The Final Flight

³³ FRIDAY 14TH JULY

One Week Later

MARY HADN’T MOVED for some time. She let her eyes rest on the changing morning sky. The fiery reds of dawn had replaced the first rays of pale white light.

Over the past week she’d become an expert at mornings. She now knew her blackbirds from her greenfinches just by their call; the birdsong that had for so long just been a background noise in a busy life.

A busy life, until time had stopped. One week ago.

There was a tap at the door. It opened, and a small, pretty woman with a black bob of hair entered the room.

Mary smiled, glad of the company.

“Morning,” they said to each other, and Mary went back to studying the sky.

“Newspapers?”

Susie offered a small pile of the dailies, but Mary couldn’t bring herself to read anyone else’s news.

“The story’s appeared,” Susie said.

“Oh.”

“The local MP is a bit rattled. He’s spilled a few beans.” Susie proffered the papers again.

Mary struggled to focus on the print.

“Would you mind reading it to me?”

“Of course.”

Susie sat on the edge of a high-backed, green-cushioned chair and opened The Daily Telegraph.

The headline at least was clear.

Susie read the article aloud. “Wiltshire Central MP, Sir Alan Giddings, is to raise the recent brace of fatal RAF crashes with ministers in the House of Commons, later today. Yesterday, it emerged that the Vulcan bomber crash, which occurred in mid-Wales a week ago, was the second such loss from the same RAF station in the space of a fortnight. The spotlight is now on the secretive RAF West Porton, north of Salisbury and in the heart of Sir Alan’s constituency.

“Details of the accidents are scarce. An official spokesman for the MOD has told The Daily Telegraph that due to the nature of the work carried out at West Porton, they would release no formal details; however, the public can rest assured the trial that linked the two accidents has been halted.

“Sir Alan says RAF West Porton is cloaked by an ‘unhealthy amount of secrecy’ and he ‘wishes to see a broom swept through the organisation’.

“Sir Alan is expected to question the secretary of state for defence at 2.30PM.

“The Daily Telegraph understands one of the dead from last week’s crash was the commanding officer of a previously unknown unit, referred to as RAF-TFU. Wing Commander Mark Kilton DFC was laid to rest in Amesbury on Thursday.”

Susie rested the paper on her lap.

Mary pondered the reform of West Porton, one week too late.

A shaft of sunlight streamed into the room, falling on Mary’s face. She closed her eyes and tried to enjoy its warmth.

“I’m surprised it’s taken this long to appear in the press,” said Susie. “I thought there might be some reporters at the funeral.”

Mary kept her eyes closed. “It was strange, wasn’t it? The funeral. So much unsaid.”

“Isn’t that always the way at these things?” Susie said. “They do seem adept at not saying things, these men. God knows it may have turned out differently if they’d only had a few more conversations, early on.”

With her eyes closed and the sun warming her face, Mary listened to the remnants of the dawn chorus. The blackbirds were always the last to finish their song.

An unfamiliar sound.

A low murmur.

Her eyes flicked open as she swung off the chair.

Susie was already standing at the hospital bed.

“Was that him?” Mary asked.

“Yes, he moved,” said Susie. “I’ll get the doctor.”

Susie left the room and Mary cupped her hand on the side of Rob’s face, careful to avoid the stitches that ran from his chin.

He moaned again and turned his head a millimetre, but it was a millimetre more than she had seen him move since he had been scraped off the side of that hill.

“Can you hear me?”

For a while, nothing happened. Then his head turned a fraction more.

A moment later, Robert May opened his eyes.