Flying finish / Бурный финиш. Книга для чтения на английском языке

‘George,’ I said, finishing his wrists with a twirl he’d never undo. ‘Naturally.’

‘George who?[526]’

‘A good question,’ I said, nodding casually.

He was beautifully disconcerted. I left him to stew in it, picked up the first-aid kit, checked again that Patrick’s pulse was plodding quietly along, and made my way back to the galley.

There were a number of dressings in the first-aid box, including several especially for burns, and I wasn’t keen on my shirt sticking and tearing away again. Gingerly I pulled my jersey up under my arms and tucked the side of the shirt away under it. No one except Billy would have found the view entertaining, and the air at once started everything going again at full blast[527]. I opened one of the largest of the burn dressings and laid it in place with that exquisite kind of gentleness you only give to yourself. Even so, it was quite enough. After a moment I fastened it on and pulled my shirt and jersey down on top. It felt so bad for a bit that I really wished I hadn’t bothered.

I drank another cup of water, which failed to put out the fire. The first-aid kit, on further inspection, offered a three-way choice in pain-killers: a bottle each of aspirin and codeine tablets, and six ampoules of morphine. I shook out two of the codeines, and swallowed these. Then I packed everything back into the box, shut the lid, and left it on the counter.

Slowly I went up to the cockpit and stood looking at the instruments. All working fine. I fetched a third blanket from the luggage bay and tucked it over and round the body of Bob. He became immediately less of a harsh reality, and I wondered if that was why people always covered the faces of the dead.

I checked the time. An hour from Marseilles. Only a hundred and fifty miles, and a daunting way still to go. I leaned against the metal wall and shut my eyes. It was no good feeling the way I did with so much still to do. Parts of Air Ministry regulations drifted ironically into my mind… ‘Many flying accidents have occurred as a result of pilots flying while medically unfit… and the more exacting the flying task the more likely are minor indispositions to be serious… so don’t go up at all if you are ill enough to need drugs… and if coffee isn’t enough to keep you awake you are not fit to fly.’

Good old Air Ministry I thought: they’d hit the nail on the head[528]. Where they would have me be was down on the solid earth, and I wholeheartedly agreed.

The radio, I thought inconsequentially. Out of order. I opened my eyes, pushed myself off the wall, and set about finding out why. I hadn’t far to look. Yardman had removed all the circuit breakers, and the result was like an electric light system with no fuses in the fuse box. Every plane carried spares, however. I located the place where the spares should have been, and there weren’t any. The whole lot in Yardman’s pockets, no doubt.

Fetching a fresh cup of water, I climbed again into Patrick’s seat and put on the headset to reduce the noise. I leaned back in the comfortable leather upholstery and rested my elbows on the stubby arms, and after a while the codeine and the bandage turned in a reasonable job[529].

Outside the sky was still black and dotted with brilliant stars, and the revolving anti-collision beacon still skimmed pinkly over the great wide span of the wings, but there was also a new misty greyish quality in the light. Not dawn. The moon coming up. Very helpful of it, I thought appreciatively. Although it was well on the wane[530] I would probably be able to see what I was doing the next time I flew out over the coastline. I began to work out what time I would get there. More guesses. North-west across France coast to coast had to be all of five hundred miles. It had been one-forty when I left Marseilles; was three-ten now. E.T.A.[531] English Channel, somewhere about five.

Patrick’s being alive made a lot of difference to everything. I was now thankful without reservation that I had taken the D.C.4 however stupid my motive at the time, for if I’d left it, and Yardman had found him alive, they would simply have pumped another bullet into him, or even buried him as he was. The tiring mental merry-go-round of whether I should have taken the Cessna troubled me no more.

I yawned. Not good. Of all things I couldn’t afford to go to sleep. I shouldn’t have taken those pills, I thought: there was nothing like the odd spot of agony for keeping you awake[532]. I rubbed my hand over my face and it felt as if it belonged to someone else.

I murdered Billy, I thought.

I could have shot him in the leg and left him to Yardman, and I’d chosen to kill him myself. Choice and those cold-blooded seconds of revenge… they made it murder. An interesting technical point, where self-defence went over the edge into something else. Well… no one would ever find out; and my conscience didn’t stir.