Flight from Africa continued

Whatever, as the speed through the air increased and the angle of climb steepened, Justin was aware of another rumbling sensation beneath his seat. At the push of a button in the cockpit, the first officer had signalled the commencement of a number of events to take place that would entomb the stowaway in the undercarriage bay for the duration of the flight. As the plane left the tarmac and started to gain height, the front pair of wheels would lift first from the tarmac and the rear ones would follow as the ground moved away. Then, the main arm that carried the four huge wheels shod with strangely treadless Michelin tyres moved upwards into the void. Once inside the bay, the doors would then slowly close on the snugly enclosed landing gear. The space around it was very limited. Sitting as he was, above the starboard bay, Justin heard and felt the loud clunk as the gear reached the top of its ascent and the quieter one as the doors hit their stoppers and were locked shut. The flight was relatively short of passengers – was the seemingly effortless Easy-Jet ability to fill all its seats wearing off, or was a sunny Saturday afternoon in July the last time that anyone would consider returning to England – there was no-one within three rows of Justin. Just as the doors closed, he heard another noise. Did it sound like someone crying out in pain? It certainly sounded far off and muffled and could, possibly, have been a squeaky hinge or a dry hydraulic piston. But could it be that the stowaway had caught his arm or his leg in part of the mechanism? Could he be causing the doors to fail to close properly? – If so, this would mean that the pilot’s attention would be assailed by a warning light on his console and an audible alarm in his ears and he would insist on landing again, immediately, to discover what was wrong – or was the ticket-less traveller just trapped and bleeding to death in the dark confined space of the noisy landing-gear bay? Justin sat silently, barely daring to breathe, as he awaited the outcome.

As the plane continued to climb, Justin was disturbed by his thoughts for the stowaway. What had he, Justin Weir, just done? Had he just condemned a young man to almost certain death by allowing him to clamber onto the plane via the landing gear – and all because he didn’t want to be late for the sister who he didn’t likes wedding to a short balding banker? Was anything really important to him anymore? Was he genuinely more worried about losing face with his Mother and Sister than saving the life of a desperate man who was probably risking everything for his wife and children?

“What can I get you gents to drink?” said Vince, the old barman of the Prince Albert in Twyford Avenue, Stamford, as he greeted the four middle-aged men moving towards the bar through the half-full fug of the public bar. Dave, Justin’s father, and his two brothers, Mike and Andy who both lived in nearby Copnor were having a quick lunchtime drink with Dave’s long time drinking companion, Lee, who lived a few doors along from Dave with his wife Jean. They were only supposed to have one or two because Dave was giving his daughter away that afternoon at five – “good time for a weddin’, that,” Lee had commented when told about it, “at least you get to know the footie results before the service starts.” When Dave had reminded him that the season would be over by July anyway, so it didn’t really matter, Lee had added, “alright then, but at least I’ll know wevver I’ve won the pools or not.” No one bothered to comment.

“So where’s that boy of yours, Justin?” said Lee as they started supping their third pint of Pompey Royal after a period of sustained silence had befallen as the four – well Lee, Mike and Andy had been contemplating Lee’s previous comment about whether Tom had ‘shagged Anne already or not and whevver she was really able to wear a white dress or not ,’ - “Isn’t he comin’ to the wedding?” Looking up to the heavens as if half expecting to see Justin flying overhead Dave replied,
“Apparently he’s on ‘is way – he flyin’ over from France. But you never know wiv ‘im; I just dunno what to make of ‘im these days. E’s firty now and e’s never done a proper days work in ‘is life.”

“Would you like a drink, sir?” said Michelle, the flight attendant, who had leapt enthusiastically from her seat at the announcement that seatbelts could be released, and immediately unfastened the drinks trolley from its berth in the galley. The plane was still climbing and she’d worked hard to push the trolley up the steep slope towards the tail.
“Er… yes.. I’ll have two large G and T’s please,” stammered Justin as he continued to think of the fight for life that could well be going on beneath his feet. “No, just make that two tonics,” added Justin remembering that he had bought a bottle of Beefeater at the duty free shop before boarding and it was sitting in his hand luggage – why should he pay four Euros a shot when he’d bought a whole bottle for twelve? Michelle looked at Justin a little askance. There was something about the disposition, although it wasn’t a word that she would have used, that intrigued her. He looked flustered about something - was he scared of flying or something? She’d been told about some people’s fear of flying on the flight attendants training course that had only finished three weeks previously, but she hadn’t yet spoken to anyone that suffered from it.
“You all right, sir?” she asked tentatively.
“Yes, sorry – I…. was just distracted. No problem. I’m fine.” Leaving Justin with his single plastic glass and two cans of tonic, Michelle continued to the rear of the plane where she spoke with he friend Julie about the man in row 15 near the window who she thought might be scared of flying.

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