Jessie Keane: Ruthless

‘Rough night,’ said Fergal the pilot, a big grey-haired Irishman who sat unperturbed at the controls.

Orla was reassured by Fergal. He’d worked for the Delaney firm for years, ferrying illicit cargoes – drugs, arms, people – in and out of Britain. He boasted he could land the Cessna on a gnat’s tit, he’d been flying it for so long. Orla believed him. He’d been a British Airways pilot once, then he’d done a stint crop-dusting in Kenya before Redmond had recruited him into the far more lucrative family firm.

She glanced at Redmond. He seemed calm. He half-smiled, squeezed her hand briefly. It was only she who was panicking.

It felt like an eternity since they’d left the airport. After a wild drive down to Cardiff in the dead of night, Fergal had flown them into the tumultuous skies unauthorized, with no co-pilot, no mechanic, no clearance. They were in violation of air traffic safety guidelines and aircraft operation rules. But Fergal didn’t give a shit about any of that. Neither did either of his passengers.

Orla glanced at her watch and saw that they’d only been aloft for ten minutes.

Whumph!

Again the wind tossed the plane, batting it almost playfully around the blackening sky. Night was coming, the moon was up and full, scudding clouds drifting across its face. Even in big planes, she was nervous. In a miniscule Cessna, a fluttering stomach and a chest tight with fear took on a whole new level. She prayed for dry land, for the lights of the airport. Peering out of the window, she saw only the dark sea below them. No lights. No ships, even: in weather like this, any sane captain would put in to shore, ride out the storm.

But not them. If they’d delayed getting out of England by so much as an hour, the police would have shut down their escape.

They’d only just made it.

Orla stifled her nerves. It was OK. They’d got away. Soon they’d be in Limerick. She could see it now in her mind: the old farm on the banks of the Shannon, the Delaney family home. From there they could go anywhere, anywhere in the world. All would be well. She breathed deeply, told herself, calm, be calm.

‘What the f-’ said Fergal.

‘What is it?’ asked Redmond.

The pilot was tapping one of the dials in front of him.

‘Fuel reading’s low.’ He tapped it again. ‘Should be showing nearly full.’

Orla felt the fear erupt, break out of its cage. Suddenly she found it hard to catch her breath.

‘How low?’ asked Redmond.

‘Ah, don’t worry. Must be a malfunction, we’ve only just filled up,’ said the pilot comfortably, not answering the question. ‘It’s nothing. Ten minutes, we’ll be there.’

Ten minutes, we’ll be there.

Fergal had hardly finished uttering the words when the engine started to sputter. Orla saw – she didn’t want to see but she couldn’t help it – she saw the damned propeller falter and stop turning.

No, this can’t be happening, she thought wildly, clutching at Redmond’s hand.

But it was.

She watched Fergal fighting the controls, trying to keep the nose up when there was no power, nothing to stop the inevitable. And finally, horribly, it happened. The tiny plane stalled in mid-air. Then it plummeted like a stone into the cold embrace of the Irish Sea.

The stunning, mind-numbing impact as the plane hit the water nose-first blew in the windscreen. Icy water instantly surged into the cockpit like a burst dam. The water enveloped Orla, whipping all the breath from her body with the intensity of its coldness. As the nose-cone dipped, she saw Fergal, still strapped into his seat at the controls, his arms flailing against the force of the inrushing water.

As their pilot vanished beneath the churning foam, Orla felt movement beside her as Redmond tugged at his seatbelt release.

‘Christ!’ he was shouting as the sea battered them, swirling up around their chests, snatching the air from their lungs.

This couldn’t be happening, it was a nightmare. Reeling with shock, Orla reached down with rapidly numbing fingers and tried to free her own seat belt.

The water was rising fast, too fast.

She was fighting against the strap, panicking. She couldn’t get it undone.

‘Don’t lean forward, you’re jamming it, try to relax…’ Redmond yelled as waves rose up around his mouth.

Orla couldn’t. Had he got his free? She couldn’t tell, couldn’t see anything, couldn’t do anything above the hysterical fear that the water was coming in, pouring in, and they were going to drown. It was up around her neck now, and her fingers were struggling, she couldn’t get the clasp free.

She was going to die.

Redmond was surging up out of the water, he was half-standing, getting above it, but it was still coming in, it was rising all the time and she couldn’t get free.

‘I can’t-’ she shouted, her teeth chattering with cold.

Redmond took a breath, and plunged down under the swirling waves.

Orla was alone with the rising sea. The airplane was groaning, the fuselage popping and shuddering with the pressure and weight of the sea water as its interior filled up.

‘Redmond!’ she shrieked.

There was no answer.

She was alone. She was going to die alone.

Then suddenly he appeared beside her, spluttering, coughing, his face shockingly pale in the half-light, his red hair flat to his head.

Her belt was loose. He’d done it.

‘We have to get-’ he started.

His words were cut off as the plane lurched sideways.

Orla screamed. Redmond lost his footing and fell against the bulkhead, his forehead striking metal. His eyes rolled up. He collapsed into the water and disappeared from sight. Then the tiny battered plane gave one last deathly groan, and sank further beneath the waves.

‘Redmond! Redmond! ’ Orla cried, frantically reaching out, trying to find him.

Her hands were numb, like her legs. She was freezing, she was dying. She knew it. She scrambled around, sobbing with terror. He was gone. He must have been swept out of the hole made by the blown-in windscreen and into the sea.

Then her hand touched cloth.

His coat.

He was still in here, in this coffin that was now swirling downward, spiralling deeper into the icy waters, carrying them to their graves. She found a reserve of strength from somewhere and grabbed the cloth and hauled it up.

Redmond’s face appeared above the surging waters, his eyes flickering open in panic, his mouth open too, whooping in a mouthful of air. He was shivering hard, and bleeding. Orla pulled him towards her.

‘Oh, holy Christ, Red-’ she sobbed.

The water was lapping over their mouths and they were slipping, sliding sideways as the plane descended into icy blackness. The aircraft tipped sharply again and Orla’s feet slid from under her. She tried to hold her breath, but her lungs were bursting with the effort and with the fear that at any moment she was going to die. She couldn’t get her balance. She floundered, stretched, grabbed Redmond’s arm and hauled herself up, coughing, choking.

The cockpit would soon be completely full of water, and what would they do then?

They would drown.

There was only a tiny air pocket left to breathe in, under the roof of the cockpit, and they were huddled there, gasping, as the waters rose and rose around them.

‘We have to get out,’ said Redmond.

Orla clutched at the roof and shook her head.

‘Before it sinks too far down,’ he insisted.

There were trenches in the Irish Sea thousands of feet deep. Long before they reached that depth, the water pressure would kill them. He was right. They had to get out.