Death Spiral by James W. Nichol Read Free Book Online Page B

Numerous models of airplanes he’d assembled himself hung down from the ceiling on invisible threads. They swayed slowly, spun around in the draft he’d let in. Every available space on the walls was covered with pictures of tanks and warships and planes and artillery pieces and anything at all to do with the war. He’d taped up pictures all through the rest of the house as well. Some were black and white but his favourite ones were in full colour. He had galleries of portraits. Generals. Medal winners. Flying aces. All the local boys, too. Any time anyone in a uniform had their picture in the town’s newspaper Duncan would add it to his collection. Even now with the war finished for over eighteen months he still might see something in a magazine or a newspaper he just had to cut out.
    Duncan walked through his model planes and smiled to himself. It was like he was flying too, peering into their cockpits, friend or foe, circling around, speeding away.
    He opened a cupboard door and stared for a while at the sparse contents. He’d have to eat something sometime but for now he thought he’d have a drink. He picked up a bottle of whisky, took a swig and sat down in his father’s broken-down old sofa chair. He turned on the radio. Charlie McCarthy and Edgar Bergen were arguing about something.
    Duncan took another drink and stared at a news article he’d recently cut out and taped to the wall. It was all about the banquet given in Wilf McLauchlin’s honour. Of all the local warriors, Wilf McLauchlin was Duncan’s favourite. Too bad the picture wasn’t in colour. Wilf, wearing a suit instead of his uniform for some reason, was standing behind a table full of plates and dishes and glasses and he was making a speech. He looked like a movie star. Only better, Duncan thought, because he wasn’t pretending to be somebody he wasn’t. Wilf had flown higher than anyone could imagine. Faster, too. He had protected everyone in the town and he had been glad to do it even though he had paid a high price. He was a hero.
    And his father was Mr. McLauchlin. And Carole worked for him in his office.
    Duncan took another drink. It burned nicely going down. Maybe one day, once he got up the nerve to ask Carole to marry him and she said yes and they had a big wedding, Wilf would stand up and give a speech just like he did at his own banquet.
    “I know Duncan,” Wilf would say, “and if it wasn’t for the fact that he was too big he would have been flying a Spitfire Mk 14 right beside me. I am proud to call him my friend.”
    And Carole would turn and look up at her new husband, and she’d smile her wonderful smile just as if he had flown an Mk 14, and they’d stand up together and cut the cake.
    He’d seen lots of pictures of other happy couples doing just that. He would have his hand on the knife and her hand would rest on the top of his hand, as gentle and soft as a leaf.
    Duncan heaved a sigh. How he wanted to be high up somewhere.
    Oh god, how he wanted to fly.
    * * *
    Wilf came into his father’s study and flicked on the light. All the other rooms had a Spartan look as might be expected in a large house occupied by a long-time widower. No female decorative flair anywhere to be seen, or more importantly to be felt. But at least the study looked more lived in with its two creased leather chairs inviting a friendly conversation, the iron-grated fireplace, the faded but still warmly coloured oriental rug, the tall shelves of well-worn common law and statute books, reference books, novels and histories, Shakespeares and Shaws, philosophies, poetry.
    Whenever Wilf had thought of his home, which hadn’t been too often, he’d thought of this room. Something had been added though, stacks of transcripts from the trials that were still going on in faraway Nuremberg. His father had become enormously inspired by those proceedings and had been collecting everything he could find. He’d even purchased an oak filing cabinet to house