Landing Gear (8 page)

“I’d make a good Canadian.”

“Once a Canadian, always a Canadian,” Marina replied.

“Oh, I know that,” he said, “but I mean, if I hadn’t gone away.” He paused. He wasn’t really sure what he was trying to say. “It’s strange having an English child.”

Marina looked at him sideways.

“I mean, I was a Canadian boy. How is it that I have an English child?”

“Well,” Marina said slowly, “my Iranian parents had me and my brothers, their Canadian children. It isn’t that odd, Michael, in the scheme of things. People emigrate.”

“I know, I know,” said Michael, “but sometimes I dream of my Canadian life. Sometimes I worry I missed out. Canada feels—Well, you know what it feels like. Not like England.”

“But you live in London—you can go to Venice for the weekend.”

Michael nodded. “But what if the planes never flew again? What if crossing the Atlantic suddenly became much more difficult? What if choosing London really did mean choosing it, once and for all?”

“I’d miss you,” said Marina.

“Sometimes I feel like I’ve led half a life in London, always the ex-pat, never the patriot.”

“Ha,” said Marina. “You’d never be a patriot.”

“London’s problems are never really my problems, are they?”

“Toronto’s stupid problems aren’t my problems either,” said Marina.

“I’m annoying you,” he said.

“Yes, you are,” she replied, smiling.

She hailed a taxi and got in. When Michael followed her, he sat down too quickly and trapped her coat so that instead of sliding across to the other window, clearing space on the seat between them, Marina was sitting right next to him. Her leg touched his. She gave the driver their destination. Michael put his arm around her shoulder. She exhaled and leaned back against him. Then she turned her face toward his, he brushed her hair away from her face, and she kissed him. He kissed her. And she kissed him again.

19

Harriet sat outside Mallory Flynn’s office, waiting to go in. It was Friday morning, seven-thirty, the only time Mallory could fit her in. Harriet had expected a wood-panelled, boardroom-style office, with portraits of former controllers watching from above. But instead, Mallory’s office was a glass-walled box in a row of glass-walled boxes, adjacent to a vast open space that housed rows of desks and computers and, even at this time of morning, a great horde of people tapping away at their keyboards.

Mallory opened her door and said, “Harriet.” She smiled and held out both her hands. They embraced quickly, and Harriet felt a soft flurry of head movements from the surrounding news desks. Mallory ushered her into her office—small, crammed with books and papers and half a dozen screens, all of which were turned on, each to a different news broadcast, a babel of newsreaders and reporters all talking at the same time. Mallory picked up a remote and pressed Mute. The monitors fell silent.

“Ooh,” said Harriet, “I want one of those.”

“IT wizards,” she said.

“You look great, Mallory,” and it was true. Well-cut black suit, obedient blond hair, simple gold necklace, gold rings, gold bracelets.

“Makeup. It’s all down to very expensive makeup. That stuff can make a corpse look good.”

They sat down, Mallory behind her desk, Harriet wedged between the screens. “Thanks for your time.”

“How are you? How’s Jack, how’s Michael?”

“They’re good,” said Harriet, “they’re fine.” She felt the pressure of time, the minutes ticking by on the large old-fashioned alarm clock on Mallory’s desk, its round face topped with two fat bells and a clanger. “And Peter?”

Mallory had Peter when she was in her early twenties. She’d been a single parent; Peter was grown now, near the end of his medical training. “He’ll finish university one day, I imagine.”

“He’s my friend on Facebook,” Harriet said.

“You’re kidding.”

“He works very hard …”

“But he knows how to have a good time.” Mallory sighed. She looked at Harriet. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m ready for a change.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Harriet said, “radio was good for me while Jack was young, but I want to get back into television news.”

Mallory raised her eyebrows. “You do?”

“I do. And I’m hoping you’ll, well—I might as well just say it. Shit. Sorry. I’m hoping you’ll take a look at the work I’ve been doing lately—it’s not much—but still—I’m hoping that you’ll think of me.” Harriet laughed at herself, exhausted. “You know. With the election coming
up—you must need people. On the ground. In the constituencies. That kind of thing?”

Mallory sat back in her chair. “The election,” she said.

“Stick me out in a constituency where nothing ever happens—just in case something interesting comes along?”

“We do our election planning a long way in advance,” Mallory said.

Harriet smiled hopefully.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Work remained busy, if less exciting. Colleagues who’d been stranded abroad had begun to reappear. The story itself, the ash cloud and the airspace shutdown, was finished. Richmond had its old low-sky, noisy self back once again.

Friday evening, when she got home, before she did anything else, Harriet rang Michael. All week they’d been trying to connect. Six o’clock in London: one o’clock—lunchtime—in Toronto. Surely he’d be able to talk.

“Harriet?” He cleared his throat.

“Hello! My long-lost husband!”

“Won’t be long now,” he said. “Home Sunday.”

“I know.”

Michael cleared his throat again. She could hear rustling as he moved.

“Are you in bed?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, “having a nap. I think this week of enforced leisure has been good for me. Lots of naps. Not
even power naps. Just reading a book and falling asleep.”

Harriet tried to picture Michael, napping, reading. “Sounds great.”

“How about you? How’s Jack?”

“Jack’s fine. He’s had to fend for himself all week. But he’s fine.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“He’s—he’s—” Jack wasn’t there. She wasn’t sure where he was. “He’s out with his friends.”

“Oh, okay.”

All the things Harriet wanted to say to her husband crashed into each other. She was missing him. She’d been too busy to dwell on that fact, but now that work was easing up, she felt his prolonged absence acutely. Mallory had put her in touch with one of the producers working on the election coverage; it looked like she was going to get the opportunity she was after.

“I saw Mallory—” she began.

“Well, I guess I’d better get up,” Michael was saying at the same time. “I promised Marina I’d cook dinner tonight. I need to go get a few things.”

“Oh,” said Harriet. “Okay. What’s the weather like there?”

“Warm. Nice. Spring is arriving.”

“I’ll let you go, then.”

“Okay,” Michael said. “Bye.”

20

Jack met Frank outside the Co-op. The plan was for everyone to meet up on the high street and walk over to David McDonald’s house, getting high along the way. Jack had given Ruby more cash earlier that day, to buy more weed for the party. Getting ready earlier, Jack had dressed carefully. He didn’t have a lot of good clothes. He’d buy something he liked, and it would be too small for him about half an hour later. But tonight, he looked okay. Frank, on the other hand, grew at a more normal pace, and his mum liked to take him shopping. He was developing a sharp look, a kind of 1950s thing almost—narrow trousers, fitted coats, hats.

It took the others a lot of messaging and a fair amount of time to show up. First Dore, then Abdul, and finally Louise with a carrier bag full of beer—the boys handed over their cash to help pay her back for it. Now they were waiting for their entry pass, Ruby. They couldn’t go to the party without Ruby. Everyone was nervous, a bit shifty: David McDonald and his friends were sixth-formers, seventeen or eighteen. Jack worried: would he and his own friends get in? Once they got in, what would they do? He’d never been to a sixth-formers’ party; it felt impossibly grown-up and serious.

Still, they waited for Ruby. And waited.

“Ring her, man,” said Frank.

“You ring her,” said Dore.

“I don’t have her number,” said Frank, though everyone knew he did.

“I’ll call her,” said Jack, and he took his phone out of his pocket.

A car pulled up beside them. Ruby rolled down the window of the passenger seat. “Hi, everybody!” she said.

There was an older guy in the driver’s seat. Ruby’s brother, Jack thought, the drug dealer.

Ruby beckoned to Jack, who walked over to the car. She handed him a small, clear plastic bag.

“Oi,” said the older guy. “There’s a little something extra for you in there. A special treat.”

“Oh,” said Jack, his voice cracking as though he was stifling a shriek, “thanks.”

“I’ll meet you there,” said Ruby.

“But—” Jack started.

“Come on, Louise,” Ruby shouted, “get in the back. We’ll see you guys there!”

Louise climbed into the back seat of the car, with the beer.

The boys stood on the pavement and watched Ruby and Louise drive away. Jack looked down at the bag in his hand. Tucked beneath the draw was a small silver foil packet. He shoved the bag in his pocket.

Half an hour later, they sloped up David McDonald’s street. It was one of those suburban London streets that
stretch on for what looks like miles without a break—a thousand houses in a single terrace, packed in tight. No front gardens, and no trees either, the road jammed with parked cars, tail to nose, no room to manoeuvre. They trudged along, hands in their pockets, hoods up. They could hear music in the distance.

As they got closer, other kids started to appear, heading in the same direction. Jack spotted Roman Nevsky and Lucy Cambridge. “Sixth-formers,” he muttered.

“What?” said Frank.

“I saw some sixth-formers up ahead.”

Frank didn’t reply. A feeling of doom had descended on the boys from the moment Louise got into the car with Ruby, and that feeling grew stronger the closer they got to David McDonald’s house.

The ground floor of the house was lit up, curtains open, the front door and most windows wide open too, throwing bright light onto the street. Music surged. There was a short queue to get in the front door. There was no sign of Ruby, no sign of Louise.

They waited their turn, Frank followed by Abdul followed by Dore followed by Jack. They adjusted their trousers and their jackets. Frank fiddled with his hair. The music was too loud for talking. They moved toward the door slowly. When Frank got to the top of the queue, the others crowded around him. A very short middle-aged man, possibly a man of restricted growth, Jack thought, was acting as bouncer.

“How old are you boys?” he asked. He sounded Scottish.

Frank said sixteen. Abdul said seventeen. Dore said fifteen.

Jack said eighteen.

Everyone turned to look at Jack.

“You,” said the man, pointing at Jack, “you can come in. The rest of you—go home to your mothers.”

Despite the man’s stature, Jack could see there was no point in arguing on behalf of his friends. Frank gave him a kick from behind, and he headed into the house.

Inside, the music made the windows and floor vibrate. Jack inched his way along the entrance corridor and was funnelled by the crowd up the stairs and into a room that had been emptied of furniture, apart from a DJ and his table in one corner. Up here no lights were on, but the room was a sulphury yellow, lit by the streetlights outside. Jack saw, to his mortification, that people were dancing, including, near where he was standing, Ruby and David McDonald. He turned to leave—the idea of dancing made him feel nauseated—when Ruby grabbed his arm.

“Jack! Let’s do it!”

“What?” Then he remembered. He pulled the bag of draw from his pocket and held it up for her approval. She grabbed it.

“Can’t smoke in here, man,” said David. “My dad.” He pointed toward the floor, to where his father was manning the front door below.

Ruby opened the bag and pulled out the silver packet, then handed the bag back to Jack. “Look what we’ve got,” she said, her voice singsong and gleeful. She unwrapped the
foil and revealed a small strip of paper with three tiny tablets adhering to it. She held it up for Jack and David to see. The tablets were red, each stamped with the face of a devil.

“Cool,” said David.

Jack felt more nauseated. “I don’t know, I—”

“More for us, then,” David said. “Open up, Ruby.”

Ruby tipped back her head and stuck out her tongue.

“Have fun,” Jack said, and he backed out of the room, stuffing the bag of weed back into his pocket. He made his way down to the kitchen; the food was all gone, as though a pack of wolves had descended. He didn’t recognize anyone. Dancing, snogging and shouting over the music turned out to be the main things people did at sixth-formers’ parties. He wandered from room to room. No sign of Louise and the beer.

How soon, he wondered, is too soon to leave?

He pulled up his hood, zipped up his coat, said thank you and goodbye to David McDonald’s dad and set off back down the street, past house after house, car after car, house after house, car after car, all the way home.

The next morning, Jack slept in, and when he got up he went straight onto his games console. He ignored his phone, not wanting to have to lie to Frank and Abdul about what a great time he had had at the party. It wasn’t until after he’d had some lunch, taken a shower, got dressed and turned on his laptop that he heard the news: David McDonald had died.

21

Imran’s driver dropped Yacub off at the labour camp early the following morning. As soon as he walked into the courtyard, he knew something had changed. The food supplies donated by Imran’s girls had been moved, locked away safely, he hoped, but that wasn’t it. Half the doors to the rooms on his side of the block hung open. Yacub moved from door to door—the rooms were empty. The men were gone. On the second floor, the same. The last door on the second floor was closed. Yacub knocked. He heard someone stirring. He banged hard with his fist.

“Mahmoud,” he shouted, “wake up.”

“Okay okay okay,” Mahmoud mumbled. He opened the door. Mahmoud had plans to learn to surf once he’d made his fortune. He was going to California, to ride the big wave. At least, that’s what he told everybody. Yacub liked Mahmoud, he was open and friendly; sometimes he reminded him of Farhan.