Джеймс Блатч - The Final Flight

“Then why do you need my signature?”

“I don’t.”

Rob stood in silence. The only power he had over Kilton was to make him wait for an answer.

He walked past the boss to his towel and wrapped it around his waist.

“8.75.”

“What?” said Kilton, irritated.

“8.75. That was the conclusion Millie reached after the analysis. 8.75 aircrew every year.”

Kilton’s expression didn’t change.

“I’m interested. What was your figure? After all, you had a lot more data to go on than we did.”

“May, either sign the document and attend Millie’s funeral, or refuse, and you’ll be back in your cell while we arrange the charges. The choice is yours.”

Rob stared at Kilton, impassive.

Kilton turned on his heels. “I’m not playing your games. The papers are at the police station. The corporal will escort you.”

A POLISHED BOOT rose into the air and came down with a crunch on the gravelled church path. Sergeant Nigel Woodward’s steps moved in unison with those of his fellow pallbearers.

Like many of the TFU NCO’s, he had volunteered immediately to carry Squadron Leader Milford’s coffin. With shining buttons and medals in place, he did his duty with as much precision as he could muster.

Ahead, the vicar waited, white surplice flowing in the gentle breeze.

They reached the door and paused.

Following some unseen communication, the organist began to play ‘Abide With Me’.

They marched into the church with slow, measured steps.

Every pew was full. Uniformed men, and women with large hats stood, facing forward as the pallbearers turned into the aisle and continued to the side of the pulpit.

Two wooden stands, ready for them.

After reaching the front, they began their choreographed routine to lower the coffin from their shoulders to its temporary resting place.

Woodward glanced at the others and, with a barely perceived nod, they turned in unison to face back down the aisle.

The pallbearers marched to the back of the church and joined the mourners who had arrived too late for a seat.

An elderly gentleman appeared and pressed an order of service into the vicar’s hands.

THEY HAD NOT ALLOWED Rob time alone with Mary. She sat alongside him in the back of a plain RAF car, accompanied by a police sergeant in the passenger seat.

The slow draw of his signature on the papers had felt like the final betrayal.

Everything that followed was demeaning.

Stripped of his security papers, Rob was officially not welcome at RAF West Porton. The only exception was that he could attend the wake in the officers’ mess as a guest. But they would escort him on and off the station.

They arrived late at the church, but a space had been saved in the second pew, directly behind Georgina and Charlie.

As they walked down the aisle, Rob gazed at the ground, unable to make eye contact with anyone else.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he hissed at Mary. “What will they think of me?”

The only face he caught as he shuffled into the pew was Kilton’s. Two rows back, eyes staring straight ahead.

The victor picking over the bones of the vanquished.

He took his seat. Mary bowed her head and appeared to be praying.

He thought of Millie. An image came into his mind: Millie with Belkin, poring over statistics.

All that work he had completed alone.

How different would it have been if they’d collaborated?

He imagined the two of them meeting with Susie, explaining what they had found and planning the gathering of further evidence.

That is not what happened.

There had been no meeting with Susie.

There was no usable evidence.

There would be no cavalry charge from MI5. He was certain of that now.

She would be back in London; on to her next task.

He studied the order of service.

It included his name. Had Kilton tried to influence that?

But there it was: the first reading. A short section of the Bible given to him by Jean what seemed like a year ago; but it was just a matter of days.

He turned the page.

Wing Commander Mark Kilton DFC would give the eulogy.

He felt sick.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered to Mary.

She shushed him, with a strange urgency in her eyes. “Act normally.”

It must have been a show for Georgina. Mary still hadn’t forgiven him; she still believed he was having an affair, but she wanted to put on a front, just for today.

The organ stopped and the congregation stood up. Charlie supported his mother in her attempt to rise. Rob and Mary put out their hands to help.

Georgina rose, unsteady.

He wanted to sob, but he was in uniform, stifled by all those years of maintaining a stiff-upper-lip.

After a moment, the coffin appeared in his peripheral vision and Mary broke down, lifting a hanky to her eyes.

He fought back his own tears, tilting his head up to keep them from falling.

Not in uniform.

The stifling, suffocating uniform.

Nigel Woodward caught his eye. The sergeant who’d almost ended his flying career by releasing that gas bomb.

Everyone loved Millie.

Rob concentrated on the precision of the pallbearers.

Anything to stave off the tears.

The vicar appeared and, after a brief word, they launched into a hymn.

Christopher Milford and everything he stood for was writ large in every line:

Rob sang with his eyes fixed on the order of service. He kept his head bowed, humiliated by the words.

In that moment, he had an awful realisation that he would go to his own grave knowing he had failed in the only task that had truly mattered to him.

There would be no absolution.

Kilton had ensured the victory was complete by leaving him no choice but to sign Guiding Light into service.

But the real punishment was the guilt: already crushing him, and now a life sentence.

The singing stopped. He sat down, consumed with his own thoughts.

It was a moment before he realised they were waiting for him. The vicar motioned with his hands for Rob to take to the lectern that held the large bible.

He stood and shuffled along the pew. The vicar put a hand on his arm as he passed.

“The bible’s open at the right page.”

Rob stepped onto the wooden plinth at the base of the lectern and found the start of his passage in the church’s ornate King James Bible.

He took a deep breath and looked up.

Straight into the eyes of Susie Attenborough.

His mouth dropped open. He faltered, and snapped his head back down.

Had he really seen her?

She sat upright in a black dress and black-brimmed hat, next to Red and Sarah Brunson.

He looked up again. She smiled at him, looking serene.

Kilton sat directly in front of Susie, glaring at Rob.

He recovered himself and looked down at the reading. But he couldn’t stop himself from looking again.

This time, Susie had an admonishing expression on her face. She mouthed some words.

“Get on with it.”

The congregation shuffled at the awkward silence.

Clearing his throat, and hoping his voice would carry further than the front pew, he read aloud, bringing as much measure and authority as he could muster.

To his surprise, his voice sounded strong.