– God knows what advice she dispensed – one for taking a purse she found in the street to the police. She had over three hundred credits written in a notebook Sam had once discovered. That had been twenty years ago. Sam wondered how many more she had added since.
The past was a strange place. Images changed with time. It tried to deceive you with its jerky black and white movies, with its faded photographs, its rust,wrinkles, its stubby wipers. Tried to pretend it had always been that way. Made it difficult to remember that everything was modern once; that everything around her now, in the street, in the shop windows, would be old one day, too.
The rain rattled hard for a second, then faded, as if a child had thrown a handful of pebbles. She turned and glanced out of the side window. The black print on the news vendor’s billboard flashed at her like a single frame of a film and was gone.
‘Stop, Ken!’
‘Stop what?’
‘Stop the car, for Christ’s sake! Stop the car!’ she yelled, groping for the door handle, pulling it, pushing open the door as he found a gap in front of a taxi and pulled into the kerb. There was the ring of a bicycle bell, and a cyclist swerved, scraping his wheel along the kerb, shouting angrily.
She fell out of the car, stumbled onto the pavement, and ran back to the news vendor. ‘ Standard ,’ she said, grabbing the paper, pulling her purse out of her bag, fumbling, trying to open it, rattling the coins, spilling them around her. Then she stopped, oblivious to the stinging iciness of the rain, and stared down at the front page headline.
163 DEAD IN BULGARIA AIR DISASTER
Underneath was a photograph. The tail section of the aircraft, a dark silhouette resting on snow, the top of the tail-fin bent over at a right angle and part of the Chartair prancing tiger emblem clearly visible with letters next to it.
G.Z.T.A.E.
Chartair Six-Two-Four, she mouthed silently to herself, watching the newsprint darkening from the rain.
‘Bulgaria has confirmed that a Boeing 727 belongingto Chartair crashed this morning with the loss of all 155 passengers and eight crew. Full details have still not been released, but the plane is believed to have crashed into mountains whilst trying to land in poor visibility.’
She did not need to read any further. Turning, she walked slowly back to the waiting car.
She knew exactly what had happened.
‘What is it?’ dimly, she heard Ken’s voice. ‘Sam? . . . Hallo? . . . Anybody home?’
She pulled the Bentley’s door closed, and stared again at the headlines and the photograph.
‘What is it, Sam? What’s the matter? Do you know someone on that plane?’
She looked ahead blankly, then pulled her handkerchief out of her bag and wiped the water away from her face. She felt more trickling down her cheeks and wiped that away too. Immediately they were wet again. She closed her eyes tightly, felt her chest heaving and sniffed hard, trying to stop the sobbing, but she could not.
She felt Ken’s hand, tender, lightly on her wrist. ‘Who was it?’ he said. ‘Who was on that plane?’
She sat in silence for a long while, listening to the rain and the sound of the traffic passing by.
‘Me,’ she said. ‘I was on that plane.’
5
‘Up their bottoms.’
‘No!’
‘It’s true. They do.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
Richard picked up his wine glass, grinning drunkenly, andswirled his wine around. ‘They stick gerbils up their bottoms.’
‘Honestly?’
Sam watched Sarah Rowntree’s bright pampered face through the silver candelabra. The lights of a boat slipped past the window; she could hear the faint throbbing of its engine above the chatter.
‘They put them in plastic bags then stick them up their bottoms.’
‘I can’t believe it!’
A draught of cold air, stronger than the others, bent the candle flames, and she watched the light dancing off the diamonds, the cutlery, the glistening cheeks. Friends. Dinner parties. She loved
The past was a strange place. Images changed with time. It tried to deceive you with its jerky black and white movies, with its faded photographs, its rust,wrinkles, its stubby wipers. Tried to pretend it had always been that way. Made it difficult to remember that everything was modern once; that everything around her now, in the street, in the shop windows, would be old one day, too.
The rain rattled hard for a second, then faded, as if a child had thrown a handful of pebbles. She turned and glanced out of the side window. The black print on the news vendor’s billboard flashed at her like a single frame of a film and was gone.
‘Stop, Ken!’
‘Stop what?’
‘Stop the car, for Christ’s sake! Stop the car!’ she yelled, groping for the door handle, pulling it, pushing open the door as he found a gap in front of a taxi and pulled into the kerb. There was the ring of a bicycle bell, and a cyclist swerved, scraping his wheel along the kerb, shouting angrily.
She fell out of the car, stumbled onto the pavement, and ran back to the news vendor. ‘ Standard ,’ she said, grabbing the paper, pulling her purse out of her bag, fumbling, trying to open it, rattling the coins, spilling them around her. Then she stopped, oblivious to the stinging iciness of the rain, and stared down at the front page headline.
163 DEAD IN BULGARIA AIR DISASTER
Underneath was a photograph. The tail section of the aircraft, a dark silhouette resting on snow, the top of the tail-fin bent over at a right angle and part of the Chartair prancing tiger emblem clearly visible with letters next to it.
G.Z.T.A.E.
Chartair Six-Two-Four, she mouthed silently to herself, watching the newsprint darkening from the rain.
‘Bulgaria has confirmed that a Boeing 727 belongingto Chartair crashed this morning with the loss of all 155 passengers and eight crew. Full details have still not been released, but the plane is believed to have crashed into mountains whilst trying to land in poor visibility.’
She did not need to read any further. Turning, she walked slowly back to the waiting car.
She knew exactly what had happened.
‘What is it?’ dimly, she heard Ken’s voice. ‘Sam? . . . Hallo? . . . Anybody home?’
She pulled the Bentley’s door closed, and stared again at the headlines and the photograph.
‘What is it, Sam? What’s the matter? Do you know someone on that plane?’
She looked ahead blankly, then pulled her handkerchief out of her bag and wiped the water away from her face. She felt more trickling down her cheeks and wiped that away too. Immediately they were wet again. She closed her eyes tightly, felt her chest heaving and sniffed hard, trying to stop the sobbing, but she could not.
She felt Ken’s hand, tender, lightly on her wrist. ‘Who was it?’ he said. ‘Who was on that plane?’
She sat in silence for a long while, listening to the rain and the sound of the traffic passing by.
‘Me,’ she said. ‘I was on that plane.’
5
‘Up their bottoms.’
‘No!’
‘It’s true. They do.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
Richard picked up his wine glass, grinning drunkenly, andswirled his wine around. ‘They stick gerbils up their bottoms.’
‘Honestly?’
Sam watched Sarah Rowntree’s bright pampered face through the silver candelabra. The lights of a boat slipped past the window; she could hear the faint throbbing of its engine above the chatter.
‘They put them in plastic bags then stick them up their bottoms.’
‘I can’t believe it!’
A draught of cold air, stronger than the others, bent the candle flames, and she watched the light dancing off the diamonds, the cutlery, the glistening cheeks. Friends. Dinner parties. She loved
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