The Fire Baby

Lyndon, not answering, took out a lighter. It was a Zippo, the kind pipe smokers use, and roll-your-own fanatics; standard issue for GIs. They were icons, if original, and this one was worn to a golden sheen by years of use. Koskinski flicked the top up expertly, sparked it, and examined the blue flame. Dryden noted the smell of the fuel, and a pronounced shake in the pilot’s right hand.

‘This was Dad’s,’ said Koskinski, gazing into the flame.

‘They found it?’ said Dryden. ‘At Black Bank?’

Koskinski shook his head: ‘They didn’t find anything at Black Bank. Not even a body. The coffin just carried his medals and a dress uniform. Grandpa told me that, later. I never forgave him. No, their luggage went separately from the air convoy. Clothes, some furniture, stuff from ’Nam and Cambodia. This was in a trouser pocket. Not much else.’

‘What happened to you?’ Dryden was pleased with the ambiguity of this question.

‘Nerves got shot,’ he said, examining the shaking hands.

Dryden nodded and let him fill the silence. ‘I spent some time in Al Rasheid. Baghdad Hilton. The war. Four weeks in a cell. Shit happened, every day, like the sun coming up. You don’t want to hear.’

‘Solitary?’ asked Dryden, imagining it would be better if it was.

Lyndon shook his head and took so long to answer that Dryden thought he’d have to ask again. ‘Nah. I was with Freeman, Freeman White. We came down together – engine failure. Freeman was bad. But we stayed together.’

‘Where’s Freeman?’

‘Mildenhall. Medical treatment like me, then home, I guess. Ejector seat made a mess of his head.’

Dryden winced. ‘You kept in touch with Maggie Beck. It’s been nearly thirty years.’

Koskinski seemed to think this was a question. He held his hands out, palms up, as if mystified. ‘She kept in touch. She lost her kid, didn’t she? It must’ve hurt plenty, so I guess I help in some way. I don’t like to think of it like that, but that’s the truth. I guess I’m a consolation. Second prize. I don’t have to do anything. I just seem to help.’

‘Why now?’ said Dryden, relaxing visibly, trying to put his interviewee at ease. ‘Why visit now? Did you know Maggie was ill?’

‘No.’ He shook his head both ways as if trying to dislodge persistent desert flies. ‘They knew at home but, I guess, they felt – my folks – I had enough to deal with. I was just going home. To Austin, to Texas.’

‘Folks?’

‘My grandparents. They brought me up after the crash. We’ve talked about Maggie and they think I should stay too, hang around while she needs me. We all owe her. I was flying back to the States but they’ve got the medical teams here. I had some treatment to wait for – that’s when I ran out to Black Bank. I didn’t plan to. It just kinda happened. I’d never been. Weird.’ He shook his head again.

‘Why weird?’

‘Coming back through Mildenhall like that. Just like Dad did in ’76. I’m glad. I’m glad I’m here.’ He smiled again, and Dryden sensed a real joy, even excitement.

Lyndon flicked the Zippo lighter again, pocketed it, then looked at a watch on his wrist which would have embarrassed James Bond. ‘We’d better go. She’s out cold but the doc said I should be there when she comes out of it. If she comes out of it.’

‘We?’ said Dryden, standing reluctantly. ‘Why we?’

‘She asked. She asked both of us – Estelle and me – to make sure you were here too. She’s got something to say – to all of us.’

11

Dryden and Lyndon walked towards The Tower. It stood against the dusk like a cheap set from a horror film, its Gothic tower a pin-sharp silhouette against a sky which had finally relinquished the sun. But the heat remained. The moon blazed down like a scene-of-crime lamp on the hospital’s Victorian façade.

Inside, the irritating background music which normally enveloped the foyer had been turned down to an almost imperceptible level: a far more emphatic signal than any doctor’s opinion that one of the patients was about to die.

The curtain had been drawn around Maggie’s bed. Lyndon slipped inside while Dryden sat beside Laura’s bed, holding her hand with a pulsing grip, watching the shadow-show. Spasmodically a brief flame flared, like a struck match, seen through the gauzy material of the mobile screen. A doctor came and went with the over-careful steps of a mourner.

Dryden looked into Laura’s eyes. Did she know what was happening?

‘They’ve come,’ he said, gripping the fingers still harder. ‘August found them. Trust August. She’ll be fine now.’ He tried a smile and hoped Laura couldn’t see its fragile confidence.

One of the shadows stood and parted the curtain. Lyndon Koskinski stood over Laura’s bed. ‘I’ve wondered, you know, about her,’ he said. ‘When we’ve been visiting, we’ve often sat here, talking, and thought about her. I’m sorry.’

Dryden, confused by kindness, shrugged. For the first time he’d caught the tension in Koskinski’s accent: the preppy college correctness only just obscuring the twang of the Deep South.