of disgust and self-loathing, slimy, like her juice under his fingernails as he lay in bed at night, the smell of her on his bedsheets, her hard runner’s body lying next to him, unyielding muscles in soft skin. She caught his eye, sensed his mood and smiled uncertainly. Thomas looked away.
The pilot opened the door to a shock of cold and stepped out. Thomas pushed the chair forward and stepped down to the freezing ground, ignoring the pilot’s outstretched helping hand, not making eye contact. Mary came towards him, reached out a hand too and Thomas ignored that as well.
“Where’s the
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