is rather flat. ‘I
said my Dad’s on medication – which is true – and he can’t be
relied upon to take it.’
‘Right.’
Skelgill pushes his recline button.
‘If asked, forget you saw me.’ He slips on his headset and begins to jab
distractedly at his remote control.
DS Jones sinks back into her own seat.
‘You got it.’
*
Seasoned travellers have their well-tried
strategies for surviving night flights, and immediately some passengers bed
down, blindfolded and ear-plugged, recognising that it’s already midnight in
Singapore, and six hours sleep in the back pocket is the best insurance against
jet lag tomorrow. For Skelgill and DS Jones, however, the little
novelties of cold towels, warm towels, drinks and dinner, added to the
in-flight entertainment system, keep them going well into the Orient’s early
hours. And, of course, it’s still evening in the UK.
Eventually Jones, perhaps lulled into
slumber by the dimmed lights and progressive settling down going on around her,
drops off during the extended opening credits of her second rom-com.
Skelgill, however, shows no signs of succumbing to fatigue, and periodically clambers
over her unconscious form to wander to one or other of the washrooms, soon
learning that he is persona non grata among the otherwise charming crew when
it comes to infiltrating the business class section. Moving through the
darkened cabin is rather like tiptoeing through some great celestial dormitory,
a fantastic Land of Nod where individual sleepers have been gathered together, unknowingly
to act out their private dreamtime routines, their bodies curled foetus-like, their
faces sagging masks.
For a light sleeper such as Skelgill,
there are also the various unsynchronised challenges of crying babies, heavy
snorers, those with chronic coughs, and the occasional crash of luggage in the
overhead lockers as the aircraft slices into a pocket of clear-air turbulence.
Whenever DS Jones tosses and turns in
search of comfort, tugging her blanket close around her shoulders, she opens
half an eye to see Skelgill, upright and staring, seemingly watching their
progress across Eurasia on the map on his screen. And he is awake, too,
when the lights come up and the cabin fills with the thick aroma of cooked
breakfast – though as yet there is no sign of it – and the aisles
become clogged with bleary eyed folk in crumpled clothes, stretching and
yawning as they queue silently for the toilets.
The sun, too, has reappeared. One
after another, window blinds are raised, and the great orange orb they waved
away over the Atlantic now greets them above the South China Sea, a little
miracle of circumnavigation. As they make a rapid diving descent Skelgill,
holding his nose and swallowing hard, squints into the brightness, but there is
ocean below and little to see. Only when the pilot lines up over the Straits
to take them into Changi, does Skelgill make an exclamation, wowed by the mind-boggling
flotilla of cargo ships assembled like a great Elizabethan armada.
Thus, as is the way with all long
journeys, they suddenly arrive. The jumbo slams onto the runway without
apology or explanation, passengers strain forwards against their belts, and lost
mobiles shoot from beneath seats. Then, as the engines are cut, before
even the fasten-seatbelt signs are switched off, all hell breaks loose. Collective
lethargy and indifference suddenly transforms into every-man-for-himself argy-bargy,
and a competition develops to drag bags from overhead lockers, and push and
shove for pole position in the aisles.
Skelgill and DS Jones look on
phlegmatically. They can afford to be a little complacent at this
juncture; journeying on minimal hand luggage, they sense they have an easy
passage compared to some overburdened travellers. In due course they
filter into the line of departing passengers, and fall in with the general flow
of the crowd as it snakes along pontoons, corridors
said my Dad’s on medication – which is true – and he can’t be
relied upon to take it.’
‘Right.’
Skelgill pushes his recline button.
‘If asked, forget you saw me.’ He slips on his headset and begins to jab
distractedly at his remote control.
DS Jones sinks back into her own seat.
‘You got it.’
*
Seasoned travellers have their well-tried
strategies for surviving night flights, and immediately some passengers bed
down, blindfolded and ear-plugged, recognising that it’s already midnight in
Singapore, and six hours sleep in the back pocket is the best insurance against
jet lag tomorrow. For Skelgill and DS Jones, however, the little
novelties of cold towels, warm towels, drinks and dinner, added to the
in-flight entertainment system, keep them going well into the Orient’s early
hours. And, of course, it’s still evening in the UK.
Eventually Jones, perhaps lulled into
slumber by the dimmed lights and progressive settling down going on around her,
drops off during the extended opening credits of her second rom-com.
Skelgill, however, shows no signs of succumbing to fatigue, and periodically clambers
over her unconscious form to wander to one or other of the washrooms, soon
learning that he is persona non grata among the otherwise charming crew when
it comes to infiltrating the business class section. Moving through the
darkened cabin is rather like tiptoeing through some great celestial dormitory,
a fantastic Land of Nod where individual sleepers have been gathered together, unknowingly
to act out their private dreamtime routines, their bodies curled foetus-like, their
faces sagging masks.
For a light sleeper such as Skelgill,
there are also the various unsynchronised challenges of crying babies, heavy
snorers, those with chronic coughs, and the occasional crash of luggage in the
overhead lockers as the aircraft slices into a pocket of clear-air turbulence.
Whenever DS Jones tosses and turns in
search of comfort, tugging her blanket close around her shoulders, she opens
half an eye to see Skelgill, upright and staring, seemingly watching their
progress across Eurasia on the map on his screen. And he is awake, too,
when the lights come up and the cabin fills with the thick aroma of cooked
breakfast – though as yet there is no sign of it – and the aisles
become clogged with bleary eyed folk in crumpled clothes, stretching and
yawning as they queue silently for the toilets.
The sun, too, has reappeared. One
after another, window blinds are raised, and the great orange orb they waved
away over the Atlantic now greets them above the South China Sea, a little
miracle of circumnavigation. As they make a rapid diving descent Skelgill,
holding his nose and swallowing hard, squints into the brightness, but there is
ocean below and little to see. Only when the pilot lines up over the Straits
to take them into Changi, does Skelgill make an exclamation, wowed by the mind-boggling
flotilla of cargo ships assembled like a great Elizabethan armada.
Thus, as is the way with all long
journeys, they suddenly arrive. The jumbo slams onto the runway without
apology or explanation, passengers strain forwards against their belts, and lost
mobiles shoot from beneath seats. Then, as the engines are cut, before
even the fasten-seatbelt signs are switched off, all hell breaks loose. Collective
lethargy and indifference suddenly transforms into every-man-for-himself argy-bargy,
and a competition develops to drag bags from overhead lockers, and push and
shove for pole position in the aisles.
Skelgill and DS Jones look on
phlegmatically. They can afford to be a little complacent at this
juncture; journeying on minimal hand luggage, they sense they have an easy
passage compared to some overburdened travellers. In due course they
filter into the line of departing passengers, and fall in with the general flow
of the crowd as it snakes along pontoons, corridors
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