The Adjacent (52 page)

The doctor returned and I could see her face was shining with perspiration. Her simple white garment was damp, adhering to her body under her arms, across her chest. She gave me a questioning look as she approached, apparently trying to read how I was feeling.

‘Are you all right?’ she said, with surprising warmth.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m glad her injuries aren’t dangerous. It always makes it harder if you know the patient.’

‘You reacted remarkably quickly.’

‘The training kicks in when it’s needed. I’m relieved you were here too.’

‘I was at the back of the audience, so it took me longer to come forward.’

‘Do you think she will be all right?’

‘She’s in a great deal of pain. Her hip will take a long time to heal, but I don’t think there will be any long-term damage. She landed badly, that’s all.’

‘Has anyone told you she’s an athletics student?’

The woman looked pained. ‘No. That could turn out to be a problem for her. But – she’s young, she’s strong. If she gets the right treatment, and therapy afterwards, she should make a full recovery.’

She took my hand, trying to reassure me. We stood there together, the aftermath of an emergency. I was still upset, not especially because of Ruddebet’s accident, but because I continued to feel irrationally responsible for what had happened. I found the doctor’s
presence comforting but also intimidating – she was an imposing woman, and in spite of the softness of her tone she rarely smiled. I exhaled suddenly, and was not able to prevent myself from making a sobbing noise.

Then she said, ‘I think as a precaution you and I should exchange names and contact details. Someone might take it upon themselves to seek justice for what happened to the girl. We could become involved.’

‘But it was obviously an accident. Who would take revenge?’

‘You said the man who came forward was her father. He might.’

‘Not Gerred! He’s not like that.’

‘No one ever is, until they find out how the law works. The rules about accidents at work are complex. The father might not want revenge, might not even consider looking for it, but there are firms which offer a proxy service. They can start an action, then have the other parties joined later.’

‘I want nothing to do with that,’ I said.

‘Neither do I. But we don’t have much choice if someone starts an action. What is your name, and where do you live?’

‘Mellanya Ross,’ I said. ‘I live here in the town, but I’m planning to leave in the next few days –’

‘My name is Mallin, Firentsa Mallin. I live in a village just outside Beathurn.’

‘Doctor Mallin?’

‘I never call myself doctor. Since I moved to Prachous I have stopped practising medicine and become an adherent. I’m not from Prachous and I wouldn’t be allowed a practitioner’s certificate without re-training. I work as a missionary now.’ She glanced around at the remains of Thom’s illusion. ‘If they found out, I would probably get into hot water with the medical council for doing what I just did. What about you? I sense you are not a Prachoit either.’

‘That’s right.’

She regarded me with her deep-set eyes, still clutching my hand.

She said, ‘If we meet again you should call me by my first name only. I’m Firentsa. I hope nothing more comes of this incident, but on this island you never know what might happen.’

I wanted to explain that I was planning as soon as possible to leave Prachous forever, but I became unsure. I did not know how some act of revenge might be carried out. Against Thom the Thaumaturge? Could I be forced into becoming a part of that? How might I, or this woman, be involved? As witnesses to an accident, or as responsible
parties because we performed first aid on the young woman?

I was wondering what to say, when suddenly Firentsa Mallin turned directly towards me and we embraced. I felt her strong arms wrapping protectively around my shoulders. The sides of our faces briefly pressed against each other. I could feel her jaw working with emotion. We stepped back from each other and for a moment I glimpsed a trace of tears filling her eyes. She turned away without another word, then walked down the steps from the stage and exited the auditorium through one of the curtained audience doors. I stood alone.

The trick rope that had caused the accident was still lying in curves and loops across the floor of the stage – part of it ran between my feet. The hidden end still lay inside the wicker basket. There was no sign of Thom. The quiet noise of the ineffectual cooling fans, venting above me, cut out.

I CLOSED UP MY HOUSE FOR THE LAST TIME AND DROVE TO THE
airfield. The journey took about four hours, which meant that even if the problems of officialdom were to disappear it would be too late to start my flight. I needed all the daylight hours possible.

The airfield where I had first arrived was in an area of hilly pastures, not forested but well covered with mature trees. It was in the south-eastern quarter of the island. I had found it by chance as I flew across Prachous in the gathering twilight, running low on fuel and desperate to find anywhere at all that I could put down the wheels.

Following my arrival, learning about the everyday life of Prachous, and especially my search for Tomak, had absorbed me. The adventure of the long flight soon dimmed. There had been so many other flights in my life before that one, unique though it was. As my intention to leave the island became certain, I returned several times to the airfield, trying to work my way out of the maze of difficulties I had made for myself. The staff there now knew me. They were fully aware that once the aircraft was released from the bond I would want to fly in it.

The height of the hills above sea level gave the area a pleasantly temperate climate. I relished my visits, because they provided an escape from the humidity of the town. I enjoyed watching the local people flying their light planes in and out of the airfield, envying them a little, but also knowing that locked away in the bonded
hangar I had one of the most beautiful and powerful aircraft ever built. I ached to fly it again.

During my visits I would lie in the long grass at the perimeter of the field, soaking up the familiar sounds and smells as the aero engines revved up for take-off. I longed to feel the vibration of the aircraft engines and the pressure of the slipstream pouring back violently from the propellers. Safety regulations meant I could not approach too close. On one visit I was invited into the flimsily built control tower, actually erected on top of the hangar where my plane was being kept, and listened with painful familiarity to the curt, polite conversations with the pilots, about wind bearing, altitude and approach paths.

When I arrived at the airfield the news was good: the tithing agency had been looking into my finances. My loan account had established a credit rating equivalent to twelve per cent of the estimated value of my aircraft. I had no idea how any of this was worked out, but the commodore of the air club sat down with me and explained the calculation. I was none the wiser, but it did mean that as far as he and the authorities were concerned I could guarantee the tithe value of the impounded plane. This, it transpired, was one of the main reasons the aircraft had been impounded in the first place. I asked about the breach of neutrality, but the man knew nothing about that. He told me that provided I did not attempt to leave the island’s airspace and surrendered the aircraft again on my return, it should not affect the outcome of the hearing.

What it all amounted to was that the tithe bond would be discharged at midnight, and I would be allowed to take my aircraft up for a short proving flight first thing in the morning.

I was allowed into the hangar where two mechanics were conducting a final check of the instruments, wiring, and control surfaces. The engine, they told me, was in good working condition, or so they believed. It was unfamiliar to them, and they asked me several questions about its technical specifications, none of which I could answer. I wanted to touch the plane, even put my arm across its slender fuselage, but the mechanics had clearly been told to keep me away from it.

There were more questions to answer about the quantity of fuel I had ordered. 100-octane aviation fuel had been obtained specially, and was available, but the maintenance crew had of course discovered the auxiliary tank in the rear of the aircraft. They were concerned about the sheer quantity of fuel I was asking for. I
needed both tanks filled to capacity for my main flight, but I did not want to arouse suspicions about my destination. I said that at first I would need only enough fuel for the short proving flight, but if that went well I intended to make a longer flight around the coast of the island. That was why I needed the extra fuel.

I went to a house where I had stayed on earlier visits to the airfield, slept well in spite of my feelings of excitement, and in the morning I returned to the airfield as early as I could. Several of the ground crew were already working but I was the only pilot there. I went to the met office for a weather report – it was expected to be another fine day with a high pressure system stable over the eastern part of the island. There was a seventy per cent likelihood of storms in the north and west of the island. Visibility was excellent. There would be low winds at all altitudes. The storm warning did not concern me – I was planning to be far away by the time it arrived.

I collected my flying jacket and helmet, then walked across to the bonded hangar. I noticed at once that the main doors were open. The official tags of tithe bondage had been unclipped from the aircraft’s propeller, undercarriage and fin. One of the mechanics gave me a cheerful wave, which I took to mean all was clear. After a short wait, the plane was pulled out by the club tractor and turned around. The wheels were chocked.

I climbed into the cockpit, trying to act as if I had done it a hundred times before, although in fact I had only ever been inside this Spitfire twice: once when I began the outward flight, then again after arrival, when I had nowhere to stay and was forced to go through the night in the cockpit. Now I eased a leg over the edge of the cockpit with the canopy pushed wide open, lowered my backside on to the hard seat, pushed my legs around the joystick, found the rudders, wriggled and shifted to get into the right position.

Was it the plane that was going to be proved, or was it me? I was aware that what I was doing was attracting attention. All the ground crew had followed the Spitfire out of the hangar, and were now watching to see me start up. When I craned my neck and peered up towards the control tower I could see that a handful of people were standing at the window, looking down at me. I began the cockpit check, trying to appear calm.

The sequence was the familiar one – all pre-flight checks are similar, and I had memorized the Spitfire variations the previous year. Undercarriage: locked down, confirmed by the green light. Flaps: up. Lamps: up. Fuel cock levers: both on. (I had to search
quickly for the second fuel cock.) Throttle: a finger-width open. Next to that, the mixture switch: rich. This cockpit check was starting to feel natural, habitual. Airscrew control: back. Radiator shutter: open. All OK. Next was the priming pump, on the starboard side. I tipped my head out of the cockpit on both sides, making sure no one was standing by the propeller, switched on the ignition, pulled the priming pump handle, pushed the starter.

The prop turned, the engine fired. I held in the starter button until the engine was running smoothly, then screwed down the priming pump.

My hands were shaking with relief. While the engine warmed up, I looked at all the instruments, checked they were working and zeroed. No one had changed the seat position, so my legs naturally reached down to the rudder pedals.

Now that the engine was running my nervousness was cured. I ran through the normal warm-up procedure. Brake pressure correct. Canopy locked open. Throttle opened on weak mixture, propeller pitch working OK. Throttle back, select rich mixture, throttle to maximum boost. Magnetos checked. All working. All ready.

I spoke to the control tower and was cleared for take-off. I waved a hand through the open cockpit and two of the mechanics scrambled forward and pulled the chocks away.

My Spitfire began to move forward. I eased the throttle open, and the plane taxied at normal speed.

When a Spitfire was on the ground it was always at a nose-up attitude because of the low tail-wheel, which meant there was no forward visibility, and because of the low wings there was only a restricted sight-line at the sides. When visiting this airfield before I made a point of learning what I could of the landing strip by walking up and down alongside. It was a grass airfield but the grass was kept short and there were few bumps or sudden inclines that could throw the plane into the air before it had gained enough airspeed.

I checked the wind direction once again, then taxied the plane out to the strip. As soon I was in position, the final check: elevator one click down from neutral, rudder full starboard to trim for take-off, mixture rich, propeller pitch fine, fuel on, flaps up, radiator shutter open.

I opened the throttle and the Merlin engine ran smoothly up to full power. The plane accelerated forward.

Moments later I was flying. The ground fell away, trees and fields at an angle below, white clouds above, the fabulous roar of the Merlin, the rush of air through the open canopy. I closed the canopy.

I FLEW THE SPITFIRE CAREFULLY IN A LONG CIRCUIT OF THE
field. I was high enough to be able to catch sight of the ocean far away to the south, and even gain a glimpse of part of the great central desert, not so far away but beginning beyond a range of hills to the west. I was not up there to look at scenery – I took the plane through a sequence of basic flight tests: a climb, a turn, a dive, an incipient stall. I raised and lowered the undercarriage and monitored the reading of each of the instruments as I changed speed, direction and height. I looked at the instruments as if they were old friends: the artificial horizon, the altimeter, the air speed indicator, the fuel gauges.