Flight by Adam Thorpe

Author:Adam Thorpe
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781448139613
Publisher: Random House

10

AL DIDN’T BEAT about the bush: he and Jane moved out to a secret location in deepest west Berkshire – a farmhouse B & B with blazing log fire, friendly Labrador, views of the downs – accompanied by ‘Andrew’, their protective membrane. Why not further afield? Because among Al’s many accessories was a thoroughbred racehorse called Safety Fuse; he could discreetly watch his investment race along the gallops above Lambourn, Andrew eyeing the empty horizons through a stiff breeze at £600 a day.

Meanwhile, his client was negotiating the purchase of a second property on the British Virgin Islands under a false name: Felix Newton. Al knew a Polish couple in a large flat off the King’s Road who processed false passports, driving licences and ancillary documents made in Thailand; Al and Jane had theirs already, which surprised Bob. He was persuaded to part with a small fortune to do likewise, a name decided over the phone on a crackly line. It was as hard as choosing a password.

Christopher ‘Kit’ Webb.

Christopher being his middle name, Webb being a lack of imagination.

‘Please, Mr Webb, to spell this. Like Internet?’

A week passed. The solicitors exchanged crisp letters concerning the Worcestershire house. Several people came to look at the Crowthorne flat. Al informed the Scottish estate agents in Inverness that he had a potential tenant for the croft cottage.

Otherwise, it was all eerily quiet. Bob went out once a day to the gym, at apparently random times, and shopped likewise, changing his route and always accompanied by the pistol in its holster. He practised whipping it out and firing with an empty chamber at the flat’s mirror, and improved his reaction time by several seconds. If he hadn’t texted Sharansky, he wouldn’t be bothering with paranoia. But he’d betrayed Gold Teeth’s order to keep mum: his only hope was that Sharansky had been eliminated by another set of scary bods with a taste for mobiles.

This hope was summarily dealt with by a call from Al one Monday morning. Bob was walking down Crowthorne’s main street, on his way back from the dry-cleaner’s with his pilot’s uniform. The gold twist on the cuffs had, as usual, cost him extra: after all, it was silk. Sand had fallen out of the pockets, they said. The only other customer was a BA first officer, who tried to talk shop.

‘Bob. It’s Al. Bad news. What the hell’s that in the background?’

‘We’ve declared war on Germany. Phone back after the all clear. Five minutes.’

The wail of the sirens contracted and dilated in its usual manner. He ducked into a shoe shop to escape the noise, which still tended to trigger a vivid horror montage on a loop: hairy hands around a little girl’s neck, big teeth chomping on a finger, all blurring into a flash of personal memory that he would rather not be reminded of. Overreaction or therapeutic recycling?

The shop was empty and too quiet. He phoned back from the street.

‘It’s over, Al. Peace in our time. The weekly Broadmoor test.

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