The Faithful by Matt Hayward

Author:Matt Hayward [Hayward, Matt]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sinister Grin Press
Published: 2018-10-15T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TEN

“Would you like anything to drink?”

“Glass of whiskey would do mighty fine, thanks. And an orange juice for the boy.”

Jonesy thanked the flight attendant as she set two plastic cups in front of him with a smile. He sighed and concentrated on the layer of fat, white clouds swimming below them— anything to ignore his flipping stomach.

“No need to be so nervous,” Caleb said. “More people die in car crashes than plane crashes each year. Kate told me.”

“Yeah, but how many cars drive each day and how many planes fly? Jesus.”

Caleb grinned. “Just trying to help you, big baby.”

Jonesy downed his whiskey, enjoying the burn as it trickled to his stomach.

“Why ain’t you nervous anyway? You ain’t flown before.”

“Don’t always have to be scared of something new.”

Jonesy smiled. The reality that this boy, this incredible human, was his son, would still not fully register. He doubted it ever would. There twinkled the same brown eyes as Annie’s, but below lurked a shit-kicker grin that was all Jonesy. Boy would be a looker someday.

Jonesy cleared his throat. “You know I didn’t mean to, y’know… hurt you last night.”

“I know.”

“What I did, it was wrong, there ain’t no taking it back. I hope you might forgive me. I promise, it will never happen again.”

“I know.”

Jonesy nodded and let the conversation fade, his mood lightening. Leo and Kate occupied the seats ahead, the comedian’s head lulling to one side as a snore escaped his open mouth. Beside him, Kate twitched, her hair in a pool atop her balled up jacket against the closed window.

“You know,” Jonesy said, nodding to the two, “sleep ain’t a bad idea. Least I won’t have to lose my lunch if I just knock out for the rest of the flight.”

Jonesy adjusted his seat back, still acutely aware of the false sense of safety all around them: smiling attendants, blankets, movies on show — they were thousands of feet above the ground in a speeding tin can, for Christ’s sake. Still, the whiskey sung in his belly, and soon enough, he closed his eyes, allowed the tension to fade from his limbs.

“Jonesy.”

He opened his eyes, ready to tell Caleb to let him sleep, but… hadn’t he just drifted off?

“Jesus Christ!”

Jarrad Prescott stood before him, a wide smile on his wrinkled face. “Ain’t no Jesus,” he said with a chuckle. “Jus’ me.”

Sand drifted across high dunes, a low wind redistributing grains beneath the light of the moon. Jonesy’s body still hummed with the motion and engine of the airplane, confirming his suspicion of a dream. He saw himself still reclined on the airplane seat, head pressed against the window as a strand of drool fell from his lip. “This again?”

“‘Fraid so.” Jarrad shifted his footing.

Jonesy ran a hand across his face, the rough stubble pressing into his palms. He’d never get used to the sensation of being awake within a dream. Every sense registered his environment: the wind, the sand, the temperature, but at the same time: the plane

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