Overtime

Tom Holt
was born in London in 1961. At Oxford he studied bar billiards, ancient Greek agriculture and the care and feeding of small, temperamental Japanese motorcycle engines; interests which led him, perhaps inevitably, to qualify as a solicitor and emigrate to Somerset, where he specialised in death and taxes for seven years before going straight in 1995. Now a full-time writer, he lives in Chard, Somerset, with his wife, one daughter and the unmistakable scent of blood, wafting in on the breeze from the local meat-packing plant. For more information about Tom Holt visit
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Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

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First US e-book edition: September 2012

ISBN: 978-0-316-23298-2

Also by Tom Holt

Expecting Someone Taller
Who's Afraid of Beowulf?
Flying Dutch
Ye Gods!
Overtime
Here Comes the Sun
Grailblazers
Faust Among Equals
Odds and Gods
Djinn Rummy
My Hero
Paint Your Dragon
Open Sesame
Wish You Were Here
Only Human
Snow White and the Seven Samurai
Valhalla
Nothing But Blue Skies
Falling Sideways
Little People
The Portable Door
In Your Dreams
Earth, Air, Fire and Custard
You Don't Have to be Evil to Work Here, But It Helps
Barking
The Better Mousetrap
May Contain Traces of Magic
Blonde Bombshell
Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Sausages
Doughnut

OVERTIME

For Natalie

Caen.

If it's half past four, that
must
be Caen. From up here, it could be Lisieux for all he knew, or Pont L'EvÃªque, or perhaps just an unusually large railway shunting yard, because geography wasn't exactly his strong point; but for once the map and the radio beacons and the big sprawling thing directly underneath him seemed to tally exactly. Prepared to stake good money that that's Caen. Nearly home. Good thing, too, what with the lack of petrol and everything.

It hadn't been the most restful of nights, even by his standards. Flak he could cope with; he didn't take it personally, it was like rain or turbulence, something that came at you out of the sky, a natural occurrence that had no innate malevolence. Fighters, on the other hand, were different. They frightened him. They were doing it on purpose. Furthermore, since Guy had no great confidence in his own abilities and attributed his survival in these circumstances to random or religious factors, he felt quite strongly that one of these days they were going to get him. Tonight was a good example. Tonight they nearly had. Well, they'd got Peter.

âDidn't they, Peter?' Guy said. Peter didn't reply; his navigator in the seat next to him was dead, and in no position to comment. Mind you, he'd never exactly been the most riveting company, even at the best of times.

Guy wasn't sure when Peter had died, or even what had killed him. A fair number of bullets had hit the Mosquito at various times - it hadn't helped that Peter, not the world's greatest authority on navigation, had taken them directly over the night-fighter base at Aachen - or it could have been flak, or perhaps Peter just had a weak heart. He was definitely dead, though, and that was another good reason for getting home sharpish. One doesn't like to seem intolerant or anything, but Guy preferred not to spend too much of his time in the company of dead people. For all he knew, it might be catching.

Behind him, Guy was aware that there was a pretty sensational sunrise going on, which ought to be having some beneficial effect on his morale. Apparently not. A warm bath might do the trick, or fermented liquor or even a smoke, but not a sunrise. Guy tried to whistle the tune he'd thought up last evening, but his lips were too cold. Better be getting home. Rosy-fingered Dawn. Nuts.

âYou can drop me off here if you like.'

Guy blinked. If this was going to turn out to be a ghost story, he really wasn't in the mood. He waited for a moment, then looked round. Not that there was a great deal to see, even with the early light of a new day, but Peter still looked remarkably dead; head lolling forward, that sort of thing. Perhaps he was confusing the intercom with the radio.

âSorry?' he said tentatively.

âHere will do fine.'

âAh,' Guy frowned. If this was really happening, then he felt he would be entirely within his rights if he baled out now, took his chances with the Germans, and the hell with the cost of the plane. The Government had lots of others, and this one had several holes in it. âDid you say something?' he asked.

âYes. Here will do fine. Thanks for the lift.'

âAre you all right, Peter?' Guy asked.

âI'm fine. Actually, my name's not Peter.'

There was a long silence. Not long now till they were out of France and over the Channel. Not much fun baling out over the Channel if you can't swim.

âI think it's terribly clever the way you people work these things.'

âSorry?' Guy asked.

âOf course,' Peter's body said, âyou'll get much better at it soon. In twenty years or so, for instance, they'll work out how to fit heaters in these things and then it'll be much more comfortable. Do you intend to carry on flying after the War?'

âNo,' Guy replied. âLook, Peter, are you allâ'

âMy name's John,' Peter's body said. âJohn de Nesle. To be honest with you, there's not a lot about this century of yours that appeals to me, but these aircraft things are really pretty impressive. If my old father could see this, he'd have a fit.'

âPeter...'

âYou're lucky, though,' said Peter's body, âthat times have changed. I mean, when I was a lad they'd have called this sort of thing witchcraft, and you'd have been tied to a stake and burnt so fast your feet wouldn't have touched. Very suspicious of technology they were, where I come from. Look, I hate to be a bore, but do you think you could just let me off here? I think we're getting pretty near the coast, and I don't want to be late.'

Guy could feel something uncomfortable happening to his insides. His mother had always declared that he had a nervous stomach. âPeter,' he said sharply, âwill you please shut up? You're beginning to get on my nerves.'

âSorry, sorry,' said Peter's body. âI do chatter on, people tell me, but it's just my nature. Anywhere here will do.'

âLook ...'

âYou do know how to land one of these things, don't you
^?'

Guy turned his head and scowled. âOf course I know how to ... Look, who are you?'

The dead body didn't move. Thanks to the light of the spectacular sunrise, Guy could see that there was a large hole in Peter's head. Cannon-shell or something. The head was lolling forward. Extremely dead.

âJohn de Nesle,' said Peter's body. âAnd will you please land this thing and let me out?'

âHow can I let you out?' Guy said. âYou're dead.'

âWho's, dead?' replied Peter's body huffily. âIf you can't do landings, just say and I'll do it. Which one of these things works the steering?'

I'll say this, Guy thought, going mad isn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be. I always imagined it hurt, but apparently not. I shall ignore the whole thing. I shall switch the intercom off, and ...

âHere,' Guy shouted as the Mosquito suddenly lurched in the air, âwhat do you think you're -?'

âSorry,' said the voice in his ear, âI think I pulled the tiller the wrong way. Which way is down?'

âYou leave the controls alone!' Guy said. âYou could get us both killed. Me killed,' he corrected.

After a moment he felt control of the plane pass back to him. âFair enough,' said Peter's body. âJust so long as you take us down.'

So Guy took them down. He found what looked like a reasonably flat field with no trees and headed for it. This was silly.

âSorry if I startled you,' Peter's body said. âI'm not really used to these old-fashioned planes, to be honest with you. The sort I'm used to, you can do it all just by pressing a few buttons. Shouldn't you lower your undercarriage, by the way?'

âI'm trying to,' Guy said.

âAh. You think it's got stuck?'

âYes.'

âDamaged, probably. Hit by flak or bullets or something. Want me to try?'

âNo.'

âBe like that.'

The undercarriage definitely wasn't having anything to do with it, and Guy could understand its point of view, in the circumstances. Ah well, he said to himself, never mind, I wouldn't have enjoyed Life being off my rocker anyway.

âAre you praying?' said Peter's body after a while.

âYes,' Guy said. âSeems sensible, don't you think?'

âOh, I don't mind,' said Peter's body. âA man's beliefs are his own affair and all that sort of thing. No, I was just wondering whether you shouldn't be trying to do something about those dratted wheels. I mean, we could crash, you know.'

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