The Final Flight by James Blatch (fastest ebook reader .TXT) 📕

She dug into her pocket and pulled out a twelve-sided thruppence coin, dropped it onto the counter and hurried out of the shop.

Breaking into a fast walk, she headed back past the church, to the bench.

She unfolded the paper and stared at the face of Squadron Leader Christopher Milford.

Deceased.

He was more than just late for their meeting.

The article had almost no information.

A routine flight … the cause under investigation.

“Christ alive.”

The clock tolled for half past the hour.

Susie entered the phone box outside the newsagent and called Roger.

“My dear, how are the flower people?”

“We have a situation.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Christopher Milford, the RAF officer I was due to meet?”

“Due to meet? Don’t tell me you missed it. Did you oversleep in your tent?”

“Roger, he’s dead.”

There was a moment’s pause.

“How so?”

“He’s been named in the Telegraph as one of the crew killed in a crash, yesterday.”

“The Vulcan in Wales?”

“Yes.”

She heard shuffling and rustling on the other end of the line.

“Well, well. That’s interesting. Of course, it could be a coincidence.”

“Roger, we spent three years in training being taught the Service doesn’t believe in coincidences.”

“True. On the other hand, it could actually be a coincidence.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I obviously need to follow this up,” said Susie. “Who brought him in?”

“Stand by.”

She waited while he disappeared, presumably to dig out the file. Outside the phone box, a young woman with a pram had appeared. Susie smiled at her and made a motion with her hand to indicate that the call had some time to go. The woman pushed the pram off toward the newsagents.

Roger’s voice came back on the line. “He called us.”

“Really? No-one brought him in? That’s unusual, isn’t it? It’s not like we’re in the Yellow Pages. Someone must have given him a number and codename.”

“Well, whoever received the call didn’t ask him, unfortunately. I have the transcript. It was brief.”

“Damn.”

More rustling at the other end of the line.

“There is something here, though,” Roger said. “Have you read the report in the Express?”

“No. What does it say?”

“Check out the last line. It’s not much but might be a start. Meanwhile, I’ll send this up the pole. Give me an hour or two to find out what I can and call back.”

She replaced the handset and pushed the door open.

In the shop, she tapped the young mother on the shoulder.

“I’m all done.”

The woman gave her a wan smile. It looked like she might have been crying.

It was a small community and three people were dead.

She picked up a copy of the Express and took it to the counter.

“Ah, it’s sweary Mary,” the shop owner said when he saw her. “Can’t get enough of the news today, dear?” Susie passed over a tuppence coin.

As she walked out, she scanned the report, which was on page two. Again, it had little detail, but Roger was right. The last line was of interest.

There was one survivor.

Rob awoke.

He entered a twilight between sleep and consciousness, where yesterday’s events were neither real nor unreal. As if it was a story he’d been told in the mess the night before.

As he fully awoke, the reality set in and the weight of grief settled on him again.

He lay still, facing the open window.

The birds tweeted merrily, reminding him of the few minutes spent on the Welsh hillside.

He closed his eyes and saw Millie in his kitchen eating breakfast with Georgina.

Planning their Saturday, looking forward to dinner with the Brunsons.

Millie faded from view. Now he saw Georgina, sitting alone.

Robbed of the love of her life.

“Are you awake?”

Mary’s hand appeared on his shoulder. He turned over but kept his eyes closed, curling up against her.

“It’s OK. It’s OK.” He felt her breath as she spoke.

“It’s not OK.”

“We’ll get through this and we’ll help Georgina get through it.”

It was breezy on the small dock, as it was every year.

Professor Belkin inhaled a lungful of air and let it out slowly.

He looked across the Bristol Channel to the faint outline of his destination.

Ahead, the small Lundy ferry approached, the bow rising and falling in the gentle swell.

“Leonard!”

He turned around to the sound of a familiar voice.

“Callum! How the heavens are you?”

“Aye, still alive. And you, I see.”

Belkin smiled and held out his hand. “The Lord has spared me for at least one more Lundy fortnight.”

“Aye, well, here’s your ham and a few other provisions.”

The bearded Scotsman, exiled in Devon, handed him a brown bag. Belkin opened it and sniffed.

“Smells excellent.”

“And there’s a wee present from Mrs MacPherson and me when you get to the cottage.”

“Really, Callum, you shouldn’t have.” Belkin thought for a moment. “Is it Ruth’s sloe gin?”

“Indeed. Careful, though. It’s a strong one. If you don’t like it, take it home as paint stripper.”

Belkin laughed. “I’m sure it will be quite delicious. I also have a couple of bottles liberated from the college cellar, so I think I’ll survive.”

The ferry gingerly approached the dockside. Callum held out a set of keys.

“It’s not locked, but just in case you want them. I’m afraid we still have no telephone and the electricity is very patchy. Best light a candle in the evening before it goes off. There’s plenty of firewood.”

A young man in a thick sweater jumped from the ferry onto the dock and caught a rope as it was thrown from the boat. The diesel engine chugged and spewed black smoke that wafted across, causing Belkin to cough.

The Scot took a step closer and put a hand on Belkin’s arm. “How long’s it been now?”

Belkin smiled. “Twenty-four years.”

“Aye, well, we remember Winifred like it was yesterday. I hope you have a pleasant fortnight, Leonard.”

He helped Belkin down the steps toward the small passenger craft. “Oh, I’ve put the paper in there as well, in case you fancy a read.”

Belkin peered into the bag to see a copy of The Daily Telegraph wedged between the side of ham and a large loaf of bread.

“Now, that would spoil my splendid isolation. But I might use it to light the fire.”

Callum laughed. “So be