Crash Land Page 3

  The co-pilot stuck his chin out. ‘I absolutely do have the authority.’

  One of the oil worker’s pals spoke up. ‘We don’t want any trouble.’

  ‘Try telling him that,’ the co-pilot said.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ Maddie said.

  The co-pilot folded his arms. ‘You think so? They’ve compromised safety on an aircraft in flight.’

  Charlotte came back down the aisle. ‘Everyone back in your seats, please.’

  Maddie stared at her. ‘Why?’

  ‘Just get back in your seat, miss.’

  ‘I want to know what’s going on.’

  There was a crackle of static and a voice came over the speaker. The cabin shuddered and everyone braced.

  ‘This is the captain. I’ve spoken to authorities on the ground about the situation on board, and we have decided to return to Kirkwall Airport to ensure everyone’s safety and security.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ Oil Guy said.

  The captain was still talking. ‘Please return to your seats immediately and fasten your seatbelts in preparation for landing.’

  ‘This is crazy,’ Finn said. ‘There’s no need to go back.’

  The co-pilot looked at him. ‘Standard procedure in the event of a disturbance on board.’

  Maddie shook her head. ‘We can’t go back.’

  Charlotte put a hand out to her. ‘Please return to your seat.’

  ‘No,’ Maddie said.

  The oil workers were standing behind her, angry.

  ‘We’ve got folk to get home to,’ one of them said. ‘If we go back to Kirkwall, Christ knows when we’ll get off that rock.’

  The co-pilot shrugged. ‘Take it up with your friend.’ He turned to Finn. ‘And him. It’s their fault.’

  Maddie pushed past Charlotte and the oil workers and ran towards the cockpit.

  ‘Miss, return to your seat immediately,’ Charlotte said.

  ‘I’m not going back,’ Maddie said.

  The plane was already banking, shifting their centre of gravity. Finn wondered how far they’d got from Orkney, probably only just over the Pentland Firth.

  Maddie was already at the cockpit door. She pushed it open and stepped inside as the pilot turned with a surprised look. Charlotte and the co-pilot ran up the aisle but Maddie spotted them and slammed the cockpit door. The co-pilot grabbed the handle and pushed but the door didn’t budge.

  The plane took another wobble. They were at a steep angle, the oil workers leaning to remain upright against the shift. Finn looked out the window at the wing, light blinking, rain streaming over the metal curve, haar swirling.

  The co-pilot and Charlotte hammered on the door and shouted.

  The plane lurched in the same direction as the bank, throwing the oil workers into seats. Finn felt his armrest digging into his side. He tugged at his restraints but they stayed tight.

  The co-pilot pushed his shoulder against the cockpit door and it fell open. The engine roared in the cabin as Charlotte and the co-pilot shouted at Maddie, who had her hands on the pilot’s arm.

  The co-pilot got her in an arm lock, dragged her out of the cockpit and threw her into a seat in the front row. He held her there, standing to the side to avoid her kicking legs as she struggled. He barked something to Charlotte, who reached into a compartment next to the food trolley and pulled out more restraints.

  But before she could hand them over to the co-pilot the cabin lurched again, the nose of the plane plunging downwards, throwing Charlotte back against the cockpit door and making the co-pilot stumble. Finn caught the panicked look in his eyes. The plane’s nose tipped up, then two more jolts tilted them all to the left.

  The co-pilot and Charlotte crawled over and pulled themselves into flip-down crew seats, fumbling with seatbelts. Maddie did the same, scrambling for her belt.

  Finn fumbled for his own and pulled it tight as the plane lunged forward again, throwing him into the seat in front, scudding his head off the headrest.

  Oil Guy turned and looked at him with narrow eyes.

  There was a metallic crack as the plane reeled left then right, then pitched downwards. Finn looked out the window and thought he saw lights. Landing lights or houses?

  The screech of landing gear was suddenly all around but it didn’t sound right, too loud and grating. They surely couldn’t land the plane at this angle. The cabin pitched and yawed and Finn felt sick.

  Then they hit the ground.

  A scream of metal ripped in Finn’s ears as his knees were thrown into his chest. He looked up and the cabin had been severed into two pieces, split a few rows in front, both halves hurtling at Christ knows what speed, cold air filling the space, the excruciating grind of metal on metal, steel on tarmac. Two of the oil workers were thrown out of their seats and smashed down into the aisle, then another thrash and lurch and Finn’s head smacked into his seat. Something moved out the window. It was the wing, broken free, bouncing up into the air off the tarmac, flipping over through fog then slicing down into the front half of the cabin, the broken propellers and thick cylinder of the engine landing on the front row where the couple were. Dust and dirt spewed everywhere, the cabin shredding itself along the ground, the front half spinning sideways.

  The severed wing was on fire, flames leaping through the seats. The overhead lockers were open and bags flew out. Finn tried to scream but couldn’t get air into his lungs as the plane hammered along the runway, throwing debris and seats up from the front so that he had to duck out of the way.

  He lifted his head and saw the front part of the plane fifty yards away and still moving, flames licking the cockpit. They were losing momentum as they scraped along the runway. Finn saw the airport building up to the left, which meant they were skidding towards the perimeter fence and the sea.

  Their half of the fuselage jerked upwards at the back before crashing down, unhinging the row of seats Finn was in, flipping him towards the rear of the cabin where his skull connected with the wall, bursts of purple and red in his vision, pain screaming through him until his body gave up to the blackness.

  5

  The fumes hit him first and he gagged. It felt like he was breathing petrol. He coughed then puked down himself. Pain swarmed through him, the back of his head, his ribs on the left-hand side, his knee. Something felt very wrong with his right hand. He tried to breathe but pain sliced across his chest as his lungs expanded. He spat sick out of his mouth and opened his eyes.

  He was still strapped in his seat, which was now on the floor at the back of the aisle, pushed up against the toilet wall. In the rows in front of him only half the seats were still there, the rest pitched upside down on top of others or presumably somewhere outside the cabin.

  Two of the oil workers were on the floor further up the aisle, one with a seat and a small case on top of him. The guy he’d fought with was in his seat a couple of rows in front, slumped over with his head to the side.

  Where the fuselage had ripped in two, ragged metal and plastic edges were exposed, torn fabric flapping in the breeze. The stench of fuel was everywhere as Finn tried moving his head.

  He could see the front half of the plane not too far away, as if the two pieces had tried their best not to be parted. The front seats were crushed by the engine. The fire there had gone out, leaving rows of scorched headrests. Beyond that the co-pilot and Charlotte were still strapped in, seemingly unconscious. Behind them, the cockpit door was closed. He couldn’t see Maddie. Her seat was still bolted in place, but he couldn’t see her head. Maybe she was unconscious, flopped to the side.

  Between the two parts of the plane was grey tarmac. Beyond that was rough grass, tussocks of sandy gorse. They’d managed to stay on the runway, but he could hear waves so they must be close to the sea.

  Jesus, the pain. He looked at his right hand. The two smallest fingers were pointing in the wrong direction, at a right angle to the knuckle, which had flattened. He tried to flex it and felt bone grind under the skin, a shard
of pain up his arm.

  He put his head back on the seat. His wrists and ankles were still bound. He felt dizzy, the fumes taking over. He closed his eyes and tried not to be sick again, concentrated on breathing.

  Sirens. They were coming. Everything was going to be OK.

  He heard movement in the cabin. His head was spinning as he drifted close to passing out, an awful kind of vertigo, control of his mind slipping away.

  He opened his eyes and saw Maddie.

  She stepped down the aisle towards him, rubbing her eye. She was alive and she was coming for him.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she said.

  Finn nodded.

  She knelt down.

  Finn looked at his right hand and she followed his gaze. ‘Christ, your fingers.’

  ‘It’s not too bad.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Finn shook his head, his skull thudding. ‘It’s not your fault, it’s mine.’

  She put a finger to his lips, then leaned in and kissed him.

  The sirens were getting louder.

  Maddie pulled away and looked around, then out through the gaping hole at the front of the cabin. She shook her head.

  ‘I can’t do this,’ she said under her breath.

  She reached under the seat to Finn’s left and pulled out her holdall, the one she’d stowed. She clutched it in both hands and looked at him.

  ‘I have to go.’

  She turned and walked down the aisle then stepped out the tattered front of the cabin.

  The sirens were all around now and Finn saw flashing lights out the window.

  Maddie looked back at him then disappeared into the haar.

  6

  Fingers touched his neck and he thought of her.

  He opened his eyes and saw a middle-aged paramedic with a grey beard and wild hair.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Finn.’

  ‘How do you feel, Finn?’

  ‘Fucked.’

  ‘Well, you’ve been in a plane crash, that’s to be expected. Where does it hurt?’

  Finn took shallow breaths. ‘The left side of my chest. The back of my head. My hand.’

  The paramedic looked at Finn’s hands and saw the restraints.

  ‘I can explain,’ Finn said.

  The paramedic shook his head. ‘I’m not interested. Save your strength, you’re going to need it.’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault.’

  The paramedic rooted through a kit bag on the floor and pulled out a scalpel.

  ‘We can’t treat you with these things on,’ he said, slicing the plastic at Finn’s wrists and ankles. ‘Don’t run off, now.’

  Finn pictured Maddie out there in the darkness, stumbling through the grass towards the sea.

  ‘Jesus.’ It was a woman’s voice coming from behind the paramedic.

  ‘I know.’ The paramedic put the scalpel back in the bag and took out a torch, shone it in Finn’s eyes.

  ‘Has anyone declared a major incident yet?’ the woman said.

  ‘Don’t think so,’ the paramedic said.

  ‘I’ll do it now.’

  The paramedic pushed Finn’s eyelids up and examined him. ‘Signs of concussion.’

  ‘I feel sick.’

  ‘Don’t puke, I just got this uniform cleaned.’

  ‘I might pass out.’

  The paramedic looked at him. ‘Just don’t die. I hate it when folk die.’

  He unfolded a silver blanket from the bag and draped it over Finn, tucking it in. ‘We’ll look at your chest and hand in a bit, probably just broken bones. You’ll need to rest, with the concussion. Someone will be with you in a minute to take you to the ambulance. I need to check on the others.’

  He stepped towards Oil Guy, saw the restraints on his hands and feet. He turned to Finn. ‘A friend of yours?’

  ‘No,’ Finn said.

  He looked round. The woman’s voice belonged to a young, short police officer in a puffy winter jacket. She was at the torn edge of the fuselage talking on the phone, a look on her face that said this was the worst shitstorm she’d ever seen.

  A matronly paramedic was tending to one of the oil workers on the floor. She pulled up an eyelid and shook her head. ‘No pulse, suspected broken neck.’ She moved to the other guy, who was face down on the floor, and tried to turn his body but he wouldn’t budge. She checked underneath him then jerked upright. She lifted his T-shirt to reveal a jagged metal spike sticking through the skin at the base of his spine. It was the frame of a seat. It had gone right through him. The paramedic lowered the T-shirt and felt the man’s neck, then caught the police officer’s attention.

  Finn felt the cabin swim and closed his eyes.

  The paramedic with the beard spoke to his colleague.

  ‘What have you got, Eilidh?’

  ‘Two dead.’

  ‘This guy’s unconscious but in a bad way. Let’s move him first, then broken bones over there.’

  Finn tried to add it up. Him and Maddie, the four oil workers, the Yorkshire couple. Eight passengers. The stewardess, pilot and co-pilot meant eleven in total. Two dead on the floor. The couple in the front row were surely dead too, crushed by the engine. The co-pilot and stewardess still looked alive at the front. He hadn’t seen the pilot. Wait, where was the fourth oil worker?

  And Maddie.

  Every time he breathed his ribcage screamed at him. He breathed out the right side of his mouth, as if that would make a difference. His hand throbbed. He opened his eyes and Oil Guy was being lifted away on a stretcher. The police officer came over and knelt down next to him.

  ‘Can you walk?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Let’s try.’

  She put a hand under his arm and he tried to push out of the seat, but the pressure on his right hand sent pain shuddering through him.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Take it easy,’ she said. ‘The medical guys better deal with you, that’s their job.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Finn.’

  ‘OK, Finn, I’m Detective Inspector Linklater. Morna. What can you tell me about what happened?’

  Finn looked at her. A few years older than him, tight ponytail and broad nose, small mouth and Orkney accent. Local girl done good.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he said.

  ‘We got a call from the airport saying there was an incident on the flight and it was turning back.’ She lifted the cut restraints from the cabin floor. ‘I just saw Magnus cutting these off you and the other guy. Want to explain?’

  ‘I feel dizzy,’ Finn said. ‘I need painkillers.’

  ‘Aye, you’ll get painkillers.’

  ‘I’m going to be sick.’

  Linklater stepped back as Finn puked on the floor. He closed his eyes and heard voices. The two paramedics were back.

  ‘Can you hear me?’ Magnus said.

  Finn nodded and breathed out, all he could manage.

  ‘Can you walk,’ Eilidh said, ‘or do you need the stretcher?’

  He felt his mind dissolving into the wintry air, merging with the whirl of the wind, the sound of the sea, the earth spinning.

  ‘Stretcher,’ he said, then he passed out.

  7

  He felt himself getting bumped into the ambulance. He tried to sit up but the ribs on his left side screamed. To his right was Oil Guy on a stretcher, attached to a heart monitor and oxygen mask, cuts to his scalp and face. Finn looked out the open ambulance door and saw a body covered in a sheet on the airstrip a hundred feet from the wreckage. The fourth oil worker.

  A smirr of rain came swirling into the ambulance, adding a wet sheen to the blanket on his lap and the instruments lined along the side.

  The last time he’d seen a dead body was when he found his mum. He’d slept late, been out for a few drinks at the DCA with some students from the year above. He was surprised that Sally hadn’t woken him with her banging around in the flat like sh
e usually did when he was hungover. Not that she disapproved particularly, she was partial to a few glasses of wine most nights, but she didn’t make allowances for him in that state either, and usually she could be relied on to hoover outside his door around ten or eleven, or clatter dishes and pans into cupboards and drawers from the dishwasher.

  So he was surprised when he surfaced at noon and the flat was silent. Maybe she’d gone to the shops. It was a Sunday and she wasn’t working. He got up and wandered through to the small kitchen, stuck the kettle on. He noticed it was cold, no residual heat from being on earlier in the morning. The sun was low in the sky, a sharp, cloudless winter day, sunlight glinting off the Tay out the window, sandbanks splitting the surface at low tide, the rail bridge curving over to Fife in the distance.

  He stood looking out the window as the kettle filled the room with noise. When it clicked off he went to the cupboard to get a mug and noticed it was half empty. He opened the dishwasher. It hadn’t been emptied. He frowned and stepped into the hall.

  ‘Mum?’

  He walked to her closed bedroom door, angled his ear towards it.

  ‘Mum?’

  Just the creak of a floorboard under his feet.

  He turned the handle and opened the door.

  She was in bed and he knew right away she was dead. Something about the lack of tension in her skin, the stillness of her, felt completely different to sleep.

  He shuffled to her and reached out a hand, touched her cold cheek and kept it there for a long time, staring at her face. Eventually he lowered his hand and backed out the room, his arms hanging useless at his sides, staring at the carpet under his bare feet.

  When the ambulance came they confirmed what he already knew. He rode with her to hospital, though he couldn’t see the point. Weren’t hospitals for the living? But they said they needed to do a post-mortem, make it official. After she was taken away he had to get a taxi back from Ninewells. He put off calling Ingrid for three hours, wanted it to be just his thing for a little longer.

  Two days later someone from Ninewells called and gave a fancy name to Sally’s death. A cerebral aneurysm had ruptured, causing a subarachnoid haemorrhage, leading to a massive stroke and brain death. It would’ve been painless, the woman said down the line, as if it mattered. Maybe it did.